The Project Gutenberg eBook of The London Mercury, Vol. I, Nos. 1-6, November 1919 to April 1920

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Title: The London Mercury, Vol. I, Nos. 1-6, November 1919 to April 1920

Author: Various

Editor: Sir John Collings Squire

Release date: March 11, 2014 [eBook #45116]

Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LONDON MERCURY, VOL. I, NOS. 1-6, NOVEMBER 1919 TO APRIL 1920 ***

Transcriber added this Table of Contents:

Issue

Page

1

1

2

129

3

257

4

385

5

513

6

641

Greek transliterations provided by transcribers are enclosed in {curly braces}. Other Transcriber notes appear at the end of this eBook.

THE LONDON

MERCURY

Edited by J. C. Squire

Volume I

1919 November to April 1920

London The Field Press Ltd

PRINTED AT

THE FIELD PRESS

WINDSOR HOUSE

BREAM'S BUILDINGS

LONDON E·C4

INDEX TO VOLUME I

M·CM·XIX NOVEMBER APRIL M·CM·XX

REGULAR ARTICLES

- AMERICA, A Letter from, 232

- Bibliographical Notes, 73, 194, 325, 458, 581, 718

- BIBLIOGRAPHIES OF MODERN AUTHORS:

- Beerbohm, Max, 626

- Belloc, Hilaire, 366

- Bridges, Robert Seymour, 753

- Brooke, Rupert, 123

- Chesterton, G. K., 496

- Clutton-Brock, Arthur, 366

- Davies, W. H., 122

- De La Mare, Walter, 122

- Flecker, James Elroy, 239

- Freeman, John, 497

- Hardy, Thomas, 122

- Hewlett, Maurice, 625

- Meynell, Alice, 754

- Saintsbury, George, 238

- Book Production Notes, 231, 359, 495, 621, 752

- Books of the Month, 78, 201, 332, 468, 593, 727

- Correspondence, 77, 198, 329, 462, 585, 721

- DRAMA, The:

- Calvinists of the Drama, The, 112

- Candida, 755

- Children's Plays, 498

- Demand and Supply, 501

- Duchess of Malfi, The, 368

- Grierson's Way, 755

- Intellectual Drama, The, 241

- John Ferguson, 755

- Living Corpse, A, 111

- Marriage à la Mode, 627

- Materialism and Poetry, 242

- Medea, 755

- Miniature Ballet, 755

- Pantomime, The Change in the, 499

- Poetic Drama, The, 240

- Pygmalion, 755

- Theatre, The Influence of the Existing, 113

- Three Sisters, The, 755

- Young Visiters, The, 755

- EDITORIAL NOTES:

- American Copyright, 131, 389

- Art, Ugliness, and Incomprehensibility, 385

- Auction Room Knock-Out, The, 516

- Literature of 1919, The, and the Prospects of Literature, 257

- Ministry of Fine Arts, A, 513

- National Theatre, The, 641

- Objects of the LONDON MERCURY, 1, 129

- FINE ARTS, The:

- Black Country, The, 634

- Comic Drawing, British, 373

- Epstein, Recent Sculpture by Jacob, 633

- Fine Arts, The, 116

- Goupil Gallery Salon, 375

- Grant, Paintings by Duncan, 634

- Group-making and Group-breaking, 245

- London Group, The, 247

- Matisse, M. Henri, 374

- Meaning of Impressionism, The, 759

- National Gallery, The, 632

- Nevinson's Exhibition, Mr., 246

- New English Art Club, The, 504

- Renoir, Auguste, 759

- War Pictures at Burlington House, 503

- FRANCE, A LETTER FROM:

- The Present State of the French Novel, 105

- The French Poetry of To-day, 360

- The Young Reviews, 622

- Learned Societies, etc., 108, 235, 363, 465, 590, 724

- LITERARY INTELLIGENCE:

- Andreef, Leonid, Death of, 136

- Bullen, A. H., Death of, 647

- Burne-Jones, Lady, Death of, 520

- Chesterton, G. K., 263

- Cummings, Bruce, Death of, 135

- Dehmel, Dr. Richard, Death of, 519

- Dial, The, 392

- Dobson, Austin, Eightieth Birthday of, 391

- Flecker, James Elroy, 263

- Gosse, Edmund, Seventieth Birthday of, 136

- Hardy, Thomas, Presentation to, 135

- New Edition of his Works, 263

- James, Henry, Letters of, 263

- Micro-organisms in Paper, 264

- Osler, Sir William, Death of, 391

- Smith, G. D., Death of, 648

- Thomas, Edward, Memorial to, 519

- MUSIC: Audience, The Function of the, 764

- Beecham Opera, The, 248

- Concerts, 377

- Covent Garden, 376

- Naturalisation of Opera in England, The, 763

- Promenade Concerts, The, 119

- Purcell and His Orchestra, 637

- Purcell and Shakespeare, 635

- Resurrection of an Opera, The, 635

- Rubinstein's Recital, Mr. Arthur, 506

- Scriabin Recital, A, 508

- Spanish Music, Modern, 507

- Surrey's Opportunity, The, 764

- Publications, Select List of, 124, 251, 379, 509, 638, 766

OCCASIONAL CONTRIBUTIONS IN PROSE

- ARCHITECTURE as Form in Civilisation, 574

- Autographs, A Collection of, 320

- Barbellion, W. N. P., 543

- Blake as a Prophet, On, 283

- Blind Thamyris, 403

- Bridges' Lyrical Poems, Robert, 708

- Butler, Samuel, 164

- Classic of the Future, A Little (Somerville and Ross), 555

- Crane, Stephen: A Note without Dates, 192

- Creatures, The, 275

- Crystal Vase, The, 176

- Donne, John, 435

- Eighteenth-Century Poetry, 155

- Eliot, George, 34

- English, The Teaching of, 62

- Foreshore of London, The, 663

- Future Poet and Our Time, The, 44

- James, Henry—I, 673

- Jonson, Ben, 184

- Mackenzie, The Novels of Mr. Compton, 448

- Misadventures, 149

- Music, On Interpretation in, 694

- Particles, An Article on, 71

- Photography and Art, 301

- Prose and Mortality, 312

- Prose, On, 671

- Psycho-Analysis and the Novel, 426

- Records, A Case for, 685

- Rhyme, The Romance of, 416

- Satirists, Forgotten, 565

- Servants, On, 533

- Shelley and His Publishers, 291

- Smile of the Sphinx, The, 16

- Walpole, Horace, 52

POEMS

- Almswomen, 525

- Beechwood, 656

- Bryan, Bryan, Bryan, Bryan!, 396

- Buzzards, The, 138

- Coming of Green, The, 523

- Country Mood, A, 272

- Draft for "A First and Last Song", 271

- Early Chronology, 11

- Evening Sky in March, The, 12

- Fortunatus Nimium, 393

- Gallipoli, Lines Written in, 267

- Glimpse from the Train, A, 265

- Going and Staying, 7

- Hippolytus, The Modern, 524

- House That Was, The, 14

- Inglis, Elsie, 531

- Intimacy, 527

- Ishak's Song, 137

- It's Not Going to Happen Again, 7

- Love's Caution, 13

- Moon, The, 139

- Nature's Fruitfulness, 524

- Night Rapture, 529

- Nobis cum Pereant, 655

- November, 268

- Rock Pool, The, 12

- Scirocco, 273

- Search for the Nightingale, The, 8

- Senses, The, 521

- Shadow, The, 394

- Shobeensho, 662

- "Skindle's" in Poperinghe, 649

- Soldier Addresses His Body, The, 527

- Sorrowing for Childhood Departed, 532

- Storm and Stars, 662

- Suppose, 14

- Tarantella, 266

- To E. G., 394

- Weir, By the, 395

INDEX OF AUTHORS

- Armstrong, Martin:

- The Buzzards, 138

- The Senses, 521

- The Coming of Green, 523

- Beerbohm, Max:

- On Servants, 533

- Belloc, H.:

- Tarantella, 266

- Beresford, J. D.:

- Psycho-Analysis and the Novel, 426

- Binyon, Laurence:

- The House That Was, 14

- Storm and Stars, 662

- Blunden, Edmund:

- Almswomen, 525

- Brett Young, Francis:

- Scirocco, 273

- Bridges, Robert:

- Fortunatus Nimium, 393

- Brooke, Rupert:

- It's Not Going to Happen Again, 7

- Burrows, Francis:

- Nature's Fruitfulness, 524

- Chesterton, G. K.:

- The Romance of Rhyme, 416

- Clutton-Brock, A.:

- On Blake as a Prophet, 283

- Conrad, Joseph:

- Stephen Crane: A Note without Dates, 192

- Davies, W. H.:

- Love's Caution, 13

- De la Mare, Walter:

- Suppose, 14

- The Creatures, 275

- Dent, Edward J.:

- Music, 119, 248, 376, 506, 635, 763

- Dobson, Austin:

- To E. G., 394

- Flecker, James Elroy:

- Ishak's Song, 137

- Freeman, John:

- The Evening Sky in March, 12

- The Novels of Mr. Compton Mackenzie, 448

- Beechwood, 656

- Gibson, Wilfrid Wilson:

- By the Weir, 395

- Gosse, Edmund, C.B.:

- George Eliot, 34

- Henry James—I., 673

- Graves, A. P.:

- Shobeensho, 662

- Graves, Robert:

- A Country Mood, 272

- Hannay, Howard:

- Photography and Art, 301

- The Fine Arts, 503, 632, 759

- Hardy, Thomas, O.M.:

- Going and Staying, 7

- A Glimpse from the Train, 265

- Hastings, Major L. M.:

- "Skindle's" in Poperinghe, 649

- Henschel, Sir George:

- On Interpretation in Music, 694

- Hewlett, Maurice:

- The Crystal Vase, 176

- Elsie Inglis, 531

- Huxley, Aldous:

- Ben Jonson, 184

- Forgotten Satirists, 565

- Ingpen, Roger:

- Shelley and His Publishers, 291

- Jenkinson, Hilary: A Case for Records, 685

- Kennard, Sir Coleridge, Bart.:

- Draft for "A First and Last Song", 271

- Leigh, The Rev. Canon N. Egerton:

- A Collection of Autographs, 320

- Lethaby, Professor W. R.:

- Architecture as Form in Civilisation, 574

- Lindsay, Nicholas Vachel:

- Bryan, Bryan, Bryan, Bryan!, 396

- Lynd, Robert:

- Horace Walpole, 52

- John Donne, 435

- Mason, J. H.:

- Book-Production Notes, 231, 359, 495, 621, 752

- Meynell, Alice:

- An Article on Particles, 71

- Moore, T. Sturge:

- Blind Thamyris, 403

- Nash, John:

- The Fine Arts, 116, 245, 373

- Newbolt, Sir Henry:

- Nobis cum Pereant, 655

- Nichols, Robert:

- The Smile of the Sphinx, 16

- November, 268

- Night Rapture, 529

- Rickword, Edgell:

- Intimacy, 527

- The Soldier Addresses His Body, 527

- Rushby, Kenworth:

- The Modern Hippolytus, 524

- Saintsbury, George:

- Eighteenth-Century Poetry, 155

- Sassoon, Siegfried:

- Early Chronology, 11

- Shanks, Edward:

- The Rock Pool, 12

- Samuel Butler, 164

- The Shadow, 394

- W. N. P. Barbellion, 543

- Shaw-Stewart, Patrick:

- Lines Written in Gallipoli, 267

- Smith, L. Pearsall:

- Misadventures, 149

- Squire, J. C.:

- The Future Poet and Our Time, 44

- The Moon, 139

- Prose and Mortality, 312

- Robert Bridges' Lyrical Poems, 708

- Stobart, J. C.:

- The Teaching of English, 62

- Thibaudet, Albert:

- A Letter from France, 105, 360, 622

- Tomlinson, H. M.:

- The Foreshore of London, 663

- Turner, W. J.:

- The Search for the Nightingale, 8

- Sorrowing for Childhood Departed, 532

- The Drama, 111, 240, 368, 498, 627, 755

- Van Deijssel, L.:

- Of Prose, 671

- Williams, Orlo:

- A Little Classic of the Future, 555

REVIEWS

- ACCOUNTS Rendered of Work Done and Things Seen, Buchanan, 494

- Actor, Problems of the, Calvert, 502

- Addresses in America, Galsworthy, 480

- Anaphylaxis and Anti-Anaphylaxis, Besredka, 228

- Appreciations of Poetry, Hearn, 93

- Archaic England, Bayley, 616

- Argonaut and Juggernaut, Sitwell, 206

- Art, Essays on, Clutton-Brock, 344

- Athenian Days, Byron, 83

- Athletics, Success in, Webster, Jenkins, and Mostyn, 224

- BALKAN Problems and European Peace, Buxton and Leese, 351

- Banner, The, Spender, 733

- Battle Line in France, The Romance of the, Bodley, 606

- Before the War, Haldane, 487

- Boche and Bolshevik, Price, 96

- Books in the War, Koch, 738

- Botany, Applied, Ellis, 230

- Brooke and the Intellectual Imagination, Rupert, De la Mare, 215

- Butler, Samuel: A Memoir, Festing-Jones, 164

- CARMINA Rapta, Fairfax, 207

- Catalysis in Theory and Practice, Rideal and Taylor, 101

- Catherine of Siena, St., Pollard, 484

- Cervantes, Schevill, 737

- Challenge, A., Hardyman, 82

- Chemistry and Its Mysteries, Gibson, 357

- Chemistry from the Industrial Standpoint, Thorne, 230

- Childhood in Brittany Eighty Years Ago, A, Sedgwick, 482

- Children of No Man's Land, Stern, 337

- Chorus-Girl, and Other Stories, The, Tchehov, 476

- Christian Ideas, First, Selwyn, 746

- Clintons and Others, The, Marshall, 598

- Clown of Paradise, The, Creston, 207

- Coal Mining and the Coal Miner, Bulman, 744

- Colloid Chemistry, Theoretical and Applied, Ostwald, 491

- Colloids, The Chemistry of, Zsigmondy, 491

- Comrades in Captivity, Harvey, 743

- Cosmogony and Stellar Dynamics, Jeans, 619

- Cottage Building in Cob, Pisé, Chalk and Clay, Williams-Ellis, 354

- Country Sentiment, Graves, 728

- Cousin Philip, Ward, 208

- Coutts, The Life of Thomas, Coleridge, 482

- Critic in Pall Mall, A, Wilde, 91

- DAWN and Night, Poems of the, Mond, 82

- Dickens, Reade, and Collins, Phillips, 606

- Discovery, 751

- Diversions of a Man of Letters, Some, Gosse, 89

- Dodington, George Bubb:

- Patron and Place-Hunter, Sanders, 348

- Domus Doloris, Leith, 481

- Donne's Sermons:

- Selected Passages with an Essay, Pearsall Smith, 213

- Douglas, Collected Poems of Lord Alfred, 81

- Ducks and Other Verses, Harvey, 596

- EASTER Island, The Mystery of, Routledge, 355

- Economic Consequences of the Peace, The, Keynes, 487

- Efficiency, Everyday, Lindsay, 228

- Eli of the Downs, Peake, 733

- Emerson and His Philosophy, Hill, 226

- Empire and Commerce in Africa, Woolf, 616

- Engineering, Foundations of, Spikes, 230

- Engines of the Human Body, Keith, 618

- English Course for Schools, An, Mais, 62

- Europe, The Expansion of, Abbott, 93

- Europe, Fifty Years of, Hazen, 217

- Every Man in his Humour, Jonson, 243

- FAR East, The Mastery of the, 98

- Financial Problems, War-Time, Withers, 99

- First Plays, Milne, 115

- Fleurs-de-Lys, Thorley, 731

- Flora, Bianco and De la Mare, 468

- Flowers in the Grass, Hewlett, 727

- Forgotten Places, Mackenzie, 81

- Fox, Henry:

- First Lord Holland, Ilchester, 608

- Friend to Friend, From, Ritchie, 739

- Full Circle, Hamilton, 473

- GALLOPER at Ypres, A, Butler, 606

- Garret, In the, Van Vechten, 477

- General William Booth Enters into Heaven, Lindsay, 335

- Georgian Poetry, 1918–1919, 201

- Glory of the Coming, The, Cobb, 486

- Gold and Iron, Hergesheimer, 337

- Greek Anthology, Echoes from the, Legge, 83

- Guild State: Its Principles and Possibilities, The, Taylor, 100

- Gyroscopic and Rotational Motion, A Treatise on, Gray, 226

- HAMLET, The Problem of, Robertson, 92

- Handmaiden of the Navy, The, Doorly, 223

- Heartbreak House, Shaw, 114

- Herschel, Macpherson, 751

- How the War Came, Loreburn, 97

- Hygiene for Training Colleges, A Text Book of, Avery, 750

- IF All These Young Men, Wilson, 208

- Illustration, Meynell, 375

- Images of War, Aldington, 594

- Imperfect Mother, An, Beresford, 733

- India, The Government of, Macdonald, 490

- Industry and Trade, Marshall, 220

- Inflation, Nicholson, 222

- Interim, Richardson, 473

- Invisible Kingdom, An, Lilly, 225

- Invisible Tides, Seymour, 473

- Ions, Electrons, and Ionising Radiations, Crowther, 618

- Ireland a Nation, Lynd, 353

- Irish Impressions, Chesterton, 222

- Italian Peasants, Among, Cyriax, 478

- JACOPONE Da Todi, Underhill, 346

- Jeremy, Walpole, 84

- Jesus Chapel, Cambridge, The Stones and Story of, Morgan, 743

- Jonson, Ben, Smith, 184

- KEATS' Endymion, An Interpretation of, Notcutt, 737

- Kiel in the Hercules, To, Freeman, 96

- Kossovo, Rootham, 730

- Kut Prisoner, A, Bishop, 606

- LEAGUE of Nations, A Handbook of the, Butler, 489

- Leagues of Nations, York, 615

- Legend, Dane, 208

- Lehmann, The Life of Liza, Lehmann, 486

- Limbo, Huxley, 598

- Lincoln, Abraham:

- The Practical Mystic, Grierson, 218

- Lines of Life, Nevinson, 729

- London Venture, The, Arlen, 477

- MADELEINE, Mirrlees, 208

- Man: Past and Present, Keane, Quiggin, and Haddon, 747

- Manners of My Time, The, Dempster, 741

- Mansoul or The Riddle of the World, Doughty, 593

- Mask, The, Cournos, 208

- Matter, Some Wonders of, Mercer, 357

- Measures of the Poets, The, Bayfield, 601

- Middle Life, Thoughts in, Locker-Lampson, 481

- Miscellany of Poetry, A, Seymour, 471

- Modern Science and Materialism, Elliot, 493

- My Kingdom for a Horse! Allison, 96

- NAPOLEON, Trench, 83

- National Finance, A Primer of, Higgs, 101

- Nationalisation of the Mines, Hodges, 744

- Nevill, The Life and Letters of Lady Dorothy, Nevill, 219

- New Decameron, The, Various Authors, 88

- New Outlook, The, Cecil, 615

- New Poems, Williams, 205

- Night and Day, Woolf, 337

- OCTOBER and Other Poems, Bridges, 708

- Over and Above, Gurdon, 88

- Oxford Scholar, An: Ingram Bywater, 1840–1914, Jackson, 349

- PAGAN and Christian Creeds, Carpenter, 747

- Paravane Adventure, The, CORNFORD, 487

- Paths of Glory, The, 732

- Peace in the Making, The, Harris, 615

- Pedlar and Other Poems, The, Manning-Sanders, 729

- Peel, Recollections of Lady Georgiana, Peel, 611

- Peter Jackson, Cigar Merchant, Frankau, 598

- Phillpotts, One Hundred Pictures from Eden, Brewitt, 740

- Physicists, Ten British, Macfarlane, 103

- Pilgrim in Palestine, A, Finley, 479

- Playwright, Problems of the, Hamilton, 758

- Poems, Collected, Hardy, 333

- Poems, 1916–1918, Brett Young, 332

- Poems, Selected, Sackville, 596

- Poetical Works, Excluding the Eight Dramas, Bridges, 708

- Poland and the Poles, Boswell, 223

- Poor Relations, Mackenzie, 84

- Power of a Lie, The, Bojer, 337

- Prelude, Nichols, 598

- RACE and Nationality, Oakesmith, 99

- Realities of Modern Science, The, Mills, 357

- Reconstructors and Reconstruction, Oxon, 100

- Records, Fisher, 607

- Responsibilities of the League, The, Percy, 489

- Revolt of Youth, The, Hobson, 88

- Reynard the Fox, Masefield, 78

- Richard Kurt, Hudson, 84

- Riddle of the Ruthvens, The, Roughead, 347

- Roast Beef, Medium, Ferber, 733

- R. L. S., A Book of, Brown, 216

- Romantic Roussillon, The, Savory, 345

- Rousseau and Romanticism, Babbitt, 604

- Russia in Rule and Misrule, Ballard, 615

- SACRED and Profane Love, Bennett, 244

- Saint's Progress, Galsworthy, 208

- Science and Life, Soddy, 750

- Seals and Documents, Poole, 742

- Second Country, My, Dell, 614

- September, Swinnerton, 84

- Seven Men, Beerbohm, 212

- Seventeenth-Century English Verse, Massingham, 470

- Seventeenth-Century Life in the Country Parish, Trotter, 351

- Shakespeare, Contemporaries of, Swinburne, 92

- Shakespeare's Versification, A Study of, Bayfield, 601

- Side Shows, In the, Benn, 353

- Sir Limpidus, Pickthall, 337

- Skilled Labourer, The, Hammond, 352

- Skylark and Swallow, Gales, 729

- Smith, William: Potter and Farmer, Bourne, 744

- Social Theory, Cole, 745

- Soldier Poets, Some, Sturge Moore, 215

- Soldier to His Son, Any, Willis, 83

- Sorley, The Letters of Charles, 343

- South Sea Foam, Safroni-Middleton, 214

- Springtime and Other Essays, Darwin, 605

- Station Platform and Other Poems, The, Mackenzie, 83

- Story of Purton, The, Richardson, 741

- Submarines and Sea-Power, Domville-Fife, 487

- Superhuman Antagonists, The, Watson, 79

- Supreme Adventure, The, Macandrew, 101

- Sussex in Bygone Days, Blaker, 478

- TANK Corps, The, Williams-Ellis, 217

- Tender Conscience, The, Lynch, 84

- Thomson of Duddingston, The Life of John, Napier, 247

- Time and Eternity, Cannan, 84

- Tolstoy, Noyes, 737

- Trade Unionism, The History of, Webb, 612

- Turks in Europe, The, Allen, 484

- Twenty-fifth Division in France and Flanders, The, Kincaid-Smith, 486

- ULSTER and Ireland, Good, 100

- Unhappy Far-Off Things, Dunsany, 345

- Unmarried, The Great, Gallichan, 99

- VALMOUTH, Firbank, 473

- Vector Algebra, Projective, Silberstein, 230

- Verse, Kipling, 333

- Verse-Craft, Lessons in, Ford, 601

- Verses, Meynell, 596

- Victorian Recollections, Bridges, 485

- Village Libraries, Sayle, 738

- WALPOLE, Letters of Horace, 52

- War Poems of Siegfried Sassoon, The, 206

- War Poetry, A Treasury of, Clarke, 336

- Wheels, 1919, 334

- Worms and Epitaphs, Garrod, 594

- YOUNG Physician, The, Brett Young, 84

THE LONDON

MERCURY

Vol. I No. 1              November 1919

EDITORIAL NOTES

WITH these notes we introduce the first number of the LONDON MERCURY. It might, beyond denial, appear in more tranquil and comfortable days. We have just been through a crisis which has brought us within sight of the basic realities of life—food, clothing, housing, security against violence. As soon as the paper was projected we were forced to visualise the likelihood of a time in which paper would be almost unprocurable, printing impossible (save in an amateur way at home), and the distribution of literature a matter of passing sheets from hand to hand. We have had a glimpse into the abyss of disorganisation, and, for the time being at all events, we have managed to keep on the solid ground. But, having conceived this journal, its conductors would have been reluctant to abandon their plans whatever confusion might have supervened. They may fairly claim to have formulated a scheme which, when it is perfectly executed, will meet all the demands of the public which reads old or new books, and of that other and smaller public which is chiefly concerned with the production of new works of the imagination. The more intense the troubles of society, the more uncertain and dark the future, the more obvious is the necessity for periodicals which hand on the torch of culture and creative activity. Literature is of the spirit; and by the spirit man lives. Our traditions are never more jealously to be cherished than when they are threatened; and our literature is the repository of all our traditions.

We think that, with our list of contents before us, we may reasonably say that there has never been in this country a paper with the scope of the LONDON MERCURY. We have had periodicals which have exercised a great critical influence, such as the Edinburgh Review of Jeffrey's and Macaulay's day. We have had periodicals which have published an unusual amount of fine "creative work," such as Thackeray's Cornhill. We have at this day the Times Literary Supplement, which reviews, with the utmost possible approximation to completeness, the literary "output" of the time; we have weekly papers which review the principal books and publish original verse and prose, and monthly papers which diversify their tables of contents with articles on Molière or Chateaubriand, Byron or Mr. Alfred Noyes. But we have had no paper which has combined as the LONDON MERCURY will do all those various kinds of matter which are required by the lover of books and the practising writer. In our pages will be found original verse and prose in a volume not possible to the weekly paper; full-length literary essays such as have been found only in the politico-literary monthlies; a critical survey of books of all kinds recently published; and other "features," analogues to some of which may be found, one by one, here and there, but which have never before been brought together within a single cover. The LONDON MERCURY—save in so far as it will publish reasoned criticisms of political (as of other) books—will avoid politics. It will concern itself with none of those issues which are the field of political controversy, save only such—the teaching of English, the fostering of the arts, the preservation of ancient monuments are examples—as impinge directly upon the main sphere of its interests. But within the field that it has chosen it will endeavour to be as exhaustive as is humanly possible. The present number is an earnest of its intentions; in early future numbers other sections will be added which will steadily bring it nearer to the ideal that it has set out to reach.

That ideal comprehends the satisfaction of the current needs of all those who are intelligently interested in literature, in the drama, in the arts, and in music. We shall attempt to make known the best that is being done and, so far as literature is concerned, to assist the process by the publication of original work. But thus far we have mentioned no more than the LONDON MERCURY'S functions as what may be called a "news" paper, an organ for the recording and dissemination of things that have already happened or been done. Its functions, as its conductors conceive them, will include—and this will be the chief of them—the examination of those conditions which in the past have favoured, and in the future are likely to favour, the production of artistic work of the first order, and the formulation and application of sound critical standards.

It is not a matter of attempting to make universal the shibboleths of some coterie or school, or of carrying some technical "stunt" through the country as though it were a fiery cross. We do not propose to maintain (to give concrete examples) that literature should be didactic or that it should be a-moral. We are not interested in urging that the couplet is exhausted, that the sonnet should be revived, that plays should have four or three acts, that rhyme is essential or that it is outworn, that lines should or should not be of regular lengths. We are tied to no system of harmony; we have no dogmas as to the dominance of representation in painting; we would make no hard-and-fast rule about the desirability of drawing a vertical wall as sloping at 45 degrees or of painting a man's face magenta and sage-green. As convenient descriptions we do not object (save sometimes on grounds of euphony) to the terms Futurist, Vorticist, Expressionist, post-Impressionist, Cubist, Unanimist, Imagist: but we suspect them as banners and battle-cries, for where they are used as such it is probable that fundamentals are being forgotten. Our aim will be, as critics, to state and to reiterate what are the motives, and what must be the dominant elements, of all good art, whatever the medium and whatever the idiosyncrasies of the artist, even if he find it convenient to draw on papier-mâché with a red-hot poker, and even if his natural genius impels him to write in lines of one syllable. The profoundest truths about art, whether literary or pictorial, are crystallised in maxims which may have been more often reiterated than understood, but which have undeniably been so often repeated that people now find them tiresome. Of such are "fundamental brainwork," "emotion recollected in tranquillity," "the rhythmical creation of beauty," and "the eye on the object." Each of these embodies truths, and there is indisputable truth also in the statements that a poet should have an ear and that a painter should paint what he sees. These things are platitudes; but a thing does not cease to be true merely because it is trite, and it is disastrous to throw over the obvious merely because it was obvious to one's grandfather. Yet men—and even women—do such things. We have had in the last few years art, so called, which sprang from every sort of impulse but the right one, and was governed by every sort of conceptions but the right ones. We have had "styles" which were mere protests and revulsions against other styles; "styles" which were no more than flamboyant attempts at advertisement akin to the shifting lights of the electric night signs; authors who have forgotten their true selves in the desperate search for remarkable selves; artists who have refused to keep their eyes upon the object because it has been seen before; musicians who have made, for novelty's sake, noises, and painters who have made, for effect's sake, spectacles, which invited the attention of those who make it their business to suppress public nuisances. We have had also theories in vogue the effects of which on mind and heart were such, and were foredoomed to be such, as to wither many talents in the bud. A single positive trend in English literature we do not ask and it is not necessarily desirable. We have heard the complaint from critics of the Gallic school that even in the days of the marvellously fertile English "Romantic generation" there was no one "movement," no Ten Commandments, and everybody was at sixes and sevens. That is the national way, and it probably accounts for our possession of the greatest and most varied imaginative literature that exists. Nevertheless, anarchy is not desirable, nor that worthy frame of mind which extends toleration not merely to the good of all kinds, but to the good and the bad, the intelligent and the foolish indifferently. And surely this toleration has been too commonly in evidence in this country in our time.

Is the contention disputed? Is the fact other than self-evident? Is it necessary to explain and to accentuate the confusion which for the last ten years has been evident in the creative and in the critical literature of this country? There have been, as there always are, writers who have cheerfully continued writing as their predecessors have written, serious parodists of Milton, of Tennyson, and of George Eliot. These least of all can be said to be in the tradition of English letters; for that tradition has been a tradition of constant experiment and renovation. There has been a central body of writers—from Mr. Hardy, Mr. Bridges, and Mr. Conrad to the best of the younger poets—who have gone steadily along the sound path, traditional yet experimental, personal yet sane. But there has been also a large number of young writers who have strayed and lost themselves amongst experiments, many of them foredoomed to sterility. Young men, ignoring the fundamental truth expressed in the maxim, "Look in thy heart and write," have attempted to make up poems (and pictures) "out of their heads." Others, defying the obvious postulate that all good writing will carry at least a superficial meaning to the intelligent reader, have invited us to admire strings of disconnected words and images, meaningless and even verbless. Others, turning their backs on those natural affections and primary interests the repudiation of which means, and must always mean, the death of the highest forms of literature, have concentrated upon the subversion of every belief by which man lives. They have sapped at the bases of every loyalty, and sneered at every code, oblivious to both social welfare and social experience. They have been, such of them as profess the moralistic preoccupation, very contemptuous of "clean living and no thinking," but the dirty living and muddled thinking that they have offered as a substitute have been no great improvement. They have been, such of them as have the preoccupation of the artist, so anxious to look at the abnormal and the recondite that they have forgotten what are and must be the main elements of man's life and what the most conspicuous features in man's landscape. We have had an orgy of undirected abnormality. The old object of art was "what oft was said but ne'er so well expressed"; the object of many of the new artists has been what was never said before and could not possibly be expressed worse. The tricks of abnormality have been learnt. Young simpletons who, twenty years ago, would have been writing vapid magazine verses about moonrise and roses have discovered that they have only to become incoherent, incomprehensible, and unmetrical to be taken seriously. Bad writers will, without intellectual or æsthetic impulse, pretend to burrow into psychological (or physical) obscurities which are no more beyond the artist's purview than anything else, provided he responds to them, but which have the advantage for an insincere writer that they enable him to talk nonsense that honest unsophisticated readers are unable to diagnose as nonsense. Year after year we have new fungoid growths of feeble pretentious impostors who, after a while, are superseded by their younger kindred; and year by year we see writers who actually have some intelligence and capacity for observation and exact statement led astray into the stony and barren fields of technical anarchism or the pitiful madhouse of moral antinomianism. At bottom vanity and pretence are the worst of vices in a young writer, but they may be encouraged or discouraged, even these; and we have seen times and places in which black was called white.

Amid this luxuriant confusion the voices of critics at once sane and informed have been few. For the most part our older critics have tended to treat the younger generation as a howling menagerie of insensate young beasts, and have failed to keep sufficiently closely in touch with production to discriminate between the traditional and the anarchistic, the sincere and the pretentious, the intelligent and the stupid, the healthy and the vicious, the promising and the sterile. We have ourselves been frequently amused and irritated at finding elderly men of letters alarmed at the "revolutionism of the young," as manifested in Mr. A. or Mr. B., or asking, bewildered, "why the young take Miss C. so seriously," when as a fact A. and B. are merely rowdies of whose foolish books even the young buy only fifty or sixty copies, and the fair C. is a person taken seriously by no serious person of her own generation. Those critics, again, who are constantly in touch with the fruits of the printing press have for the most part got into a state of puzzlement in which they are not merely afraid to make mistakes (lest what looks like a frog may turn out to be an angel), but in which they have almost lost the habit of using their senses for the purpose for which they were meant to be used. Everything is treated with respect. Platitudinous rubbish—so welcome perhaps because it is so easily understood—is treated as though Wordsworth had written it; hectic gibberish of the silliest kind is honoured, at worst, with the sort of deferential reprimand that is applicable to great genius when great genius shows a slight tendency to kick over the traces. Even those of our reviews which do not ignore the best contemporary work more often than not allocate just as much space to the humbug and the faux bon. "The public, though dull, has not quite such a skull," as Swinburne's limerick put it. Many bad authors are much talked about but very little read, and critics who never write a line are frequently sound when most of the professionals have gone clean off the rails. Moreover, it is arguable—though we should not, without long consideration, accept the argument—that no amount of misleading criticism or bad example will ruin a man of strong natural genius, which implies perceptions which will not be denied, and a well-defined positive character. Nevertheless, even if we do not exaggerate the ill effects of haphazard and timid or haphazard and reckless criticism, it is surely obvious that both artists and their publics must gain if some of the rubbish can be cleared away. The ship moves in spite of all the barnacles, and it does not lose direction, but its progress might be less troublesome. We have often met persons who have distrusted all reviews because they have bought books on the strength of extravagant reviews and been once bit. We have often met people, too, who have procured what somebody (undeniably "intellectual") has told them to be the latest and most vigorous and representative work of imaginative literature, and, finding it distasteful, have come to the conclusion that the "poets of the day" or the "novelists of to-morrow" are not for them: turning back, then, to their Dickens or Browning or Dionysius of Halicarnassus in the mood of that ghastly pessimist who said that whenever a new book came out he read an old one. These readers are typical of many, and the result of their existence is that the dissemination of the best contemporary literature is (1) less wide than it might be and (2) less rapid than it might be. There is, as a rule—in the economists' term—far too great a "time-lag" in the making of the best reputations. A man often writes for years before he is heard of by the mass of the cultivated readers who are naturally predisposed to like his work, and do like it when at last they meet it. In a nation so large, and with so immense a volume of literary production, such numerous and diverse news-sheets, and such congested and ill-arranged bookshops, this phenomenon is bound to exist in some degree. But it may be minimised, and although we of the LONDON MERCURY cannot hope, and do not desire, to be judged by our aspirations rather than by our performances, we may at least be permitted to say that we shall do our utmost to contribute towards that end.

Even to disclaim an ambition for an infallible pontificate of letters must savour of impertinence. We can only say that what our journal can do in the way of affirming and applying principles of criticism, and giving a conspectus of the best contemporary work, we shall attempt to do. Our other functions we have already outlined, and a beginning is made in this number. We have made no endeavour to arrange a dazzling shop-window of names or "features" for our first number; whatever may be our readers' views concerning this number we can at least assure them that the contributors to subsequent numbers will be not less representative than those here found, and that only a beginning has yet been made towards the complete scheme that we have in view.

Going and Staying

The moving sun-shapes on the spray,

The sparkles where the brook was flowing,

Pink faces, plightings, moonlit May,

These were the things we wished would stay;

But they were going.

Seasons of blankness as of snow,

The silent bleed of a world decaying,

The moan of multitudes in woe,

These were the things we wished would go;

But they were staying.

THOMAS HARDY

It's Not Going to Happen Again

I have known the most dear that is granted us here,

More supreme than the gods know above,

Like a star I was hurled through the sweet of the world,

And the height and the light of it, Love.

I have risen to the uttermost Heaven of Joy,

I have sunk to the sheer Hell of Pain—

But—it's not going to happen again, my boy,

It's not going to happen again.

It's the very first word that poor Juliet heard

From her Romeo over the Styx;

And the Roman will tell Cleopatra in hell

When she starts her immortal old tricks;

What Paris was tellin' for good-bye to Helen

When he bundled her into the train—

Oh, it's not going to happen again, old girl,

It's not going to happen again.

RUPERT BROOKE

Château Lake Louise, Canada, 1913.

The Search for the Nightingale

(To S. S.)

1

Beside a stony, shallow stream I sat

In a deep gully underneath a hill.

I watched the water trickle down dark moss

And shake the tiny boughs of maidenhair,

And billow on the bodies of cold stone.

And sculptured clear

Upon the shoulder of that aerial peak

Stood trees, the fragile skeletons of light,

High in a bubble blown

Of visionary stone.

2

Under that azurine transparent arch

The hill, the rocks, the trees

Were still and dreamless as the printed wood

Black on the snowy page.

It was the song of some diviner bird

Than this still country knew,

The words were twigs of burnt and blackened trees

From which there trilled a voice,

Shadowy and faint, as though it were the song

The water carolled as it flowed along.

3

Lifting my head, I gazed upon the world,

Carved in the breathless heat as in a gem,

And watched the parroquets green-feathered fly

Through crystal vacancy, and perch in trees

That glittered in a thin, blue, haze-like dream,

And the voice faded, though the water dinned

Against the stones its dimming memory.

And I ached then

To hear that song burst out upon that scene,

Startling an earth where it had never been.

4

And then I came unto an older world.

The woods were damp, the sun

Shone in a watery mist, and soon was gone;

The trees were thick with leaves, heavy and old,

The sky was grey, and blue, and like the sea

Rolling with mists and shadowy veils of foam.

I heard the roaring of an ancient wind

Among the elms and in the tattered pines;

Lighting pale hollows in the cloud-dark sky,

A ghostly ship, the Moon, flew scudding by.

5

"O is it here," I cried, "that bird that sings

So that the traveller in his frenzy weeps?"

It was the autumn of the year, and leaves

Fell with a dizzying moan, and all the trees

Roared like the sea at my small impotent voice.

And if that bird was there it did not sing,

And I knew not its haunts, or where it went,

But carven stood and raved!

In that old wood that dripped upon my face

Upturned below, pale in its passionate chase.

6

And years went by, and I grew slowly cold:

I had forgotten what I once had sought.

There are no passions that do not grow dim,

And like a fire imagination sinks

Into the ashes of the mind's cold grate.

And if I dreamed, I dreamed of that far land,

That coast of pearl upon a summer sea,

Whose frail trees in unruffled amber sleep,

Gaudy with jewelled birds, whose feathers spray

Bright founts of colour through the tranquil day.

7

The hill, the gully, and the stony stream

I had not thought on when this spring I sat

In a strange room with candles guttering down

Into the flickering silence. From the Moon

Among the trees still-wreathed upon the sky

There came the sudden twittering of a ghost.

And I stept out from darkness, and I saw

The great pale sky immense, transparent, filled

With boughs and mountains and wide-shining lakes

Where stillness, crying in a thin voice, breaks.

8

It was the voice of that imagined bird.

I saw the gully and that ancient hill,

The water trickling down from Paradise

Shaking the tiny boughs of maidenhair.

There sat the dreaming boy.

And O! I wept to see that scene again,

To read the black print on that snowy page,

I wept, and all was still.

No shadow came into that sun-steeped glen,

No sound of earth, no voice of living men.

9

Was it a dream or was it that in me

A God awoke and gazing on his dream

Saw that dream rise and gaze into its soul,

Finding, Narcissus-like, its image there:

A Song, a transitory Shape on water blown,

Descending down the bright cascades of time,

The shadowiest-flowering, ripple-woven bloom

As ghostly as still waters' unseen foam

That lies upon the air, as that song lay

Within my heart on one far summer day?

10

Carved in the azure air white peacocks fly,

Their fanning wings stir not the crystal trees,

Bright parrots fade through dimming turquoise days,

And music scrolls its lightning calm and bright

On the pale sky where thunder cannot come.

Into that world no ship has ever sailed,

No seaman gazing with hand-shaded eyes

Has ever seen its shore whiten the waves.

But to that land the Nightingale has flown,

Leaving bright treasure on this calm air blown.

W. J. TURNER

Early Chronology

Slowly the daylight left our listening faces.

*      *      *      *      *

Professor Brown with level baritone

Discoursed into the dusk.

Five thousand years

He guided us through scientific spaces

Of excavated History; till the lone

Roads of research grew blurred; and in our ears

Time was the rumoured tongues of vanished races,

And Thought a chartless Age of Ice and Stone.

*      *      *      *      *

The story ended. Then the darkened air

Flowered as he lit his pipe; an aureole glowed

Enwreathed with smoke; the moment's match-light showed

His rosy face, broad brow, and smooth grey hair,

Backed by the crowded book-shelves.

In his wake

An archæologist began to make

Assumptions about aqueducts (he quoted

Professor Sandstorm's book); and soon they floated

Through desiccated forests; mangled myths;

And argued easily round megaliths.

*      *      *      *      *

Beyond the college garden something glinted;

A copper moon climbed clear above the trees.

Some Lydian coin?... Professor Brown agrees

That copper coins were in that culture minted;

But, as her whitening way aloft she took,

I thought she had a pre-dynastic look.

SIEGFRIED SASSOON

The Rock Pool

(To Miss Alice Warrender)

This is the sea. In these uneven walls

A wave lies prisoned. Far and far away,

Outward to ocean as the slow tide falls,

Her sisters, through the capes that hold the bay,

Dancing in lovely liberty recede.

Yet lovely in captivity she lies,

Filled with soft colours, where the waving weed

Moves gently and discloses to our eyes

Blurred shining veins of rock and lucent shells

Under the light-shot water; and here repose

Small quiet fish and the dimly glowing bells

Of sleeping sea-anemones that close

Their tender fronds and will not now awake

Till on these rocks the waves returning break.

EDWARD SHANKS

The Evening Sky in March

Rose-bosom'd and rose-limb'd,

With eyes of dazzling bright,

Shakes Venus mid the twined boughs of the night;

Rose-limb'd, soft-stepping

From low bough to bough,

Shaking the wide-hung starry fruitage—dimmed

Its bloom of snow

By that sole planetary glow.

Venus, avers the astronomer

Not thus idly dancing goes

Flushing the eternal orchard with wild rose.

She through ether burns

Outpacing planetary earth,

And ere two years triumphantly returns

And again wave-like swelling flows;

And again her flashing apparition comes and goes.

This we have not seen,

No heavenly courses set,

No flight unpausing through a void serene:

But when eve clears,

Arises Venus as she first uprose

Stepping the shaken boughs among,

And in her bosom glows

The warm light hidden in sunny snows.

She shakes the clustered stars

Lightly, as she goes

Amid the unseen branches of the night,

Rose-limb'd, rose-bosom'd bright.

She leaps: they shake and pale; she glows—

And who but knows

How the rejoiced heart aches

When Venus all his starry vision shakes:

When through his mind

Tossing with random airs of an unearthly wind,

Rose-bosom'd, rose-limb'd,

The mistress of his starry vision arises,

And the boughs glittering sway

And the stars pale away,

And the enlarging heaven glows

As Venus light-foot mid the twined branches goes.

JOHN FREEMAN

Love's Caution

Tell them, when you are home again,

How warm the air was now;

How silent were the birds and leaves,

And of the moon's full glow;

And how we saw afar

A falling star:

It was a tear of pure delight

Ran down the face of Heaven this happy night.

Our kisses are but love in flower,

Until that greater time

When, gathering strength, those flowers take wing,

And Love can reach his prime.

And now, my heart's delight,

Good night, good night;

Give me the last sweet kiss—

But do not breathe at home one word of this!

W. H. DAVIES

The House That Was

Of the old house, only a few crumbled

Courses of brick, smothered in nettle and dock,

Or a squared stone, lying mossy where it tumbled!

Sprawling bramble and saucy thistle mock

What once was firelit floor and private charm

Where, seen in a windowed picture, hills were fading

At dusk, and all was memory-coloured and warm,

And voices talked, secure from the wind's invading.

Of the old garden, only a stray shining

Of daffodil flames amid April's cuckoo-flowers,

Or a cluster of aconite mixt with weeds entwining!

But, dark and lofty, a royal cedar towers

By homely thorns: whether the white rain drifts

Or sun scorches, he holds the downs in ken,

The western vale; his branchy tiers he lifts,

Older than many a generation of men.

LAURENCE BINYON

Suppose ...

Suppose ... and suppose that a wild little Horse of Magic

Came cantering out of the sky,

With bridle of silver, and into the saddle I mounted

To fly—and to fly;

And we stretched up into the air, fleeting on in the sunshine,

A speck in the gleam

On galloping hoofs, his mane in the wind out-flowing,

In a shadowy stream;

And, oh, when, all lone, the gentle star of evening

Came crinkling into the blue,

A magical castle we saw in the air, like a cloud of moonlight,

As onward we flew;

And across the green moat on the drawbridge we foamed and we snorted;

And there was a beautiful Queen

Who smiled at me strangely, and spoke to my wild little Horse, too—

A lovely and beautiful Queen;

Suppose with delight she cried to her delicate maidens:

"Behold my daughter—my dear!"

And they crowned me with flowers, and then to their harps sate playing,

Solemn and clear;

And magical cakes and goblets were spread on the table;

And at window the birds came in;

Hopping along with bright eyes, pecking crumbs from the platters,

And sipped of the wine;

And splashing up—up to the roof tossed fountains of crystal;

And Princes in scarlet and green

Shot with their bows and arrows, and kneeled with their dishes

Of fruits for the Queen;

And we walked in a magical garden, with rivers and bowers,

And my bed was of ivory and gold;

And the Queen breathed soft in my ear a song of enchantment—

And I never grew old....

And I never, never came back to the earth, oh, never and never;

How mother would cry and cry!

There'd be snow on the fields then, and all these sweet flowers in the winter

Would wither and die....

Suppose ... and suppose....

WALTER DE LA MARE

THE SMILE OF THE SPHINX

By ROBERT NICHOLS

I.

LONG, long ago there dwelt in the pleasant City-of-Towers a young princess of immense riches and of such exceeding beauty that none other could be compared to her. So famous, indeed, became the riches of her beauty and her possessions, that were only less than her beauty, that she was sought in marriage by every kind of personage. In three moons the train of her suitors, or mounted upon gold-stencilled elephants, tassel-fringed camels, palfries of Arabia, ponies of Astrakhan, mules of Nubia, or faring but upon the Sandals-of-Nature along the Road-of-Advantage, became so huge that the citizens of the City-of-Towers being eaten (albeit at no small price) out of hearth and home, petitioned the princely father of the damsel to mitigate, in whatever sort he should think fit, the good fortune of their city, which, possessing such a treasure as the princess Sa-adeh, the Bestower-of-Felicity, admitted to finding its pleasure rather in reflecting upon the value of their jewel than in entertaining those who came to steal it. The ever-benevolent Prince accordingly issued a decree that no suitor was to approach the Princess save on the understanding that if he failed to win her affections his head should pay the forfeit. Forthwith ensued so remarkable a diminution in the number of her suitors that, in a short while, only those whom the Light-of-Love's-Eyes had guided or those whom the Three-thonged-Scourge-of-Need had driven remained mounted or standing before the palace gates. Nor did these linger overlong, for the heart of the Princess was less easily softened than that of the Executioner, who with one sweep of the scimitar relieved the Lover of the Burden-of-Love or severed the Needy from the Vessel-of-Need. Then the beautiful Sa-adeh, the Bestower-of-Felicity, not unfatigued by such a succession of maidenly preoccupations, determined that for a little she would forget the Bonds-of-Necessity and atone somewhat to the citizens of the City-of-Towers for the inconveniences she had brought them. To this end she caused a special litter of cedar wood to be constructed, and, mounting therein, sallied forth to bestow upon the citizens of the City-of-Towers the hitherto-unseen and almost-unendurable beauty of her face.

Now it happened that in this city there was then dwelling a young scribe by name Es-siddeeh, that is the Very Veracious. This youth, the height of whose beauty was almost as remarkable as the depth of his wisdom, had spent the greater number of his days in study; so much so, in fact, that he had never cast his eyes upon a woman to love her, and this in spite of the possession of an enchanting smile, Nature's gift to him, of the power of which he was hardly conscious. Surrounded by parchments, having hung about his neck many little scrolls, with his tablet laid across his knees, daily he sat in his window and, while the traffic flowed by and the crowd shrilled more loudly than a flock of parokeets, raised not his eyes from his papyrus nor regarded any sound but the squeaking of his stylus-reed.

Thus, then, was he sitting when the troating of horns and the bombilation of gongs proclaimed the nearing of the Princess in her progress. But Es-siddeeh paid this din no attention and, though the fantastic shadows of many majestically-apparelled persons fell across his page, lifted not the Gatherers-of-Knowledge from the Leaves-of-Enlightenment. Meanwhile Sa-adeh, lying in her litter, enjoyed a certain satisfaction in the pleasurable recognition the gracious bestowal of the sight of her countenance procured the citizens. This satisfaction she told herself, as the procession advanced, was increased rather than diminished by the spectacle of certain bleared scribes, who, with ears already attached by cobwebs to the lintels of their doors, never lifted eyes as she passed. "For," she reflected, "such insensibility affords me a scale by which to gauge the pleasure I bestow elsewhere."

At this moment she arrived opposite Es-siddeeh's window.

Then the young scribe, feeling the gaze of another fixed upon him, looked up. And the eyes of Es-siddeeh exchanged thoughts with the eyes of Sa-adeh. When he bent to the tablet again, behold the words were to him but foolishness. All the afternoon he sat there wondering why he had spent his youth upon such things as now appeared to him the very vanity of vanities, colourless and the occupation of the myopic. At evenfall, driven abroad by a terrible restlessness, he wandered outside the walls of the city, but the murmuring of the breeze through the groves did but increase his distraction. Toward midnight he returned and, after spending the remainder of the night without sleep, informed his parents of his intention to turn suitor. Greatly perturbed, they besought him to relinquish so hopeless a project. In vain! at the third hour he proceeded to the palace. The gates were shut. When they did at last open he found himself face to face with the Executioner. Involuntarily he recoiled.

"No alms will be given to-day," said the Reliever-of-Headaches.

"I have not come for alms. I wish to see the porter."

"I am the porter."

"I thought you were——"

"So I was. But now that job is at an end. The capacity to love as our forefathers loved is passing away. Even a spirit of commercial enterprise is lacking. The world goes from bad to worse. Yesterday I cut off the heads of princes; to-day I open the door to mendicants. On no one is Fortune harder than I."

"I find that last reflection," returned the scribe, "so general that I grow convinced it must be true. But be of good cheer. Strange as it may seem, I am the bearer of good tidings. There is every likelihood of your shortly resuming your distinguished office—I have come as a suitor to the Princess."

"Have you, indeed? Ha, ha, ha! The coin is as good as earned.... However ... excuse my entertainment. I should not laugh; for understand my heart goes out to you in your public-spirited endeavour not to permit my office to lapse. Ah, if there were only more men of your kidney, and yet ... I regret to have to add that you will not profit me much. For make no mistake, I am a Republican; I believe that handsome is as handsome does. It is therefore my custom to request a little honorarium, in ratio to the means of my customer, in return for the service I render him. For this is a service which is unique, in that he probably has no servant in his suite trained to perform this duty for him, and it is besides a service for which the requirement of one small fee cannot be described as extortionate since the duty is one which being once satisfactorily performed does not require to be repeated."

"But I have not yet incurred the penalty."

"You will. Be reassured and, having no troublesome misgivings on this count, hand me that which in a few hours it will be too late for me to ask."

Es-siddeeh smiled. "Are you not paid by the Court?" he asked.

"I am," replied the other, softening, "and a beggarly wage it is, too, which compels me to make these requisitions. However, since you seem, for all your queer dress, a pleasant fellow, I will reduce my charge."

"Good. I feared I should never be able to pay—my means are so scanty."

"I should inform you that it is as well to pay because, if you do not, my arm, unstrengthened by the sinews of charity, may not perform its office with quite that address which is at once a delight to the spectators and a matter of self-gratification to my customer."

"Your magnanimity," replied the scribe, giving the man a coin, "does indeed bear witness to the superiority of your mind to its present situation and deserves a reward. I hope you will see that I am not disappointed of an interview."

Thereupon the Executioner conducted him into the palace and, leaving him in an inner apartment, acquainted one of the attendant damsels with the object of the scribe's visit.

For some time the maid regarded his dress dubiously.

"I should be grateful if you would inform the Princess of my arrival, for I cannot say that I find the sound of the Executioner in the courtyard below sharpening his scimitar on a wheel affords me as much pleasure as by his expression it affords him."

She vanished through the curtains, and the following conversation was borne to Es-siddeeh's ears:

"A young man calling himself the Very Veracious has arrived and sues for an interview on the same subject as his forerunners."

"I cannot see him." The maid returned.

"Tell her," said Es-siddeeh, "that she is as beautiful as one red rose in a garden of lilies."

"The compliment," he heard the Princess remark, "is a new one and is graceful. Nevertheless dismiss him."

"Tell her," said Es-siddeeh, "that her wisdom has the wings of the rukh, the eye of the falcon, the talons of the osprey, and the voice of the dove."

"It is very remarkable," he heard the Princess remark, "that he should so accurately describe my characteristics. He must be a diviner; since, as far as I know, he has never seen me nor spoken to me. Nevertheless dismiss him."

"Tell her," said Es-siddeeh—but he could not think of anything to tell her and was sadly cast down. For his love, continuing to pain him, tortured him as a sweet fire in his bosom. At length, bethinking himself of his wisdom, he said in as brusque a tone as he could summon, "Tell her that I know the answer to all secrets and that she will regret it if she dismiss me."

"How now?" cried the Princess, "is he so clever, and has such courage? He will indeed be the Very Veracious if, possessing these answers, he depart immediately, for then my womanish regret will indeed be sharp; since of all humours, he has had the wit to see, this humour of curiosity is the one most deeply implanted in us. Of what complexion is he?"

"He is of spare build; his hair is black and glossy as that of a black panther; in his eyes there is a dark fire. His clothes are by no means new, his fingers are stained with ink, and about his neck there is a necklace of little scrolls."

"A necklace of little scrolls, did you say? Send him in."

Then Es-siddeeh stepped into her presence, and it was to him as if he were a little planet drawn for the first time into the orbit of the sun.

She commanded him to be seated and plied him with various questions concerning the value as an amulet of this or that precious stone, of the pedigree of famous horses, music as Emotional Sound or as an Architecture, and many other matters of a similar nature.

All these questions he answered not only discreetly, but with wit.

For some time she rested her eyes upon his face in a musing fashion. Then, with a strange inflection, she asked, "What is love?"

"I have but just beheld the cause," he returned; "give me a little space and I infer its properties as a consequence. At present I am troubled to know whether the same vessel can contain both cause and consequence."

Not without haste, she assured him that she would consider her question answered, and enquired, "Does it become thee to risk so wise a head at the bidding of so foolish a heart?"

"It lay not, and does not lie, with me to make it becoming."

This answer did not appear to please her, for, moving her head, she proceeded with an instant change of tone, "One thing I have ever desired to know. What is the secret of the smile of the Sphinx?"

He was taken aback.

"What? Canst thou not answer, thou who didst assert that thou hadst in thy bosom the answer to all secrets, O Very Veracious one?"

Seeing her smiling, he replied, "I have not seen the Sphinx unless I see her now."

"I perceive that thou canst not answer. Yet because of thy youth and thy beauty I will spare thee."

"Spare me not, since before thou hast not spared me."

"Upon one condition:—that shouldst thou wish again to see me thou shalt bring with thee the secret of the Sphinx's smile. And now, before thou leavest me, because thou wert not as insensible as most scribes are wont to be, but wast willing to assay to gain some knowledge of perfection from life as well as from thy scrolls, I will give thee a token to take with thee."

At these words, as if some beneficent and invisible djinn had escaped from his bottle, a spirit of strange sweetness seemed to fill the room. Strength forsook the body of Es-siddeeh.

"Come hither," she murmured.

So Es-siddeeh went to her and bowed down with his face to the floor.

Then the Princess took him very gently in her arms and, raising his head, placed one hand beneath his locks and the other over his eyes, and so kissed him.

Now when Es-siddeeh felt the touch of her hands, cool as water lilies upon him; smelled the delicate smell of her bosom, more mysterious than any perfume of the mages; tasted her mouth's nectar, more precious than the combed honey of the blessed in Paradise, then indeed he knew there to be such a seal coldly pressed upon his heart that the stamp of it would not be erased all the days of his life.

"Ah, merciless," said he, "thou hast indeed not spared me. Now must I inevitably return."

"It was for that reason I gave it thee," she said.

II.

He hurried home. He sold all his belongings.

His father, seeing him about to depart, cried, "Thou wilt break thy mother's heart."

He could not reply.

His mother, watching him set out upon his mule with a slender bag of coin in his hands, cursed him and the Princess.

He did not look back.

III.

After a journey of three moons he arrived before the Sphinx.

His first impression was that her countenance contained no such difficult riddle as he had been led to suppose. The body of the Sphinx was huge, her paws stretched in front formidable, her shoulders heavy. Her bandeletted head sustained a wedge-fronted tiara. All this he took in at a glance. Then he turned to the face. He had not expected it to be so close to the ground and so open to inspection. The forehead he could see was ample. The eyebrows, albeit contracted in a slight frown, were high, arched, and wide, which lent the upper part of the face a frank expression; but the reverie of the eyes, fixed on space, seemed somewhat dimmed—as if an impalpable hand had interposed itself between the gazing orbs and the sun. The smoothness and delicate moulding of the cheeks and chin were remarkable. The nose astonished by the firm subtlety of its outline, which gave to the face a simultaneous expression of suavity and undeviating determination. If the nose had provoked wonder the mouth was yet more amazing. The lips, which might have been gracious and full when parted, were so closely compressed in their smile as to modify the whole effect of the other features.

"I must go nearer," said Es-siddeeh.

He established himself almost between the paws of the monster, for monster she had become to him who now beheld her mien more clearly—a mien disfigured, yet seeming uncaring for its own disfigurement, and—greatest horror of all—a mien in which the eyes possessed irises but seemingly no pupils. For a little he considered returning. Then he said to himself, "No; to see her afar off gives a false impression. One should see her as she is, and earnestly scanning the visage wrestle in thought till one discovers the secret of the smile." In this he instinctively knew himself to be right.

But he was not long in finding that the more and the closer he stared the more difficult the problem became. To begin with the blemishes distracted him overmuch. The main cast of the face appeared, though subtle, simple and grand enough, but the fissures between the blocks that composed it, the discolorations, and the crevices that ran from side to side confused his eye. "If it were only perfect, all would be much easier to discover," he murmured. Then, too, the expression of the Sphinx and the import of the smile seemed to vary with the changes of the weather. On fresh-blowing sunny days the image beamed on him with a shadow-dappled, bleached cheerfulness of resignation. But when the sun raged the face, too, raged as with an inward fury; its lineaments shook in the heat-eddies that arose from the sand, and every grain glowed like a particle of fire. Nor did its rage abate during the succeeding night. The rising of the tropic moon gave to its complexion, streaked with violet shadows, an ashen hue: the pallidity of an unappeasable and frustrated anger. On lowering days it blackly scowled, and the swollen nostrils and imperious mouth assumed the similitude of being endowed only with the bitterest irony, a constancy of cruelty and an unquestionable scorn. Then he hated it....

At last, perceiving that the secret was not to be gained in a few days or even in a few moons, he resolved to settle in the desert opposite the Sphinx.

Three years passed.

Day by day and night by night Es-siddeeh watched the Sphinx. Daily the sun, shining upon the surface of the mask, seemed to make it more impenetrable, and nightly the moon, deepening the shadows in the crevices, increased its mystery. Round about the knoll, which the pilgrim had selected for his station, the sand gave off a glare more deadly than the bed of a furnace or, rising in whirlwind-spouts whose tops spattered ashes upon him, circled his island like monstrous and infuriate djinns. Toward sunset the clouds, gathered in an awful and silent grandeur, discharged, with stunning clap and reverberations as of mountains overthrown, their lightnings, a shower of blue arrows, to all quarters of the fluttering horizon. Once indeed Es-siddeeh awoke to behold a body of dense vapour launch itself wrathfully downward against the head of the brooding Sphinx and wreath it with a crown of crackling fire. The scribe leaped up, and, despite the pressure of the blast, succeeded in gaining, not without considerable risk to himself, a position before the base of the monster. His courage was unrewarded. Upon that obstinate mien, livid in the tawny light, the rain glistened as if there had indeed started from the stony pores a ghastly dew; but the thin lips were as tightly compressed as ever. "Hideous Sphinx!" exclaimed the youth, "thou cruelty incarnate, cannot even the ire of the gods subdue thee? Shall I never, from some motion of thy visage, learn what secret thou hidest?"

As the winter approached the wilderness, utterly denuded of weed or moss, grew vaster and more bleak. The nights turned frosty. Overhead the constellations increased in splendour and number until every quarter of the empyrean shone encrusted with stars. Against these brilliant galaxies and the diffused, pervasive effulgence of countless further bodies the forehead of the Sphinx outlined itself in desolate and stubborn majesty.

Then was it that, alone amid the desert, under the gaze of those myriad and so distant lights, facing the figure of the Sphinx, now blacker and more impenetrable than ever, Es-siddeeh reached the climacteric which is despair. Baffled, without any sensation but an exasperation that gnawed his very reins and made giddy his temples, he spent his days and nights in complete dejection. At length, wishing, to terminate his sufferings once and for all he approached the Sphinx and, vehemently hammering its breast with his fists, cried in a terrible voice, "What is the secret of thy smile, O Sphinx?"

But the Sphinx did not answer.

At dawn, impotent before the titan, he perceived upon the surface of her bosom bloodmarks hitherto unobserved. Other hands beside his own, then, had knocked upon that stony breast. He returned to his hovel and stretched himself down in a sleep that was like a stupor. On waking he determined to climb the bandelettes of the Sphinx and to cast himself from its forehead. He had scarcely taken a step when, exhausted by privation and prolonged anguish of mind, he fell, and lying helpless found himself fronting a face mirrored in a pool, the product of a shower which had fallen while he slept. The face was the face of one whose visage was slowly approximating to that of the Sphinx, but it lacked the smile, and in its eyes there was the light of imminent insanity. For a space he gazed without realising the apparition to be but his own reflection. Then—stiffening his arms that he might raise his head and shoulders, extended, as he was, upon the desert like a Syrian puma whose bowels are transfixed by an arrow and who is about to die—he rallied his strength for a last effort. Before him, a quivering tigress in the meridian sunshine, crouched the colossal Sphinx. The frustrated eyes of the scribe, nigh starting from their sockets, bent upon it such a glare as sought to penetrate its very soul. Yet at the last, heaving himself forward, with nostrils wrinkled and teeth bared as if in the very coughing frenzy of a fighting death, he could but ejaculate "Sphinx, now had I entreated thine aid!—hadst thou not rendered me too proud, who have discovered thee to be but stone."

Then the Sphinx answered in a voice of thunder:

"O man, aid thyself!"

IV.

A company of Bedawi, journeying across the desert, discovered him lying senseless. Him they succoured as a madman, and therefore sacred to the gods.

For a while he rested in a pleasant city, enjoying the support of a good man, who did not understand the cause of his afflictions, but at once realised their intensity and the deep importance to Es-siddeeh of the search on which he was engaged. His health mended at length and undeterred by the solicitations of his host, troubled to see him in such haste, he resumed his investigations. This time he did not attempt to wrestle the secret from the Sphinx herself, but determined to prosecute his enquiries among the learned.

With this end in view he interrogated the chief scholars of that district, but, coming to the conclusion that they were too provincial, he made his way to Jerusalem. Here no answer at all was given him—save that by the study of the particular law made for a particular tribe and containing, as he himself was obliged to admit, the most admirable rules for the preservation of an individual or a clan, he would attain to a knowledge of all things.

He determined to go to Greece, the fountain-head of knowledge. But in Athens he fared not much better. The majority of the inhabitants, the fascination of whose minds he had nevertheless to admit, seemed given up to the fervour of local politics, money-making, the quarrels of the law-courts, the consideration of athletics, the technique of the chase, and the refinement of trivial or voluptuous delights: pursuits which he told himself could scarcely further true knowledge. There were, however, a number of persons, given to the study of natural law as revealed in nature, who enquired whether he had weighed the Sphinx or examined her molecules beneath the magnifying crystal. He was compelled to reply that he had done neither of these things. Whereat they retorted that it was therefore impossible for them to build a theory as to the constituents of her smile and verify it in experiment. "Moreover," they continued, "even the data you have given us appear not only insufficient but contradictory, since you state that the smile is at once sweet and sour. Direct opposites cannot be reconciled in science. We think it therefore best to direct you to the school of metaphysics opposite, where, if we are to judge from the uproar which occasionally disturbs our precincts, we believe this feat to be daily accomplished." ... Es-siddeeh accordingly lost no time in entering the school opposite. After a lengthy session, the clamour of which somewhat bewildered him, a young man with a high complexion and a shrill voice approached him and said, "As far as can be ascertained (for there are the usual number of qualifications and reservations of opinion amongst us) we are of a mind that the secret of the Sphinx is that she has no secret—at least no secrets from us."

Es-siddeeh did not stop to enquire further, for it appeared to him that he could not gain by it and, moreover, he was much fatigued. So, taking boat, he sailed through the Pillars of Hercules and, turning north, descried, after an arduous voyage, the extreme Western Isles enshrouded in a perpetual prismatic fog. On these coasts he landed and, penetrating inland, in a short while discovered a university situated on the chief river of the main island. Having struck up an acquaintance with the courteous master of the chief college, he poured out his tale. The Disseminator-of-Truth, after prolonged thought, replied, "Without wishing in any way to influence your conduct, I should, since you seem to be enamoured of the lady, inform her that the secret is anything you happen to have in your head at the moment (as well it may be), provided the matter be of such obscurity that that instinct which is peculiar to females, and which on the best authority (namely, their own) I am given to understand is infallible, will instantly assure her that she understands it even better than you do."

"But you would not have me deceive her?"

"Indeed, no. For recollect—what she believes to be true will per contra be true to her."

"It seems to me, then, that you are asking her to deceive herself."

"Not at all," answered the Sage somewhat impatiently; "all is, you must know, relative, and any conclusion is as relative to enquiry as any other."

"But not to truth!" returned Es-siddeeh with heat.

The great man smiled. "An irritating preoccupation this, when the search itself is so intriguing."

Es-siddeeh, the Very Veracious, experienced a curious sensation in which pleasure certainly played a part. "That is perfectly true," he remarked; "I am finding more interest in the search than I expected. Nevertheless I wish to return to Sa-adeh, the Bestower-of-Felicity" (and at her name he was conscious of an inexplicable spasm of contrition), "and to present her with my conclusion—the Truth."

"Here I think we part," said the other suddenly. "Farewell."

Then, as he turned away, the elder flung over his shoulder, "For myself, old-fashioned being that I am, I am inclined to think the truth is that the secret of the smile of the Sphinx is not one that should be repeated to a lady."

It was some time before Es-siddeeh recovered from the shock of this interview. When he had done so, he hastened to leave the country and to betake himself to the Furthest East. The voyage lasted three years. But, when he posed his question to the head of a Manchu university, what was his surprise to be countered with just such a suggestion as had been put to him in the extreme Isles of the Western Hemisphere!

"But you forget my name," he exclaimed.

"No; for indeed so eager have you been to enquire of me the secret of the Sphinx and to narrate to me the story of your quest that you have forgotten to acquaint me with your name."

"I am named Es-siddeeh, which, being translated, is the Very Veracious."

"Then, my middle-aged young man of redoubtable veracity, I advise you to abandon your quest and to despair at once. It is much quicker. In such a mood you will discover yourself becoming most pleasantly the prey of one of the unmarried maidens who abound hereabout and who, I assure you, are not less beautiful and certainly less exacting than your friend. For women, according to the sage's experience, are much the same the whole world over—a morsel of honey in which the bee has left his sting: without the sting no honey, and no honey no sting."

"Sir," replied the scribe, "I am much indebted to you, but you know neither Sa-adeh nor the secret of the Sphinx."

"I do not indeed, but I venture to think that to propose to oneself a question that cannot immediately be answered is not the conduct of a wise man and may very well give offence to Powers of which we are becomingly ignorant."

Utterly wearied by the enquiries he had prosecuted among the learned, Es-siddeeh turned over in his mind the many types he had encountered in his wanderings and, recollecting the lively intelligence of those Athenians who were not of the learned professions, he determined to live after their manner that perchance he might hap upon the secret. Several years were spent in acquiring sufficient money. The subsequent spending taught him that his mind was apt to wander from the problem in the mere enjoyment of the moment. Before, however, he could make finally sure whether he was any nearer gaining a solution he found himself ruined. Turned soldier, he took part in many notable engagements and distinguished himself not a little. The itch of the excitement of the search was for the time being eclipsed by the perils and responsibilities of war. There were, too, other distractions, nor were these invariably the bodiless preoccupations of the mind.... It was the somewhat unpleasant termination of one of these episodes which plunged him into reverie upon the past. At midnight, silently rising from his rose-strewn couch, he determined there and then to bring to the contemplation of the Sphinx that store of varied knowledge which he had gathered in the course of his wanderings. Arrayed, then, in a dress similar to that which he had worn as a youth and encircling his neck with a necklace of scrolls he set out alone for the desert.

Since the way was long and he no longer young, a year passed ere he approached his goal.

Then once again Es-siddeeh stood before the Sphinx.

V.

In the moonlight it seemed to him that during his thirty years of absence the image had grown larger. That his eyes, accustomed to watch for unexpected perils, played him no tricks he was certain, yet he now observed the brow of the Sphinx to be wreathed in a faint vapour as if its crest had attained the altitude of no inconsiderable hill. The fissures between the stones seemed slightly to have filled, but the crevices across the face were both more numerous and more deeply scored. The pits of the eyes, too, had become immensely more cavernous. And—could he be mistaken?—was not the smile less ambiguous? Surely he did not remember the visage as so noble, or had it grown nobler in his absence? How was it that, though the aspect remained as unflinching as ever, the expression now seemed less hard and more magnanimously stern? The cheeks had undoubtedly sunk further, but did not the muscles appear tightened less in impatience than in endurance of suffering? The nostrils no longer breathed scorn; they laboured with the indrawing of breath that, like fire, was at once painful and inspiriting. To the brow there had been added, he thought, a faint line, and its coming had softened the contraction of the brows so that the creature appeared even more majestic and wiser than of yore. And lastly—he took long to discover this—in the shadow under the brows the orbs seemed to stir with a mysterious and darkling life. "O mighty Sphinx," he murmured, leaning his head upon her bosom, "what has come to thee? How art thou changed! Much I fear thou hast passed beyond so small, feeble, and ignoble an intelligence as I and that now I shall never learn the secret that, behind thy lips, lies locked in thy heart. O Sphinx, if I speak wilt thou answer? Time was when I came to thee and, impatiently stamping my foot upon the mound of thy illimitable desert, beating with my fists thine unanswering flesh, conjured thee in a voice of thunder to yield up thy secret. But to-night, nestling against thy bosom, how shall I speak to thee?—I, of less account among men than one of the myriad morsels of dust out of which thou art compounded; I, whose voice is to thine ears hardly louder than the scratch of the beetles that crawl about thy base; I, lost in the shadowy cleft between thy breasts? O Sphinx, I will not cry out to thine unregarding face, lost in such a reverie as transcends the thought of such as myself, but leaning here my fevered forehead against thy cool stones, as in a dream and scarcely expecting an answer, let me whisper to thy heart, 'What is the secret of thy smile, O Sphinx?'"

Then from within the Sphinx arose a deep murmuring as of a multitude of nigh-forgotten voices; a handful of vapour parted from the lips to wither in the glacial moonshine.

"Scarcely am I changed," said the Sphinx. "'Tis thou art changed. Look in thy heart: there is my secret."

So low had been the sound, so immense was the night, so lonely the desert, that Es-siddeeh doubted whether it was not his own heart that had spoken. Then, placing both hands against the breast of the colossus, he cried in a despairing voice, "Is that thy all, O Sphinx?"

But there was no answer.

With spirit heavy as death, Es-siddeeh wrapped him in his cloak and laid him down to sleep between the paws.

"Alas," said he to himself, "how brief, how obscure, and how profitless seem all the answers given to man!" Yet, when the morning came, it occurred to him that, if the Sphinx had indeed spoken, he would do well to ponder the words.

So for three moons he sat pondering: "Scarcely am I changed. 'Tis thou art changed. Look in thy heart: there is my secret."

Those who crossed the desert marked him, sunk in the deepest travail of thought.

"Why do you not look at the Sphinx?" they asked.

"I begin to know something about it: that is why," he replied. "If I gazed at it always in the present and never in memory I should learn nothing."

One day a young scribe of great beauty approached the Sphinx and in a low tone enquired: "What is the secret of thy smile, O Sphinx?"

"Speak louder. She will not hear you," called his companion.

Es-siddeeh leaped to his feet.

"Who sent thee hither?" he cried.

"Sa-adeh, the Bestower-of-Felicity," answered the youth; and turning to his comrade, "If you wish to know why I do not shout, know that it is because I have read the early work of a certain scribe Es-siddeeh. It is very evident that, as with many persons of original mind, he scarcely recognised the full import of what he was at the time writing. Had he been acquainted with more scholars and had more experience of life he would have spoken with greater certainty. He would have also realised, too, I do not doubt, that his work was not so vain as it then appeared to him. But he disappeared and none knows whither, since his parents never spoke of him again. I, taking up his work, have already carried it further, I think, than he had when he abandoned it. Nevertheless I, too, have ceased to labour at it and am come hither for the purpose thou knowest."

"Sa-adeh," echoed Es-siddeeh, waking as if from a dream; "I seem to remember that name. Tell me now, how did you——"

But the stranger, receiving no reply from the Sphinx, had departed.

Es-siddeeh sat him down again in dejection.

That night he did not sleep. The memory of Sa-adeh overcame him with tears. All his life passed in review. Never had his reverie seemed so bitter, his questioning so futile as on that midnight, yet toward dawn he suddenly stood up with a shout. An immeasurable serenity flooded his being.

"I have it," he cried; "I have solved the secret of thy smile, O Sphinx!"

At that moment the tropic sun arose, and in its rays he beheld the face of the tormentor shine with an equable and golden splendour. The eyes, no longer lacking pupils, possessed sight, and from the smile had vanished all that he detested.

VI.

A new porter, a garrulous and slipshod wastrel, had taken the place of the old. It appeared that nowadays the Princess had but few visitors despite the fact that she was acknowledged almost as beautiful as ever, albeit in a different style. Her temperament, he learned, was difficult, her wealth greater than ever.

After but short delay he found himself in the antechamber. He acquainted the damsel with his mission. She vanished through the curtains, and the following conversation was borne to Es-siddeeh's ears:

"An old man, calling himself the Very Veracious, has arrived and sues for an interview on the same subject as his forerunners."

"I cannot see him." The maid returned.

"Tell her," said Es-siddeeh, "that she is as beautiful as one red rose in a garden of lilies."

"The compliment," he heard the Princess remark, "though graceful, is not new; in fact so old that I scarcely distinctly recollect when I made a fashion for it. Dismiss him."

"Tell her," said Es-siddeeh, "that her wisdom has the wings of the rukh, the eye of the falcon, the talons of the osprey, and the voice of the dove."

"The Very Veracious," he heard the Princess remark, "is there very much in the wrong. If I have learned nothing else in my life I have at least learned that my wisdom has no such enviable characteristics. Dismiss him."

"Tell her," said Es-siddeeh, suddenly overcome with a novel misgiving, "that I know the answer to all secrets, including the secret of the smile of the Sphinx."

"How original!" cried the Princess. "Does he really know the secret of the Sphinx's smile? Send him in."

Es-siddeeh went in and bowed down.

"Though changed," he said, "O Sa-adeh, you are as beautiful as ever."

"Your beard has grown so long and so white," she answered, "that—surely thou art the (what is the name?) the Es-siddeeh I once knew, are you not?"

"I am."

"And you know all secrets?"

"I do."

Then she plied him with various questions concerning the value as an amulet of this or that precious stone, of the pedigree of famous horses, of music as an Emotional Sound or as an Architecture, and many other matters of a similar nature.

All these questions he answered with such a considerable wealth of detail that Sa-adeh appeared confused. Both fell silent.

After her eyes had rested for some time upon his face in a musing fashion, she asked with a strange inflection, "What is love?"

He was dumbfounded.

"I believe you have forgotten," she said, and in the intonation of her voice there was a hint of the equivocal.

His eyes filled with tears. "I have not forgotten," he said; "perhaps I am only just beginning to learn."

She gave him a curious look; then, moving her head, proceeded with an instant change of tone, "Well, what is the secret of the smile of the Sphinx?"

A wave of emotion swept over him. He smiled and arose.

"With the details of my enquiry I will not trouble you. Suffice it to say that for nearly forty years I have been searching."

"So long as that?"

"Many hard early days I spent in the desert and endured great privations."

"Indeed? I am sorry. Forget them."

"I would not if I could—they were the price of knowledge. At one time I came near losing my wits."

"So? I am sorry."

"Then I spent some years interrogating the wisest of earth."

"Oh?"

"But met with no answer."

"Ah."

"Then I spent further years in acquiring money—years of misery they were and years of degradation—that I might discover the secret. I was ruined. I repeat, I was ruined."

"Pardon me. Yes, you were ruined. I am sorry."

"I served as a soldier. I received wounds. I was captive. I was beaten. I escaped. I rose to power. I exploited all modes of living and fulfilling myself, but my experiments brought me no nearer the secret."

"No nearer...."

"Then I set forth on a dreary journey to renew my memory of the Sphinx's face. I sat down beside her. For a long time I learned nothing—the smile seemed hardly less mysterious than it had ever been. Then—but you are not listening...."

"My friend, I am indeed; you were on a dreary journey and——"

"At length one day a youth—but I will not burden you with that, though it was strange...."

"Why do you look so at me? I am listening."

"That night I learned the secret of the Sphinx."

"At last!"

"I learned it indeed."

"Yes. Well, what is it?"

"A difficult matter. You must listen most carefully, so subtle is its sense; yet in its comprehension lies hid the whole secret of man's possible happiness."

"I am listening."

There was a great stillness in the chamber. Es-siddeeh closed his eyes to concentrate his thought. Then, opening them, he began:

"I learned the secret—that smile is the secret."

"So I supposed."

"Hush, or I shall begin to think that you do not know how to value this gift of my whole life, which I am making you. It is very difficult, but if all men would listen to me their lives would be easier."

"I thought the secret was for me—yet no matter. Proceed. You see how serious I am."

"I learned its secret."

His lips trembled. He could hardly speak; at last with a great effort he said, "Now it comes—upon maintaining that smile, which is the sign of the power of her existence, all her energy is bent. She did not tell me, but I found it written in my heart. For what is she? In the Sphinx, with her ravaged countenance and mutilated smile, I behold Life itself—Life in mysterious might, ignorant of its own origin, conscious only of its own beauty, couchant amid the wilderness of space and eternity."

"Is the smile of the Sphinx all that indeed? I somehow thought it was something more intimate. But how serious you look! Do not frown—I would not offend you for the world."

"Should I not smile?" he said bitterly.

"Yes, like the Sphinx."

"Quick! How, did you know that?"

"Don't frighten me. I was but speaking idly."

"Idly?"

"Seriously then, if you like—since you attach such importance to it. Women always work by miracles and never know when they have performed one.... Excellent, you are smiling, though your smile is ambiguous."

"I do but obey her."

"Not me?"

"That smile which we behold on her face is the smile we see everywhere about us; only in her it has become more august—first by reason of her greater consciousness of isolation in the Desert and beneath the Stars, and, secondly, by consciousness of her strength."

"Will you hand me my fan? Thank you."

"For what are not the properties of the smile—the sovereign beauty, the witness of power—in Nature? Wise indeed the man who knows the bounds of what it is capable. When we are born the first thing we behold is a smile: the Nurse smiles at us, and in that smile we should read—were we then capable—the self-satisfaction of Nature, proud of her reproductive powers, who dandles us in her hands with the assurance that she knows what is best for us. Ah, how universal is the smile! Think of the variety of smiles that exist. 'Tis all for smiles this life! And that is at once its apparent cruelty and its final justification. On the blackness of Eternity it expands in a smile like a rainbow—a rainbow whose arch begins and ends, as rainbow arches do, uncertain where. And this blossoming in Infinity justifies itself.... How? By the beauty of its smile. Therefore smile. Smile and be in harmony with—if not the spirit of the Universe (for the unknown looking down from the Hill of Heaven upon the Rainbow may for all we know smile also, and on the import of that smile opinion may be divided), and be in harmony at least with the beauty of that fragment of the Universe which, if we do not wholly comprehend, we can at least worship and imitate.... But you are yawning."

"No, obedient to you, I was—smiling."

"And for how long? Until we are resolved—as the drops of the rainbow are resolved after refracting supernal colours. Yet as a raindrop glitters, ere it evaporate upon the flower and be again (who knows?) drawn up in the immense cycle, with some reflection of the glory which its passage served to make, so should we maintain that smile to the moment of our dissolution. As indeed I, whose stormy aerial passage is nearly over, shall do till I attain to mine. For what commoner solace do we hear than that 'he died with a smile upon his face'? Such a smile may each have at his passing! How happy our friends will be to see it, how confounded our enemies! How comforted, too, the philosophers, who will not fail to perceive in it the reflection of whatever faith they hold: the ineffable joy of one whose beatified wings even now mingle with the wings of other spirits in divine assumption; the satisfaction of the racked, whom never again the torturers Joy and Sorrow will wake from endless sleep; the profound irony of one who never expected his pleasures to last for ever; and the disdain, too proud to curve itself in a full sneer, of one who opposes to the silent smile of the unknown a smile yet more silent!"

He paused.

"I have been thinking," said the Princess.

"You wish to know more? Shall I explain?"

"No. It is unnecessary; all this amounts to that you wish to marry me, and the announcement that you have earned the right to do so, but I should inform you that since you were last here a gentleman, who as a matter of fact once occupied a position menial enough but of importance in this household, has by signal honesty and perseverance arrived at a position where—well, in fact, to put it shortly, I have formed another attachment."

"Madam, am I reft of my senses? You astonish me! Who?"

"The Executioner."

"Ah, heavens! Well, let me inform you, madam, that I, too, have formed another attachment."

"You say that to my face! How dare you? But I saw directly you entered this room that you had long ago forgotten what true love is. Your long absence from me bears it witness. Who, may I ask, is now the object of your affections?"

"Do not smile—or smile, madam, if you can; I love the Sphinx."

He had but that moment discovered it.

The Princess shrieked and at the sound he bent upon her such a smile as in memory effectually prevented her ever mentioning the Sphinx and its secrets again to anyone.

Then he walked out.

VII.

He returned to the Sphinx.

While yet afar off he was puzzled beholding a mountain range arisen in the wilderness. As he drew nearer he recognised it for the Sphinx. If during his thirty years' wanderings she had appeared to increase in size, to what dimensions had she not attained during his brief absence! The vapours of the desert, rising about her, had collected upon her shoulders in a strata of billowy cloud, and her head, unimaginably exalted, had now reached such an altitude that the features were almost indistinguishable in the blaze of the sun.

Night had fallen by the time that he stood within the canyon of her breasts. For a little he rested his head upon the rock. A great weariness descended upon him. Physical infirmity, the inevitable sequel of all he had suffered in body and in soul, now made him its prey. His mind and spirit, however, remained keen and unquenchable as ever. He wrapped himself in his cloak and lay down. At midnight he awoke. For the first time the Sphinx, speaking in a voice of more than mortal tenderness, had made utterance without being addressed, "Art thou returned, my lover?"

"Thou seest me. All I love I have given thee."

"Few have bestowed upon me so much as thou. Fewer still have arrived where thou hast arrived, while yet possessing the eye not wholly dimmed and the tongue not altogether palsied. One thing, however, thou hast kept from me—the seal that is on thy heart."

"Ah, Sphinx," replied Es-siddeeh, "that I cannot give; it is part of myself. Nor would I—for it was that which first brought me hither to scan thy face and to read thy riddle."

"I am a jealous lover."

"I know it. Yet what care I? Thy jealousy is a measure of my reward; for though I have discovered thy secret in general, yet it is a secret which no man perhaps will ever fathom in all particulars. Happy the hero who attains as far as I, happier yet he who can gaze unwinkingly upon thee as I do now, and hourly fathom something further!"

"I am a jealous lover. Thou hast not much longer to gaze."

"No matter. Eyes do not perish with me, and for myself I am rewarded."

Then was it that for Es-siddeeh the body and the face of the Sphinx achieved a final apotheosis. Her limbs throbbed with a deep and terrible energy. From her breast issued an all embracing warmth similar to that of the earth. Her breathing became distinct as an august and stupendous rhythm resembling the ascent and descent of waters from firmament to firmament. Her cheeks flushed with a youthful elation. Into her eyes arose an immense light fixed upon unforetold futurities, and all her face, so worn and beautiful, became more ravaged and even more beautiful—for the very deepening scars, wasting and remoulding the features, gradually resolved the visage into an ethereal harmony hitherto unknown. Around her head, entangling in its mesh the nearer planets, there wreathed itself an enormous halo, iridescent as that which encircles the frosty moon. Her whole being exuded a supreme lustre until she became one living and colossal crystal which distributed in refraction all the colours of the rainbow and which palpitated with powers unguessed.

And to Es-siddeeh, who beheld her through the tears of one who momentarily expects to be parted, the spectra and the palpitance appeared in triple.

"O Sphinx, O Life the Enchantress," he cried, "my true and only love, take if thou wilt my heart and the seal upon it, for thine am I only, thee only would I aid, thee only do I love, thee only would I worship!"

*      *      *      *      *

A band of Arabs, journeying across the desert, found him, when dawn came, lying between the paws of the giant—dead, more cold than the stone which surrounded him and which now began to kindle in the morning rays. Though there had been no dew, his garments were deluged as with the falling of an immense tear. Upon his face there lingered a fixed smile, and, gazing upward, they beheld its double in the sunlit face of the familiar Sphinx.

HERE ENDS THE STORY OF THE SMILE OF THE SPHINX.

MAYEST THOU ALSO LEARN ITS SECRET.

GEORGE ELIOT

By EDMUND GOSSE

IN and after 1876, when I was in the habit of walking from the northwest of London towards Whitehall, I met several times, driven slowly homewards, a victoria which contained a strange pair in whose appearance I took a violent interest. The man, prematurely ageing, was hirsute, rugged, satyr-like, gazing vivaciously to left and right; this was George Henry Lewes. His companion was a large, thick-set sybil, dreamy and immobile, whose massive features, somewhat grim when seen in profile, were incongruously bordered by a hat, always in the height of the Paris fashion, which in those days commonly included an immense ostrich feather; this was George Eliot. The contrast between the solemnity of the face and the frivolity of the head-gear had something pathetic and provincial about it.

All this I mention, for what trifling value it may have, as a purely external impression, since I never had the honour of speaking to the lady or to Lewes. We had, my wife and I, common friends in the gifted family of Simcox—Edith Simcox (who wrote ingeniously and learnedly under the pen-name of H. Lawrenny) being an intimate in the household at the Priory. Thither, indeed, I was vaguely invited, by word of mouth, to make my appearance one Sunday, George Eliot having read some pages of mine with indulgence. But I was shy, and yet should probably have obeyed the summons but for an event which nobody foresaw. On the 18th of December, 1880, I was present at a concert given, I think, in the Langham Hall, where I sat just behind Mrs. Cross, as she had then become. It was chilly in the concert-room, and I watched George Eliot, in manifest discomfort, drawing up and tightening round her shoulders a white wool shawl. Four days later she was dead, and I was sorry that I had never made my bow to her.

Her death caused a great sensation, for she had ruled the wide and flourishing province of English prose fiction for ten years, since the death of Dickens. Though she had a vast company of competitors, she did not suffer through that period from the rivalry of one writer of her own class. If the Brontës had lived, or Mrs. Gaskell, the case might have been different, for George Eliot had neither the passion of Jane Eyre nor the perfection of Cranford, but they were gone before we lost Dickens, and so was Thackeray, who died while Romola was appearing. Charles Kingsley, whose WESTWARD HO! had just preceded her first appearance, had unluckily turned into other and less congenial paths. Charles Reade, whose IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND (1856) had been her harbinger, scarcely maintained his position as her rival. Anthony Trollope, excellent craftsman as he was, remained persistently and sensibly at a lower intellectual level. Hence the field was free for George Eliot, who, without haste or hesitation, built up slowly such a reputation as no one in her own time could approach.

The gay world, which forgets everything, has forgotten what a solemn, what a portentous thing was the contemporary fame of George Eliot. It was supported by the serious thinkers of the day, by the people who despised mere novels, but regarded her writings as contributions to philosophical literature. On the solitary occasion when I sat in company with Herbert Spencer on the committee of the London Library he expressed a strong objection to the purchase of fiction, and wished that for the London Library no novels should be bought, "except, of course, those of George Eliot." While she lived, critics compared her with Goethe, but to the disadvantage of the sage of Weimar. People who started controversies about "evolutionism,"—a favourite Victorian pastime,—bowed low at the mention of her name, and her own sound good sense alone prevented her from being made the object of a sort of priggish idolatry. A big-wig of that day remarked that "in problems of life and thought which baffled Shakespeare her touch was unfailing." For Lord Acton at her death "the sun had gone out," and that exceedingly dogmatic historian observed, ex cathedrâ, that no writer had "ever lived who had anything like her power of manifold but disinterested and impartial sympathy. If Sophocles or Cervantes had lived in the light of our culture, if Dante had prospered like Manzoni, George Eliot might have had a rival." It is very dangerous to write like that. A reaction is sure to follow, and in the case of this novelist, so modest and strenuous herself, but so ridiculously overpraised by her friends, it came with remarkable celerity.

The worship of an intellectual circle of admirers, reverberating upon a dazzled and genuinely interested public, was not, however, even in its palmiest days, quite unanimous. There were other strains of thought and feeling making way, and other prophets were abroad. Robert Browning, though an optimist, and too polite a man to oppose George Eliot publicly, was impatient of her oracular manner. There was a struggle, not much perceived on the surface of the reviews, between her faithful worshippers and the new school of writers vaguely called preraphaelite. She loved Matthew Arnold's poetry, and in that, as in so much else, she was wiser and more clairvoyant than most of the people who surrounded her, but Arnold presented an attitude of reserve with regard to her later novels. She found nothing to praise or to attract her interest in the books of George Meredith; on the other hand, Coventry Patmore, with his customary amusing violence, voted her novels "sensational and improper." To D. G. Rossetti they were "vulgarity personified," and his brother defined them as "commonplace tempering the stuck-up." Swinburne repudiated Romola with vigour as "absolutely false." I daresay that from several of these her great contemporaries estimates of her work less harsh than these might be culled, but I quote these to show that even at the height of her fame she was not quite unchallenged.

She was herself, it is impossible to deny, responsible for a good deal of the tarnish which spread over the gold of her reputation. Her early imaginative writings—in particular Janet's Repentance, Adam Bede, the first two-thirds of The Mill on the Floss, and much of Silas Marner—had a freshness, a bright vitality, which, if she could have kept it burnished, would have preserved her from all effects of contemporary want of sympathy. When we analyse the charm of the stories just mentioned, we find that it consists very largely in their felicity of expressed reminiscence. There is little evidence in them of the inventive faculty, but a great deal of the reproductive. Now, we have to remember that contemporaries are quite in the dark as to matters about which, after the publication of memoirs and correspondence and recollections, later readers are exactly informed. We may now know that Sir Christopher Cheverel closely reproduces the features of a real Sir Roger Newdigate, and that Dinah Morris is Mrs. Samuel Evans photographed, but readers of 1860 did not know that, and were at liberty to conceive the unknown magician in the act of calling up a noble English gentleman and a saintly Methodist preacher from the depths of her inner consciousness. Whether this was so or not would not matter to anyone, if George Eliot could have continued the act of pictorial reproduction without flagging. The world would have long gazed with pleasure into the camera obscura of Warwickshire, as she reeled off one dark picture after another, but unhappily she was not contented with her success, and she aimed at things beyond her reach.

Her failure, which was, after all (let us not exaggerate), the partial and accidental failure of a great genius, began when she turned from passive acts of memory to a strenuous exercise of intellect. If we had time and space, it would be very interesting to study George Eliot's attitude towards that mighty woman, the full-bosomed caryatid of romantic literature, who had by a few years preceded her. When George Eliot was at the outset of her own literary career, which as we know was much belated, George Sand had already bewitched and thrilled and scandalised Europe for a generation. The impact of the Frenchwoman's mind on that of her English contemporary produced sparks or flashes of starry enthusiasm. George Eliot, in 1848, was "bowing before George Sand in eternal gratitude to that great power of God manifested in her," and her praise of the French peasant-idyls was unbounded. But when she herself began to write novels she grew to be less and less in sympathy with the French romantic school. A French critic of her own day laid down the axiom that "il faut bien que le roman se rapproche de la poésie ou de la science." George Sand had thrown herself unreservedly into the poetic camp. She acknowledged "mon instinct m'eût poussée vers les abîmes," and she confessed, with that stalwart good sense which carried her genius over so many marshy places, that her temperament had often driven her, "au mépris de la raison ou de la vérité morale," into pure romantic extravagance.

But George Eliot, whatever may have been her preliminary enthusiasms, was radically and permanently anti-romantic. This was the source of her strength and of her weakness; this, carefully examined, explains the soaring and the sinking of her fame. Unlike George Sand, she kept to the facts; she found that all her power quitted her at once if she dealt with imaginary events and the clash of ideal passions. She had been drawn in her youth to sincere admiration of the Indianas and Lelias of her florid French contemporary, and we become aware that in the humdrum years at Coventry, when the surroundings of her own life were arduous and dusty, she felt a longing to spread her wings and fly up and out to some dim Cloud-Cuckoo Land the confines of which were utterly vague to her. The romantic method of Dumas, for instance, and even of Walter Scott, appealed to her as a mode of escaping to dreamland from the flatness and vulgarity of life under the "miserable reign of Mammon." But she could not achieve such flights; her literary character was of a totally different formation. What was fabulous, what was artificial, did not so much strike her with disgust as render her paralysed. Her only escape from mediocrity, she found, was to give a philosophical interest to common themes. In consequence, as she advanced in life, and came more under the influence of George Henry Lewes, she became less and less well disposed towards the French fiction of her day, rejecting even Balzac, to whom she seems, strangely enough, to have preferred Lessing. That Lessing and Balzac should be names pronounced in relation itself throws a light on the temper of the speaker.

Most novelists seem to have begun to tell stories almost as early as musicians begin to trifle with the piano. The child keeps other children awake, after nurse has gone about her business, by reeling off inventions in the dark. But George Eliot showed, so far as records inform us, no such aptitude in infancy or even in early youth. The history of her start as a novel-writer is worthy of study. It appears that it was not until the autumn of 1856 that she, "in a dreamy mood," fancied herself writing a story. This was, I gather, immediately on her return from Germany, where she had been touring about with Lewes, with whom she had now been living for two years. Lewes said to her, "You have wit, description, and philosophy—those go a good way towards the production of a novel," and he encouraged her to write about the virtues and vices of the clergy, as she had observed them at Griff and at Coventry. Amos Barton was the immediate result, and the stately line of stories which was to close in Daniel Deronda twenty years later was started on its brilliant career. But what of the author? She was a storm-tried matron of thirty-seven, who had sub-edited the Westminster Review, who had spent years in translating Strauss's Life of Jesus and had sunk exhausted in a still more strenuous wrestling with the Tractatus Theologico-Politicus of Spinoza, who had worked with Delarive at Experimental Physics in Geneva, and who had censured, as superficial, John Stuart Mill's treatment of Whewell's Moral Philosophy. This heavily-built Miss Marian Evans, now dubiously known as Mrs. Lewes, whose features at that time are familiar to us by the admirable paintings and drawings of Sir Frederick Burton, was in training to be a social reformer, a moral philosopher, an apostle of the creed of Christendom, an anti-theological professor, anything in the world rather than a writer of idle tales.

But the tales proved to be a hundred-fold more attractive to the general public than articles upon taxation or translations from German sceptics. We all must allow that at last, however tardily and surprisingly, George Eliot had discovered her true vocation. Let us consider in what capacity she entered this field of fiction. She entered it as an observer of life more diligent and more meticulous perhaps than any other living person. She entered it also with a store of emotional experience and with a richness of moral sensibility which were almost as unique. She had strong ethical prejudices, and a wealth of recollected examples by which she could justify them. Her memory was accurate, minute, and well-arranged, and she had always enjoyed retrospection and encouraged herself in the cultivation of it. She was very sympathetic, very tolerant, and although she had lived in the very Temple of Priggishness with her Brays and her Hennells and her Sibrees, she remained singularly simple and unaffected. Rather sad, one pictures her in 1856, rather dreamy, burdened with an excess of purely intellectual preoccupation, wandering over Europe consumed by a constant, but unconfessed, nostalgia for her own country, coming back to it with a sense that the Avon was lovelier than the Arno. Suddenly, in that "dreamy mood," there comes over her a desire to build up again the homes of her childhood, to forget all about Rousseau and experimental physics, and to reconstruct the "dear old quaintnesses" of the Arbury of twenty-five years before.

If we wish to see what it was which this mature philosopher and earnest critic of behaviour had to produce for the surprise of her readers, we may examine the description of the farm at Donnithorne in Adam Bede. The solemn lady, who might seem such a terror to ill-doers, had yet a packet of the most delicious fondants in the pocket of her bombazine gown. The names of these sweetmeats, which were of a flavour and a texture delicious to the tongue, might be Mrs. Poyser or Lizzie Jerome or the sisters Dodson, but they all came from the Warwickshire factory at Griff, and they were all manufactured with the sugar and spice of memory. So long as George Eliot lived in the past, and extracted her honey from those wonderful cottage gardens which fill her early pages with their colour and their odour, the solidity and weight of her intellectual methods in other fields did not interfere, or interfered in a negligible way, with the power and intensity of the entertainment she offered. We could wish for nothing better. English literature has, of their own class, nothing better to offer than certain chapters of Adam Bede or than the beginning of The Mill on the Floss.

But, from the first, if we now examine coldly and inquisitively, there was a moth sleeping in George Eliot's rich attire. This moth was pedantry, the result doubtless of too much erudition encouraging a natural tendency in her mind, which as we have seen was acquisitive rather than inventive. It was unfortunate for her genius that after her early enthusiasm for French culture she turned to Germany and became, in measure, like so many powerful minds of her generation, Teutonised. This fostered the very tendencies which it was desirable to eradicate. One can but speculate what would have been the result on her genius of a little more Paris and a little less Berlin. Her most successful immediate rival in France was Octave Feuillet; the Scenes of Clerical Life answer in time to Le Roman d'un Jeune Homme Pauvre, and Monsieur de Camors to Felix Holt. There could not be a stronger or more instructive contrast than between the elegant fairy-land of the one and the robust realism of the other. But our admirable pastoral writer, whose inward eye was stored with the harmonies and humours of Shakespeare's country, was not content with her mastery of the past. She looked forward to a literature of the future. She trusted to her brain rather than to those tired servants, her senses, and more and more her soul was invaded by the ambition to invent a new thing, the scientific novel, dealing with the growth of institutions and the analysis of individual character.

The critics of her own time were satisfied that she had done this, and that she had founded the psychological novel. There was much to be said in favour of such an opinion. In the later books it is an undeniable fact that George Eliot displays a certain sense of the inevitable progress of life which was new. It may seem paradoxical to see the peculiar characteristics of Zola or of Mr. George Moore in Middlemarch, but there is much to be said for the view that George Eliot was the direct forerunner of those naturalistic novelists. Like them, she sees life as an organism, or even as a progress. George Eliot in her contemplation of the human beings she invents is a traveller, who is provided with a map. No Norman church or ivied ruin takes her by surprise, because she has seen that it was bound to come, and recognises it when it does come. Death, the final railway station, is ever in her mind; she sees it on her map, and gathers her property around her to be ready when the train shall stop. This psychological clairvoyance gives her a great power when she does not abuse it, but unfortunately from the very first there was in her a tendency, partly consequent on her mental training, but also not a little on her natural constitution, to dwell in a hard and pedagogic manner on it. She was not content to please, she must explain and teach as well.

Her comparative failure to please made its definite appearance first in the laboured and overcharged romance of Romola. But a careful reader will detect it in her earliest writings. Quite early in Amos Barton, for instance, when Mrs. Hackit observes of the local colliers that they "passed their time in doing nothing but swilling ale and smoking, like the beasts that perish," the author immediately spoils this delightful remark by explaining, like a schoolmaster, that Mrs. Hackit was "speaking, we may presume, in a remotely analogical sense." The laughter dies upon our lips. Useless pedantry of this kind spoils many a happy touch of humour, Mrs. Poyser alone perhaps having wholly escaped from it. It would be entirely unjust to accuse George Eliot, at all events until near the end of her life, of intellectual pride. She was, on the contrary, of a very humble spirit, timorous and susceptible of discouragement. But her humility made her work all the harder at her task of subtle philosophical analysis. It would have been far better for her if she had possessed less of the tenacity of Herbert Spencer and more of the recklessness of George Sand. An amusing but painful example of her Sisyphus temper, always rolling the stone uphill with groans and sweat, is to be found in her own account of the way she "crammed up" for the composition of Romola. She tells us of the wasting toil with which she worked up innumerable facts about Florence, and in particular how she laboured long over the terrible question whether Easter could have been "retarded" in the year 1492. On this, Sir Leslie Stephen—one of her best critics, and one of the most indulgent—aptly queries, "What would have become of Ivanhoe if Scott had bothered himself about the possible retardation of Easter? The answer, indeed, is obvious, that Ivanhoe would not have been written."

The effect of all this on George Eliot's achievement was what must always occur when an intellect which is purely acquisitive and distributive insists on doing work that is appropriate only to imagination. If we read very carefully the scene preceding Savanarola's sermon to the Dominicans at San Marco, we perceive that it is built up almost in Flaubert's manner, but without Flaubert's magic, touch by touch, out of books. The author does not see what she describes in a sort of luminous hallucination, but she dresses up in language of her own what she has carefully read in Burlamacchi or in Villari. The most conscientious labour, expended by the most powerful brain, is incapable of producing an illusion of life by these means. George Eliot may even possibly have been conscious of this, for she speaks again and again, not of writing with ecstasy of tears and laughter, as Dickens did, but of falling into "a state of so much wretchedness in attempting to concentrate my thoughts on the construction of my novel" that nothing but a tremendous and sustained effort of the will carried her on at all. In this vain and terrible wrestling with incongruous elements she wore out her strength and her joy, and it is heart-rending to watch so noble a genius and so lofty a character as hers wasted in the whirlpool. One fears that a sense of obscure failure added to her tortures, and one is tempted to see a touch of autobiography in the melancholy of Mrs. Transome (in Felix Holt), of whom we are told that "her knowledge and accomplishments had become as valueless as old-fashioned stucco ornaments, of which the substance was never worth anything, while the form is no longer to the taste of any living mortal."

The notion that George Eliot was herself, in spite of all the laudation showered upon her, consciously in want of some element essential for her success is supported by the very curious fact that from 1864 to 1869, that is to say through nearly one quarter of her whole literary career, she devoted herself entirely to various experiments in verse. She was so preternaturally intelligent that there is nothing unlikely in the supposition that she realised what was her chief want as a writer of imaginative prose. She claims, and she will always be justified in claiming, a place in the splendid roll of prominent English writers. But she holds it in spite of a certain drawback which forbids her from ever appearing in the front rank as a great writer. Her prose has fine qualities of force and wit, it is pictorial and persuasive, but it misses one prime but rather subtle merit, it never sings. The masters of the finest English are those who have received the admonition Cantate Domino! They sing a new song unto the Lord. Among George Eliot's prose contemporaries there were several who obeyed this command. Ruskin, for instance, above all the Victorian prose-writers, shouts like the morning-star. It is the peculiar gift of all great prosaists. Take so rough an executant as Hazlitt: "Harmer Hill stooped with all its pines, to listen to a poet, as he passed!" That is the chanting faculty in prose, which all the greatest men possess; but George Eliot has no trace of it, except sometimes, faintly, in the sheer fun of her peasants' conversation. I do not question that she felt the lack herself, and that it was this which, subconsciously, led her to make a profound study of the art of verse.

She hoped, at the age of forty-four, to hammer herself into poetry by dint of sheer labour and will-power. She read the great masters, and she analysed them in the light of prosodical manuals. In 1871 she told Tennyson that Professor Sylvester's "laws for verse-making had been useful to her." Tennyson replied, "I can't understand that," and no wonder. Sylvester was a facetious mathematician who undertook to teach the art of poetry in so many lessons. George Eliot humbly working away at Sylvester, and telling Tennyson that she was finding him "useful," and Tennyson, whose melodies pursued him, like bees in pursuit of a bee-master, expressing a gruff good-natured scepticism—what a picture it raises! But George Eliot persisted, with that astounding firmness of application which she had, and she produced quite a large body of various verse. She wrote a Comtist tragedy, The Spanish Gypsy, of which I must speak softly, since, omnivorous as I am, I have never been able to swallow it. But she wrote many other things, epics and sonnets and dialogues and the rest of them, which are not so hard to read. She actually printed privately for her friends two little garlands, Agatha (1868) and Brother and Sister (1869), which are the only "rare issues" of hers sought after by collectors, for she was not given to bibliographical curiosity. These verses and many others she polished and re-wrote with untiring assiduity, and in 1874 she published a substantial volume of them. I have been reading them over again, in the intense wish to be pleased with them, but it is impossible—the root of the matter is not in them. There is an Arion, which is stately in the manner of Marvell. The end of this lyric is tense and decisive, but there is the radical absence of song. In the long piece called A College Breakfast Party, which she wrote in 1874, almost all Tennyson's faults are reconstructed on the plan of the Chinese tailor who carefully imitates the rents in the English coat he is to copy. There is a Goethe-like poem, of a gnomic order, called Self and Life, stuffed with valuable thoughts as a turkey is stuffed with chestnuts.

And it is all so earnest and so intellectual, and it does so much credit to Sylvester. After long consideration, I have come to the conclusion that the following sonnet, from Brother and Sister, is the best piece of sustained poetry that George Eliot achieved. It deals with the pathetic and beautiful relations which existed between her and her elder brother Isaac, the Tom Tulliver of The Mill on the Floss:

His sorrow was my sorrow, and his joy

Sent little leaps and laughs through all my frame;

My doll seemed lifeless, and no girlish toy

Had any reason when my brother came.

I knelt with him at marbles, marked his fling

Cut the ringed stem and make the apple drop,

Or watched him winding close the spiral string

That looped the orbits of the humming-top.

Grasped by such fellowship my vagrant thought

Ceased with dream-fruit dream-wishes to fulfil;

Myaëry-picturing fantasy was taught

Subjection to the harder, truer skill

That seeks with deeds to grave a thought-tracked line,

And by "What is" "What will be" to define.

How near this is to true poetry, and yet how many miles away!

At last George Eliot seems to have felt that she could never hope, with all her intellect, to catch the unconsidered music which God lavishes on the idle linnet and the frivolous chaffinch. She returned to her own strenuous business of building up the psychological novel. She wrote Middlemarch, which appeared periodically throughout 1872 and as a book early the following year. It was received with great enthusiasm, as marking the return of a popular favourite who had been absent for several years. Middlemarch is the history of three parallel lives of women, who "with dim lights and tangled circumstances tried to shape their thought and deed in noble agreement," although "to common eyes their struggles seemed mere inconsistency and formlessness." The three ineffectual St. Theresas, as their creator conceived them, were Dorothea, Rosamond, and Mary, and they "shaped the thought and deed" of Casaubon and Ladislaw and Fred Vincy. Middlemarch is constructed with unfaltering power, and the picture of commonplace English country life which it gives is vivacious after a mechanical fashion, but all the charm of the early stories has evaporated, and has left behind it merely a residuum of unimaginative satire. The novel is a very remarkable instance of elaborate mental resources misapplied, and genius revolving, with tremendous machinery, like some great water-wheel, while no water is flowing underneath it.

When a realist loses hold on reality all is lost, and I for one can find not a word to say in favour of Daniel Deronda, her next and last novel, which came out, with popularity at first more wonderful than ever, in 1876. But her inner circle of admirers was beginning to ask one another uneasily whether her method was not now too calculated, her effects too plainly premeditated. The intensity of her early works was gone. Readers began to resent her pedantry, her elaboration of allusions, her loss of simplicity. They missed the vivid rural scenes and the flashes of delicious humour which had starred the serious pages of Adam Bede and The Mill like the lemon-yellow pansies and potentillas on a dark Welsh moor. Then came Theophrastus Such, a collection of cumbrous and didactic essays which defy perusal; and finally, soon after her death, her Correspondence, a terrible disappointment to all her admirers, and a blow from which even the worship of Lord Acton never recovered. Of George Eliot might have been repeated Swift's epitaph on Sir John Vanbrugh:

Lie heavy on him, earth, for he

Laid many a heavy load on thee.

It was the fatal error of George Eliot, so admirable, so elevated, so disinterested, that for the last ten years of her brief literary life she did practically nothing but lay heavy loads on literature.

On the whole, then, it is not possible to regard the place which George Eliot holds in English literature as so prominent a one as was rather rashly awarded her by her infatuated contemporaries. It is the inevitable result of "tall talk" about Dante and Goethe that the figure so unduly magnified fails to support such comparisons when the perspective is lengthened. George Eliot is unduly neglected now, but it is the revenge of time on her for the praise expended upon her works in her life-time. Another matter which militates against her fame to-day is her strenuous solemnity. One of the philosophers who knelt at the footsteps of her throne said that she was "the emblem of a generation distracted between the intense need of believing and the difficulty of belief." Well, we happen to live, fortunately or unfortunately for ourselves, in a generation which is "distracted" by quite other problems, and we are sheep that look up to George Eliot and are not fed by her ponderous moral aphorisms and didactic ethical influence. Perhaps another generation will follow us which will be more patient, and students yet unborn will read her gladly. Let us never forget, however, that she worked with all her heart in a spirit of perfect honesty, that she brought a vast intelligence to the service of literature, and that she aimed from first to last at the loftiest goal of intellectual ambition. Where she failed, it was principally from an inborn lack of charm, not from anything ignoble or impure in her mental disposition. After all, to have added to the slender body of English fiction seven novels the names of which are known to every cultivated person is not to have failed, but to have signally, if only relatively, succeeded.

THE FUTURE POET AND OUR TIME

By J. C. SQUIRE

HERE is our world in motion.

We see a corner of it through our eyes. A man will march down a street with a crowd, or watch the politicians' cabs turning into Palace Yard, or make speeches, or stand on the deck of a scurrying destroyer in the North Sea, or mount guard in a Mesopotamian desert. A minute section of the greater panorama passes before him.

In imagination he will, according to his information and his habit of mind, visualise what he sees as a part of what he does not see: the human conflict over five continents, climates and clothes, multitudes, passions, voices, states, soldiers, negotiations. Each newspaper that he opens swarms with a confusion of events and argument, of names familiar and unfamiliar—Wilson, Geddes, Czecho-Slovakia, Yudenitch, Shantung, and ten thousand more. For the eye there is a medley, for the ear a great din. As far as he can, busy with his daily pursuits, a man usually ignores it when it does not intrude to disturb him. When most unsettled, the life of the world is most fatiguing. The spectacle is formless and without a centre; the characters rise and fall, conspicuous one day, forgotten the next. The newspapers mechanically repeat that we are at the greatest crisis of history, and that "a great drama is being unrolled." We are aware that the fortunes of our civilisation have been and are in the balance. But we are in the wood and cannot see it as we see the French Revolution. It is difficult, even with the strongest effort of imagination, to visualise the process as history will record it. To pick out those episodes and those persons that will haunt the imagination of posterity by their colour and force is more difficult still. An event, contemporaneously, is an event; a man is a man who eats, drinks, wears collars, makes speeches, bandies words with others, and is photographed for the newspapers.

Yet we know that a time will come when these years will be seen in far retrospect as the years of Elizabeth or of Robespierre are now. The judgments of the political scientist and the historian will be made: these men will arrange their sequences and their scales of importance. They will deduce effects and measure out praise and blame. With them we are not concerned. But others beyond them will look at our time. We shall have left our legacy for the imagination. What will it be? Who of contemporary figures may we guess as likely to be the heroes of plays and the subjects of poems? Which of the multitudinous events of these years will give a stock subject to Tragedy? Which of the men whom we praise or abuse will seem to posterity larger than human, and go with gestures across their stages, clad in an antique fashion? For to that age we shall be strange; whether our mechanical arts have died and left us to haunt the memory of our posterity as a race of unquiet demons, or whether "progress" along our lines shall have continued, none of our trappings will have remained the same.

But the soul of man will have remained the same. Those elements in events and persons which fascinate and stimulate us when we are looking at our past will stir them when they brood on their past, which is our to-day. And neither contemporary reputation, nor worldly position, nor conquests in themselves, nor saintliness in itself, can secure for a man a continued life in the imagination of the race.

Contemplate our own past in the light of this conception. Who are the men of whom poets and playwrights and story-tellers have made fictions and songs? Augustus Cæsar when he lived was the greatest man in the world: but who since Virgil has panegyrised him and who—unless some ingenious psychologist of the second-rate like Browning—would make a dramatic poem out of him? William Wilberforce was a very good man, but his deeds and his name have survived his personality, and he will not be the hero of an epic. The Thirty Years' War was a long and very devastating war; Gustavus and Wallenstein, in their degree, survive the purposeless series of its disasters; and of all its events that which most vividly lives in the memory is the small thing with which it began: the flinging of two noblemen from a tower. What is it in things and men that gives them permanently the power of stirring the imagination and the curiosity of the artist? A quality of splendour and of power that grows more certain when the dust that was its receptacle has gone to dust. The artist who shall succeed with a historical personage may make whatever implicit or even explicit commentary he likes, but in choosing his subject—or being chosen by it—moral judgment or scientific estimate will not influence him. He will be the victim of an attraction beyond the will and beyond the reason. Consider who are the figures that truly, imperatively, live in the political story of the past. Not only and not all the Cæsars who fought over the known world; not only such chivalric souls as saw, and obeyed, the visions of Domrémy, and died when the echoes of the last horn faded over Roncesvalles. The Crusades, as a whole, were a great poem, but few of the Crusaders won more than an ephemeral name in art. Cœur de Lion has been in our own time the hero of a romance, but no man is likely again to write of even a Godfrey of Boulogne. The great age of historic Greece passed and left imperishable monuments, "one nation making worth a nation's pain," but how few of her soldiers and philosophers recur to the creative imagination! Those stories and figures from history and pre-history which do so recur are a strangely assorted collection. The Trojan War and its leading personages are a fascination and an inspiration perennially, and among those personages Helen, Hector, Achilles, Ulysses; but not Paris or the sons of Atreus, who live but as appendages. Coldly arguing, men may ask now as they asked then, why the Greeks should take so much trouble to recover a worthless woman, why a Hector should die to keep her, why ten thousand should perish in such a cause. But to the imagination Hector, Achilles, Helen, the divine unreason of that ten years' war, make an appeal that never comes from worthier struggles and wiser people. That is true also of Antony and Cleopatra: their story to the historian and the moralist is one of ruinous folly, to the poet a

Portentous melody of what giants wasting

Near death, on what a mountainous eminence

Still, in the proud contempt of consequence,

The wine of life with jubilation tasting.

The figure of St. Francis has been created and recreated in art; like those of Nero, Philip II., and Mary Stuart. With the mythical who are but names we can do what we will; Lear and Hamlet Shakespeare could cast in the sublimest mould; with the historical we are tied by the historical, and few are great enough to come through the sieve. Poets have attempted and failed to make great characters of Becket, of Wolsey, of Strafford, and Charles I.; their degree of failure has varied, but they have failed as certainly as Keats would have failed with King Stephen. The material was not there. Cromwell and Frederick the Great at least equalled Philip II. in achievement, and excelled him in intelligence. But Carlyle's two heroes were no true heroes for an artist; we are too uncertain about Cromwell's inner man, his direction; for all his battles he could cast no colour over his surroundings; and as for Frederick there was no tragedy about him—that was left for his neighbours. A great Cromwell, in one sense, would be an invented Cromwell; and we cannot invent a Cromwell because of the documents. But Philip II., the intense, narrow, laborious, dyspeptic bigot, sitting in a cell of his great bleak prison on the plateau, trying to watch every corner of the world, and contriving how to scourge most of it; he was contemptible, full of vices, a failure, but there was that in him which has compelled the gaze of poets in seclusion from the seventeenth century down to Verhaeren and Verlaine. He had a virtue in excess. There was a touch of sublimity about him. The setting counts for much; monarchs are on pinnacles. But where is Philip IV., except for his horse-face on the canvases of Velasquez? Where even, as against the man he beat, is William the Silent, who waged a great fight against odds and died by the dagger; but was a cool Whig, excessive in nothing but self-control? He is scarcely alive; but Satan, as Milton saw him, reigns in hell. We must have splendour of a sort. The normal man loves a conflagration, though he will lend a hand in putting it out; and if he is putting it out the inmost heart of him will rejoice if it be a large fire and there are very few firemen. Vivid force, moral or non-moral, must be there; a Borgia, though he be as wicked as a Nero, cannot compete with him before the imagination; he was commonplace and sordid and there is no response to him.

Such passages and such people kindle us in the records of the past. How, from this point of view, will the last five years, crowded and full of strife, look when we are the materials for art?

Will the decline of Turkey command interest? To the historian, not to the poet, so not, ultimately, to the generality of mankind. There is no emergence there of the human spirit at an exalted pitch; very new and surprising things must come out about Enver if he is to rank with the great adventurers of the stage. Men may try it—they have tried most things—but Constantinople has failed the artist before and will again. There is something pathetic, there might be something tragic, in the collapse of the House of Hapsburg after so many centuries, but so far as we know at present (and our statements are avowedly conjectures) there was no incident of that fall, compassed and witnessed by small intriguing men, which can redeem it from squalor and insignificance; and not all our reiterated assurances that this is a tremendous and tragic catastrophe can invest it with the high romantic quality which comes from passion in many men or in one man, strength and a heroic struggle. The League of Nations may be the salvation of mankind, but it has come in such a way, so slowly, so reluctantly, so haphazardly, so sensibly, that (unless comedy) nothing vital will be written of its birth. Can we see a subject for a Shakespeare or a Milton in the domestic struggle here, or the fluctuations of the Balkans, or the entry of the East into the war? These things made their differences, but will they to the artist be more than facts? And the men. There have arisen from the populations of all countries men, many of them "great" by virtue of position, influence, achievement; many of them disinterested and ethically admirable. The mind passes from one to another; over some it flits, over others it hesitates and hovers. There is something of the sublime about M. Clemenceau, the old fighter, symbolising France at the last barrier: a man who, in early novels now forgotten, formulated, or refused to formulate, a philosophy of despair, and depicted a universe without principle, order, or hope, in which the stronger beast, to no end, preyed on the weaker; a man, nevertheless, so full of vital energy, and so certain of the one thing he loved, that he desired nothing better than to continue furiously struggling under the impending cope of darkness. There are, to some of us, disagreeable things about him; stripped of the non-essential there is something central, that is, elemental and fine. But were he of the kind that becomes legendary, should we feel that central something as still uncertain, and would it have needed a war at the age of nearly eighty to have revealed something of grandeur in him? Is he, at bottom, clear and forcible enough; or, alternatively, does he feel with sufficient strength, does he want anything, plan or place or spectacle, with sufficient passion? We cannot be certain: he may be forgotten.

Something of doubt colours also one's view of America's entry and the career of President Wilson, in some regards a close analogue to that of Lincoln. The lines of that story are simple—the watching pose, the gradual approximation to war, the President's mental struggle, his decision to throw America's weight into the scale, his manifestos to the world in the names of liberty, honesty, and kindness, his determination that the war, if possible, should be the last. But the man at the centre of this tremendous revolution of events, the mouthpiece of these great sentiments, has he that last abandonment of feeling which alone captivates the imagination of those who hold the mirror up to certain aspects of Nature? Without denying that it may be a great blessing that he lacks that force, without presuming to know all about him that may later be revealed, I feel doubtful. Death, more particularly violent death, before the end, might have enabled artists to impute to him something that perhaps was not there, to give him the benefit of the doubt. But very likely for our good, possibly with the greatest wisdom, he compromised at Paris. A more spontaneous man might have ruined us all; but if compromise is excellent in politics, it is of small use to poets. I doubt if the President will take his place with St. Francis, Philip II., and Nero.

There will survive from the war, and from the other events of our day, certain episodes which will, as by accident, draw the notice of artists and be, as we speak, immortalised. A few of the countless heroic and self-sacrificing actions which men have performed in every country and by every sea will be snatched from oblivion. Tragedians, in all probability, will brood on the story of Miss Cavell. The names of a subaltern and an airman, fortuitously selected, will live as live those of Hervé Riel and Pheidipiddes. But this is not what we call history. I think that the Rupert Brooke legend will develop. He was beautiful and a poet, and he died in arms, young. He had wandered to the islands of the Pacific, and his comrades buried him in an island of the Ægean. About him they will write poems, plays even, in which, their colour given by actions and sayings which are recorded, he will pass through experiences which were never his, and thoughts will be imputed to him which possibly he never had. Two older artists have taken a more prominent part in the war and its politics, a part that may indisputably be called political. Of Paderewski I know nothing, except that a man's progress could not easily have a setting more superficially romantic; the strength of the man may be guessed at by stray tokens. A person of whom fame in art may more certainly be predicted is d'Annunzio, a man not in every way admirable, but of a demoniacal courage, who has crowned a career full of flamboyant passages with actions that, as a spectacle, are magnificent: orations pulsating with ardour for the glory and power of the Latin genius, words that were pregnant of acts, and following these, after years of reckless flying, the sudden theatrical stroke at Fiume. As a "character" he justified himself by that lawless blow; his rhetoric finally proved itself the rhetoric of real passion, a lust for violent life, self-assertion at the risk of death, the flaunting of the Italian name; and, felt as such, it has moved a whole army and a whole people. Whatever the results of analysis applied to his character or the ultimate outcome of his splendid panache, he cannot but become, to the artists of one nation at least, a hero, the material for romance.

There may be others. But, projecting myself as well as I am able, I cannot see on the larger stage, amid the great fortunes of peoples and their rulers, more than two subjects on which I think we may be positive that they will pass into the company of material to which artists return and return, subjects which already outline themselves with some clarity to the imagination and have the air of greatness.

One is the fall of the German Empire. Were it shortly to be restored, the force with which its calamities will appeal to us would be diminished: for an end must be an end. But if what seemed to happen really has happened there is a spectacle there which will appear more prodigious and more moving as time goes on—that triply-armed vainglorious kingdom pulling the world down on itself; the long, desperate, ruthless fight against enemies ultimately superior; the "siege"; the quality, proud and assured if barbaric, of the Prussian spirit which filled the ruling caste and determined at once its fight and its fall. The tale is tragic, and almost epic; the persons are not yet revealed who shall be capable of being made, on the stage or in books, the instruments for telling it. Certainly, though men, misguidedly, will attempt to make Wilhelm II. sustain an artistic load to which he is not equal, the Kaiser will make no great hero or hero-villain. Possibly in some Hindenburg or other general will be found the strength, the simplicity of belief or resolve, which make a great figure; or possibly this will be of the tragedies in which the individual humans are all pigmies subordinate to the main theme. Elsewhere, I think, is to be found a man who has about him the certain atmosphere of imaginative life. He is Vladimir Ulianoff, Lenin.

I talked a few weeks ago with a Russian in exile, a Conservative, an official of the old regime, and (I think) a Baltic Baron. He was not, therefore, sympathetic to the Bolsheviks or to Lenin; he hated, though he understood, them and he loathed him. "Lenin has ruined Russia," he said, taking no pains to conceal his desire that Lenin should die. Then the imaginative man in him awoke, as it has a way of doing in intelligent Russians of all kinds, and he suddenly added vehemently: "But a hundred years hence a Hero of Legend, like Peter the Great and the Prince who first introduced Christianity into Russia."

I felt immediately that he had spoken not merely a truth, but an obvious one. Englishmen may have all sorts of opinions about Lenin; few have heard much beyond rumour of him, but even those who are most avowedly ignorant of him or most leniently inclined to him would scarcely like to find him in their midst. Yet there is that flavour of vitality, of greatness, about him that is lacking in many who have caused misery to none and even in some of the most potent benefactors of mankind. We feel it almost unconsciously; the recognition of it is, as it were, instinctive; a picture of him, growing from stray scraps of news and rumour, has been forming in our minds, a picture almost from the first differentiated from that, say, of his equally active colleague, Trotsky. Trotsky, one feels, might disappear to-morrow and leave but a name and some wreckage. But the other man, if he be not in the line of Tolstoi (as some of his adherents seem to suppose him to be), is in the line of the great oriental despots, of Tamerlane and Genghiz Khan.

And we shall know more of him, far more, than we shall ever know of Tamerlane and Genghiz Khan: as much very likely as we know of Napoleon. He has no physical attributes and no material accoutrements which might lend him adventitious aid as the centre of a pageant of power, struggle, or woe: a short, bowed man in a black coat, vivacious, hedged by no formalities of ceremonial. Yet to the imagination—and it must surely be so when he is seen backward—this little fanatic, who for twenty years was hunted from exile to exile, and returned to overthrow a government and enthrone himself on the ruins of a great Empire, is the centre of Russia, seated in the middle of that enormous web of conflict and suffering like an impassive and implacable spider. We hear this and that of him. He is genial in conversation. He is not personally cruel. He is willing to slaughter thousands at a blow to realise his ideas, for he looks at human affairs historically, if with but one eye. He is a poor speaker, but his words whip audiences into enthusiasm. He thought he would be overturned in three weeks, but adapted himself with instant decision when a longer lease was offered. This man and that is jealous of him and has tried to upset him; he has said this or that about his success and his failure; he will fly; or he knows he will be executed. The reports contradict each other, but the picture remains and strengthens, the picture of a man in the grip of an idea, with one of the strongest wills in the world, indifferent to the pains and pleasures of ordinary people. That ugly little face, with its swollen bald forehead, its slanting lids closing on straight penetrating eyes, its squat nose, its fleshy mouth between moustache and goatee, its smile mechanical as a mask's, will be more familiar to our descendants than to us. They will see in reverie the revolution, with vast ancient Russia as its background, and this doctrinaire tyrant as its centre, with his ragged armies, his spies and Chinamen, his motley gang of clever Jews, brigands, and mild, bearded, spectacled professors around him. They will feel his magnetism, and, whether as "hero of legend" or devil of legend, they will celebrate him.

Of these things perhaps men will write two hundred or two thousand years hence. But the duration of human life on our planet is measured, as we suppose, in tens of thousands of years.

We go to the grave. The sunlight comes into this room; it shines on the table and the books and the papers. I listen to the twittering of the birds, shorter lived than ourselves, and the intermittent rushing of the wind, which, while life lasts, goes on always the same. A car moans past; its noise begins, swells, and dies away. The trees wave about; a horse's feet plod by; the sunlight sparkles on the river and glorifies the mud. Clouds come over. The sun, unseen, sets; the evening grows bluer and lamps twinkle out over the misty river. So, noiselessly, proceeds time, and the earth revolves and revolves through its alternations of sun and shade. These airs, these lights and sounds, will be the same; but we, alive and immortal as we feel, shall have gone and the clamour that we made will recede. To an epoch we shall be the coloured strutters of history and of legend; to a later age, however remote and whatever the accumulation of our records, we must become august shadows like the dim kings and fabulous empires that passed before Babylon and Egypt. "Truly ye are the people, and wisdom shall die with you." The sentence was written more than two thousand years ago; the author is unknown and receding. Yet, obliterated in the end though all remembrance of us may be, we shall not even on this earth die with our bodies, and for some interval, not to be computed, certain actions at this moment in progress will endure in a sublimated state, and certain men with whom we may even have spoken will enlarge to a more than human stature and communicate, as they could never do in life, their essence to the enduring tradition of men. Are they those whom we have mentioned; or are they, as they may be, others who to us are insignificant and obscured?

HORACE WALPOLE[1]

[1] Letters of Horace Walpole; Oxford University Press, 16 vols., 96s. Supplementary Letters, 1919; Oxford University Press, 2 vols., 17s.

By ROBERT LYND

HORACE Walpole was a dainty rogue in porcelain who walked badly. In his best days, as he records in one of his letters, it was said of him that he "tripped like a pewit." "If I do not flatter myself," he wrote when he was just under sixty, "my march at present is more like a dabchick's." A lady has left a description of him entering a room, "knees bent, and feet on tiptoe as if afraid of a wet floor." When his feet were not swollen with the gout, they were so slender, he said, that he "could dance a minuet on a silver penny." He was ridiculously lean, and his hands were crooked with his unmerited disease. An invalid, a caricature of the birds, and not particularly well dressed in spite of his lavender suit and partridge silk stockings, he has nevertheless contrived to leave in his letters an impression of almost perfect grace and dandyism. He had all the airs of a beau. He affected coolness, disdain, amateurishness, triviality. He was a china figure of insolence. He lived on the mantelpiece, and regarded everything that happened on the floor as a rather low joke that could not be helped. He warmed into humanity in his friendships and in his defence of the house of Walpole; but if he descended from his mantelpiece, it was more likely to be in order to feed a squirrel than to save an Empire. His most common image of the world was a puppet-show. He saw kings, prime ministers, and men of genius alike about the size of dolls. When George II. died, he wrote a brief note to Thomas Brand: "Dear Brand—You love laughing; there is a king dead; can you help coming to town?" That represents his measure of things. Those who love laughing will laugh all the more when they discover that, a week earlier, Walpole had written a letter, rotund, fulsome, and in the language of the bended knee, begging Lord Bute to be allowed to kiss the Prince of Wales's hand. His attitude to the Court he described to George Montagu as "mixing extreme politeness with extreme indifference." His politeness, like his indifference, was but play at the expense of a solemn world. "I wrote to Lord Bute," he informed Montagu; "thrust in all the unexpecteds, want of ambition, disinterestedness, etc., that I could amass, gilded with as much duty, affection, zeal, etc., as possible." He frankly professed relief that he had not after all to go to Court and act out the extravagant compliments he had written. "Was ever so agreeable a man as King George the Second," he wrote, "to die the very day it was necessary to save me from ridicule?" "For my part," he adds later in the same spirit, "my man Harry will always be a favourite; he tells me all the amusing news; he first told me of the late Prince of Wales's death, and to-day of the King's." It is not that Walpole was a republican of the school of Plutarch. He was merely a toy republican who enjoyed being insolent at the expense of kings, and behind their backs. He was scarcely capable of open rudeness in the fashion of Beau Brummell's "Who's your fat friend?" His ridicule was never a public display; it was a secret treasured for his friends. He was the greatest private entertainer of the eighteenth century, and he ridiculed the great, as people say, for the love of diversion. "I always write the thoughts of the moment," he told the dearest of his friends, Conway, "and even laugh to divert the person I am writing to, without any ill will on the subjects I mention." His letters are for the most part those of a good-natured man.

It is not that he was above the foible—it was barely more than that—of hatred. He did not trouble greatly about enemies of his own, but he never could forgive the enemies of Sir Robert Walpole. His ridicule of the Duke of Newcastle goes far beyond diversion. It is the baiting of a mean and treacherous animal, whose teeth were "tumbling out," and whose mouth was "tumbling in." He rejoices in the exposure of the dribbling indignity of the Duke, as when he describes him going to Court on becoming Prime Minister in 1754:

On Friday this august remnant of the Pelhams went to Court for the first time. At the foot of the stairs he cried and sunk down; the yeomen of the guard were forced to drag him up under the arms. When the closet-door opened, he flung himself at his length at the King's feet, sobbed, and cried, "God bless your Majesty God preserve your Majesty!" and lay there howling and embracing the King's knees, with one foot so extended that my Lord Coventry, who was luckily in waiting, and begged the standers-by to retire, with, "For God's sake, gentlemen, don't look at a great man in distress!" endeavouring to shut the door, caught his grace's foot, and made him roar with pain.

The caricature of the Duke is equally merciless in the description of George II.'s funeral in the Abbey, in which the "burlesque Duke" is introduced as comic relief into the solemn picture:

He fell into a fit of crying the moment he came into the chapel, and flung himself back in a stall, the Archbishop hovering over him with a smelling-bottle; but in two minutes his curiosity got the better of his hypocrisy, and he ran about the chapel with his glass to spy who was or was not there, spying with one hand and mopping his eyes with the other. Then returned the fear of catching cold; and the Duke of Cumberland, who was sinking with heat, felt himself weighed down, and turning round found it was the Duke of Newcastle standing upon his train to avoid the chill of the marble.

Walpole, indeed, broke through his habit of public decorum in his persecution of the Duke; and he tells how on one occasion at a ball at Bedford House he and Brand and George Selwyn plagued the pitiful old creature, who "wriggled, and shuffled, and lisped, and winked, and spied" his way through the company, with a conversation at his expense carried on in stage whispers. There was never a more loyal son than Horace Walpole. He offered up a Prime Minister daily as a sacrifice at Sir Robert's tomb.

At the same time, his aversions were not always assumed as part of a family inheritance. He had by temperament a small opinion of men and women outside the circle of his affections. It was his first instinct to disparage. He even described his great friend Madame du Deffand, at the first time of meeting her, as "an old blind debauchée of wit." His comments on the men of genius of his time are almost all written in a vein of satirical intolerance. He spoke ill of Sterne and Dr. Johnson, of Fielding and Richardson, of Boswell and Goldsmith. Goldsmith he found "silly"; he was "an idiot with once or twice a fit of parts." Boswell's Tour of the Hebrides was "the story of a mountebank and his zany." Walpole felt doubly justified in disliking Johnson owing to the criticism of Gray in the Lives of the Poets. He would not even, when Johnson died, subscribe to a monument. A circular letter asking for a subscription was sent to him, signed by Burke, Boswell, and Reynolds. "I would not deign to write an answer," Walpole told the Miss Berrys, "but sent down word by my footman, as I would have done to parish officers with a brief, that I would not subscribe." Walpole does not appear in this incident the "sweet-tempered creature" he had earlier claimed to be. His pose is that of a school-girl in a cutting mood. At the same time his judgment of Johnson has an element of truth in it. "Though he was good-natured at bottom," he said of him, "he was very ill-natured at top." It has often been said of Walpole that, in his attitude to contemporary men of genius, he was influenced mainly by their position in society—that he regarded an author who was not a gentleman as being necessarily an inferior author. This is hardly fair. The contemporary of whom he thought most highly was Gray, the son of a money broker. He did not spare Lady Mary Wortley Montagu any more than Richardson. If he found an author offensive, it was more likely to be owing to a fastidious distaste for low life than to an aristocratic distaste for low birth; and to him Bohemianism was the lowest of low life. It was certainly Fielding's Bohemianism that disgusted him. He relates how two of his friends called on Fielding one evening and found him "banqueting with a blind man, a woman, and three Irishmen, on some cold mutton and a bone of ham, both in one dish, and the dirtiest cloth." Horace Walpole's daintiness recoiled from the spirit of an author who did not know how to sup decently. If he found Boswell's Johnson tedious, it was no doubt partly due to his inability to reconcile himself to Johnson's table manners. It can hardly be denied that he was unnaturally sensitive to surface impressions. He was a great observer of manners, but not a great portrayer of character. He knew men in their absurd actions rather than in their motives—even their absurd motives. He never admits us into the springs of action in his portraits as Saint-Simon does. He was too studied a believer in the puppetry of men and women to make them more than ridiculous. And unquestionably the vain race of authors lent itself admirably to his love of caricature. His account of the vanity of Gibbon, whose history he admired this side enthusiasm, shows how he delighted in playing with an egoistic author as with a trout.

"So much," he concludes, "for literature and its fops." The comic spirit leans to an under-estimate rather than an over-estimate of human nature, and the airs the authors gave themselves were not only a breach of his code, but an invitation to his contempt. "You know," he once wrote, "I shun authors, and would never have been one myself if it obliged me to keep such bad company. They are always in earnest and think their profession serious, and will dwell upon trifles and reverence learning. I laugh at all these things, and write only to laugh at them and divert myself. None of us are authors of any consequence, and it is the most ridiculous of all vanities to be vain of being mediocre." He followed the Chinese school of manners and made light of his own writings. "What have I written," he asks, "that was worth remembering, even by myself?" "It would be affected," he tells Gray, "to say I am indifferent to fame. I certainly am not, but I am indifferent to almost anything I have done to acquire it. The greater part are mere compilations; and no wonder they are, as you say, incorrect when they were commonly written with people in the room."

It is generally assumed that, in speaking lightly of himself, Walpole was merely posturing. To me it seems that he was sincere enough. He had a sense of greatness in literature, as is shown by his reverence of Shakespeare, and he was too much of a realist not to see that his own writings at their best were trifles beside the monuments of the poets. He felt that he was doing little things in a little age. He was diffident both for his times and for himself. So difficult do some writers find it to believe that there was any deep genuineness in him that they ask us to regard even his enthusiasm for great literature as a pretence. They do not realise that the secret of his attraction for us is that he was an enthusiast disguised as an eighteenth-century man of fashion. His airs and graces were not the result of languor, but of his pleasure in wearing a mask. He was quick, responsive, excitable, and only withdrew into the similitude of a china figure, as Diogenes into his tub, through philosophy. The truth is, the only dandies who are tolerable are those whose dandyism is a cloak of reserve. Our interest in character is largely an interest in contradictions of this kind. The beau capable of breaking into excitement awakens our curiosity, as does the conqueror stooping to a humane action, the Puritan caught in the net of the senses, or the pacifist in a rage of violence. The average man, whom one knows superficially, is a formula, or seems to live the life of a formula. That is why we find him dull. The characters who interest us in history and literature, on the other hand, are perpetually giving the lie to the formulæ we invent, and are bound to invent, for them. They give us pleasure not by confirming us, but by surprising us. It seems to me absurd, then, to regard Walpole's air of indifference as the only real thing about him and to question his raptures. From his first travels among the Alps with Gray down to his senile letters to Hannah More about the French Revolution, we see him as a man almost hysterical in the intensity of his sensations, whether of joy or of horror. He lived for his sensations like an æsthete. He wrote of himself as "I, who am as constant at a fire as George Selwyn at an execution." If he cared for the crownings of kings and such occasions, it was because he took a childish delight in the fireworks and illuminations.

He had the keen spirit of a masquerader. Masquerades, he declared, were "one of my ancient passions," and we find him as an elderly man dressing out "a thousand young Conways and Cholmondeleys" for an entertainment of the kind, and going "with more pleasure to see them pleased than when I formerly delighted in that diversion myself." He was equally an enthusiast in his hobbies and his tastes. He rejoiced to get back in May to Strawberry Hill, "where my two passions, lilacs and nightingales, are in bloom." He could not have made his collections or built his battlements in a mood of indifference. In his love of mediæval ruins he showed himself a Goth-intoxicated man. As for Strawberry Hill itself, the result may have been a ridiculous mouse, but it took a mountain of enthusiasm to produce it. Walpole's own description of his house and its surroundings has an exquisite charm that almost makes one love the place as he did. "It is a little plaything house," he told Conway, "that I got out of Mrs. Chenevix's shop, and is the prettiest bauble you ever saw. It is set in enamelled meadows, with filigree hedges:

A small Euphrates through the piece is roll'd,

And little finches wave their wings in gold."

He goes on to decorate the theme with comic and fanciful properties:

Two delightful roads that you would call dusty supply me continually with coaches and chaises; barges as solemn as barons of the exchequer move under my window; Richmond Hill and Ham-walks bound my prospect; but, thank God, the Thames is between me and the Duchess of Queensberry. Dowagers as plenty as flounders inhabit all around, and Pope's ghost is just now skimming under my window by a most poetical moonlight. I have about land enough to keep such a farm as Noah's when he set up in the Ark with a pair of each kind.

It is in the spirit of a child throwing its whole imagination into playing with a Noah's Ark that he describes his queer house. It is in this spirit that he sees the fields around his house "speckled with cows, horses, and sheep." The very phrase suggests toy animals. Walpole himself declared at the age of seventy-three: "My best wisdom has consisted in forming a baby-house full of playthings for my second childhood." That explains why one almost loves the creature. Macaulay has severely censured him for devoting himself to the collection of knick-knacks, such as King William III.'s spurs, and it is apparently impossible to defend Walpole as a collector to be taken seriously. Walpole, however, collected things in a mood of fantasy as much as of connoisseurship. He did not take himself quite seriously. It was fancy, not connoisseurship, that made him hang up Magna Charta beside his bed and, opposite it, the Warrant for the execution of King Charles I., on which he had written "Major Charta." Who can question the fantastic quality of the mind that wrote to Conway: "Remember, neither Lady Salisbury nor you, nor Mrs. Damer, have seen my new divine closet, nor the billiard-sticks with which the Countess of Pembroke and Arcadia used to play with her brother, Sir Philip," and ended: "I never did see Cotchel, and am sorry. Is not the old wardrobe there still? There was one from the time of Cain, but Adam's breeches and Eve's under-petticoat were eaten by a goat in the ark. Good night." He laughed over the knick-knacks he collected for himself and his friends. "As to snuff-boxes and tooth-pick cases," he wrote to the Countess of Ossory from Paris in 1771, "the vintage has entirely failed this year." Everything that he turned his mind to in Strawberry Hill he regarded in the same spirit of comic delight. He stood outside himself, like a spectator, and nothing gave him more pleasure than to figure himself as a master of the ceremonies among the bantams, and the squirrels and the goldfish. In one of his letters he describes himself and Bentley fishing in the pond for goldfish with "nothing but a pail and a basin and a tea-strainer, which I persuade my neighbours is the Chinese method." This was in order to capture some of the fish for Bentley, who "carried a dozen to town t'other day in a decanter."

Among the various creatures with which he loved to surround himself, it is impossible to forget either the little black spaniel, Tony, that the wolf carried off near a wood in the Alps during his first travels, or the more imperious little dog, Tonton, which he has constantly to prevent from biting people at Madame du Deffand's, but which with Madame du Deffand herself "grows the greater favourite the more people he devours." "T'other night," writes Walpole, to whom Madame du Deffand afterwards bequeathed the dog in her will, "he flew at Lady Barrymore's face, and I thought would have torn her eye out, but it ended in biting her finger. She was terrified; she fell into tears. Madame du Deffand, who has too much parts not to see everything in its true light, perceiving that she had not beaten Tonton half enough, immediately told us a story of a lady whose dog having bitten a piece out of a gentleman's leg, the tender dame, in a great fright, cried out, 'Won't it make him sick?'" In the most attractive accounts we possess of Walpole in his old age, we see him seated at the breakfast-table, drinking tea out of "most rare and precious ancient porcelain of Japan," and sharing the loaf and butter with Tonton (now grown almost too fat to move, and spread on a sofa beside him), and afterwards going to the window with a basin of bread and milk to throw to the squirrels in the garden.

Many people would be willing to admit, however, that Walpole was an excitable creature where small things were concerned—a parroquet or the prospect of being able to print original letters of Ninon de l'Enclos at Strawberry, or the discovery of a poem by the brother of Anne Boleyn, or Ranelagh, where "the floor is all of beaten princes." What is not generally realised is that he was also a high-strung and eager spectator of the greater things. I have already spoken of his enthusiasm for wild nature as shown in his letters from the Alps. It is true he grew weary of them. "Such uncouth rocks," he wrote, "and such uncomely inhabitants." "I am as surfeited with mountains and inns as if I had eat them," he groaned in a later letter. But the enthusiasm was at least as genuine as the fatigue. His tergiversation of mood proves only that there were two Walpoles, not that the Walpole of the romantic enthusiasms was insincere. He was a devotee of romance, but it was romance under the control of the comic spirit. He was always amused to have romance brought down to reality, as when, writing of Mary Queen of Scots, he said: "I believe I have told you that, in a very old trial of her, which I bought for Lord Oxford's collection, it is said that she was a large lame woman. Take sentiments out of their pantoufles, and reduce them to the infirmities of mortality, what a falling off there is!" But see him in the picture-gallery in his father's old house at Houghton, after an absence of sixteen years, and the romantic mood is uppermost. "In one respect," he writes, speaking of the pictures, "I am very young; I cannot satiate myself with looking," and he adds, "Not a picture here but calls a history; not one but I remember in Downing Street or Chelsea, where queens and crowds admired them." And, if he could not "satiate himself with looking" at the Italian and Flemish masters, he similarly preserved the heat of youth in his enthusiasm for Shakespeare. "When," he wrote, during his dispute with Voltaire on the point, "I think over all the great authors of the Greeks, Romans, Italians, French, and English (and I know no other languages), I set Shakespeare first and alone and then begin anew."

Not that it is possible to represent him as a man with anything Dionysiac in his temperament. The furthest that one can go is to say that he was a man of sincere strong sentiment with quivering nerves. Capricious in little things, he was faithful in great. His warmth of nature as a son, as a friend, as a humanitarian, as a believer in tolerance and liberty, is so unfailing that it is curious it should ever have been brought in question by any reader of the letters. His quarrels are negligible when put beside his ceaseless extravagance of good humour to his friends. His letters alone were golden gifts, but we also find him offering his fortune to Conway when the latter was in difficulties. "I have sense enough," he wrote, "to have real pleasure in denying myself baubles, and in saving a very good income to make a man happy for whom I have a just esteem and most sincere friendship." "Blameable in ten thousand other respects," he wrote to Conway seventeen years later, "may not I almost say I am perfect with regard to you? Since I was fifteen have I not loved you unalterably?" "I am," he claimed towards the end of his life, "very constant and sincere to friends of above forty years." In his friendships he was more eager to give than to receive. Madame du Deffand was only dissuaded from making him her heir by his threat that if she did so he would never visit her again. Ever since his boyhood he was noted for his love of giving pleasure and for his thoughtfulness regarding those he loved. The earliest of his published letters was until recently one written at the age of fourteen. But Dr. Paget Toynbee, in his supplementary volumes of Walpole letters, recently published, has been able to print one to Lady Walpole written at the age of eight, which suggests that Walpole was a delightful sort of child, incapable of forgetting a parent, a friend, or a pet:

Dear mama, I hop you are wall, and I am very wall, and I hop papa is wal, and I begin to slaap, and I hop al wall and my cosens like there pla things vary wall and I hop Doly phillips is wall and pray give my Duty to papa.

HORACE WALPOLE.

and I am very glad to hear by Tom that all my cruatuars are all wall. and Mrs. Selwen has sprand her Fot and gvis her Sarves to you and I dind ther yester Day.

At Eton later on he was a member of two leagues of friendship—the "Triumvirate," as it was called, which included the two Montagus, and the "Quadruple Alliance," in which one of his fellows was Gray. The truth is, Walpole was always a person who depended greatly on being loved. "One loves to find people care for one," he wrote to Conway, "when they can have no view in it." His friendship in his old age for the Miss Berrys—his "twin wives," his "dear Both"—to each of whom he left an annuity of £4000, was but a continuation of that kindliness which ran like a stream (ruffled and sparkling with malice, no doubt) through his long life. And his kindness was not limited to his friends, but was at the call of children and, as we have seen, of animals. "You know," he explains to Conway, apologising for not being able to visit him on account of the presence of a "poor little sick girl" at Strawberry Hill, "how courteous a knight I am to distrest virgins of five years old, and that my castle gates are always open to them." One does not think of Walpole primarily as a squire of children, and certainly, though he loved on occasion to romp with the young, there was little in him of a Dickens character. But he was what is called "sympathetic." He was sufficient of a man of imagination to wish to see an end put to the sufferings of "those poor victims, chimney-sweepers." So far from being a heartless person, as he has been at times portrayed, he had a heart as sensitive as an anti-vivisectionist. This was shown in his attitude to animals. In 1760, when there was a great terror of mad dogs in London, and an order was issued that all dogs found in the streets were to be killed, he wrote to the Earl of Strafford:

In London there is a more cruel campaign than that waged by the Russians: the streets are a very picture of the murder of the innocents—one drives over nothing but poor dead dogs! The dear, good-natured, honest, sensible creatures! Christ! how can anybody hurt them? Nobody could but those Cherokees the English, who desire no better than to be halloo'd to blood—one day Samuel Byng, the next Lord George Sackville, and to-day the poor dogs!

As for Walpole's interest in politics, we are told by writer after writer that he never took them seriously, but was interested in them mainly for gossip's sake. It cannot be denied that he made no great fight for good causes while he sat in the House of Commons. Nor had he the temper of a ruler of men. But as a commentator on politics, and a spreader of opinion in private, he showed himself to be a politician at once sagacious, humane, and sensitive to the meaning of events. His detestation of the arbitrary use of power had almost the heat of a passion. He detested it alike in a government and in a mob. He loathed the violence that compassed the death of Admiral Byng and the violence that made war on America. He raged against a public world that he believed was going to the devil. "I am not surprised," he wrote in 1776, "at the idea of the devil being always at our elbows. They who invented him no doubt could not conceive how men could be so atrocious to one another, without the intervention of a fiend. Don't you think, if he had never been heard of before, that he would have been invented on the late partition of Poland?" "Philosophy has a poor chance with me," he wrote a little later in regard to America, "when my warmth is stirred—and yet I know that an angry old man out of Parliament, and that can do nothing but be angry, is a ridiculous animal." The war against America he described as "a wretched farce of fear daubed over with airs of bullying." War at any time was, in his eyes, all but the unforgivable sin. In 1781, however, his hatred had lightened into contempt. "The Dutch fleet is hovering about," he wrote, "but it is a pickpocket war, and not a martial one, and I never attend to petty larceny." As for mobs, his attitude to them is to be seen in his comment on the Wilkes riots, when he declares:

I cannot bear to have the name of Liberty profaned to the destruction of the cause; for frantic tumults only lead to that terrible corrective, Arbitrary Power—which cowards call out for as protection, and knaves are so ready to grant.

Not that he feared mobs as he feared governments. He regarded them with an aristocrat's scorn. The only mob that almost won his tolerance was that which celebrated the acquittal of Admiral Keppel in 1779. It was of the mob at this time that he wrote to the Countess of Ossory: "They were, as George Montagu said of our earthquakes, so tame you might have stroked them." When near the end of his life the September massacres broke out in Paris, his mob-hatred revived again, and he denounced the French with the hysterical violence with which many people to-day denounce the Bolshevists. He called them "inferno-human beings," "that atrocious and detestable nation," and declared that "France must be abhorred to latest posterity." His letters on the subject to "Holy Hannah," whatever else may be said against them, are not those of a cold and dilettante gossip. They are the letters of the same excitable Horace Walpole who, at an earlier age, when a row had broken out between the manager and the audience in Drury Lane Theatre, had not been able to restrain himself, but had cried angrily from his box, "He is an impudent rascal!" But his politics never got beyond an angry cry. His conduct in Drury Lane was characteristic of him:

The whole pit huzzaed, and repeated the words. Only think of my being a popular orator! But what was still better, while my shadow of a person was dilating to the consistence of a hero, one of the chief ringleaders of the riot, coming under the box where I sat, and pulling off his hat, said, "Mr. Walpole, what would you please to have us do next?" It is impossible to describe to you the confusion into which this apostrophe threw me. I sank down into the box, and have never since ventured to set my foot into the playhouse.

There you have the fable of Walpole's life. He always in the end sank down into his box or clambered back to his mantelpiece. Other men might save the situation. As for him, he had to look after his squirrels and his friends.

This means no more than that he was not a statesman, but an artist. He was a connoisseur of great actions, not a practiser of them. At Strawberry Hill he could at least keep himself in sufficient health with the aid of iced water and by not wearing a hat when out-of-doors to compose the greatest works of art of their kind that have appeared in English. Had he written his letters for money we should have praised him as one of the busiest and most devoted of authors, and never have thought of blaming him for abstaining from statesmanship as he did from wine. Possibly he had the constitution for neither. His genius was a genius, not of Westminster, but of Strawberry Hill. It is in Strawberry Hill that one finally prefers to see him framed, an extraordinarily likeable, charming, and whimsical figure.

Back in Strawberry Hill, he is the Prince Charming among correspondents. One cannot love him as one loves Charles Lamb and men of a deeper and more imaginative tenderness. But how incomparable he is as an acquaintance! How exquisite a specimen—hand-painted—for the collector of the choice creatures of the human race!

THE TEACHING OF ENGLISH

By J. C. STOBART

THERE is no doubt whatever about the need for it. Search high or low in our social world, you will find it full of laments and dissatisfaction. In the Services Commanding Officers complain that their subalterns, even though they have been through the Classical course at Public Schools and Universities, cannot write a clear report. Headquarters themselves issue their orders and regulations in barbarous, unintelligible jargon. Government Departments, manned by Greatsmen, wrap themselves in phrases of pompous obscurity, and Cabinet Ministers couch their decisions or agreements in terms of such ambiguity as to leave nobody certain of their meaning. It would, however, be unjust to attribute bad English entirely to upper-class education, classical or modern. The business man in his "esteemed favours," though he may be more terse and polite, is not always able to convey what he intends. He lays the blame, when he fails to do so, upon the faulty education of his clerks and stenographers. The masses of the public too often show in practice that they simply cannot understand printed rules and directions. It is naturally too much to expect a universal diffusion of taste or elegance in the use of our language; but even when we feel the need of fine words to express deep feeling we choose for an obituary lines like these:

There's a lonely grave somewhere,

Where our dear and brave boy sleeps;

There's a little home in England,

Where mother and all of us weep.

or these:

Who knew that when he went away,

Departing from his door,

How or when he would come back,

Or whether never more?

For he who went away in health,

In battle soon waylaid,

Which took him in the prime of life,

To lie in a distant grave.

No, there is little doubt of the need for teaching clearness and improving taste. As for correct and grammatical writing, one week's study of a popular daily newspaper yielded the following excerpts from a collection of two-score:

In the last resort we have to depend upon a jury drawn from the people to convict the scoundrel who has tainted our public life, and unless that jury does not do its duty, unless it is backed by the public sentiment of the people....

The accused was ordered to pay £3, or a month's imprisonment in default. At Paignton, in Devon, a gigantic plum-pudding is made and distributed to the poor, which in 1897 weighed 250 lb.

... the officers closed on him. In throwing him to the ground the revolver dropped from his hand.

The charge is 50 per cent. higher than the same sheet may be bought in the street just outside. But what is a penny to an American?

—— —— had an unfortunate experience. While seated in his greenhouse it was wrecked by the wind, and on being extricated it was ascertained that both his legs were broken above the knee, necessitating his removal to the infirmary.

Provocation has been given by the hostile and shifty conduct of the Tibetan authorities, since the signing of the Treaty of 1800, which would have justified earlier punishment.

While riding in a hansom at Southport a runaway horse dashed into the conveyance, and the shaft of the trap penetrated her body, pinning her to the hansom, and causing almost instantaneous death.

But if you come to estimate a day's work—even in foot-pounds—the woman who cleans, bakes, washes, and takes to school six children, carries water and tramps upstairs and down for sixteen hours a day, need not fear comparison as to kinetic energy even with a miner working eight hours.

What is the schoolmaster doing about it? He is teaching a great variety of languages ancient and foreign, sciences, arts and crafts, and among other things he is believed to teach "English." He has found out that it does not come by nature, and that a mastery of the English language cannot be assured by teaching something quite different. But as to the best method of teaching boys and girls to write, read, and appreciate good English there is a controversy. Just as in most other branches of education there is a traditional method and a reformed method. Upon the latter some of us build hopes of extraordinarily great achievements, and if these hopes lead us into impatience we must ask for pardon.

Though Mr. Mais[2] justly claims credit for originality in departing occasionally from the fixed lines of English teaching as it is practised in the Public Schools, his "Course" mainly follows the traditional modes and is directed to the preparation of pupils for the orthodox type of examination. The nature of the course is indicated by the chapter-headings; for example: "Grammar and Syntax—Analysis, Parsing and Synthesis—Punctuation—Vocabulary—Letter-writing—Reproduction—Paraphrase—Dictation—Précis—Prosody—Figures of Speech—Indirect Speech—Essay-writing—Examination Papers." There are, beside these thoroughly normal chapters, six pages on Elocution, Debating, Lecturing, Acting, etc., a useful list of cheap books for a home library, more than fifty critical pages on Shakespeare, and a regrettable[3] twenty-page chapter entitled "Short History of English Literature." I think the author is trying to shake off a yoke which is not entirely congenial to him. But if he will make boys write essays on Scandinavia, explain Synecdoche, paraphrase Keats, "condense the Vision of Mirzah to 300 words," he cannot complain if he is mistaken for one of the old regime and guillotined in distinguished company.

[2] An English Course for Schools. By S. B. P. Mais, Assistant Master at Tonbridge School and Examiner in English to the University of London. Grant Richards Ltd.; 6s. net.

[3] e.g. "R. L. Stevenson represents the incurably romantic and is followed by Kipling and Conrad."

The traditional method begins with the copy-book and proceeds by way of dictation and formal exercises to its goal in the essay. Dictation is the core and kernel of it, for even when the exercise is called "composition" the subjects are so chosen that the pupil needs detailed guidance throughout and the results are practically uniform. The writing is accompanied by reading and grammar, but the reading is severely limited and the text is obscured by comment and minute explanation. Poetry is not only studied with notes: it is analysed and paraphrased and parsed. The grammar, which is also traditional, is alien both in its method and terminology. The people who invented "English" in the middle of the nineteenth century were the classical grammarians who knew only one way of teaching a language, and had been forced under pressure from indignant parents to put "English" on the syllabus. They gave it an hour a week: they spent that hour in parsing, in declining uninflected nouns, in conjugating, in insisting that because the complement of a Latin or Greek copulative verb is in concord with its subject therefore "It's me" must be wrong in English. They did violence to our tongue in other ways to make a Teutonic language fit a Latin system, introducing all sorts of unnecessary complications of gender, mood and case, which do not exist. They transferred to English the whole cumbrous system of Latin grammatical terminology and then set harmless English children to explain their hideous technicalities. All because they had an hour to waste and were determined to waste it in the manner to which they were accustomed. They were assisted in this ambition by the Scotch professors of rhetoric who were especially strong in figures of speech.

And then they remarked with pain and surprise that their method did not succeed. Their scholars did not appreciate good literature when it was taught to them. They lacked originality in their composition. They were tongue-tied in their speaking and muddled in their writing. There was once a man who determined to teach his monkey to sing "Voi che sapete," an air of which he was inordinately fond. So he took an old stocking with a hole in the toe and two holes in the heel and turned it inside out in order to conceal the holes, and crammed it full with shavings and breadcrumbs and fried it carefully and fed the monkey on it. When he complained that the monkey's voice was no better at the end of the course, his friends used to explain that it was because he was an old man and had lived in the reign of Queen Victoria.

Remember that this "English" teaching has been well tried for more than fifty years. Substantially, the course we are considering now does not differ in its methods from books like Dalgleish's English Composition in Prose and Verse based on Grammatical Synthesis of 1864 or Dr. William Smith's English Course. The subject subsists as a shuttlecock in a perpetual game of Badminton between examiners and teachers. If you ask the examiner of English why he continues to set such stupid questions, he replies quite rightly that he is forced to do so by the stupidity of the schoolmasters who teach it. If you ask the schoolmaster why he makes his "English" the dullest subject in the syllabus, he will probably answer that he is preparing for the London Matriculation. If you look for an explanation of the method, you might surmise that the aim is to secure accuracy in grammar at all costs. But that is not the aim. Mr. Mais explains it in a paragraph which he might well set for analysis of pronouns: "Of all our failings as a nation, this is the most marked. In our talk we are reticent; in our writing we are incoherent and slipshod. Every schoolmaster knows from sad experience that the average boy cannot produce a readable essay on any subject, however hard he may try. He strives by every means in his power to instil a sense of originality in his classes, to teach his boys and girls to observe...." Originality and observation!

To take the second first, every scoutmaster knows that observation can be taught, but not by dictation. Probably there is no faculty of the mind which responds so readily to training and practice. By systematic questioning a young child can be taught to notice the common objects by the wayside on his morning walk, the goods in the shop windows, the flowers in the garden, to remember them and describe them afterwards with great fidelity. A good teacher of infants can easily teach a child of six or seven to observe minute differences, to compare and contrast similar objects, such as the bulb of the iris and the corn of the crocus. This kind of observation is commonly appropriated by science, and it is indeed the same faculty which the physicist employs afterwards with his fine balances and test-tubes. But it is also, when reproduced in language, the beginning of good English. Words are the balances. Careful description in words, written and spoken, of things actually seen is, when developed fully, more than half of the business of poets, journalists, and novelists. A few gifted mortals like Balzac, Gissing, or Hardy may possess the faculty by nature, but any one may acquire it through early training and continuous practice. It can be lost almost as easily as it is won.

Can originality be taught? Less easily perhaps than observation. Real originality, in the sense of creative power, or what in its highest form we call "Inspiration," cannot be taught in school. Who taught Blake to see the tiger burning bright in midmost eighteenth-century London? There are some men born, apparently, to be our masters. Ideas flow not into them but out of them. They are the mainsprings of our mechanism. We attribute their origin to the wandering breath of some holy spirit. But in a humbler sense children can certainly be trained to be original, just as they can be trained by opposite methods to be commonplace, slavish, imitative, genteel, conventional, correct, and accommodating. These virtues are taught with great diligence and success in many schools, public and private. In the earliest stage you copy in a beautiful copperplate handwriting words like "England Expects Every," and you read aloud very slowly from a little book which contains these words in immense type: SHUN THAT OX HE IS SHY. You recite in chorus after teacher, you correct your speech by mimicking her accents and gestures. You sit, stand, or march to numbers at the word of command. In the next stage you are promoted to dictation, and once a fortnight you write a composition. But as the theme is Duty or The Elephant or something about which you can hardly be expected to have connected notions, you are given the headings, told what to say, have your mistakes carefully underlined, and are then presented with a model or fair copy. Any departure from the normal, whether in spelling or in ideas, is heavily penalised, and no credit is given for positive merit. In the next stage you learn the art of letter-writing by studying celebrated models, you paraphrase good poetry into bad prose, you analyse and parse and explain grammatical terms, you summarise and expand, you turn direct into indirect speech and generally feed your mind with a generous diet of cold minced hash.

If I were a little boy trained for years and years according to this plan, I hope I should be grateful to my teachers for all the trouble they had taken with me. But, if they then turned round upon me and reproached me with not being original, I should be sorely tempted to commit a breach of good English and say "That is the limit!"

In the pedagogical and psychological sense these methods are twenty years behind the times. They have been exploded in theory and disproved in practice. Each subject in its turn has fought its battle with the Dictation Method, and everywhere, except perhaps in religious instruction, the principle has been decided. In drawing, the freehand copy has given place to direct observation; in mathematics, mechanical working of rules and examples has been replaced by intelligence and problems. Even physical exercises are no longer mere drill.

Perhaps it is in the primary school that we shall find the right principles most clearly marked, if only because with the younger children the teacher is nearer to Nature and mistakes punish themselves more visibly. There also the dead weight of tradition has been less oppressive. Before Madame Montessori's star had risen above the firmament the best teachers in English infant schools had solved the fundamental problems of how to teach good English. The principle is that what the child speaks or writes shall come from its own brain. The first medium of expression is, of course, the tongue. No children, not even English children, are tongue-tied by nature, but they are generally timid and sensitive. If they find their adult world discouraging communicativeness with anger, or sarcasm, or pedantry, they will close down upon the rock of silence like the limpet which you must smash before you move. Probably before he comes to school the child has already been silenced by a mother or father whose love will bear anything for the child except to listen to him. It is wonderful to watch the skilled teacher of infants repairing this mischief, re-establishing confidence between innocence and wisdom, unlocking hearts and tongues, creating an atmosphere of freedom in which she possesses, in reality, absolute control. Instead of limpets you behold sea-anemones full open. The children talk at great length in co-ordinate construction about their mother and the baby's tooth, and when they have finished they sit quiet listening to others. Sometimes the teacher takes up her parable and tells them about Cinderella or the King of the Golden River. In other lessons other mediums of expression appear—pencils, chalk, plastic clay, music, dance, drama. The teacher continues unobtrusively feeding the children with beautiful things, she sings and plays to them, shows them pictures and exhibits gentleness, calm, and love.

Amid all the fog of controversy and all the noise of disputing cheap-jacks that surrounds the art and practice of education I see some of these infants' class-rooms as clear beacons showing the incontestably true course. I cannot see any limit of years to its progress. Many boys' and girls' schools have grasped the same principles and extended them to the age of fourteen with the same undeniable success in the results. Naturally, as the child grows the method has to be adapted, but the principle remains steadfast. I would not describe it as "freedom," because the child is not free, though he feels free. One never doubts the existence of a controlling will. But what is encouraged is authentic expression. In writing, topics are set which draw out of the child's own world the child's own thoughts. He is guided to think for himself and to speak his thoughts fearlessly. The skill of the teacher is shown mainly in the choice of subjects and the discretion with which corrections are made. Observation is translated into description, first in speech and then, when the pencil has been mastered, in writing. A child of nine may be asked to describe a corner of the class-room so that a blind man could understand exactly what is there and what it looks like. A child of twelve may be asked to describe the prettiest room she ever saw. A child of fourteen may be asked to describe the Harrow Road (a) on a Saturday night, (b) on a Sunday morning. Why stop at fourteen?

As well as observation and description, the infant school trains the elements of imagination and invention. Cannot the child who at eight years old wrote on "If I were the King...." profitably be asked to write on "If I had been Oliver Cromwell...." at eighteen? In one girls' school the teacher merely wrote on the blackboard "When the Moon went out" and left the rest to the class. In the same way children can be trained to argue pro and contra about problems of their own lives which clearly admit of argument, like "Would you rather be six or sixteen?" "Would you rather be a boy or a girl?" People new to the method might suppose that, although the brighter children could possibly attack such themes with success, the ordinary or dull child would be left staring. It is not so. Whole classes of children trained in this way produce work which is pleasant to read. The essentials seem to be stimulating topics, authentic expression without dictation, and constant practice. To one who has seen the elementary steps there is no magic in the Perse Plays or the Draconian Poems. They are natural. It is dullness that is artificial. Real dullness, such as one finds in Common Rooms, Mess Rooms, Pulpits, and Government Offices is the fruit of a long, careful, and generally expensive education in that quality.

In teaching a young person to speak and write you are also teaching him to think, because words represent thoughts. The adult may be able to think connectedly in silence, but the child generally cannot. The child's world is, however, at the largest a little one, and it is necessary to enlarge it by various means, including stories and pictures, songs and books. The book gradually becomes more prominent as the art of reading is mastered. A child constantly encouraged to express himself freely, always giving out and seldom taking in, would develop a number of unpleasant qualities. Therefore reading is only second to writing in its importance. A generous supply of good books is the second fundamental necessity of sound English teaching. So far as I know, no school has ever reached the limit in this direction. There is an excellent society which bases its method of teaching mainly on copious reading and has been able to multiply seven-fold the usual reading programme of primary schools. But they seem to put the book a little too much into the foreground. It is citizens that we seek to educate. For them books should be the background of real life. We do not all possess those opulent libraries into which Ruskin would turn his princesses to browse at will; but I subscribe to his doctrine in principle. Mere quantity of reading is a great thing. The more children read, the better they will choose their books.

Now these two things alone, authentic expression and copious reading, are capable of producing good English. Children taught well in these methods can, without any formal instruction in spelling or grammar, write correctly as well as pleasantly. Something more is needed for those who seek to become scholars in English, and still more if they aim at the study of language. For such as these the teaching may gradually and progressively develop a scientific character. In the earliest stages fluency was itself a chief aim, and the teacher was compelled to be very sparing of interruptions and corrections. She had to use discretion and to judge for herself what mistakes were dangerous. She might not interpose though twenty successive clauses were joined together by "and," because she knew that it is natural for language to begin with co-ordinates and that mere mental growth combined with practice in reading and writing will cure the fault. She corrected vulgarisms, like "he done it," not with any grammatical disquisition but dogmatically. Even where the children come from homes where the King's English is never spoken, systematic speech-training in the infants' school can correct and refine language before pen is put to paper. These infant years seem to be intended by Nature for the learning of language. Ears are sharp and memories retentive. But habits once formed at that age, whether good or bad, are very difficult to eradicate later on. Perhaps pronunciation is best taught through disguised phonetics in the singing lesson and elocution in the poetry lesson.

In the first written work it may be found that the spelling is all wrong. Great controversies rage on this subject. But it seems right to regard bad spelling as a disease which needs careful individual diagnosis in the earliest stages, when it can be cured so as to give no more trouble. Most often it springs from some fault in the method by which the child has learnt to read. Some people are allowed to grow up incapable of spelling because they make out the printed word by some process of guesswork and never fix the letters upon their memory. Good or bad spelling very rapidly becomes automatic.

Much the same is true of grammar. As I have said before, accurate use of language can be attained by purely empirical and dogmatic methods. Grammar is no essential preliminary to good English, but nevertheless there may be a good case for teaching it later on to those who can afford the time. It is well that English boys and girls should know something of the history and structure of their language as well as their constitution. It may be necessary for the linguist to understand the common grammatical technique of all languages. Moreover, teachers naturally seek to limit the domain of mere dogma and to give explanations where they can. Thus a child can easily be cured of saying "Between you and I" merely through the teacher's command, "Say me." He can be cured of saying "Like I did" in the same way. He will of course be on surer ground if he understands the reason. Only let it be English grammar and not Latin grammar that is used. The reason why the child should say "I am taller than he" is, if a reason must be given, that than is historically identical with then, not that "quam takes the same case after it as before it."

If we could only keep our eyes steadily fixed on the goal and discard formalism, tradition, and antiquated examinations, there is in the work of the best infants' and elementary schools a broad enough base for us to build a sound structure of English up to the University and beyond. Perhaps some day a progressive University may try the experiment of an English Arts Course in which the first part would consist solely of Advanced Reading and Writing, and the second part of options between English Philosophy, English Philology, English Poetics, or English Criticism. It need not be any lower in standard than an Oxford Greats course.

We could not well spare the scholars. On the contrary, those who believe with me that English contains all things necessary to culture will be most anxious to enlist for its service the finest scholarship of the day. Some will think the fare provided in such a course as I have outlined too rich in sugar or fat and wanting in the tougher constituents which produce bone and muscle. It is essential to require more and more precision and accuracy as the child passes through the phases of adolescence. This was the real virtue of the old classical training, and it is too often wanting on Modern Sides. We must contemplate something very like the best of classical teaching applied to English Classics for big boys and girls.

I write as a Pharisee of the Pharisees, brought up at the feet of Gamaliel. A man like Robert Whitelaw loved the literature of Greece and Rome with such devotion that its very forms were sacred to him. A false quantity or a false concord was to him a personal affront: it caused him physical pain. Accents and particles mattered to him and so they mattered to us. There was a right and a wrong. We did not understand why, but we knew and felt his scorn of anything careless or superficial. He read Sophocles aloud with an intensity that at first puzzled and then infected us. Occasionally, but all too rarely, it was his task to do the same with Chaucer or Browning. Why not?

But at this point I labour with a sense of unreality. Is it possible to capture for our language a tithe of that old classical fervour? We have buried our Grammarian upon his peak, fronting the sunrise. He settled hoti's business. I have heard him lecture for an hour upon the future sense of the optative with an enthusiasm that was drawn from some pure source in the depths. Doubtless he survives in disciples. Is it the mere mystery and power of the Word that inspires them? I will not believe that it is any inherent virtue possessed by Propertius but denied to Shelley that inspires the classical scholar. But where are our inspired teachers of English? I have an impression of critical, quizzical gentlemen, deeply learned in Elizabethan drama or Saxon dialect, but all the same terribly mild. I cannot picture one of their disciples seriously moved by a misplaced "and which" or an unrelated participle in English. Something is missing.

There are thousands of genuine lovers of English literature scattered up and down the country, people who feel the thrill of delight in verbal beauty quite as keenly as any classical scholar. But they want leaders and a voice. We suffer our fools too gladly in English studies. Any lunatic is allowed to criticise, traduce, misinterpret Dryden, Carlyle, Addison, even Shakespeare, as if they were our private playthings. They are not. They are worthy of their pedestals of worship just as much as Homer and Aristotle.

The issue of the War has established more firmly than ever the predominance of the English language in the world. If our schools would rise to their opportunity and raise English into a culture worthy of its qualities there seems no reason why it should not become the universal medium of civilisation for the world. The richness and variety of its literature and the simplicity and flexibility of its structure render it, as a language, amply sufficient. Whether this is visionary or not, it is no longer safe for those who cherish the humanities in education to rely upon the old impregnable position of Latin and Greek. The world has received one of those secular shocks in which tradition crumbles to dust.

AN ARTICLE ON PARTICLES

By ALICE MEYNELL

"Inconquerable"—BACON

A GENERAL good habit might long ago have been ruled for our national literature in the use of two negatives—"un" or "in," and "less." A good rule once made known, long ago, would surely have lasted. We might set about it even yet, though with much to chastise. Let us try. The fault of "un" and "in" is of long standing. That of a misapplied "less" is probably quite modern. What I have to suggest is an obvious enough correction, but the offence is broadcast, therefore correction cannot surely be inopportune or importunate. For who is there who does not give the teutonic "un" to the Latin or Romance word, writing "unfortunate" or "ungracious"? Or who now is careful to write "inconquerable"? Any man to-day would certainly write "unconquerable." It may not be that Bacon is always consistent; nor is Landor, who had something—but that something has proved altogether ineffectual—to say on this question of good English. We must own the incorrect use of the German particle to be the commonest thing in the world, but the incorrect use of the Latin or Romantic derivative, on the other hand, does not occur.

The Teutonic "un" comes more readily to the English pen than the Latin "in," and thus is joined habitually to the wrong kind of adjective and verb and adverb. Not only, moreover, to the Romantic word, but also to the Greek. We have learnt to write "asymmetry," but not to avoid "unsymmetrical." There is also a very frequent jumble, so that "uncivil" appears in the same phrase with "incivility," and "unable" with "inability," "undigested" with "indigestible," "ungrateful" with "ingratitude"—but I need cite no more. It is worth noting that these confusions are not due to a kind of reluctance in the use of "un" for nouns. We have many nouns with the "un" (not otherwise to my purpose): "unrest," "unbelief," "unfaith," "unhappiness," "untruth," "unthrift," "unskilfulness," and so forth.

Now I know well that the reader has been courteously waiting until I should draw breath for a paragraph in order to say "Undiscovered: Shakespeare." It is all too true. I can only repeat, murmuring, "Inconquerable: Bacon."

There is nothing in English that we should prize more dearly than our right negative particles of both derivations, and especially our particle of German derivation in its right Teutonic place. That "un" implies, encloses so much, denies so much, refuses so much, point-blank, with a tragic irony that French, for example, can hardly compass. Compare our all-significant "unloved," "unforgiven," with any phrase of French. There are abysses, in those words, at our summons, deep calling to deep, dreadful or tender passion, the thing and its undoing locked together, grappled. But in order to keep these great significances the "un" should not be squandered as we squander it. And neither should the less closely embraced "in" be so neglected. It has its right place and dignity and is, as it were, more deliberate. It is worth while, furthermore, to enhance the value of both our negative particles (one of them, of course, shared with French) by considering how poor a negative that last-named tongue has often and often to use for lack of a better; not even a particle, but a thing unfastened, a weak separate word, a half-hearted denial—"peu." Let us try to keep our "un" in its right place by considering how, for instance, it makes of "undone" a word of incomparable tragedy, surpassing "defeated" and "ruined" and all others of their kind. "Undone" has the purely English faculty, moreover, of giving to a little familiar word a sudden greatness, such greatness as leaps to Lear's "every inch." This was found to be intranslatable when Rossi acted King Lear in Italian; he had to speak the phrase in English. Wonderfully well furnished as we are for all adventures, is it not then time that we reviewed and revised our habits, and restored to their proper lineage the great contemporary histories of our language by a right and left distribution of the "in" and the "un"? Our incorrect ways were never standardized, or they standardized themselves by precedent. No, it is all too late. We shall never undo the habit now, or cease to be "unconscious" in our custom.

But for the other particle—"the less"—there is hope or there might be, but for Shakespeare's strange and slightly ambiguous "viewless." We might at least check new coinings. "Less" is in the construction here to be considered, though not in other combinations, fairly equivalent to the Teutonic "without." It has great value. It also locks close meanings with its word. But that word should be a noun, and not a verb. Yet it is a verb at the present day, not only in hasty column after column, but in page by deliberate page, and especially in stanza by deliberate stanza. For no doubt the perfervid poets have spread that fashion. You will find "relentless" scattered in modern verse, and "quenchless" and "tireless" frequent. Keats, instigated indirectly if not directly by Leigh Hunt, has "utterless." The misuse of "less" is even somewhat more to be resisted than that of "un" because in the case first named the grammatical construction of our English words (and we have not too many laws of construction) is violated. And beautiful words that are neglected for "quenchless" and "relentless" pass out of use; the words that have "less" for their lawful negative are cheapened; and writers of talent learn to dash and as it were to gesticulate.

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES AND NEWS

Correspondence from readers on all subjects of bibliographical interest is invited. The Editor will, to the best of his ability, answer all queries addressed to him.

GENERAL NOTES

WE are glad to see that the Clarendon Press has published Mr. Percy Simpson's edition of Every Man in His Humour, a pioneer volume to the complete edition of Ben Jonson's Works, which the same editor, in conjunction with Professor Herford, has been for many years preparing. Their edition should, we think, be definitive (we use Sir Eric's magical word with extreme caution for fear of provoking the National Union of Textual Editors to down books and refuse to continue their researches). A new edition of Ben Jonson's work is certainly needed: Gifford, re-edited by Cunningham, is sadly inadequate; the text is bad and the notes explain nothing that one wants to know. One walks darkling through the Discoveries. Take Ben's remarks about painting—they are Hermetic. What, for instance, does this mean? "Parrhasius was the first won reputation by adding symmetry to picture.... Eupompus gave it splendour by numbers and other elegancies." We shall indeed be grateful to the new editors if they can tell us exactly how Eupompus gave splendour to art by numbers—and other elegancies. The secret might be whispered along the galleries of Burlington House.

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Another interesting book that should soon, though there is no news of its immediate arrival, be coming from the Clarendon Press is the third volume of Mr. Saintsbury's Caroline Poets. The first two volumes of this massive anthology opened up a whole province of literature hitherto almost unknown to the general reader. In the last this great work of excavation and exploration should be completed. With the exception of Chamberlayne and the Matchless Orinda the Carolines of Mr. Saintsbury's choice have been very obscure. In the last volume, we understand, he intends to soar to the dizzy heights of eminence on which Cleveland stands. A good critical edition of Cleveland will be welcomed by all lovers of seventeenth-century literature. The early editions of his works are a piratical sort of publication. Some of his poems were, even in his own life-time, attributed to other writers, notably his Hermaphrodite, which was fathered on Randolph, and which he claimed as his own in an amusing little poem appended, later on, to the stolen piece. And yet, in spite of Cleveland's claim to his own property, Carew Hazlitt, in his reprint of Randolph, continues to attribute the Hermaphrodite to its wrongful owner. A very unnecessary and supererogatory blunder.

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While we are on the subject of the Caroline Poets we would like to express a pious hope that some day, when we are all immensely rich, the Clarendon Press, or some other great publishing institution, will bring out a complete corpus of English poetry. More than a century has elapsed since Chalmers issued his English Poets, and the book, in spite of bad editing and very imperfect—indeed non-existent—critical apparatus, is still an extremely useful one. It contains a complete Gower, a complete Lydgate, a complete Hawes, and a complete Skelton. The text of these older poets is indeed atrocious; but the fact remains that they are there, reprinted and easily accessible in Chalmers's stout volumes. For any study of the eighteenth century Chalmers is invaluable; everything is in him, from the Ruins of Rome to the Pleasures of Digestion—or is it the Art of Preserving Health? A well-edited Chalmers would be a work of immense value. And if the Clarendon Press would go on, in the same edition, from the Carolines to the Georgians and back, through the Elizabethans and Tudors as far as the Brutians (the contemporaries of our first Trojan king), we should be for ever grateful. But before that comes to pass we must all, as has already been hinted, be immensely rich

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A rather battered Purchas's Pilgrim minus its title-page came into our hands recently. It appears to be the second edition, but the only actual indication of date that we can discover is to be found in the following passage, on which by a happy chance we lighted while turning over the pages of the book. "Sultan Achmet is now, Anno 1613, five and twentie yeares old: of good stature, strong and active more than any of his Court. He hath three thousand Concubines." We cannot help believing that someone had been pulling the Reverend Samuel Purchas's leg on the subject of young Sultan Achmet's harem.

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The other day we bought a charming little first edition of Candide (1759). The title-page is amusing: "Candide, ou l'Optimisme, traduit de l'Allemand de Mr. le Docteur Ralph"; no publisher or place, but the date MDCCLIX. It was often Voltaire's custom not to acknowledge his publications till they were a success. Zadig (1749) is similarly without author's or publisher's name.

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Perhaps some of our readers may be able to throw some light on a curious and interesting book, Specimens of Macaronic Poetry, published by J. Richard Beckley in 1831. The volume contains epics written on a single letter, like that which begins:

Cattorum canimus certemina clara canumque,

Odes in this style:

Emma! fer chartam, calamos, et inkum,

And the old Scottish Testament of Mr. Andro Kennedy, of which the first stanza runs:

I Master Andro Kennedy,

A matre quando sum vocatus,

Begotten with some incuby,

Or with some freir infatuatus;

In faith I can nocht tell redely,

Unde aut ubi fui natus,

But in truth I trow trewely.

Quod sum diabolus incarnatus.

No author's name is given and we have had no time or opportunity to make researches. But perhaps, as we have suggested, some of our readers may be able to give us the information desired.

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We were fortunate in recently securing a very fine copy of Certaine Learned and Elegant Workes of the Right Honourable Fulke Lord Brooke, written in his Youth and familiar Exercise with Sir Philip Sidney, Henry Seyle, 1633. It is high time that a new edition of these very interesting and, by moments, very great poems was published. Grosart's reprint is faulty and is, furthermore, practically unprocurable. As a matter of fact a new edition was, we understand, in process of being prepared by a very able young scholar of Christ Church, when the war broke out and the would-be editor was unhappily killed. Mr. Rose had, we believe, made considerable researches and had even discovered a certain amount of new material, but he had not committed the results of his labours to paper; so that the possible new edition of Greville has perished with him. If the rest of Greville's works could be edited as well as his Life of Sidney has been by Mr. Nowell Smith we should be very well pleased. But the prospect of getting any new edition at all seems now extremely unlikely.

RECENT ADDITIONS TO LIBRARIES

Some early printed books of considerable interest have recently been added to the Library of the British Museum, among them a copy of Sannazaro's Arcadia, Venice, 1502, in a contemporary binding of boards covered with designs printed from woodblocks. Terentius: Comediæ cum interpretatione Donati, Baptista de Tortis, Venice, 1482. Elegantiolae, by Augustinus Datus, produced at Verona by an unidentified printer in 1483. Ptolemaeus, Liber quadripartit, Ratdolt, Venice, 1484. Maurice de Sully, Bishop of Paris: Les exposicions des euungilles en romant, Antoine Neyret, Chambéry, 1484. (Only four fully authenticated incunabula of Chambéry are known, of which this is the earliest and rarest. It is printed in large Gothic type and adorned with woodcuts. The Museum possesses specimens of the second, third, and fourth Chambéry books, and this is a perfect copy of the first.) Jo: Balbus Januensis: Catholicon, Jean du Pré, Lyon, 1492. Several examples of early Spanish printing have also been presented, as well as two first editions of Swinburne, Laus Veneris, Moxon, 1866, and Dolores, Hotten, 1867, with "The Devil's Duel: a letter to the editor of The Examiner," an attack on Robert Buchanan, written by Swinburne under the pseudonym of Thomas Maitland, and printed for private circulation in 1875.

ITEMS FROM THE BOOKSELLERS' CATALOGUES

With the present boom in seventeenth-century literature one is unlikely, to judge from the catalogues of the better-known booksellers, to pick up many bargains in Caroline literature in London. The collector's only hope will be chance or the oversight or ignorance of the vendor. We know of someone who recently had the good fortune to find a copy of the extremely scarce Lyric Poems of Philip Ayres (1687) in a parcel of miscellaneous rubbish. But that was a stroke of luck not likely to be repeated, and collectors must be prepared to pay pretty heavily for their seventeenth century now. The following items from various catalogues will indicate the current scale of prices for early editions of Jacobean and Caroline books. We shall be interested to see the prices fetched in the sale of the third portion of the late Mr. W. J. Leighton's stock, at Messrs. Sotheby's in the last days of October. The catalogue makes mention of many extremely interesting seventeenth-century books as well as important manuscripts and early printed books.

*      *      *      *      *

Messrs. Dobell offer eight first editions of Richard Brathwaite. Barnabee's Journall, published by John Haviland in 1638, is priced at £48, and Ar't Asleepe Husband? A Boulster Lecture, 1640, at £25. Two more copies of this last work are included among the books at the Leighton sale. The second edition of Carew's Poems (1642), in the original calf, is offered at ten guineas; and a first edition of Dekker's Tragi-Comedy, called Match Mee in London (1631), at £14. A copy of the 1772 edition of Carew's Poems, originally the property of Mrs. Browning, with her maiden name and date, 1842, on the title-page, is on sale at the Serendipity Bookshop, price four guineas. Another book of Mrs. Browning's at the Serendipity Shop is Samuel Daniel's History of the Civil Wars, 1717. This is one of those odd reprints of Elizabethan poets that are to be found scattered up and down the eighteenth century. Perhaps the most unexpected of them is the folio Works of Michael Drayton, Esq.; A celebrated Poet in the Reigns of Queen Elizabeth, King James I., and Charles I., printed by J. Hughs and sold by R. Dodsley, 1748. Among other valuable seventeenth-century books at the Serendipity Shop are Crashaw's Carmen Deo Nostro in the original vellum, printed at Paris, 1652, £40, a second edition of Herbert's Temple, and a first edition of Hesperides, or the works, both Human and Divine, of Robert Herrick, Esq., £140.

*      *      *      *      *

It is interesting to note what high prices the works of Surtees can always command. In Mr. Frank Hollings's catalogue a set of the Sporting novels, with Leech's illustrations, one of them a first edition and the others early issues, is offered for £37 10s.

On the other hand, a first edition of Friendship's Garland can be bought at Messrs. Dobell's for 10s. 6d., and a first edition of Buchanan's Book of Orm for half-a-crown.

People still seem prepared to pay high prices for odds and ends from the nineties. Mr. Hollings has a complete Savoy at £7 10s. and two first editions of Oscar Wilde at nearly four pounds apiece.

A first edition of Trilby (1895) can be purchased for 7s. 6d. at Messrs. Dobell's, and of Daniel Deronda (1876) at 18s. Evan Harrington, in the twelve original parts of Once a Week, is offered at 25s. at the Serendipity Shop.

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Mr. Everard Meynell has a curiosity of nineteenth-century literature for sale in the shape of Coventry Patmore's Odes, dated 1868, but never published, for the following reason: "Early in 1868 he had written nine odes, which in the April of that year he printed for private circulation. Afterwards, keenly mortified at the coldness of their reception by friends, he made a fire in the hall and cast on it (as he thought) all the copies remaining in his hand, while he calmly sat and watched them burn. A friend, who had heard of the intended bonfire, persuaded his daughter Emily to abstract a copy or two, and these, with the few which had been sent to friends, were all that remained of the edition." The price of this soul saved from the burning is £8 10s., and a first edition of The Unknown Eros (1878), with inscription from the author to Richard Garnett, is priced £2 10s.

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Having recently picked up cheap a third edition (1872) of FitzGerald's Omar Khayyám (Quaritch, 1872), we are interested to see that a copy of the fourth edition (1879) is for sale at three guineas. We suspect ourselves of having made a bargain, but are not yet quite sure.

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Messrs. Dobell have an interesting collection of first editions of works by Victor Hugo, most of them presentation copies, with Hugo's autograph inscription, to Mademoiselle Louise Jung.

A. L. H.

CORRESPONDENCE

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—On the assumption—I hope justified—that you propose to have a "Correspondence Column" in your paper, I write to plead that you should devote some of your attention to the subject of what is, I believe, called "book production." That your guidance as to the contents of books will be valuable I do not doubt; but I feel that an organ such as yours might be of considerable service if it would determine to devote some consideration to their physical form.

It may fairly be said, I think, that, as a body, English publishers produce their books as respectably as any publishers in the world. The Germans produce—or produced before the war—a larger number of agreeable-looking cheap books, and a larger number of finely-printed and bound editions de luxe, such as were specialised in by firms like Langen of Munich. But the ordinary German book of commerce was frequently very shoddy and the pseudo-romantic "Albert Memorial" tradition had never been entirely shaken off. The French presses issue many books which are a delight to possess. Their tradition is an old one. It can be traced through the delicate eighteenth-century editions, with their unequalled engravings, back to the Estiennes and the Torys, who were infinitely superior to the printers of their time. Throughout the last fifty years French publishers and "societies of bibliophiles" have issued editions of poetry and of old rarities exquisite in their taste: beautifully printed on the best paper and never eccentric. But the ordinary French novel or political book, printed in blunt unattractive type and "bound" in yellow paper covers, which fall in pieces at a touch, is certainly not a model that anyone would wish to copy. Much may be said against our wood-pulp paper and our common cloth bindings; but, on the whole, we certainly clothe most books in garments more durable than the books deserve; and the same thing holds good of America, though there the types and bindings are, as a rule, uglier than ours.

The fact remains that not one book out of twenty that we produce can be called beautiful, and that fifteen out of twenty are indisputably ugly. That the "public" will ever demand an improvement is a fantastic dream. The ordinary reader likes a nice book when he sees it, but will never make an "effective demand" on his own account. We have to rely on the initiative, largely disinterested, of (1) the publishers, (2) the authors, and (3) the critics.

Publishers, we know, must earn their living like other men; their chief attention must be given to procuring saleable "matter." But they have to get their books printed, and they have to get them bound; and while they are about it they would lose nothing, and we should all gain something, if they would see to it that the work was done by someone who cared about types and was anxious to make the best of the materials available at a specified price. Authors, again, may often be heard complaining that they do not like the look of their books; but does any author (except Mr. Bernard Shaw and a few bibliophiles who patently supervise the job themselves) ever take any steps to secure a "production" of which he would approve? Finally, though the critics occasionally praise a book for being "beautifully printed" or tastefully "bound," not one of them seems to make a regular practice of commenting on the physical design of books—which, after all, is an ingredient in our civilisation just as much as the design of cottages.

I should, as I say, be relieved to hear that the MERCURY, from which we all hope so much, intends to "do its bit" in this connection.—Yours faithfully,

ORIGINAL SUBSCRIBER.

[We think our correspondent is a little hard on English publishers. Some of them, though a minority, seldom produce an unattractive book; and the book-production of them all is on a higher average level than it was ten years ago, or has ever been in our time. But we agree that there is room for improvement, and scope for commendation or the reverse; and we purpose in our next issue to institute a regular page of "Book Production Notes," which we hope will give our correspondent satisfaction.—ED. L.M.]

BOOKS OF THE MONTH

POETRY

REYNARD THE FOX. By JOHN MASEFIELD. Heinemann. 5s. net.

It is an agreeable thing to find a man whose work has been overpraised writing better than he has ever done before. Mr. Masefield's earlier narrative poems were panegyrised for their vices: their unreal plots, their bad psychology, their sentimentality, their jog-trot metres. He; wiser in his generation, appears to have realised that the best parts of them were the "descriptions": details of vivid imagery, pictures of scenes and brief incidents; and that where he was dealing with a person he was at his best when the person was alone and in one self-centred mood. The picture of the widow alone in her cottage was worth all that incredible plot in the Widow in the Bye Street; the public-house scene and the birds following the plough remain in the memory when Saul Kane's spiritual struggles have faded away; Dauber was little more than a means of arriving at that peaceful entry when the ship trod the quiet waters of the harbour like a fawn; and landscapes were the only excuse for The Daffodil Fields. Mr. Masefield (who very likely realises that Biography, a poem that will not die, is the best thing he has done) seems to have discovered his bent. In Reynard the Fox there is only one leading character, the fox, and he is shown in no complicated relationships. It is the description of a chase and of a fight for life, and we could not hope to see it better done. Mr. Masefield's faults of writing are still evident. Lines like

He, too (a year before), had had

A zest for going to the bad

might have come out of one of the numerous parodies which have been perpetrated at his expense; he is unscrupulous in rhyming, he takes pot-shots with words, and he is occasionally grossly sentimental. But none of these faults is bad enough in this poem to get in the way. It is a poem to read again as soon as one has forgotten it, and it will give equal enjoyment every time.

The opening section, which describes the meet, is a little too drawn out; too much time is taken up with describing a multitude of characters, once seen and then forgotten. But no Dutch painter ever gave a better idea of the bustle about an inn than Mr. Masefield does, and the approach of the Hunt is done deliciously. We would spare little of the long description of the hounds who come round the corner in front of the red-coats:

Intent, wise, dipping, trotting, straying,

Smiling at people, shoving, playing,

Nosing to children's faces, waving

Their feathery sterns and all behaving,

and then draw round Tom Dansey on the green in front of the Cock and Pye:

Arrogant, Daffodil, and Queen

Closest, but all in little space.

Some lolled their tongues, some made grimace,

Yawning, or tilting nose in quest,

All stood and looked about with zest,

They were uneasy as they waited.

Byron said the octosyllabic metre is the easiest to write. It is, unvaried, the most monotonous to read. Mr. Masefield, who breaks into anapæstic passages when hounds are in full cry, pulls it off all the way. It was not an easy thing to supply enough bite to descriptions of earth, tree, and sky, to invent enough novel incidents, to enable us to follow without fatigue a ten or fourteen miles chase across country. But it has been done, and Mr. Masefield has also succeeded in intensely interesting us in the fox without (as a rule) making him any less an animal. When he finds one earth and then another stopped the reader's feelings are what they are when a hero of romance walks blind along the plank, and it is with an immense relief that, in the end, we find the fox (at the expense of another) escapes. The final description of the rested fox's nocturnal hunt and the hounds going home is admirable fresh painting. Here is the close:

Then the moon came quiet and flooded full

Light and beauty on clouds like wool,

On a feasted fox at rest from hunting,

In the beech-wood grey where the brocks were grunting.

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The beech-wood grey rose dim in the night,

With moonlight fallen in pools of light,

The long dead leaves on the ground were rimed,

A clock struck twelve and the church bells chimed.

It is just the end of such a day.

THE SUPERHUMAN ANTAGONISTS. By SIR WILLIAM WATSON. Hodder & Stoughton. 6s. net.

Nobody could accuse Sir William Watson of over-colloquialism, morbid violence, or carelessness. A slight infusion of those vices might do him good. He is determined to be as lofty and orotund as Milton, as grave as Matthew Arnold, as sage as Wordsworth, if he can manage it; and the result is often a cold and carven monument of respectable but uninspired verse akin to the better of the large tombs in Westminster Abbey. On every page of his title-poem (a debate between Ormuzd and Ahriman) we find lines like

Legible haply in that brow benign.

Rashnu and Vayu and great Mithra, sons

With the huge monster's dragon armature,

Out of the pregnant and parturient dust

Large hereditaments of bliss and woe,

sentences, however mighty their mould, which are to modern poetry what Lord Chaplin's speeches are to modern oratory. This much, however, can be said for Sir William, that his brain is always working in spite of his lordly panoply of words outworn, and he who can penetrate his language will arrive at some sort of argument. The shorter poems are also magniloquent, and, like the longer one, barely escape commonplaceness by a certain activity of mind. But the language would not have been poorer had none of them been written.

MORE TRANSLATIONS FROM THE CHINESE. By ARTHUR WALEY. Allen & Unwin. 3s. and 4s. 6d. net.

Mr. Waley's 170 Chinese Poems (Constable) was one of the most memorable books of recent years; and, what is more, was instantly recognised as such. Even those of us (and we can certainly claim to be a majority) who do not know Chinese could tell at sight that they were accurate beyond the wont of translations. They were obviously beautiful poems in the original tongue, and they became beautiful English poems through Mr. Waley, who has handled unrhymed verse as skilfully as anyone alive or dead, with a variety of rhythm and a flow of sound correspondent to sense, which is amazing in translations. The new collection should not be missed by anyone who has the old one; those who have not should get the old one (which contains a historical sketch, and which, on the whole, covers better poems) before this one. In his second collection Mr. Waley still devotes most of his space to Po Chu'i, really a greater poet than Li Po, of whom we have heard so much. The poems from him are again very diverse in subject and mood; and the more we see of him the more his personality attracts us. We may quote two shorter examples. One is The Cranes, which has the terseness, the melancholy, the directness of the best of Verlaine:

The western wind has blown but a few days;

Yet the first leaf already flies from the bough.

On the drying paths I walk in my thin shoes;

In the first cold I have donned my quilted coat.

Through shallow ditches the floods are clearing away;

Through sparse bamboos trickles a slanting light.

In the early dusk, down an alley of green moss,

The garden boy is leading the cranes home.

Po Chu'i's mild humour is seen in The Lazy Man's Song (A.D. 811):

I have got patronage, but am too lazy to use it;

I have got land, but am too lazy to farm it.

My house leaks; I am too lazy to mend it.

My clothes are torn; I am too lazy to darn them.

I have got wine, but I am too lazy to drink;

So it's just the same as if my cellar were empty.

I have got a harp, but am too lazy to play;

So it's just the same as if it had no strings.

My wife tells me there is no more bread in the house;

I want to bake, but am too lazy to grind.

My friends and relatives write me long letters;

I should like to read them, but they're such a bother to open.

I have always been told that Chi Shu-yeh

Passed his whole life in absolute idleness.

But he played the harp and sometimes transmuted metals.

So even he was not so lazy as I.

The finest thing in the book is perhaps Ch'u Yuan's The Great Summons. That is too long to quote; but we cannot resist Mr. Waley's version of a brief lyric by Li Po, Self-Abandonment:

I sat drinking and did not notice the dusk,

Till falling petals filled the folds of my dress.

Drunken I rose and walked to the moonlit stream;

The birds were gone, and men also few.

These translations may be not without their influence on English poetry; and though the Chinese spirit is not ours, the example of their exactitude and economy will not be thrown away.

COLLECTED POEMS OF LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS. Secker. 7s. 6d. net.

In a note Lord Alfred Douglas observes that all great art is founded on morality; and that "good poetry is made up of two things: style and sincerity." These apophthegms are brief and unelaborate but indisputable. Unfortunately he proceeds to say that poetry has never sunk so low as now, and that "there is not a good poet among the lot," which suggests that he does not know where to look for poetry. He is out of touch with the time, and it is unfortunate for him. Again and again as we read his collection we feel that he is the last of the pre-Raphaelites, clothing genuine feelings in a faded vesture, and images and words gone stale. He has improved. His earliest poems might well have been left out; his latest include several sonnets (notably that beginning "I have been profligate of happiness") which have been, and deserve to be, in the anthologies. But the last exactitude of statement he seldom, as yet, has achieved; and his feelings about persons come out much more strongly and convincingly than his feelings about Nature or the eternal. This edition has a portrait.

FORGOTTEN PLACES. By IAN MACKENZIE. Chapman & Hall. 3s. 6d. net.

In the last four years many young men have died who would have helped to make our age—as it will in any case be—glorious in song. Brooke and Flecker and Edward Thomas had at least partly expressed themselves; others, such as Wyndham Tennant and Julian Grenfell, had written one or two perfect poems and justified the muse; but there were some, whose talents only their friends knew, who might have ranked with the first of these, and died before they had outgrown their boyhood. Ian Mackenzie was one of these. He was in the H.L.I.; had a breakdown in England (he had outgrown his strength) and died of pneumonia on Armistice night, after hearing that peace had come. He was just twenty.

The present volume (his second) gathers up what was left over from his first, and is prefaced by a memoir by Arthur Waugh, every word of which will be echoed by those who knew Mackenzie, one of the handsomest, sunniest, most candid boys in the world. He was twenty; and as yet too young to hammer into form the large visions of his precocious imagination, and the queer thoughts that engaged his intellect. The reader who knew him will see in every line the promise of a great maturity; the reader who did not know him will probably fail to see more than a tumble of confused thoughts and images obscurely worded in rhythms that are often ungainly. But even he may be arrested here and there by a phrase beyond the common range of eighteen or nineteen. There are several such in Eyes:

Eyes swim out like strange blue fishes

Recovering beauty from the dark.

And several also in the poem which arises out of the childlike reflection:

What a strange marvel is the telephone.

The whole of the second section of Friends is clear and passionate, and there are lines at the beginning in which he makes the comparison of a thinker with a child looking at pebbles in a pool, which are of the last simplicity and completeness. He oscillated between an extreme analytical habit and a profound love for ordinary things. The first mood may be illustrated by his strange poem on Words:

I watch you talking, catching mouthfuls of air,

Which you twist around till you throw them out

In various shapes, such that each is clear.

Patterns of sound: some soft, some you shout;

Some are round and soft or dimpled and thin,

Some writhe and quiver fantastic about,

Some slip through the lips, and turn whispering in,

Till the waves of silence shut them out.

So, if we could not hear any sound,

But could see air moving like waves in a pond,

And the shape of every word had been found

Till they faded away in the air beyond,

And words came twisted in breaths of air,

You could tell each one by a careful stare.

The other is naïvely expressed in his phrase:

There is as much of beauty in one breath

As there could be upon the largest star!

He was immature; but he need not have troubled to cross-examine himself about

These three last years of fraudulent

Subconscious plagiarism,

For there never was a person so unable to be anything but natural.

A CHALLENGE. By MAITLAND HARDYMAN, Lt.-Col., D.S.O., M.C. Allen & Unwin. 2s. 6d. net.

Col. Hardyman was a young civilian soldier who believed in peace, was on the committee of the Union of Democratic Control, and died at twenty-three at the head of his regiment. "I have never seen or heard of a man," says Mr. N. H. Romanes, in his introduction, "to whom not merely a lie, even a harmless one, but any kind of misrepresentation, was so abhorrent." He wrote his own epitaph thus: "He died as he lived, fighting for abstract principles in a cause which he did not believe in." The verse of the man described here cannot but be interesting. But it would be an affectation to call it poetry. Genuine feeling often comes through, but in an amateur way. The nearest thing to good poetry in the book is Via Crucis, which begins:

Lord Jesus of the trenches,

Calm, 'midst the bursting shell,

We met with Thee in Flanders,

We walked with Thee in hell;

O'er Duty's blood-soaked tillage

We strewed our glorious youth;

Yes, we indeed have known Thee,

For us the Cross is Truth.

POEMS OF THE DAWN AND THE NIGHT. By HENRY MOND. Chapman & Hall. 3s. 6d. net.

"Youth's a stuff will not endure," and in a year or two Mr. Mond will probably not be talking of storming the battlements of Heaven, and will not care to begin a poem with

An aged filthy hag, with bloated face,

Upon her haunches, wrapped in bloody rags,

There squats Bellona—splashed with entrails—

—words which do not really horrify us, and did not really horrify him. He shows certain gifts. There is observation at the end of The Silver Corpse, and in parts of The Fawn. But he strains after effects and misses them. Honest vision and honest feeling may be later discoveries. He would do well, for a time, to subject himself to a strict discipline formally.

NAPOLEON. By HERBERT TRENCH. Oxford University Press. 2s. 6d. net.

This is a cheap reprint of Mr. Trench's play, previously published at 10s. 6d. net, and recently acted by the Stage Society. With the exception of The Requiem of the Archangels and one or two other poems it is certainly the finest thing he has done. Unfortunately the finest things in it are probably those which are least suitable to the theatre.

ATHENIAN DAYS. By F. NOËL BYRON. Elkin Mathews. 2s. 6d. and 1s. 6d. net.

Mr. Byron seems to have read the classics, and is obviously fond of Greece. The unfortunate moon has been compared to many things; this time it is a beckoning courtesan. There are few notable blemishes about Mr. Byron's poems; but he never ends them properly, and it is seldom clear why he begins them.

ANY SOLDIER TO HIS SON. By GEORGE WILLIS. Allen & Unwin. 1s. net.

A volume of lively verses, some of them in the military vernacular. The speaker in the title poem, after long service in the trenches, sums up his feats thus:

I never kissed a French girl and I never killed a Hun,

I never missed an issue of tobacco, pay, or rum,

I never made a friend and yet I never lacked a chum;

I never borrowed money, and I never lent—but once.

Not a bad record. The conventional poems at the end are competently written; "Bed" has something of the neatness, and something of the allusiveness, of Prior.

THE STATION PLATFORM AND OTHER POEMS. By MARGARET MACKENZIE. Sands, 2s. 6d. net.

"These Verses are not all sad—indeed, I hope that in a very real sense none of them are that." They are poems of sorrow and consolation, decently worded and written with a sincerity and simplicity that is sometimes moving. The author has a habit of being too simple. It takes some time to recover from a beginning like "I think maybe the souls of men are bulbs."

ECHOES FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. By J. G. LEGGE. Constable. 2s. 6d. net.

Mr. Legge has long been known as one of the most competent and comprehensive of the many who in our time have tried their hands on the Epigrams of the Greek Anthology. This selection is based on that given in Mr. Mackail's excellent little book. Mr. Legge says that many of his versions were made on the top of a municipal tram. He must be a self-possessed man. He never touches the level of inspiration reached in Lang's or in Shelley's few translations from the Anthology, but no translator, so far as we know, has done so many so well. He is always smooth, neat, perspicuous; his principal lack is music. He gives what is perhaps the best extant version of the epitaph on the dead of Thermopylæ.

NOVELS

JEREMY. By HUGH WALPOLE. Cassell. 7s. net.

THE YOUNG PHYSICIAN. By F. BRETT YOUNG. Collins. 7s. net.

POOR RELATIONS. By COMPTON MACKENZIE. Secker. 7s. 6d. net.

THE TENDER CONSCIENCE. By BOHUN LYNCH. Secker. 7s. net.

SEPTEMBER. By FRANK SWINNERTON. Methuen. 7s. net.

TIME AND ETERNITY. By GILBERT CANNAN. Chapman & Hall. 7s. net.

RICHARD KURT. By STEPHEN HUDSON. Secker. 7s. net.

The literary arena of England is at this moment strewn with the forms of discouraged novelists who were hailed as coming great men and who have never yet been able to make any adequate reply to the hail. The arrival of Mr. Conrad, Mr. Wells, and Mr. Bennett, as writers concerning whom, in whatever tenor, our questions are answered, is within recent memory. Soon after that event a new generation rose. Henry James stooped from Olympus to examine them; and there was a good deal of excitement abroad as to their future performance. But where are they now? Mr. Walpole's latest book carries the history of a child up to his first departure from school. Mr. Compton Mackenzie shows us a popular dramatist struggling for life in the midst of a farcical crowd of relations. Mr. Swinnerton produces punctually one book a year in time for the autumn publishing season. But meanwhile what is happening to the English novel? Is anything happening to it?

It is certainly true that there is no perceptible curve of development or change. There are fashions. Two of the books before us illustrate one of the most popular of them, a fashion begun and now abandoned by Mr. Mackenzie. Mr. Walpole pushes the novel of adolescence to its extreme, or beyond the extreme, by the tender age at which he takes his hero. Mr. Brett Young goes through with it in conventional fashion, conducting Edwin Ingleby from early years at school to his final medical examination and the beginning of life. Mr. Walpole's Jeremy is a very faithful and exact record, and yet it is not easy to say why he should have written it.

Mary, however, was there, and in the very middle of her game, searching for him, as she was always doing, she found him desolate under the shadow of the oak. She slipped away, and, coming up to him with the shyness and fear that she always had when she approached him, because she loved him so much and he could so easily hurt her, said:

"Aren't you coming to play, Jeremy?"

"I don't care," he answered gruffly.

"It isn't any fun without you." She paused and added: "Would you mind if I stayed here too?"

"I'd rather you played," he said; and yet he was comforted by her, determined, as he was, that she should never know it!

"I'd rather stay," she said, and then gazed with that melancholy stare through her large spectacles, that always irritated Jeremy, out across the garden.

"I'm all right," he said again; "only my stocking tickles, and I can't get at it—it's the back of my leg. I say, Mary, don't you hate the Dean's Ernest?"

A not too exigent reader might still fail to be surprised or delighted by that passage or by a hundred like it, and of such passages the book is made up. If Mr. Walpole continues the child's career on the same scale his followers will groan; and yet perhaps as Jeremy grew older he might grow more interesting. For it is unlikely that, except in rare cases, a grown man will remember enough of childhood to make the material of a long novel. And the character of even the most remarkable child is not, after all, sufficiently broad, sufficiently varied, to bear the weight of this exhaustive description.

Mr. Brett Young's less unusual design gives him better opportunities for the use of his talent, but not often the opportunities his talent deserves. He came into notice a little later than that younger generation which we have mentioned, and in some ways his gifts are superior to those of any novelist of his own age. But it is a matter for doubt whether they are strictly the gifts of a novelist. In the row of his books, all sincere, all well written, all with obvious merits, the best is undeniably his account of the East African Campaign, Marching on Tanga, the second his collection of poems, Five Degrees South. In these two, landscape and his delight in it had an uncontested supremacy. In his novels up to now that supremacy has been contested by the characters, who have, however, faded away in the end against the background like puffs of smoke. This certainly allowed the author's best talent to be displayed at advantage, and yet it is a doubtful recommendation of a novel to say that the persons in it can hardly be noticed.

In The Young Physician the persons are not so unobtrusive, and the hero, if we had not been aware of him before, would have forced himself on our attention by committing manslaughter in the last pages of the book. He does, however, live and move before that, and the characters around him at home, at school, at the university where he studies medicine, are living and moving human beings. But the more clearly we see Edwin and his surroundings the less, very unfortunately, we see of those poetical qualities to which we have grown accustomed in Mr. Brett Young. Certain of the human relations are indeed very well drawn. Edwin's love for his mother and his grief at her death make moving passages. The episode in which he is drawn closer to his lonely father is excellently done. But the second part of the book, where Mr. Brett Young voluntarily confines himself in North Bromwich, is not, on the whole, a distinguished piece of work. Here the author is without his hills, trees, and clouds, and is compelled to exert himself in the observation and delineation of character. But though he does his work here cleanly and honestly, as we have a right to expect from him, he does it lifelessly and without enthusiasm. "W. G.," Boyce, even Rosie Beaucaire are alive and credible, but it is hard for the reader not to suspect that Mr. Brett Young takes but little interest in them and impossible, with that suspicion in his mind, to take much interest in them himself. Much the best part of the book is the description of the journey made by Edwin and his father to the deserted mining village in the Mendips, which had been the father's home. Here Mr. Brett Young has his opportunity for description and uses it well in a dozen passages.

And, from a final crest, the road suddenly fell steeply through the scattered buildings of a hamlet. An inn, with a wide space for carts to turn in, stood on a sort of platform at the right-hand side of the highway, and in front of the travellers lay the mass of Mendip: the black bow of Axdown with its shaggy flanks, the level cliffs of Callow, and a bold seaward spur, so lost in watery vapours that it might well have claimed its ancient continuity with the islands that swam beyond in the grey sea. In the light of his new enthusiasms Edwin found it more impressive than any scene that he remembered; more inspiring, though less vast in its perspective, than the dreamy plain of the Severn's upper waters that he had seen so many times from Uffdown. For these hills were very mountains, and mightier in that they rose sheer from a plain that had been bathed in water within the memory of man. And more than all this ... far more ... they were the home of his fathers.

This quotation does not indicate, a dozen such could not exhaust, the grace and charm of the episode in the Mendips. Here, perhaps, for a moment in the midst of an unsatisfactory book Mr. Brett Young has attained a higher level of achievement than ever before. His persons do not here fade into the landscape, but rather blend with it into one picture, of which they are as essential a part as the hills and clouds. There is still, it must be confessed, a certain lack of vigour in the presentation, but if the author could compose a whole book in this manner it would be a very fine and remarkable performance. Perhaps he may still do so. It would be very rash to decide at this moment that the novel is not the form of art which he ought to pursue. But even if we reserve judgment on this point, there can be no doubt that the scheme of The Young Physician is in any case not well adapted to his particular gifts.

Mr. Compton Mackenzie, however, who invented and popularised this kind of novel, has, in his latest production, thought fit to drop it. It was indeed desirable, after the unfortunate affair of Sylvia and Michael, that he should attempt to break new ground; but we think that many of his admirers will read Poor Relations in a mood of pleasure mingled with dismay. One critic observed of Guy and Pauline that the future of the English novel was, to a quite considerable extent, in Mr. Mackenzie's hands. But the future of the English novel does not really lie in the direction of rattling books for railway journeys, where humour is derived from cows, comic clergymen, and an overwhelming hair-wash. Those who fixed Mr. Mackenzie with solemn expressions of expectation on the ground of Carnival and Sinister Street will probably be hard put to it to know what to make of this romping and boisterous piece of work. It contains little more of what the author has been praised for than his vitality—which was much diminished in Sylvia and Michael—and his verbal ingenuity. But it does show high spirits and an eye not blind to those obvious humorous effects, such as bad wine, mischievous and inquisitive children, the nervous author with his secretary, and so forth, which when they are whole-heartedly embraced are, after all, still humorous. If the future of the English novel really is in Mr. Mackenzie's hands and if he continues in his present mood, the English novel is going to have a queer time of it. But if he has done nothing else, he has proved himself free of priggishness.

Among these novelists only two, Mr. Swinnerton and Mr. Lynch, much concern themselves with what was once an urgent topic of conversation, with the business, namely, of giving the novel shape and compactness. This, it was at one time announced, was the direction in which English fiction was moving, and perhaps it is still the most significant movement, though it is accidentally a little veiled at present. But Mr. Swinnerton, who is a novelist pure and simple, who follows no extravagant theory, has no doctrinaire axe to grind, seems bent on making shipwreck of his powers. Some novels can be written, as was Mademoiselle de Maupin, in six weeks. But Mr. Swinnerton has not yet written a novel like Mademoiselle de Maupin, nor does it appear probable that he will do so. He seems to have fallen into the habit of producing a cross between a good book and "the commercial article" in good time for the autumn publishing season once a year. Thus are the hopes raised by Nocturne disappointed; and those who were disconcerted but cheerful last year under the stroke administered by Shops and Houses will possibly falter in despair this year under the more poignant blow of September. It is the theme of a beautiful woman, whose placid life does not flower into passion until she is nearing middle age. Cherry Mant, who hardly hurts Marian Forster by tampering with the affections of her good fellow of a husband, wounds her deeply by making off with her youthful lover, Nigel Sinclair; and both acts of rapine are cleverly introduced by a silly joke about the name of a brand of cigarettes. It is true: Mr. Swinnerton knows his business. And if he has not the final fusing fire of genius, he has talent in great quantities, experience, and knowledge and cleverness. He has learnt his art, but rather than apply his learning he gives us once a year the irritating phantom of a good book. His theme and his conception of its treatment are excellent. But he will not pursue sufficiently deeply his researches into character, and unless he can resign himself to missing the season now and again, he will be lost to the English novel. His is not one of those talents that shine in rash and careless brilliance. It requires intensive labour to make the best of it.

The same judgment applies with equal force to Mr. Lynch's talent. The difference between him and Mr. Swinnerton is that he has taken the trouble to make the best he can of his theme, which is exiguous and yet sufficient. The story turns on Jimmy Guise's gradual discovery of his wife's worthlessness; and the hasty reader might complain that in a short book Mr. Lynch has spent a great deal of time over a very small matter. But those who range through contemporary fiction, anxious to be hopeful, will be more interested in the care which he has spent on every facet of the tale. The device, by which Jimmy is at once presented, full length and in detail, to the reader, while Blanche is gradually discovered, is one of those solid and sufficient inventions which immediately command respect. The exact and measured discovery of her worthlessness takes place by slow, inexorable degrees which show that the author has never once relaxed his vigilance over his composition. There are, it is true, irrelevancies even in so short a work. Jessie Carruthers was not really necessary as a foil to Blanche. The "New Department," though it is deliciously sketched, takes too prominent a place. But these irrelevancies do not noticeably distort the general scheme, and are in fact probably the result of Mr. Lynch's unconscious recognition that his plot was a little too slender for even so brief a novel. But, in spite of this initial difficulty, The Tender Conscience is a very creditable and satisfactory performance and gives grounds for looking forward with much interest to Mr. Lynch's future development.

The novels of Mr. Gilbert Cannan and Mr. Stephen Hudson are of the sort in which an attempt is made to simulate distinction by gratuitous eccentricity. Some painters, in order to improve the landscapes with which nature has provided them, screw up their eyes until the scene before them runs into a confused blur. Mr. Cannan and Mr. Hudson make this grimace before the spectacle of life. It is a fashion like another, but it has less usefulness and, we imagine, less durability than the novel of adolescence.

Mr. Cannan's book contains a gentleman named Perekatov with a "massive Jewish face, thick, sensitive lips, a heavy blue chin, and tragic, short-sighted eyes," another gentleman named Stephen Lawrie, whose characteristics are not so obvious, and a young lady named Valérie du Toit, who appears to be the incarnation of all that Mr. Cannan considers glorious. The thesis of the story, so far as we have been able to discern it in the gyrations of these and other characters, is that the true England was not in the war, but sat unheeded, forgotten, alone, in a little garret until the fighting was over. Mr. Cannan is plainly dissatisfied about something, but he lacks a brain sufficiently clear to make the reader understand what it is or what he wishes done. Meanwhile he creates unreal scenes of physical and mental misery and squalor through which the stoutest hearted could not drag themselves unyawning or undepressed. Their yawns and their depression are, it is true, in some sort a tribute to Mr. Cannan's powers. He creates these scenes with a certain vigour and finish, but his qualities will be for ever wasted unless he can raise himself out of his present state of aimless gloom.

Mr. Hudson, perhaps even more than Mr. Cannan, has forgotten the limitations imposed on him by his material, which is life. In this story of Richard Kurt, his shallow and philandering wife, Elinor, and his crafty young mistress, Virginia, he seems to suppose that nothing more than his bare word is needed to carry off impossible events and unnatural psychology. But the novelist's task is not so easy as this. He cannot secure originality by willing it or by producing an unexpected situation out of the void. The unusual situation must be justified, not only by itself, but by all that has preceded it. The novel effect which is obtained by suddenly altering a character already defined is below childishness. As for the rest, this is a tale of the idle and indigent rich and their experiments in adultery. Richard Kurt appears to be a perfectly worthless person, so irritating in his sins and weaknesses, that it is easy to understand the feelings of his disagreeable father and his frivolous, selfish, restless wife. Virginia, unfortunately, does not in a strict sense, exist. The maiden, whose one desire it is to be seduced without appearing to consent or even to be aware of the incident, may live somewhere in the case-books of the pathologists; but Mr. Hudson has not delivered her from that prison-house. He tells us that such was her behaviour and such her motives, but the reader involuntarily declines to accept the assertion. Nor is it likely that the reader would much care if it were true.

OVER AND ABOVE. By J. E. GURDON. Collins. 7s. 6d. net.

This is a curiously naïve and artless story of the adventures of an airman, as seen through the eyes of one Warton, whom we meet crossing to France for the first time and leave going back to England on transfer to home service, with a Military Cross and two bars. It is written with evident knowledge and covers most of the typical incidents in an airman's life at the front. It is written, too, with complete sincerity, and it is easy to discern the author's personality behind the speeches of his characters and his own asides. Yet for all this it is hardly a success, hardly so convincing or informing as a number of books that have been built on a much slighter foundation of first-hand knowledge. The fights described are not clear or lucid, the persons introduced never become real. All this goes to show that both some natural gift for, and some practice in, literary composition are necessary for any book as well as experience of the life it depicts.

THE NEW DECAMERON. By VARIOUS AUTHORS. Blackwell. 6s. net.

The New Decameron is a fascinating title which covers a disappointing book. The greatness of the original Decameron springs, after all, in the first place from the extraordinary beauty of the introduction, which sets the reader in a proper state of mind for the stories that follow and which lingers with him ever afterwards if he reads a story here and there at random. But the state of mind produced by the setting here, in which a miscellaneous collection of rather disagreeable persons is becalmed in mid-Channel in an excursion steamer, by no means recalls the magic of the Tuscan garden. The stories vary greatly in quality, but none of them is entitled to be considered very seriously. The best would make pleasant patches in our magazines, and the worst would be bad anywhere. The jokes at the expense of German dullness in the "Professor's Tale" are made with neatness and point. The Stone House Affair is not a bad detective story. The Upper Room is a decadent effort of a somewhat antiquated kind, but it is not too ill-written. There is no reason why these stories should not have been both written and published. But the great name under which they are announced and the elaboration of their frame make them seem perhaps more insignificant than they really are.

THE REVOLT OF YOUTH. By CORALIE HOBSON. Werner Laurie. 6s. net.

The squalors of theatrical touring companies seem to be, and no doubt are, capable of indefinite exploitation by novelists. Readers who care to be mildly harrowed by these topics will find in this volume all the pabulum to which they have been accustomed in innumerable other books. But those who have no particular taste for this sort of thing beyond moderation will confine themselves to wondering in what the revolt of youth here consists and in what way they are expected to find it a moving performance. Louie breaks away from home, goes on the stage, is a failure, returns and marries her cousin. There is a suicide and a good deal of illicit love-making, and at the end the heroine behaves with conventionally noble unconventionality. But these things are wearisome if one has no special taste for them.

BELLES-LETTRES AND CRITICISM

SOME DIVERSIONS OF A MAN OF LETTERS. By EDMUND GOSSE, C.B. Heinemann. 7s. 6d. net.

Diversions? In a sense they are all, they have always been, diversions. Mr. Gosse has never allowed the chains of the critical vocation to weigh heavily upon him. It has been consistently his especial characteristic that he has approached the most difficult problems in literature with undaunted courage and vivacity. Where others have sat down to the difficult siege of Donne or Swinburne with the pedantic long faces of writers determined not to flinch even though all their readers fall asleep during the fray, Mr. Gosse advances lightly, blows a pleasant blast on the trumpet of his familiar prose and topples the most obdurate walls over before him, without ever losing the least part of his dignity. This it is which makes his reputation one of the assets of modern English literature. He represents among us a school of critics of which the disciples in this country are by no means too numerous. During a long career he has found and continually practised the secret of being almost always sound and never dull, invariably vivacious, and hardly ever superficial. His critical essays have always the gay, untrammelled air, if not the frivolous substance, of pure diversions.

In his new collection he ranges among a variety of subjects and takes now a well-worn road, now a path that has tempted few enquirers. The Songs of Shakespeare is not precisely a subject to attract the dealer in literary fireworks. It is, on the other hand, a subject ripe for the most portentous, the most meaningless, the most tedious aberrations of the pedant. Yet how delicately does Mr. Gosse, in no more than five pages, steer between these extremes and plant the arrow of his comment exactly on the necessary spot! Benjamin Disraeli, in his capacity as novelist, makes a theme not much less forbidding to the critic who doubts his own ability to be original. But Mr. Gosse is, with justice, serenely confident in the power of his style to overcome this difficulty. There is perhaps little in this essay which has not been both perceived and expressed before. But it is Mr. Gosse who crystallises mature opinion on the novels of Disraeli in a passage which might be taken as a model of discrimination and style or critical prose:

Disraeli began his career, as I have pointed out in the earlier part of this essay, as a purveyor of entertainment to the public in a popular and not very dignified kind. He contended with the crowd of fashionable novelists whose books consoled the leisure of Mrs. Wititterly as she reclined on the drawing-room sofa. He found rivals in Bulwer and Mrs. Gore, and a master in Plumer Ward. His brilliant stories sold, but at first they won him little advantage. Slowly, by dint of his inherent force of genius, his books have not merely survived their innumerable fellows, but they have come to represent to us the form and character of a whole school; nay, more, they have come to take the place in our memories of a school which, but for them, would have utterly passed away and been forgotten. Disraeli, accordingly, is unique, not merely because his are the only fashionable novels of the pre-Victorian era which anyone ever reads nowadays, but because in his person that ineffable manner of the "thirties" reaches an isolated sublimity and finds a permanent place in literature. But if we take a still wider view of the literary career of Disraeli, we are bound to perceive that the real source of the interest which his brilliant books continue to possess is the evidence their pages reveal of the astonishing personal genius of the man. Do what we will, we find ourselves looking beyond Contarini Fleming and Sidonia and Vivian Grey to the adventurous Jew who, by dint of infinite resolution and an energy which never slept, conquered all the prejudices of convention, and trod English society beneath his foot in the triumphant irony of success. It is the living Disraeli who is always more salient than the most fascinating of his printed pages.

We have chosen this passage, not because it is the most remarkable in the book, but almost at random, and in preference to some which are more brilliant and more highly wrought. But it is a fair example not only of the grace, but also of the precision, with which Mr. Gosse habitually uses his pen. His Three Experiments in Portraiture are specimens of the same skill in delineation with the added advantage that the author knew his subjects directly. This is an art in which he has always excelled. His slighter, and his more elaborate, portraits of Swinburne stand easily among the first things of the kind in our language; and though perhaps Lady Dorothy Nevill, Lord Cromer, and Lord Redesdale did not offer material so variegated or so unusual, it may be for that reason that Mr. Gosse's portraits of them are even more interesting as studies by a virtuoso. When we come again to pure criticism, we find in The Message of the Wartons, a lecture delivered before the British Academy, the same graceful and distinguished gesture with which Mr. Gosse points to the interesting and useful traits to be discerned in his subject. Mr. Gosse will never be a true or a factitious fanatic elevating some spark of genius in a neglected worthy above the true fire discovered in others by the just sense of mankind. He makes no exaggerated claim for the Wartons, but he does see in them what has not been sufficiently insisted on before.

They struggled for a little while, and then they succumbed to the worn verbiage of their age, from which it is sometimes no light task to disengage their thought. In their later days they made some sad defections, and I can never forgive Thomas Warton for arriving at Marlowe's Hero and Leander and failing to observe its beauties. We are told that as Camden Professor he "suffered the rostrum to grow cold," and he was an ineffective Poet Laureate. His brother Joseph felt the necessity or the craving for lyrical expression, without attaining more than a muffled and a second-rate effect.

All this has to be sadly admitted. But the fact remains that between 1740 and 1750, while even the voice of Rousseau had not begun to make itself heard in Europe, the Wartons had discovered the fallacy of the poetic theories admitted in their day, and had formed some faint conception of a mode of escape from them. The Abbé Du Bos had laid down in his celebrated Réflexions (1719) that the poet's art consists of making a general moral representation of incidents and scenes, and embellishing it with elegant images. This had been accepted and acted upon by Pope and all his followers. To have been the first to perceive the inadequacy and the falsity of a law which excluded all imagination, all enthusiasm, and all mystery, is to demand respectful attention from the historian of Romanticism, and this attention is due to Joseph and Thomas Warton.

They had a faint conception: they demand respectful attention. These are indeed the accents of moderation, but then, as Mr. Gosse knows, to praise the Wartons with enthusiasm would be unjust. It is the centre of his critical talent that he is always moderate and precise in his estimates, and this fact gives his commendation more value, his blame more weight, and makes his judgments more readily acceptable.

It is possible to bring forward charges against Mr. Gosse. The two essays in this book on contemporary literature, Some Soldier Poets and The Future of English Poetry, suggest that, at least when they were written, the author was not fully acquainted with the buds of the new spring. The opinions expressed in them are, within the limits of his apparent knowledge, equally acceptable to both older and younger critics; but these limits are somewhat narrower than they might have been. But it would be ungracious, as well as disproportionate, to make much of this point. What is important is that Mr. Gosse is a veteran of English criticism, who has enriched our literature with a body of work which has no parallel and whose powers show no signs of flagging. When we consider his latest, we involuntarily turn our eyes back to his earlier books, and we cannot resist the conclusion that he has rendered to English letters a very remarkable service indeed. The latest is a continuation of the earliest, and this is, after all, the most important thing which can be said of it.

A CRITIC IN PALL MALL. By OSCAR WILDE. Methuen. 6s. 6d. net.

This volume appears, rather regrettably, with no indication of how it came into existence, how Wilde wrote the essays of which it is composed or who chose them for republication and on what principle. But the references given at the heads of the essays show that they are reviews collected from the Woman's World, the Pall Mall Gazette, and other papers. Wilde did not gather them together nor, so far as we know, even contemplate such a book. It is probable that he would be a little dismayed by it if he could see it.

In some of these pieces there occur phrases and judgments which are the genuine Wilde at his best, witty and well turned if not always wise. There is, for example, a pleasing pertness in his remark on dialect poetry:

To say "mither" instead of "mother" seems to many the acme of romance. There are others who are not quite so ready to believe in the pathos of provincialism.

There is a long essay on Lefébvre's Embroidery and Lace which is very characteristic, and has, we think, been quoted before. There is a short essay on Dinners and Dishes, from which the following passage may be extracted:

There is a great field for the philosophic epicure in the United States. Boston beans may be dismissed at once as delusions, but soft-shell crabs, terrapin, canvas-back ducks, blue fish, and the pompons of New Orleans are all wonderful delicacies, particularly when one gets them at Delmonico's. Indeed, the two most remarkable bits of scenery in the States are undoubtedly Delmonico's and the Yosemite Valley, and the former place has done more to promote a good feeling between England and America than anything else has in this century.

These are worth having, if Wilde is worth having at all, because they are characteristic. There would have been no great occasion for weeping if they had been lost or if they had never been clipped from the papers in which they appeared. But since someone has had the industry to collect them, and since there is a sufficient demand to warrant their issue in volume form, we may receive them with a moderate pleasure.

The greater part of the volume, however, does not rise to this level. Even the most brilliant and versatile of writers cannot consistently display his individual powers in journeyman work; and Wilde, though his wit was irrepressible, almost involuntary, was no more conscientious than any other reviewer. When the good sentences came they came: when they did not, he made no particular effort to maintain either his style or his ideas on any very elevated plane. There is no great value for the reader of to-day in a picture of Mrs. Somerville in a review of a book on her by a Miss Phyllis Browne. And no reader is likely to take a very vivid delight in Wilde's comment on a book called How to be Happy though Married, that

Most young married people nowadays start in life with a dreadful collection of ormolu inkstands covered with sham onyxes, or with a perfect museum of salt-cellars. We strongly recommend this book as one of the best of wedding presents

or in the jokes that Wilde quotes from the book. Unfortunately it is by no means clear that the anonymous compiler has realised how much uninteresting matter he is reprinting. He closes the volume with twenty-odd pages of Sententiæ, selected from reviews in which the gems of thought and language were detachably scattered. But these gems include such remarks as "No one survives being over-estimated," and "No age ever borrows the slang of its predecessor." We cannot therefore excuse him on the ground that he knew he was dragging lumber into the light, and did so from a pious if mistaken motive.

CONTEMPORARIES OF SHAKESPEARE. By ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. Heinemann. 7s. 6d. net.

THE PROBLEM OF HAMLET. By the RT. HON. J. M. ROBERTSON. Allen & Unwin. 5s. net.

Swinburne's book, as Mr. Gosse explains in his introduction, is the complement of his work The Age of Shakespeare. He had intended a comprehensive survey of the whole of the Elizabethan drama, the glories of which he spent a great part of his life in celebrating. He did enough of it to show what the complete work would have been; the outlines are all here, but they are only filled in patches.

That, carrying on as he did the Lamb tradition, and expressing it in his own language, he was sometimes over-enthusiastic, every reader of his sonnet on Tourneur knows. That he was liable to say incompatible things on different pages, where his purposes were different, is also common knowledge. We do not go to him for an exact "placing" of men or for temperate statement; it might be roughly said that he was willing to regard any minor Elizabethan writer as a master, unless he desired to use him to point a contrast with someone else, in which event the unfortunate playwright might be treated as a buffoon, an incompetent, and an impostor. Yet even of just and balanced criticism there is much in this book. No critic before him has so acutely dissociated the great Marlowe from the Greenes, Peeles, and Lodges, who are indolently classed with him. (It is characteristic that in making this dissociation he says of one of Peele's plays that it is "a riddle beyond and also beneath solution" how a man of any capacity could have "dropped upon the nascent stage an abortion so monstrous in its spiritless and shapeless misery as his villainous play of Edward I.") And the essay on Chapman, here reprinted, is one of the finest panegyrics and most illuminating pieces of imaginative criticism in the language. He may, when he turns his searchlight on little men, illumine them too much; but Chapman was not a little man, and with space to move in and time to think in Swinburne here produced a masterpiece. The long passage on Browning and his obscurity is almost as good, so good that a digression, otherwise unpardonable, is self-excused.

The book as a whole is among Swinburne's best prose books. His writing is what it ever was. Almost every word and sentence is duplicated. He would write: "No man and no woman who has ever ridden on a bus or driven on a cab down the quiet bye-streets and crowded thoroughfares of Paris or of London could fail to have noticed with interest and to have condemned, or at least deprecated, without hesitation or afterthought, the design of the posters displayed on the hoardings or exhibited in the windows, even as, with no greater hesitation and no less microscopic afterthought, he would have," &c., &c. We feel that the sentences might have been split into halves and two books of precisely similar meaning made out of the one. Yet his manner is a part of him. Even his most serpentine sentences have vigour and directness when they are read aloud; and his invective is as entertaining as ever. Swinburne had a very small vocabulary as a poet, but a very large one as a writer of denunciatory prose. He refers to a play of James Howard's as "a piece of noisome nonsense which must make his name a stench in the nostrils of the nauseated reader," and through a series of "laughing jackasses," "howling dervishes," and things ignoble, impure, infamous, and abominable he reaches the climax of his abuse with the beautiful appellation, "verminous pseudonymuncule."

Mr. Robertson also has planned a large work on the drama, but his is restricted to Shakespeare. He proposes to complete a series, of which his Shakespeare and Chapman was an instalment, on "the canon of Shakespeare." He has more concentration and more industry than Swinburne, and he may complete his task. He is not an inspired critic and, unlike Swinburne's, his manner does not contribute to the readableness of his books. He is often—though an engagingly acrimonious controversialist—heavy-footed; and he has a passion for words like "theorem" and "confutation" which is almost incomprehensible in a man who obviously loves the simplest and most beautiful art. In the present volume he tackles the problem of Hamlet. He ridicules those who think that Hamlet was very vacillating; who would not be upset if he discovered that his father had been murdered by his uncle and his mother, and who would not hesitate before killing a man on the word of a ghost? But he admits, as we all must admit, that there are inconsistencies in the play, and he argues, with what we think conclusive force, that these are derived from Kyd's lost Hamlet, which Shakespeare used as a basis. Here, as elsewhere (in Othello and The Merchant of Venice for example), Shakespeare was handicapped by his sources. Mr. Robertson sometimes pushes his arguments too far, and he exaggerates, we think (where he finds it convenient), the inexplicability of Hamlet's character. But he has spent immense industry on the book, and it is a contribution to Shakespearean study that no scholar will be able to ignore. We wish, by the way, that he would not spend so much of his time, here and elsewhere, arguing with people, German and other, who are not worth arguing with.

APPRECIATIONS OF POETRY. By LAFCADIO HEARN. Heinemann. 15s. net.

Hearn was a sensible critic. But it is a fact—and a pity—that his criticisms of English literature were addressed to an audience of Japanese students. In examining a few of them (and we have already had two immense volumes) we get some instruction and entertainment from observing what he selects for Japan and how he explains it—a comparison and a contrast of the Eastern and Western points of view. Here and there, too, trying everything "on the dog," he reveals unexpected merits in English writers. In the "Interpretations" he demonstrated not merely the worth of Longfellow, but the intermittent genius of Mrs. Norton. But we can have too much of a rather interesting thing, and it is inevitable that these lectures on Tennyson, Rossetti, Swinburne, Browning, Matthew Arnold, Morris, and various minors should be too elementary, however sound they may be, and however happy the quotations, to give serious English readers much satisfaction. We note with pleasure that many years ago Hearn was pointing out to Japan the great qualities of Robert Bridges as a poet of landscape.

HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY

THE EXPANSION OF EUROPE (1415–1789): A History of the Foundations of the Modern World. By W. C. ABBOTT, Professor of History in Yale University. Bell. Two vols. 30s. net.

Every schoolboy, in the Macaulayan sense, has at some time or other determined to write a history of the world in twenty volumes from the earliest times to the present day. Achievement is fortunately given to few. Omniscience becomes yearly more impossible, and, since the human mind can no longer single-handed cope with the accumulations of human knowledge, in history, as in so many other things, we have reached an age of intensive specialisation. These are truths which are continually being impressed upon us by the schools of modern history, and that they are to a great extent truths will be shown by a glance at any well-loaded shelf in a library devoted to the output of the modern historian. Yet there is distinct evidence of a reaction against this meticulous specialisation; there are signs that several most learned historians are discarding the historical microscope for the historical telescope and are yielding to the old fascination of writing histories of the world. The free airs of the New World seem to encourage this new phase of an old fascination. It is not very long ago that Professor Hayes of Columbia University took a large brush and a large canvas and produced two excellent and impressive volumes which he called A Political and Social History of Modern Europe. These two volumes were in effect a world history from 1500 to 1915. The mere thought of such a venture would produce a feeling of intellectual vertigo in most historians of the old world. But now Professor Abbott of Yale University comes along with two great volumes, and a promised third, in which he approaches world history with an even larger canvas and larger brush. He tells us himself that he is presenting us with "a new synthesis of modern history." We confess to as profound a distrust of the word "synthesis" as some people have of the word "definitive," and when a professor tells us that he has produced a new synthesis of history we are inclined to believe that this is another way of admitting that Providence has not granted him the gift of clear thinking or clear writing. But Professor Abbott's preface does him and his book an injustice. Some doctors, if you go to them with a swollen arm, will tell you that you have œdema of the arm; but there is no need to be frightened—the doctor is only telling you, what you know already, that you have a swollen arm. So, too, there is really no need to be frightened by the historian who assures you that his book has a synthesis; he probably only means, what you know already, that his book has a subject.

We have not discovered the synthesis in Mr. Abbott's 1000 pages, but we have discovered that he has a very good subject and has written, in many respects, a very good book. The book itself proves that he is well equipped with knowledge and has made full use of the intensive and microscopic study of the modern historian. But he approaches history from the standpoint of enthusiastic and large-minded youth. He has thrown away his microscopes and determined to look back at history through a telescope. Immediately a large and dominating fact has attracted his attention. The age we live in is pre-eminently the European Age. The world is dominated by Europe and Europeans: there have in the past been eras in which a race or races have by migrations and conquests spread themselves and their civilisation and government over wide spaces of the earth, but never before has there been so universal and permanent a domination and expansion from one small quarter of the globe. Professor Abbott, seizing his historical telescope, has looked back and tried to discover the origin, the causes, and the courses of this amazing phenomenon. And the more one investigates the phenomenon the more amazing it appears. Take the case of migrations. The European Age or the modern world, as Professor Abbott has no difficulty in showing, began in the fifteenth century. (In history, of course, there is really never any real beginning or any real end; there are no abrupt transitions, only faster or slower currents in the stream of change; nevertheless there are periods in which the movement quickens so perceptibly that they are clearly turning-points in human history; and the fifteenth century is undoubtedly such a turning-point.) Now one of the most striking facts in the modern world has been the migration of Europeans. In North America, Northern Asia, Australia, South Africa, and to some extent in South America we see the Europeanisation of vast regions of the earth still being accomplished by the most ancient form of migration and colonisation. At the same time Europe has sent out a continual stream of conquerors and traders by whose efforts practically the whole of the rest of the world, where the inhabitants were not exterminated, has been subjected to European rule and the European's political and economic system. As Professor Abbott points out, this was a complete reversal of the rôle of Europe and the European in history. "Between the fall of the Roman Empire and the discovery of America Europe had been rather the passive than the active element in that great shifting of population to which we give the name of folk-wandering or migration." And it is a curious fact that the new period of history, of the expansion of Europe, and of the modern world begins with an event—it is the event mentioned in the very first sentence of Professor Abbott's book—which involved not the expansion but the most notable shrinking and invasion of Europe and was characteristic of the old world. To the European of 1453 the fall of Constantinople before the victorious Turk seemed to portend one more desperate and disastrous struggle against a horde of Asiatic invaders, and the inevitable and universal blindness of contemporaries to the great movements and currents moulding their destiny and history could not be better illustrated than by this fear and foreboding of the European in 1453. Within a hundred years of the fall of Constantinople, instead of Europe fighting desperately against the non-European world of invaders, the non-European world was already engaged in a hopeless struggle against the swarm of European invaders. In fact, however, the movement, which within a generation was to send Portuguese and Spaniards ranging over Africa, Asia, and the New World, had already begun in 1453. Contemporaries thought the end of a European world had come with the capture of Constantinople; they should have seen that the fall of Ceuta to the Portuguese prince in 1415 and the discovery and colonisation of the Madeiras in 1418 marked the beginning of a new European world of colonisation, conquest, and territorial expansion.

It is the story of this expansion, this change from the mediæval to the modern world, which Professor Abbott seeks to unfold in his two volumes. The estimation of his success or failure raises an important question for the historian. He is clearly right in his view that "a proper basis for the understanding of what has happened during the past five hundred years" cannot be found merely in the history of territorial expansion. If you look at the past through his historical telescope you soon see that you cannot isolate the voyage of Columbus from the break up of the feudal system and mediæval institutions, or the exploits of Hernando Cortez from those of Martin Luther. Consequently Professor Abbott attempts, as he says in his preface, to combine three elements into a narrative of European activities from 1415 to 1789. The three elements are described by him as first "the connection of the social, economic, and intellectual development of European peoples with their political affairs"; second, "the progress of events among the peoples of Eastern Europe, and of the activities of Europeans beyond the sea"; and third, "the relation of the past to the present—the way in which the various factors of modern life came into the current of European thought and practice, and how they developed into the forms with which we are familiar." The real question for the critic of Professor Abbott's book is how far he has succeeded in this tremendous undertaking. The undertaking is so tremendous and the attempt so gallant that we hesitate to give an answer which is in fact so easy. With all its good points, its wide learning, its scholarly arrangement, its great interest and enthusiasm, the book cannot really be said to succeed in its chief aim. To judge from our personal experience, the reader, when he is about a third of the way through the two volumes, begins to have an uncomfortable sense of having lost his way, and this feeling gradually grows stronger and stronger. The man who writes a history of the world which is not to be a mere catalogue of facts, but is to illustrate and explain the present by the past and is to keep us on the track of great world movements, has to select his facts, and it is mainly upon his intuition for relevant facts and his skill in selection and presentation that the success of his enterprise depends. Professor Abbott's failure to keep our vision clear and our feet steadily upon the right path comes from a failure to select and an error in method. His book as it proceeds tends to become more and more a catalogue of facts, divided into chapters and labelled with such labels as "Europe beyond the Sea" and "Social and Intellectual Europe"; the general theme which should connect these innumerable facts becomes lost and forgotten, or at least no longer visible to or present in the consciousness of the reader. The measure of this failure is the frequency with which Professor Abbott makes the connection between his facts purely one of time, for it is almost a confession of failure on the part of a world historian with a synthesis when he has to point out to us that the summoning of the Imperial Diet at Nuremberg, the conversion of John Calvin, and the conquest of Peru all happened in the same year. Professor Abbott's mistake seems to us to consist largely in having overloaded his book with detailed facts. As it stands it is invaluable as a mine of facts bearing upon the change from mediævalism to modernity and upon Europe's conquest of the world; but an immense number of these facts are irrelevant to his general theme and purpose. Open the book at random and this immediately becomes apparent. Here is page 384 in a chapter called "The Rise of Holland," and on it we find ourselves immersed in the details of the Thirty Years' War. Here Professor Abbott has failed to decide whether he is writing a text-book of history in which the military exploits of the Margrave, John George of Brandenburg-Jägerndorf are relevant, or a wide survey of the great currents of history in which John George had but a microscopic place. Here the author abandons his telescope and world history for the microscope and John George, with the result that the feet of his reader wander from the path and his eyes are clouded. It is fatal to attempt to use a telescope and a microscope at the same time on the same object.

BOCHE AND BOLSHEVIK. By HEREWARD T. PRICE. Murray. 6s. net.

The author of this book was born an Englishman, but at the outbreak of war he was living in Germany, a naturalised German. He was called up and served in the German Army on the Eastern front, was taken prisoner, sent to Siberia, and was a witness of the Russian revolution there. The book is a record of his personal experiences and views. He is as bitterly hostile to his adopted country as he is to Bolshevism and Bolsheviks. His book does not add very much to our knowledge of the war or the revolution, and his own knowledge may be measured by the fact that he apparently thinks that the "secret treaties" published by the Bolshevik Government were made by Kerenski.

TO KIEL IN THE "HERCULES." By LEWIS R. FREEMAN. Murray. 6s. net.

Mr. Freeman was Official Correspondent with the Grand Fleet, and he accompanied Admiral Browning to Kiel after the surrender of the German fleet as "Keeper of the Records" to the Allied Armistice Commission. The book contains an interesting record of the various inspections and of conditions in Germany immediately after the armistice.

MY KINGDOM FOR A HORSE! By WILLIAM ALLISON. Richards. 21s. net.

If he never sacrificed a kingdom, Mr. Allison at least abandoned a first-class in his schools for the sake of horses. That day was, indeed, evidently the turning-point of his life. He was an admirable writer of Latin verse, and when he was in for Moderations at Oxford the Latin verse paper fell on the same day as the Derby. He left his composition unwritten to go and see whether Prince Charlie had won the Derby. Mr. Allison, with the modesty proper to heroes, now calls his action "extremely silly," but few readers of this book of recollections will agree. Many men get firsts; few men pursue horse-breeding and racing with the poetic fervour which Mr. Allison brought to them. His recollections are of Rugby under Temple and Balliol under Jowett, and this part of his book is an amusing mixture, recalling now Tom Brown's Schooldays (for Rugby still kept the Arnold stamp) and now Ruff's Guide. When he left Balliol he was called to the Bar, but never gave it undue preference over the paddock. He ran a famous breeding establishment, and when the Stud Company Limited failed Mr. Allison combined practice at the Bar with journalism. As editor of St. Stephen's Review, which was started with £500 capital in 1883 and lasted till its famous conflict with the Hansard Union in 1891, Mr. Allison deserves praise for one notable act—he discovered Phil May. The cartoons of May's which he reproduces will not compare with the artist's later drawings, but it is not possible to estimate the value to May of the training he obtained in this early political work. The Fleet Street of the '80's, when Romano's was a place the quieter journalist entered with trembling, is portrayed in a dry, matter-of-fact way far more effective than any elaborate, highly-coloured description. There may be people who are not interested in horses or journalism; to them we can recommend the pleasant tributes to Bacchus which lace engagingly the more serious chronicle. As a boy Mr. Allison was not strong, and a good old-fashioned doctor ordered him a glass of port every morning at eleven; this "advice was followed scrupulously, both at home and when I went to school," and Mr. Allison never actually says that he has abandoned the prescribed dose.

Mr. Allison writes with no pretensions to literary art, and he sometimes chronicles very trifling occurrences; but he has an engaging modesty and a genial "take it or leave it" attitude which redeem his book from the charge of triviality. My Kingdom for a Horse! should be invaluable to the historian of social manners and to the novelist who is anxious to get material for the reconstruction of a time which already seems historical. There are plenty of illustrations—mostly process reproductions of old photographs and examples of Phil May's work. We wish, by the way, if Mr. Allison owns the copyright, that he would persuade some publisher to issue a new and worthier edition of May's The Parson and the Painter, which first appeared in the St. Stephen's Review.

POLITICS AND ECONOMICS

HOW THE WAR CAME. By the EARL LOREBURN. Methuen. 7s. 6d. net.

There is very little disagreement to-day, we suppose, as to who were the prime authors of the War. But on the minor question, whether any blame attaches to the Entente Powers, opinion is, as it was from the beginning, far more divided. The controversy as to our own position in the crisis, which had almost faded out of the public mind, is sharply revived by Lord Loreburn's book. Lord Loreburn, let us hasten to say, does not deny the guilt of Germany. Indeed, he is at pains to show how the Bismarckian tradition, improved upon by chauvinistic professors, a more or less demented monarch and a ruthless military caste, had sapped the morality of the German nation and made it all too ready to follow its rulers into a deliberate attack on the peace of Europe. Nor does he lend any support to the suggestion that the British Government or the British people wanted war with Germany. He pays a tribute to the efforts made by the Foreign Secretary to avert the disaster at the eleventh hour. And yet Viscount Grey cannot, in his mind, escape a large share of responsibility for the final conflagration. For what made the war inevitable, he asserts, was our entente with France. That entente was a departure from the traditional British policy of holding aloof from all Continental entanglements. It was developed by Sir Edward Grey, with the assistance of Mr. Asquith and Lord Haldane, behind the backs of Parliament, and even of the Cabinet, from the end of 1905 onwards. Not only was Sir Edward Grey working in secret; he was committing this country to the support of France (and through France of Russia) without taking the necessary steps to increase the army so as to make that support effective. And, worst of all, he had nothing in black and white to define exactly to what amount of support we were committed. The result was seen on August 4th, 1914, when it became manifest that we were under an obligation of honour to join our arms with the French against Germany. Sir Edward Grey, of course, maintained that we were not so bound, that we were free to decide whether to declare war or not. And it is certain that a large part, if not the whole, of the nation, was convinced that it was the attack on Belgium which did finally bring us in. But this, says Lord Loreburn, was a delusion, which flowed from the arch-delusion of Sir Edward Grey that our hands were free.

Lord Loreburn's case, it will be seen, clearly has two heads. He did not like the policy of the French Entente, and he did not like the methods by which it was promoted. On the first point most readers will disagree with him, and, in any event, the matter is now of merely historic interest. On the second point, public opinion will be more interested in his criticisms. Some will say that Lord Loreburn's old hostility to the Liberal Imperialists inclines him to magnify the faults that were committed between 1905 and 1914. Some will say that he exaggerates the ignorance under which we are alleged to have laboured in regard to our relations with France. His opponents will certainly suggest that everybody knew where we stood, as towards France, and that the secrecy was secrecy in name only. But these are not matters for discussion in these columns. Lord Loreburn thinks that "the persistent danger of secret diplomacy is hitherto tolerated and abused in this and other countries" is one that the nations ought to lose no time in taking to heart.

THE MASTERY OF THE FAR EAST. By A. J. BROWN. Bell. 25s. net.

This massive volume (it runs to some 650 pages) is a very interesting account of the Japanese and Korean peoples, their customs, their religions, their politics, and the influence of Christian missions in their countries. Dr. Brown is an American with an agreeable style, a sense of humour, and, in general, a nice critical faculty, and, though we are very doubtful of some of his conclusions, we do not hesitate to say that his book is a valuable contribution to the literature of the Far East.

From a political point of view the Far East means to-day—and it will mean more and more in the future—Japan. Every schoolboy knows the story of Japan's rapid emergence from feudalism to the position of a first-class modern Power, of her successful struggles with China and Russia, of her mastery of the Korean peninsula, of the great part she played in the late war. And schoolboys, as well as statesmen, may presently watch the effects upon world politics of her status in Asia. Dr. Brown is a candid friend of the Japanese. He is not under the illusion that they are a model people, nor is he of those who describe them as "varnished savages." He comments severely on the lamentable labour conditions that prevail under their newly-created industrial system. He is no lover of the autocracy of their government. He does not deny the faults of their diplomacy. Nevertheless he is their friend, who believes in them. He expresses his sympathy with Korea and with China in their subjection. But he takes what he calls "the large way" of viewing Japan's Korean policy. "The large way," he says, "is to note that, in the evolution of the race and the development of the plan of God, the time had come when it was for the best interests of the world and for the welfare of the Koreans themselves that Korea should come under the tutelage of Japan." As for China, she is "an enormous and backward country ... like a ship without a captain or pilot, helplessly drifting on the high seas, apparently unable to right herself and, in her present water-logged condition, a menace to other ships." And so he sympathises "with the feeling of the Japanese that they cannot ignore this incontestable situation." He is an enthusiastic believer in Christian missions, and he hopes that Christianity will be the salvation of Japan. Japan's great need, he says, is to be spiritualised. Neither Buddhism nor Shintoism have the necessary moral influence. But Christian missions are a great reconstructive force—economical, social, intellectual, political, spiritual, international. What, then, is the position of Christianity in Japan? Dr. Brown produces statistics to show that it has made enormous strides, and quotations from Japanese statesmen and publicists as evidence that its growth is welcomed by the rulers of the country. Yet all the public schools are forbidden to teach religion; Buddhism has been driven to reform itself; Shintoism, as he admits, is a waxing rather than a waning force. In another passage he says that the old religions of Japan are losing their hold on the educated classes. Thus a recent census in the Imperial University of Tokio showed fifty Buddhists, sixty Christians, 1500 atheists, 3000 agnostics. It would appear, therefore, that the missionaries have a long row to hoe before Christianity becomes the general religion of the Japanese.

RACE AND NATIONALITY. By JOHN OAKESMITH, D.Litt., M.A. Heinemann. 10s. 6d. net.

There is some chance, now that the heat and passion of the war are past, that the vexed questions of nationality and nationalism will be discussed with a little more intelligence and discrimination. Dr. Oakesmith certainly sets a good example. He tells us that he was formerly one of those (they were the vast majority, we think) who had but a vague idea of what they meant by nationality, till he set himself to study the question and classify his mind. The results appear in this very interesting book. He criticises alike the theory that nationality is based on "race," and the opposing theory that there is no such thing as nationality at all. In his own view nationality develops as an evolutionary process, and the full-grown thing may be defined as "organic continuity of common interest." He argues strongly against the internationalist pacifist's contention that nationality is the cause of war, and that peace is to be obtained by the spread of cosmopolitanism. On the contrary, he avows, nationality is "actually the one instrument destined, if wisely directed, to secure lasting and universal peace." This is a statement which most sane persons to-day will accept easily enough. But the crux is the "wise direction." Dr. Oakesmith does not give us much practical guidance on this point. Generalities and fine words are not very helpful, whether they come from the side of passionate enthusiasts for the League of Nations or from those who, like Dr. Oakesmith, are a little doubtful whether the world is quite ripe for it. However, the book is well worth studying, especially on its critical side.

WAR-TIME FINANCIAL PROBLEMS. By HARTLEY WITHERS. Murray. 6s. net.

Mr. Hartley Withers is not only a "financial expert"; he is also a really interesting writer. Even though one may not agree with all his views, one can enjoy this collection of vigorous essays on war finance, company law and banking, currency problems at home and abroad, the conscription of wealth, the theory of Guild socialism. Mr. Withers does not spare his criticism of the Government's financial policy, which has brought us to the verge of bankruptcy. He dismisses the "capital levy" as impracticable; but he advocates a high income tax, with super-tax beginning at a much lower level, and "with skilful differentiation according to the circumstances of the taxpayer."

THE GREAT UNMARRIED. By WALTER M. GALLICHAN. Werner Laurie. 6s. net.

This book is a painstaking attempt to show the evils of celibacy (including the common state of "pseudo-celibacy") both to society and to the individual. Mr. Gallichan arraigns the false ideals and the economic pressure of our industrial system, the perverse influence of ecclesiasticism, and the other causes which produce the myriads of involuntary or voluntary celibates in the western world. He advocates no "fancy" remedies, such as free love, polygamy, or the taxation of bachelors, but rather an attack on poverty, the spread of education, the moralisation of the marriage laws. The book is not a profound or scientific study, but it might be instructive to those who have never given any thought to the subject.

ULSTER AND IRELAND. By JAMES WINDER GOOD. Maunsel. 6s. net.

This little volume is one of the clearest and the most interesting books that we have seen on the Irish problem. Mr. Good gives us a survey of Ulster history from the seventeenth century, which shows the unifying influence of the genuine democratic ideals common to both the contending parties. He argues that this unification has been, and is, thwarted by "religion," and by "Carsonism," "the supreme example in modern times of the triumph of the influences that make for divisions in Ireland." Sinn Fein, in Mr. Good's view, offers no practicable way out of the difficulty of Ulster. "If Sinn Fein is," he says, "as it can now claim to be, the creed of the Irish people it must propound a solution of the Ulster riddle based, not on abstract theories, but on the realities of the situation." Mr. Good's concluding chapters on "Ulster as It Is" are excellent reading. We do not suppose Ulster Unionists will agree with all the views he expresses there, still less with his conclusions—one of the chief of which is that Ireland is really one nation and not two. But his book may induce a good many mere Englishmen to take a more intelligent attitude towards Irish politics.

THE GUILD STATE: ITS PRINCIPLES AND POSSIBILITIES. By G. R. STIRLING TAYLOR. Allen & Unwin. 3s. 6d. net.

Mr. Taylor is an enthusiastic Guildsman, though a heretic, in that he stands for a localised system as against the orthodox National Guilds. His book is a very naïve account of the Guild proposals, and we can hardly imagine that it will convert anyone to his views. There is a vast amount of idealisation of the Middle Ages—an idealisation which frequently verges on the ridiculous. Many of the historical statements are extravagant. We are told, for instance, that Queen Elizabeth "had perhaps the most honest and most efficient ministers of State that this nation has ever possessed." And is it not going rather far to say that "the French peasant remains much as he has been for centuries—the most substantial fact in European civilisation, and perhaps its highest product"? Mr. Taylor's style would not suffer if it were less arrogant and less splenetic. He lets us know, till we are sick of it, that there is but little wisdom in the world save in the common-sense simple man and the hard-headed Guildsman. And his virulence against politicians and University professors almost assumes the dimension of a disease.

RECONSTRUCTORS AND RECONSTRUCTION: A PLEA FOR COMMON-SENSE. By OXON. B.H. Blackwell. 1s. net.

The greater part of this brochure is taken up with a defence of the capitalist against the attacks of revolutionaries, impossibilists, and all the tribe of intellectual "high flyers"—such as Mr. Bernard Shaw, Mr. Chesterton, Mr. Orage, and the late Mr. Sidney Ball. The author's own plan is to harmonise the interests of capitalists and workers in a system of "separate autonomous industries co-ordinated with a National Federal Parliament of Industry." It is in fact something like Guild socialism with the socialism left out. "Oxon" hardly appears to appreciate the limitations or the difficulties of his scheme.

A PRIMER OF NATIONAL FINANCE. By HENRY HIGGS, C.B. Methuen. 5s. net.

This is a purely elementary volume which explains the revenue and expenditure of the British Government and local authorities, the National Debt, and the study of financial statistics. It is clearly and simply written, and might be a valuable schoolbook. For the interested and courageous student there is some useful advice on further reading. But Mr. Higgs will strike fear into the heart of many beginners by telling them in the first chapter that the science of finance is so vast a subject that Professor Jèze of Paris is preparing twelve bulky volumes upon it, and that his elementary treatise alone consists of over 1100 large octavo pages!

THEOLOGY

THE SUPREME ADVENTURE. By MERCEDES MACANDREW. Chapman & Hall. 7s. 6d. net.

Certain Nonconformist ministers had a habit—it is now fast dying—of interspersing the reading of the Lesson in service-time with comment and illustration. Mrs. Macandrew has applied a similar method in this volume. Writing to satisfy the needs of an agnostic friend, Mrs. Macandrew retells the story of the four Gospels and supports the narrative with critical expositions of her own or, occasionally, of such authorities as Edersheim. It is not easy to see for whom the book is intended. Mrs. Macandrew is frankly uncritical. She not only ignores the whole body of "higher criticism," but she makes no reference to textual difficulties, and, in discussing such a passage as the Confession of Peter, does not even mention the fact that a considerable controversy has gathered for some years around the precise significance of the promise, "On this rock I will build my Church."

It will not be to everybody's taste to have the annunciation described in this way:

God the Father sent an angel called Gabriel to that city of flowers—Nazareth in Galilee—sent him to a sweet and good and lovely but quite poor girl called Mary who was soon to be married to a man much older than herself, called Joseph.

And when we tried to read Mrs. Macandrew's paraphrases of the parables we recalled with a sigh Mr. Birrell's complaint against Canon Farrar, "who elongated the Gospels." It no doubt gave Mrs. Macandrew some months of happiness to write the book, but we think she was ill-advised in submitting it to the public.

SCIENCE

CATALYSIS IN THEORY AND PRACTICE. By ERIC K. RIDEAL and HUGH S. TAYLOR. Macmillan & Co. 17s. net.

In spite of the difficulties which war-time placed in the way of publishers, the production of scientific books, both in England and Germany, has been astonishingly large during the past five years. The greater number of them have—naturally enough—been devoted either to technical subjects or to branches of science having an immediate technical application. The field of industrial chemistry, especially, has been well tended by the writers, and not only new books, but new series of books—such as Messrs. Longmans' Monographs on Industrial Chemistry, Messrs. Churchill's Textbooks of Chemical Research, and Messrs. Baillière, Tindall, and Cox's Industrial Chemistry series—have appeared to bear witness to the activity of the English chemists. Certain subjects in particular have been extensively treated; we may instance synthetic colouring matters, colloid chemistry, and catalysis, the last-named subject having books devoted to it in all the series just specified. In these the subject is handled from the industrial point of view, but it is frequently seen that the commercial and the theoretical developments of a science are mutually stimulating, discoveries made in the laboratory without any object but the wresting of knowledge from nature finding commercial application, and the commercial processes suggesting fresh theoretical problems. The great industrial importance of catalysis has led to a revived interest in the scientific theories of the process, and the latest book on the subject, by Drs. Eric Rideal and Hugh Taylor, deserves praise for having devoted considerable attention to the historical and theoretical aspect of the subject, which has been rather neglected of late.

There are many chemical reactions which are promoted or accelerated by the addition of a small quantity of some foreign substance which is not used up in the process and does not appear in the final products. Thus one of the romances of chemistry was the discovery, occasioned by the chance breaking of a thermometer in the vessel, that the presence of a small quantity of mercury greatly hastens the oxidation of naphthalene to phthalic acid, a process of great importance in the manufacture of synthetic indigo. Similarly the presence of finely divided metals accelerates many reactions, such as oxidations and hydrogenations—for example, asbestos impregnated with particles of platinum promotes the oxidation of sulphur dioxide to the trioxide in the manufacture of sulphuric acid. The researches of Baker and others, showing that certain gas reactions, which ordinarily take place rapidly, proceed very slowly indeed if the gases are thoroughly dried, point to a catalytic action of small traces of moisture. The enzymes of the human body which accelerate the chemical processes of digestion and assimilation constitute another class of catalysts, and Drs. Rideal and Taylor class under catalytic action the effect of radiant energy in promoting such combinations as that of hydrogen and chlorine, although it is perhaps rather extending the usual conception of the term to do so. These examples will indicate the wide range of the subject and help to make intelligible Ostwald's famous generalisation that "there is probably no kind of chemical reaction which cannot be influenced catalytically, and there is no substance, element, or compound which cannot act as a catalyser," which is no doubt true if very slight accelerations of reaction be taken into account. Of course a catalyst cannot affect the final state of equilibrium, but only quicken or institute (the discussion as to whether, in some cases, the catalyst initiates or merely accelerates a reaction already taking place imperceptibly slowly seems to us pointless) a reaction theoretically possible. Other, the so-called negative, catalysts hinder reactions; other substances "poison," or stop, the action of ordinarily activating materials; others again, the "promoters," increase the efficacy of the catalyst. The phenomenon is a complex one.

By no means the least interesting and valuable feature of the book before us is the exposition of the historical development of the subject. We who are apt to look on the feminine scientist as a product of the last twenty years are reminded that there was at least one woman chemist of ability in the eighteenth century, Mrs. Fulhame, whose Essay on Combustion, published in 1774, emphasised the importance of the presence of moisture in gaseous reactions. Faraday, "the prince of experimenters," also worked on catalysis, and, in fact, originated the adsorbtion theory of the process, which attributes the action to the extended compressed film formed at the surface of a porous solid. It is not only in the chapter expressly devoted to the early history that we find an account of the original workers; the advances made by them receive recognition throughout the book in connection with the branches in which they experimented. The treatment of the various theories of catalysis—the intermediate compound, the adsorbtion, electrochemical, and radiant energy theory—might have been extended with advantage. The mathematical exposition of the adsorbtion theory is one of the weakest things in the book, and McLewis's work is not very clearly handled. The difficulties of giving an adequate summary of this part of the subject are undoubted, but the need of it is so marked that we regret that the authors have not spent more energy on the task. This is not the place to deal in detail with the account of the practical applications of catalysis, which is excellently done and includes the most recent work, some of it, such as Partington's improvements in oxidising ammonia, only made public last year. The use of catalysts in, to take a few examples at random, surface combustion, the hardening of oils by hydrogenation (used so extensively in margarine making), the fixation of nitrogen, and electrolysis is well described, and there is a good chapter on ferments and enzymes, and another on the Grignard reagent. Omissions may be noted here and there, but the book is not, of course, intended to give detailed instructions to the commercial chemist. Rather, we believe, is it meant to supply to chemists in general, and even to the lay reader, an idea of the nature of the process of catalysis, which is becoming more important every day, and the extent of its applications, with sufficient detail to make the reactions clear, as far as they are at present understood. As a general exposition of the subject the book is really needed, and will undoubtedly find a place on the shelves of all who follow the advances of science.

TEN BRITISH PHYSICISTS. By ALEXANDER MACFARLANE. John Wiley & Sons, and Chapman & Hall. 7s. 6d. net.

Writing of the life of Rankine, Professor P. G. Tait gave as his opinion that "the life of a genuine scientific man is, from the common point of view, almost always uneventful," and, if the man in question has no interests but science, this is, in general, true. Engaged in researches on the laws of nature, the most that he demands from life is that he shall have his study, his laboratory, food, shelter and peace, and such an attitude does not lead to high adventure or romances of passion. Consequently, in writing biographies of physicists it is advisable not to dwell too long on their everyday life, marriages and meals, for there is a certain monotony about the material lives of these great men. In the lives before us, which are little more than sketches, the author has rightly laid most stress on the scientific achievements of his ten physicists, but he has a tendency to reduce his account to a catalogue of the discoveries and advances made. An estimate of the place of each man in the thought of the time, and of his scientific character, of the general tendencies of his work and the place it now occupies in the history of the science, deserves to take a rather larger place in these short biographies than it has received.

Happily many of the ten are men of very interesting personality. The selection—James Clerk Maxwell, W. J. M. Rankine, P. G. Tait, Lord Kelvin, Charles Babbage, William Whewell, Sir G. G. Stokes, Sir G. B. Airy, J. C. Adams, and Sir J. F. W. Herschel—if based on no clearly-defined plan, has the merit that it includes one or two men who have been unduly neglected. Rankine, in spite of his important work on thermodynamics, does not receive much attention from the physicists of to-day, possibly owing to his unattractive "molecular vortices," and Babbage is known to most people rather from the sneer in the Ingoldsby Legends:

Master Cabbage, the steward, who'd made a machine

To calculate with, and count noses—I ween

The cleverest thing of its kind ever seen,

than for his really great, though imperfect, achievements. Why Babbage is set down as a physicist, when his whole effort was devoted to the perfecting of calculating machines, we do not know, but the life is one of the most interesting, and makes an attempt to expound the causes—obvious enough, perhaps—of his misfortunes. It is a generous appreciation of an ill-starred genius, now seldom heard of. Whewell, again, is scarcely known as a physicist, but rather as the historian of inductive science; we suppose that his writings on the tides have secured him his place. Joule is mentioned in early life, and was certainly one of the leading physicists of the century, yet he is not among the selected ten—neither, for that matter, is Faraday, so it is evident that scientific prowess has not been the test of admission.

On the whole the ten are versatile men, although no one of them could come near in diversity of performance to the great Thomas Young, who was not only a physicist of the first rank but also a physician, a classical scholar, and one of the first successful decipherers of Egyptian hieroglyphics. Rankine and Whewell were fair poets, and Clark Maxwell deserves higher praise for his verses. His description of Kelvin's reflecting galvanometer, in the form of a parody of Tennyson's "Blow, bugle, blow," illustrates the ease and finish of his light verse:

O love! you fail to read the scale,

Correct to tenths of a division.

To mirror heaven those eyes were given,

And not for methods of precision—

Break, contact, break, set the free light-spot flying,

Break contact, rest thee magnet, swinging, creeping, dying.

The poem is quoted in the life of Kelvin, and two of Rankine's songs are given. We hope that physicists can still show the same accomplishment.

The lives are well written, and, while not a very profound contribution to the history of the science, make very pleasant reading for scientist and layman. There is, however, occasionally a lack of proportion, as when Clark Maxwell's work on electro-magnetic waves receives little attention compared to his other far less important achievements.

A LETTER FROM FRANCE

THE PRESENT STATE OF THE FRENCH NOVEL

Paris, October, 1919.

IN France as much as, and perhaps more than, in England the novel has been since the eighteenth century the central massif of literature. While in England the poets and the novelists formed two quite distinct groups, while the poets Byron, Shelley, Wordsworth, Burns, Tennyson, Swinburne remained pure poets, in France there have been few poets who have not wished to write novels. Lamartine, Hugo, Musset, Vigny, Gautier have done so. A pure critic like Sainte-Beuve wished, with Volupté, to try his hand at the novel. Taine left in manuscript the novel Etienne Maylan and Renan the novel Patrice; they did not publish these books because they recognised them to be mediocre, but both wished to obtain the glory of the novelist. The novel is in France the highest object of literary ambition. It alone assures a position of material and social importance. Thus it is that a novelist who is read by the upper and middle classes is necessarily admitted to the Academy while a historian or a philosopher is admitted only in exceptional circumstances, and great poets like Baudelaire, Gautier, Banville, Paul Fort remain outside unless they have certain connections and certain sources of support. The prosperity of the novel at a given moment may then be considered, in France, as the most obvious mark of a powerful literary activity. No form of literature addresses a larger public, provokes more discussion, or gives more of its own colour to a generation or to an epoch. I will endeavour to indicate here in a few pages the condition of the French novel on the morrow of the war.

Beyond doubt it is passing through a moment of mediocrity. This is not because its public is beginning to break up. Publishers and readers demand novels. In default of genuinely new novels many old ones are reissued and read again and cheap reprints are swarming. Every new novel in which any grain of originality can be perceived is discussed and brought into the light and sells satisfactorily. And yet nothing so far has told us of the appearance of the Flaubert, the Zola, the Maupassant of to-morrow.

Naturalism proves to have been the last great school, massive, compact, and powerful, of the French novel. Well, the survivors of the naturalist movement, such as MM. Céard, Hennique, Descaves, have ceased to write novels or else, if they still write them, have given up completely the methods of naturalism, and seek, without success, to adapt themselves to new tastes. It is not, however, impossible that in a little time from now naturalism in several ways may again be somewhat in fashion. There is a tendency among young writers and critics to revise the judgment given in the case of Zola, as the judgment on Dickens has been revised in England, and to consider that the poverty and emptiness of his last books has unjustly thrown a shadow on the profound and powerful works of his maturity. Those works, born of the war, which have been most favourably received, have been on the whole inspired by naturalist methods of observation and composition. The European success of Le Feu is due in large part to the fact that the author applies to the great war the point of view and the methods of Zola. It was also from the point of view of the story of a squad that Zola wrote La Débâcle.

So far the novel of manners and psychology born of the war has only been attempted by writers of the older generation, that which knew the masters of the naturalist novel, which lived their life, which took part, from one side or another of the barricade, in their struggles.

I am here thinking especially of the works written during the war by the doyen of the French novel, M. Paul Bourget. M. Bourget occupies to-day in the novel a position analogous to that of Zola in his last years. The young literary generation is hostile to him or regards him with contemptuous indifference, except that part of this generation which is grouped round M. Maurras, whose political ideas he has adopted. He is justly reproached with a painful style, with conventional psychology in upper and middle class surroundings, with laborious intrigues carried out according to antiquated formulæ. He must be regarded, nevertheless, with respect as a great worker, who seeks conscientiously to extend the limits of his manner, and, above all, as the sole representative to-day of the old tradition of the French novelists of the nineteenth century—that of Balzac, of Sand, of Flaubert, of Maupassant, of Zola. Perhaps he marks the irremediable decadence of this style which the twentieth century will replace by one more supple and more precise.

The war novels of M. Bourget, Le Sens de la Mort, Nemesis, are mediocre, though showing always the same technical qualities of solid construction. But he has written a short nouvelle of profound beauty, Le Justicier, on a great theme of human peace and reconciliation within a divided family; and this sketches perhaps the general lines of to-morrow's reconciliations on our torn planet.

Among the innumerable books written by combatants, in which novels abound, no novel has achieved the powerful interest of certain collections of letters and journals which render, without literary modelling, fresh, authentic, and actually seen impressions. The generation which has lived through the war as an immediate and tragic reality has not written and certainly will not write the novel of the war. The Thackeray, the Balzac, the Tolstoi of to-morrow have probably been born, but are hardly out of the nursery.

The two forms of the novel preferred by the young generation of to-day are the novel of adventure and the little novel of irony and sentiment. Neither has yet produced any great result. The first, after a year, is already out of fashion, and the second will probably follow it in a few months. And the writers of value who have passed through these phases are now passing through some other.

The English novel of adventure has been in favour in France for some time. The novels of Wells have found here for twenty years, like those of Kipling, great numbers of ardent readers. Before that, a long time ago, in symbolist circles, it was the fashion to speak with the greatest admiration of Stevenson. And the novels of Chesterton, the influence of which was visible in André Gide's Les Caves du Vatican, have been appreciated by a narrower, but select, circle. Nevertheless it was only during the war that the younger writers were tempted systematically to compose romantic novels of adventure. The two novels of M. Pierre Benoit, Königsmarck and l'Atlantide, are clever books, in which old methods are enhanced by a true novelist's temperament. An Englishman will find little in them which Stevenson, and even Rider Haggard, have not already given him. The Maître du Navire of M. Louis Chadousne seems to introduce in addition a note of irony which shows that the author writes to amuse himself and does not believe in his adventure. And this note of irony is still more obvious in Le Chant de l'Equipage of M. Pierre Mac-Orlan, which parodies the novel of adventure. The French novelist is a rationalist who pretends to believe in his mystery and does not believe in it. Between the adventure of the English novel and the adventure of the French novel there is the same difference as between the ghost in Hamlet and the ghost which Voltaire brings on to the stage at full noon, without deceiving anyone, in Semiramis. The novel of adventure proves to have been a season's fashion which those who launched it abandon in the following season.

What I have called the little novel of irony and sentiment has had a longer, a more vivacious, and a more durable existence. It is almost peculiar to French literature and produces every year a good harvest of agreeable books. It is generally an invertebrate composition, made up of humorous episodes and reflections, the slight daily impressions of a man of letters, delicate and fatigued, in Parisian surroundings. It is, as it were, the chronicle-novel of French literary life.

A great number of the works of M. Abel Hermant belong to this style, and among them, in particular, the Anglo-French novel, half of Paris, half of Oxford, which he is now publishing, and the first two parts of which are called L'Aube Ardente and La Journée Brève (the latter in course of publication in the Revue de Paris). These are, like M. Hermant's books, the elegantly but frigidly written compositions which come only from a literary and conventional atmosphere and appear to have been developed in the author's mind as in an artificial incubator.

The true novel of this sort comes into existence under freer and more fanciful conditions than obtain in the intelligent and tidy, though somewhat melancholy, manufacture of M. Hermant. A young writer, who died a score of years ago, Jean de Tinan, produced masterpieces in Pense-tu réussir? and Aimienne, which have not been surpassed. To-day this type of novel has a right and a left—elegance on the right and Bohemianism on the left, the latter as a rule being more picturesque and more highly flavoured. On the right there is what one might call, using the word in the sense in which it is used by historians of mediæval literature, a littérature courtoise—I mean a literature of the court with some refinement and some sensuality. Here the author describes his little amatory adventures, endeavouring to relieve their inevitable banality with a certain piquancy in the introduction of portraits of his men and women friends, chosen among an elegant society. Les Papiers de Cleonthe, by M. Jean-Louis Vaudoyer, and Le Diable a l'Hôtel, by M. Emile Henriot, which have just appeared, though they fall sometimes into banality, make agreeable reading. On the left there is the little Bohemian novel, which deals with Montmartre as ancient stories dealt with Miletus. Its characters are artists and their more or less interesting friends, young women and their more or less interested friends. The novel of Montmartre, in which style Charles-Louis Philippe wrote the earliest masterpieces, is practised to-day in the most agreeable fashion by M. Francis Cares, author of Bob et Bobette, M. Mac-Orlan, author of La Clique du Café Brebis, and M. André Billy, the author of Scènes de la Vie Littéraire. Nevertheless these sometimes shady cabarets, where boredom is chased away, must not be confused with the higher spheres of literature.

*      *      *      *      *

The French novel, regarded as a whole, is at the present moment going through a crisis. The qualities of original, free, and vigorous creation which were the causes of success from Balzac to Maupassant have become rare. The novel no longer produces those real and living characters round whom, as Taine said, it is possible to walk. But it is remarkable for qualities of intelligence.

Alphonse Daudet somewhere makes a distinction between creative novelists and essayist novelists. The distinction is very just. We lack to-day creative novelists, but we have a number of essayist novelists. Our contemporary novelists are very intelligent persons, who are often admirable in their knowledge of human nature, but who rarely succeed in making it live. It is nevertheless probable that there is nothing to be gained by retracing our steps. We shall no doubt reach something new by continuing to the end this exercise of the intellect, by applying it to an increasingly profound and refined psychological analysis. If we take examples from the English novel, the sign-post of our French novel of to-day would not be such a name as that of Dickens or of Eliot or of Kipling but rather that of Meredith. This is what is indicated by the great success now enjoyed by two complex and delicate writers, M. Marcel Prevost and M. Jean Girandoux. A l'Ombre de Jeunes Filles en Fleur and Simon le Pathétique are both novels of rich and fugitive personalities, who are absorbed in the contemplation of themselves, and who thus find a real world of inward adventures. It seems that the French novel is now moving by choice in this direction, and that the public is assisting the movement. This should not be astonishing in a country which has always regarded psychological analysis as the supreme goal of literature.

ALBERT THIBAUDET

LEARNED SOCIETIES, ETC.

SOCIETY OF ANTIQUARIES

STONEHENGE was formally handed over to the nation on October 26th, 1918, and H.M. Office of Works at once made plans to secure some of the standing stones in danger of cracking, and to excavate the entire area without disturbing the monument. The archæological supervision of the work was entrusted to the Society of Antiquaries, and the programme was to have a season of about three months for several consecutive years on the same lines as in 1901, when the great leaning stone was raised with interesting results. Professor Gowland's health, however, prevented his participation in the scheme, and his successor, Lieut.-Colonel Hawley, unfortunately met with an accident, which, with a strike among the contractor's men, prevented any but preliminary work being carried out on the site this year. If funds are available—and the opportunity of solving the riddle of Stonehenge must appeal to all interested in antiquity—there is a good prospect of starting in earnest next summer, without prejudice, it is hoped, to the society's enterprises at Old Sarum and Wroxeter, the Roman town near Shrewsbury, on both of which sites considerable progress had been made before the outbreak of war. The recent death of Professor Haverfield is one of many severe losses incurred by the society during the past summer.

SOCIETY FOR THE PROTECTION OF ANCIENT BUILDINGS

For years the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings has been associated with the work of protesting against the destruction or spoiling of good examples of the building art of the past. This year it is developing the more constructive side of its activities. The following instances will suffice to illustrate this development.

First, the Society is endeavouring to show that the humbler forms of English architecture—the old cottages—should not only be saved, but used, and how they can be made decently habitable, though much injured by time and neglect. Works replete with old-time building lore should not be permanently condemned because they lack damp courses, proper ventilation, larders, or upstair fireplaces. Instead of building new at £800 or so, the Housing Committees should acquire cottages of this kind and repair them at, say, £250 or £300. To draw attention to this subject the Society has issued a well-illustrated booklet (Batsford, 94 High Holborn; 2s.), which it hopes to follow by a practical demonstration on a pair of old cottages, proving the possibility of remedying common defects. It hopes to publish the results in a second booklet which would in fact be a pictorial specification.

The second illustration of the Society's constructive activity is the offer to give lectures on the objects and work of the Society, in which special emphasis is to be laid on what may be learnt in matters of economy and beauty, from old buildings.

THE ROYAL NUMISMATIC SOCIETY

The Royal Numismatic Society has removed from 22 Albemarle Street to 22 Russell Square, W.C.1, where meetings will be held and the library is housed. On October 16th, Sir Henry Howorth, Vice-President, in the Chair, Mr. Lawrence read a note on some of the difficulties of distinguishing halfpence from farthings during the period between 1465 and 1523. Parliament in the latter year directed some alteration of type of the farthings, as it was shown that halfpennies and farthings were with difficulty distinguishable owing to both denominations having been struck from the same "coin." A discussion was also raised on the profile half-groats of Henry VII. bearing the mint-marks martlet and rose. Some of these have keys below the shield on the reverse and others are without the keys. The question raised was whether these later coins were to be considered as having been struck at York in consequence of the martlet mint-mark, previously only known at York, or whether the absence of the keys denoted their issue at London. Mr. Brooke and Col. Morrieson urged that these coins were sede vacante issues of York.

Mr. H. Mattingly read a paper entitled "A. Vitellius Imp. Germanicus," in which he attempted to determine the reasons for the variations in Vitellius's obverse legends, between the forms Imp. Germ. and Germ. Imp. After distinguishing clearly the class of coins on which these titles appear, he brought evidence to show that the title Imp. Germanicus is characteristic of the non-Roman coins of Vitellius and of the early period of the reign before the victory over Otho. It implied a definite challenge thrown out by the German armies to the rest of the Empire, and in consequence when Vitellius became constitutional Emperor at Rome the title was deftly deprived of offence by inversion to Germanicus Imp., a normal form of title already borne by Claudius and Nero.

THE LIBRARY ASSOCIATION

The forty-second annual meeting of the Library Association was notable, not by reason of its bibliographical or literary interest, for either was to seek, but as marking a definite cleavage between librarians and the Board of Education upon a matter of national importance. Were it not that education in this country has always been the province of the amateur, one might say that the cleavage was between amateur and professional opinion. The third interim report of the Adult Education Committee to the Ministry of Reconstruction proposed to hand over the control of the Public Library to the Local Education Authority; the Library Association, as a body possessed of a charter for the support and advancement of the public library movement, opposed the main recommendations of that report and returned to the Minister of Education a memorandum of counter argument. The four points of the memorandum were: (1) "That, with the already heavy responsibilities of the Education Authority, an additional duty—problems requiring detached consideration—will result in the convenient relegation of the library to a mere appendage of the school; (2) that, although co-operation between school and library does exist, the initiative has come almost wholly from the latter, and that assimilation by the comparatively untried and empirical "1918 model" education will be fatal to its general usefulness; (3) that the interest of the public is the main interest of the library, and that this is subordinated by the Adult Education Committee to the special interest of the school; (4) that the recommendations upon the provision of technical and commercial books were unduly extravagant and wasteful as regarding the first, but unduly parsimonious and wrongly conceived in the case of the second. To this document, beyond a bare acknowledgment, no reply has been given. Its form and tenor were unanimously approved by the Association at Southport.

THE BIBLIOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY

The Bibliographical Society opens its 28th Session on November 17th, with a paper by Mr. R. F. Sharp, of the British Museum, on "Travesties of Shakespeare's Plays." The Society has not only kept up its normal output of books during the war, but has produced some volumes of exceptional importance, notably Mr. Gordon Duff's wonderfully complete record of English Fifteenth-Century Books, with facsimiles of all the types used in them; Mr. E. F. Bosanquet's illustrated Monograph on English Printed Almanacks and Prognostications; the first volume of Professor Carleton Brown's Register of Middle-English Religious Verse; and two exceptionally interesting volumes of Transactions. A Bibliography of Landor, by Mr. Stephen Wheeler and Mr. T. J. Wise, will shortly be issued, and the second volume of Professor Carleton Brown's Register should be ready early next year. The books of the Society are only printed for its own members, and until 1914 it was a close corporation, with an English and American membership limited to 300. In the January before the war it opened its ranks in order to obtain a hundred additional members and further increase its output. It is still open to book lovers to join at the old subscription of a guinea, but unless the Annual Meeting in January next decides otherwise, the roll of the Society is due to be closed on the third Monday of the new year. That the Society has done so well during the war is largely due to its genial President, Sir William Osler, who has held office longer than any of his predecessors and is soon further to help the Society by producing for it a Monograph on the Medical books published by the earliest printers, i.e. not later than 1480. Among the earlier presidents were Dr. Garnett and Mr. Fortescue, of the British Museum, the late Earl of Crawford, Mr. H. B. Wheatley, and Mr. A. H. Huth, owner of the splendid library which has already furnished material for eight sales at Sotheby's. Mr. A. W. Pollard, the present Keeper of Printed Books at the British Museum, has been its Hon. Secretary since 1893, and was given some years ago a notable partner in Mr. R. B. McKerrow, the Editor of Nashe.

THE FOLKLORE SOCIETY

During the war the Folklore, like other societies, has suffered by the absence of some of its most active members on service, but the work of the Society has not been interrupted, its meetings have been regularly held, many valuable contributions have been received, and the attendance has been well maintained. Folk-lore, the quarterly Proceedings, has retained its position as one of the leading authorities on popular beliefs and superstitions of races in the lower stage of culture. Its principal function is to publish papers read by members at the Society's meetings, and to review the more important literature on subjects in which it is interested. But it also welcomes from the general public notes and queries on British and foreign folklore and beliefs. The foundations have been laid for two important works which, it is hoped, will soon be ready for publication. As regards the folklore of these islands, the leading authority is the Observations on Popular Antiquities, by John Brand, subsequently edited by Sir H. Ellis. Large collections have been made under the supervision of Miss S. C. Burne, an ex-president of the society and author of a valuable book on the folklore of Shropshire, with a view to the compilation on the basis of Brand's work of a cyclopedia of British folklore. The second work now in progress is a general index to the long series of special books and Proceedings issued by the society since its foundation, the work of compilation having been entrusted to Mr. A. R. Wright.

THE SOCIETY OF PURE ENGLISH

The Society of Pure English, which was founded shortly before the war, and which during the war was temporarily suspended, has now begun to carry out its original purpose, and probably before this note appears its first two pamphlets will have been published. Pamphlet No. 1 will contain a list of the members of the Society and a reprint of the original prospectus, which was privately printed in 1913, and which contains a statement of the Society's aims in general terms. Pamphlet No. 2 will consist of a discussion by the Poet Laureate of a curious and hitherto almost unnoticed phenomenon of contemporary speech, the great increase, namely, of homophones, or words of the same sound but different meanings, in the English language. As the original prospectus shows, the Society does not in the least aim at the absurd project of "fixing" the language—its conception is rather that, since all living languages change and must change as life changes, an attempt should be made to guide this necessary process by acknowledged principles of tradition and taste.

DRAMA

A LIVING CORPSE

THIS section opens amid a furore for improving the Drama in this country. Leagues have sprung up, with imposing committees of enormous length, and are canvassing for money and members with considerable success. A Conference of the Theatre, lasting a fortnight, was held in the summer at Stratford-upon-Avon for the first time in history, at which actors, dramatic critics, trade unionists, authors, publishers, newspaper proprietors, theatrical managers, voice trainers, poets, scenic artists, school teachers, clergymen, and one bishop expressed day after day their intense determination to have more drama and better drama than we have ever had in England before. This assemblage of people, whom as one of them I may perhaps be permitted to call without offence fanatics, may have appeared to the detached onlooker to have been of very little use. The Conference melted away, leaving the British Drama League and the Arts League of Service still without sufficient money to do any of the practical things without which the gathering of conferences and the sitting of committees are merely occasions for the ventilation of private grievances.

But the Conference could never have been held if there were not, widespread through the country, a genuine passion for the theatre far more extensive and far stronger than it had ever been in England during the whole of the nineteenth century. There are no statistics available to give us the percentage of the population who were regular theatre-goers during the last century, but it was certainly very small, and everyone knows that it has increased enormously during the last ten years, and has probably even doubled again during the war. This is a fact which is generally overlooked, but which really provides us with the soundest basis for hope. What is the matter with the theatre in England is mainly that there is not enough of it. Nearly all its faults and shortcomings may be put down to deficiencies of matériel, both structural and human. There are not enough theatres, those in existence are obsolete, cranky, ill-ventilated, absurdly constructed, badly placed buildings, an eyesore to passers-by, a hell of discomfort for 90 per cent. of the audience, a death-trap for actors. Only a fanatical human passion for the theatre could drive people into such places away from the comparative comfort of their own firesides. There are not enough actors, and those that survive the barbaric tortures of rushing week by week from one cold and slatternly apartment-house to another, always arriving in their next provincial town on the dismallest of Sundays, generally find that they are the one spark of life in the place, and end, like Sir Henry Irving, by expiring in their miserable and draughty dressing-rooms. The English provincial town in its dreariness and dirt awaits the coming of the actor much as the Esquimaux in winter await the coming of the sun, but the actor during the day when he is free wanders through its streets as Virgil wandered by the banks of the Styx—forlorn, and like a man among shadows who have no commerce with him, but belong to another world. It is no wonder that they become more and more divorced from their fellow-creatures, more and more inefficient, more and more lacking in zest for experiment and enterprise, until neglected and isolated the profession sinks, with bright exceptions, to a level of illiteracy, incompetence, and sloth that lately even in London moved a commercial manager like Mr. Cochran to express his astonishment.

But the municipal councils, which are the civic committees of the townspeople entrusted with organising their social life, cannot remain for ever indifferent to their duty in face of a growing popular demand for the theatre; that is why I point to the enormous increase in the number of habitual theatre-goers as our strongest basis of hope. Or if they do so persist private enterprise will inevitably step in, as it did in the case of so many electric-lighting, tramway, gas, and water undertakings, build up a profitable theatrical business, mulct the town annually of thousands of pounds in profits, and ultimately will have to be bought out by the municipality at an inflated price. As Mr. Granville Barker pointed out in an extraordinarily able speech at the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre, the people's greatest need is to become articulate. Art means nothing if it does not mean giving speech to the people, and the art of the Drama is the most democratic, the most popular, the most wide-reaching, the most easily understood, and the most stimulating, because the most social of all the arts. There was a time, and it is not so very long ago, when primary education in its most rudimentary, that is to say, its school form, was left to private enterprise, and if private enterprise could have done it at all it might possibly have done it better than the nation; but every argument that can be used in favour of teaching everyone to read and write applies still more forcibly to giving the people a real education. It is far too important and too urgent to be left to the chance provision of speculators out merely to make profits for themselves, and it is to enlighten public opinion on the subject that these leagues have primarily been founded. But let me not be mistaken. There can be no intention of priggishly educating the people in the "higher drama." We must carefully discriminate between advocating for theatres—municipal, if possible, but if not, private—and advocating for the performance of plays by any dramatist or school or coterie of dramatists. The Drama is a much bigger thing than Mr. Shaw, Ibsen, Chekhov, or anyone else, and what has always prevented these movements from gaining popular sympathy has been their lack of breadth, their curious fascination for pedants and cranks. Almost every decent, sane human being will appreciate and support a demand for a theatre to enlighten the dismal misery and boredom of the winter evenings of his native town and to take him out of the narrow groove into which he will inevitably stick if left alone with his books and his relations; but he will not support a scheme to ram down his throat obvious propaganda.

The Calvinists of the Drama

I have sat for hours in the National Gallery, Trafalgar Square, watching the people. The most heterogeneous collection of persons imaginable assemble there. Washerwomen, soldiers, artisans, clerks, clergymen, navvies, all classes and ages. Some wander aimlessly about, some stand petrified before one picture for a quarter of an hour, some look only at portraits, others search for familiar landscapes, others again are attracted by historical interest. There is hardly one of them that would not probably earn the contempt of Mr. Clive Bell if he were to give Mr. Bell the reason of his enjoyment; but I assert with all the emphasis I can command that there is not one of them who has not gained by even ten minutes within that building something impossible to value and precious, beyond estimation. Can any human being go out of the dirt, the indignity, the ugliness, the noise, the formlessness of the modern city into the serenity, the colour, the dignity, the peace, and the beauty of the rooms of the National Gallery without a quickening of the spirit, however imperceptible? What is there in Trafalgar Square apart from the National Gallery which in any degree witnesses that man is more than an animal? True, there is St. Martin's Church, but the associations of the church—irrelevant if you will—adulterate and weaken its spiritual influence on men's minds to-day. But the National Gallery exerts a completely catholic and irradiating power on all who enter.

So does the theatre, even exactly as it stands to-day. I am in profound disagreement with those who raise up their hands in horror at the present state of the theatre where it exists. What causes me to join the chorus of Jeremiahs is the scarcity of theatres, their complete and utter absence in hundreds of large towns where they should exist, and the smallness of their numbers in our largest cities. My mention of Mr. Clive Bell in connection with the National Gallery was doubly relevant, for there is a set of high-brows connected with the theatre who have set their eyes so fixedly on an unreal and abstract perfection that they have become blind. They talk about Serious Drama in the same solemn, pompous and hopeless way that the Calvinists used to talk about salvation, and the mass of the people, cheerfully ignoring them, continues to go tranquilly to perdition. Ask anyone of these apostles of Serious Drama to show you one serious drama, and the odds are that they will say, Man and Superman or Ghosts or Justice. Well, there is something to be said for the authors of these three plays, although not one of them is a really first-rate dramatist, the equal of Shakespeare, Sophocles, Euripides, or even Racine, but for their followers—the dealers in the doleful realism of Manchester, Birmingham, Liverpool, Glasgow, and the London suburbs—there is in the main nothing to be said whatever. Their works are for the most part immeasurably inferior to the average London Revue, and to accuse the theatre of sinking into degradation because it prefers the wit, humour, beautiful dressing, vivacious dancing, and high spirits of an Ambassador's, Vaudeville, Pavilion, or Alhambra Revue to a serious, machine-made play by Mr. Sutro or two hours of mechanical dulness from someone I had better not name is simply to accuse it of preferring life to the undesirable "seriousness" of the tomb.

Influence of the Existing Theatre

It is not as if there were no drama better than the Revue or the Musical Comedy, but the stupidity of the high-brows, their dull acceptance of the solemn and the pompous, of anything in fact that is not bright or imaginative or stirring, but is sufficiently pretentious, does incalculable harm to that annually growing fraction of the public which, fully appreciative of Revue and Musical Comedy, is yet unsatisfied and is really thirsting for finer things. This public is continually essaying samples of the drama of the high-brows and is continually being driven back from such dry, unprofitable verbiage to those theatres where there is humour, wit, charm and beauty. And for this evidence of good taste it is roundly abused. I frequently wonder whether anyone of these misguided zealots has ever been inside the popular theatre, the theatre of the Musical Comedy. Have they any idea what a revelation of beauty it is to large numbers of the population? I dare to assert that in London the popular theatre has done more to develop and educate the taste of the masses in dress, furniture, and decoration than fifty years of propaganda from Ruskin, William Morris, and all their disciples. The theatre, of course, has learnt from the artists of all countries, but it has been the great cultural organisation which has taken the fruits of the artists' work to the people and opened their eyes.

In educating the senses the popular theatre has done and is still doing invaluable work; it is when it comes to educating the finer emotions that it fails so lamentably, though hardly so utterly as the high-brow theatre, in which there are no emotions but those of despair, disillusionment and derision. And yet it is strange that in spite of the general abuse of the low standards of London plays, on the rare occasions when a really fine play is put on it is generally met by the critics with a chorus of disapproval or the praise that damns. We have had a good example in London recently. Mr. Henry Ainley, by common consent our finest actor, begins his management of the St. James's Theatre with Tolstoy's The Living Corpse, the title being changed to Reparation, in consideration of the mental state of a public frightened out of its wits by the high-brows and the cranks. Tolstoy was a great man, and The Living Corpse is a fine play, a play that ought to have a great success; but do the critics say, "Here at last is a magnificent play, a play which everyone must see"? Not a bit of it. The general spirit of their notices is one of chilly respect for the famous name of Tolstoy, with an insinuation that the play would have been much better if it had been handled by a competent dramatist like Sir Arthur Pinero or Mr. Sutro. "What is the central theme? We are not quite sure," says the critic of the leading London daily. Is it a mere coincidence that on the same page that journal's musical critic, in reference to Prometheus, the work of Tolstoy's compatriot, Scriabin, one of the greatest of modern composers, says he does not understand it and, asking himself whether Scriabin was "sane or deranged," declares that he does not know? Here is a lesson for Drama Leagues, for it is almost certain that when we do get good drama scarcely anyone will know it.

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A society called "The Phœnix," with headquarters at Dudley House, Southampton Street, Strand, has been formed to revive plays of Elizabethan, Restoration, and later times. The following plays have been selected for early production:

The Duchess of Malfi (John Webster), Marriage à la Mode (John Dryden), The Fair Maid of the West, Part I. (Thomas Heywood), Don Carlos (Thomas Otway), Volpone (Ben Jonson). The Duchess of Malfi will be given on Sunday, November 16th.

DRAMATIC LITERATURE

HEARTBREAK HOUSE, ETC. By BERNARD SHAW. Constable. 7s. 6d.

Mr. Shaw is one of the most consistent authors living. His readers know almost to a comma what he is going to give them every time they open his latest book. That is perhaps the chief reason why there has been such a falling off in Mr. Shaw's popularity of recent years. Another reason is, of course, the war; but it is strange that Mr. Shaw's opinions, or his particular way of expressing his opinion, during the war should have alienated and even made bitterly hostile men of wide knowledge and experience of his writings and his character who, if they could be persuaded momentarily to reflect without prejudice, would have to admit that what offends them now was precisely what offended so many others in the years before the war, when they on the contrary were Mr. Shaw's ardent champions or, at the very least, his apologists. It only goes to show how very far anyone of us is from being able to judge a man's work rationally once our own particular prejudice is touched. We are all raw somewhere, and woe to the man who touches us on the raw, for then all hope of dispassionate criticism, of Christian toleration even, is gone. It has been Mr. Shaw's most vivid characteristic that he has never lost his intellectual integrity. It is easy to be honest among one's enemies, but to be honest among one's friends is a virtue so rare, so uncomfortable, and outwardly so contrary to the spirit of fair play that it is not surprising it should be generally detested. Mr. Shaw has always retained what he believes, perhaps conceitedly, to be his right to say the worst that can be said of his dearest friends, and of the advocates of whatever cause happens at the moment to be nearest to his heart. However ruinous such conduct may appear to be to the immediate interests of the movement he is supposed to support, he will not abandon his right to forge weapons for the enemy more damaging than any discoverable by their own brains. When life or one's country or one's family is at stake, such conduct appears little less than devilish, yet Mr. Shaw has his right to express his opinions as lucidly and as pointedly as he can, and it may be that when we are far enough removed from the heat and blinding dust of the moment's conflict we shall realise that Mr. Shaw has been faithful to the truth that is in him, and if we have any reason to complain it is certainly not of Mr. Shaw, but of the God who made him.

It may seem that what the ordinary man would call, and call wrongly, Mr. Shaw's unreliability does not square with the assertion that he is consistent, and that his readers know beforehand exactly what Mr. Shaw is going to give them. But Mr. Shaw's consistency lies in his artillery, not in his object of attack. The enemy varies, but the same guns are always going off. In Heartbreak House there is at times all and more than all the old brilliancy. The dialogue of the first and third acts is concentrated, savage, and burns with an intensity that casts a dull imaginative glow over the play. The characters of the Hushabyes, of Captain Shotover, of the sham millionaire Mangan, of Mazzini Dunn, and the fluteplayer are drawn with a pen steeped in vitriol and, exaggerated as they are, they have a genuine imaginative reality deeper than most Shavian figures. There is a moral passion in this play gloomier and more savage than in anything Mr. Shaw has yet done, and an absence of that childish and inconsequent flippancy which so often mars his work. The other plays in the volume vary in quality from some excellent fooling in Great Catherine to a depressing mechanical liveliness, almost utterly without humour, in Augustus Does His Bit. The best of them is O'Flaherty, V.C.; but although it frequently makes one laugh one finds oneself, at the end, closing the book with that tired yawn that seems to be the fatal consequence of reading a great deal of Mr. Shaw at one time.

FIRST PLAYS. By A. A. MILNE. Chatto & Windus. 6s,

I am not sure that I do Mr. Milne any injustice by asserting that the best thing in his first volume of plays is the Introduction, describing how the five plays came to be written. It is turned with that inimitable grace and lightness of touch which have made Mr. Milne famous as a journalist. Mr. Milne's charm and quaint humour need a certain space in which to display themselves. It would be fatal to hurry him or to try to straighten his meanderings and digressions, but that is exactly what the dramatic form does do. It is not that Mr. Milne cannot express himself in a few sentences, he can; but however few the sentences they will be allusive, indirect, full of parabolas and curves that seem to lead away but really come back to the point. These qualities are difficult to transfer to dialogue, especially when one is hampered by the consciousness of theatrical convention, and in his first effort, Wurzel-Flummery, after inventing that wonderful name, Mr. Milne fails entirely to get his own individual qualities into the play. The dialogue is in short, flavourless sentences that seem to have been shot out of a popgun, and the characters being mere lay-figures, the play is simply dull. The Lucky One is a much more ambitious and more successful experiment. The people are alive, but Mr. Milne is probably right in seeing no hope of its being produced. It is intelligence without frills or decoration; and, as he says, "the girl marries the wrong man." It is in Belinda that Mr. Milne is most successfully himself. Mr. Milne calls it an "April Folly in three acts." and that describes it exactly.

W. J. TURNER

THE FINE ARTS

IT may be of interest at this juncture, now that the "close time" for artists between the spring and autumn exhibitions has come to an end, to review past events in artistic circles, and attempt to place readers au courant with events to come. The war has not been without its effects on some branches of artistic development. The supporters of Burlington House, it is true, pursue their way more or less undisturbed by the startling incidents of the last four years; I would be inclined to rank with them the greater part also of the members of the International Society of Painters, Sculptors, and Engravers, whose twenty-sixth exhibition is now being held at the Grosvenor Galleries.

It is only fair to say, however, that the so-called revolutionary in art can sometimes find a place for his work even on these august walls.

The New English Art Club has been handicapped by the commandeering of its gallery by the Government. Still, here again the god-fathers and professors still hold the sway, and it is only in such bodies as the Allied Artists Association, the Friday Club, and the London Group, that the new blood can be more or less assured of a place to exhibit their work and obtain their share in the business of acceptance for, and arrangement of, exhibitions. All these societies are now firmly established, though the last-named has sustained a great loss by the death of its admirable president, Harold Gilman. The Allied Artists is a thoroughly democratic institution and a step towards a trade union of artists, if such a thing is possible: that some step in that direction is needed there can be no doubt, as the artist suffers very severely indeed from the middleman. These societies, then, in their exhibits generally, show renewed signs of energy and development in art.

The employment of younger men in an official capacity as war artists instead of such Academicians as were not too infirm to bear the weight of a steel helmet, showed unusual wisdom and perspicuity on behalf of the responsible bodies concerned. The direct result was a fine collection of paintings by men who, for the most part, had been able to depict their impressions of war in war's surroundings, or record their experiences, not easily forgotten, after they had been freed from the ranks. An exhibition of these paintings held in America was attended with marked success, and helped to make known the work of young English artists in that country. C. R. W. Nevinson, Paul Nash, Wyndham Lewis, and Eric Kennington, to mention only a few, have produced some fine and lasting records of their impressions in medias res. The public will have an opportunity of seeing the fine collection of paintings commissioned and collected by the Imperial War Museum this winter. The effect of this official employment is particularly noticeable upon the more extreme body of painters known as the Vorticists with Wyndham Lewis at the head: they have voluntarily or involuntarily made certain concessions to representation ("compromise" is in bad odour now) in their work, but these concessions have in no way weakened the results of their toil, as appeared evident at the Canadian War Memorials Exhibition this spring.

Turning to other events—the exhibition of foreign artists at the Mansard Gallery, which has recently closed, is, I believe, the first one of its kind since the post-impressionist Exhibition at the Grafton Galleries before the war. Now, as then, I fancy, it will be found to be a case of a little garden in a patch of wilderness. Mr. Clive Bell would perhaps have us bow unreservedly before the lions of the continent, but I feel that some of the artists are only repeating with variations the themes given out by their forerunners. Even the work of the accepted masters, such as Picasso and Derain, and so forth, does not seem quite convincing at first sight, but perhaps these were acting purposely as foils to their younger contemporaries. The Exhibition was, nevertheless, of great interest, especially if we may take it to show roughly the various tendencies of continental art.

The Memorial Exhibition of the works of Harold Gilman at the Leicester Galleries deserves special notice. Harold Gilman died suddenly of influenza this spring. To everyone who knew him his death must have come as a severe shock; his unfailing courtesy and true gentleness of manner had endeared him to many. As an artist, the sane outlook and sincere purpose in his work were valuable assets to whatever movement he was connected with. It is difficult at this time to estimate his value as a painter, but I am inclined to think it will be considerable. He had elaborated a fine sense of colour which was as effective in his painting as it was useful in his teaching. His work, hung all together in this exhibition, seems far more striking than when seen in isolated examples, the drawings forming a decidedly important part of the whole. He was not accustomed to show these drawings nor did he seem to value them very much, except as a means to the end; and I am surprised by their excellence. No. 23 is a design for a large painting commissioned by the Canadian Government, and left unfinished at his death. No. 37 is one of the gems of the collection. An illustrated memorial volume of Gilman's work will be published shortly. Other picture shows forthcoming in London during the autumn and winter are—an exhibition of the works of Matisse, Mr. Marchant's Salon, open for the first time since the war at the Goupil Galleries, the Imperial War Museum Exhibition, and the London Group at the Mansard Gallery in November.

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To the most hardened critic the sounding title of the International Society of Sculptors, Painters, and Engravers may seem a little overaweing; each time, as the Society's exhibition comes round, he must feel this peculiar thrill; the catalogue also, with its crescendos of lay members, honorary lay members, and deceased honorary lay members, has a conscious feeling of "well-to-do-ness" which is very impressive, and may tend to undermine impartial judgment. The twenty-sixth exhibition of this Society is, notwithstanding, very like many others which have gone before. A long search for instances of any serious purpose, with a few exceptions, meets with nothing but superficial cleverness or work of a purely negative value. As in the exhibitions of Burlington House, so here, the artists seem entirely concerned with the portrayal of the anecdote for itself, without the least regard for design, in fact with the least amount of solid purpose or feeling, and with the free use of cheap bravura painting. There are, of course, the well-known stand-bys who provide what is expected of them with satisfactory regularity. Mr. MacEvoy's portraits of the nobility and gentry seem more and more evanescent, and one would hardly credit them with a drop of red blood, let alone blue—but they have their charm. The portraits in general are not peculiarly interesting, characterised as they are by good but uninspired painting. Mr. Frampton's No. 29 is a case in point. The only bright exception, both as a portrait and a work of art, is Mr. Alvaro Guevara's portrait of Miss Edith Sitwell, which alone is worth paying 1s. 6d. to see. The painting throughout is curiously realistic, the colour is very fine, and the arrangement of the figure so as to present a view looking down upon it, together with the placing of the mats on the floor, make a most interesting design. Placed as it is among the portraits of Mr. MacEvoy, the contrast is startling and a little cruel, not unlike a bird of paradise amongst a batch of ring-doves. I am surprised to see that the perseverance of the firm of Nicholson and Son, though the business is now mostly carried on by Mr. Benjamin Nicholson, has not yet been awarded by royal warrant. No one, I hope, will be so obtuse as not to distinguish the filial from the paternal jug. Considerable mention has been made of the landscapes in water-colour by Miss Frances Hodgkins, and though I cannot quite agree with all that has been said, I think her work has charm and a strong sense of pattern. No. 214, Threshing, is especially attractive. The drawings of J. D. Revel will repay attention, particularly No. 194. Mr. Keith Baynes contributes two pleasing drawings, one of which has an interesting design of boats, while Mr. William Rothenstein has a good but very war-like self-portrait. I feel glad my acquaintance with him has been so far only in a civilian capacity. It would appear that sheep-skin jerkins are regulation dress for official war-artists.

ARTISTIC PUBLICATIONS

Art and Letters

With the autumn number of Art and Letters the periodical completes its fourth publication since the beginning of the new series. Art and Letters was first published in July, 1917, under the editorship of Frank Rutter, Harold Gilman, and Charles Ginner, and was devoted to the reproduction of the graphic arts and the publication of short essays, stories, poems, and reviews. After the first four numbers the magazine came under the management of Mr. Frank Rutter and Mr. Osbert Sitwell, who changed the cover from a set design to one of a varied pattern each quarter.

Art and Letters has continued to supply a certain demand as an artistic quarterly, and indeed, with the exception of Colour, it seems to be the only periodical which reproduces the works of younger contemporary artists. The first numbers contained some excellent drawings by Walter Sickert, Harold Gilman, and Charles Ginner, with woodcuts by Lucien Pissaro; later, work by Paul Nash, MacKnight Kauffer, and Therèse Lessore formed a pleasing contribution. With the inception of the new series in 1918, the paper was given fresh impetus and still maintains its high level. A criticism which applies to many other like publications may be also applied to Art and Letters: it is too precious. There is need of a wider scope and more general appeal to the public.

The chief item of artistic interest in Volume 2, No. 4, of Art and Letters, which has just appeared, is the drawing by Modigliani, who was one of the most promising exhibitors at the recent exhibition of Continental Artists held at the Mansard Gallery, and referred to above. This is really a beautiful drawing, delicate and sensitive; the artist, while relying chiefly on the rhythmic value of his line, has introduced ever so slightly into the face the literary interest, so to speak, of a subtle expression which is the quintessence of placid kindness. There are also excellent drawings by the late Gaudier Brzeska and Wyndham Lewis, and a wood-cut by Paul Nash which, at the risk of being censored for partiality, I venture to think is of interest in another branch of his art. The drawing by Miss Anne Estelle Rice is competent and decorative. A new periodical entitled The Owl was hatched in the early summer, in which the excellence of the literary contributions greatly outweighed the value of the artistic reproductions. I hope in the future that the art editor will range a little wider in his choice of drawings.

The Poetry Bookshop

Mr. Harold Monro is publishing a series of monthly chap-books, which has already run into three numbers; it purports to be a record of the poetry and drama of to-day. In so far as it bears upon these columns, Volume 2 is of interest as containing reproductions of Mr. Albert Rutherstone's theatre designs for Bernard Shaw's play, Androcles and the Lion, produced at St. James's Theatre before the war. This is altogether an admirable and valuable little book. The most recently published number is entitled Poems Newly Decorated, and contains some charming and effective designs by the younger artists.

JOHN NASH

MUSIC

THE PROMENADE CONCERTS

IT has been good to see the Queen's Hall filled once more with a happy crowd, after the thin and uncertain audiences which listened to the Promenade Concerts during the war. Even to a jaded professional critic there is a peculiar sense of pleasure to be derived from them which no other concerts can convey. One is free to smoke, to begin with, and free to move about and see one's friends; for that is one of the pleasant things about a Promenade Concert, that one always finds friends there. And just as one finds unexpected old friends on the floor of the house, so one finds them in the programme. There are many works from which the hardened concert-goer flees when he sees them put in to fill up time in an ordinary symphony concert. At the Promenades he may find himself listening to them in the company of someone who has never heard them before, and suddenly discover that they have taken on a new aspect in relation to all the music which memory has accumulated since the last time that he came across them. The more heterogeneous the programme, the more delightful it is, and one wonders what goes on in the minds of those listeners who crowd to the evenings that are given up to Wagner alone or to Bach, Beethoven, and Mozart. It is on a Wagner night that one begins to be conscious of how badly the band is playing. They are trotting through the old stock extracts, which they are supposed to know by heart. The old hands are bored to death, the new ones do not yet know their way about. At least so one is tempted to think for the moment. And on a classical night one is tempted to quarrel with some of Sir Henry Wood's interpretations.

Such judgments are unprofitable, even if one could be sure that they were true. It is the homogeneous programme that alters one's critical angle. The last new versification of a suburban house-agent's advertisement in the second half of the programme restores a juster balance. To judge from old Promenade programmes, the "one-style" night must be a relic of earlier tradition. When Mr. Robert Newman first started the concerts, in 1895, there would be a Scottish night, an Irish night, a Military night, and, besides a Wagner night, a Gounod night. The Irish night meant a programme of Stanford, Balfe, Wallace and Sullivan. Sullivan still figures in our programmes; the others have dropped out, and so has the Gounod night. The programme of a Military night does indeed seem a curiosity to-day. Here it is: Military March (Schubert), overture Les Dragons de Villars (Maillart), The German Patrol (Eilenberg), Trumpet Overture (Mendelssohn), The Red Hussar (Solomon), The British Army Quadrilles (Jullien), The Drum Polka (Anonymous), and the "Soldiers' Chorus" from Faust. Maillart's overture still figures in this year's list; but probably no one wants a military programme in these days, even if it were made up from the classics. It is interesting to note that what we called a "Popular" night differed very little from the Saturday programmes of this year, in spite of the number of novelties that have in the course of time been gradually added to the repertory. The operatic selections were dropped a long time ago, but such things as Handel's Largo, Grieg's Peer Gynt, the overture to William Tell, and Bizet's L'Arlésienne have probably been played once or even twice in every season.

The book of programmes may be regarded as a fair index of average taste, and as such is instructive. English people, on the whole, have had too much common sense to allow their musical interests to be distorted by the war. It is true that modern German music is no longer heard, and that the names of modern French, Russian, and Italian composers figure largely on the programmes. But it is probably also true that the accident of the war has merely helped to consolidate a tendency that was apparent some time before. Brahms was never a composer for the man in the street. What the ordinary man wants in music is a clear-cut tune, a vigorous rhythm, and an exciting volume of sound. He gets these in William Tell and L'Arlésienne. In the presence of these and other old favourites we are all ordinary men. They are the things which the man in the street enjoys at a first hearing, the things which the cultivated musician never ceases to enjoy. It is through such music that the average man has gradually learned to enjoy Beethoven's Symphonies and the Brandenburg Concertos, for they too possess those essential qualities.

On the other hand, there is a very large section of the public which demands a more sensuous and emotional type of music. The emotion which these people seek is not necessarily erotic, nor is it consciously religious, though the prelude to Tristan and Handel's Largo (with harp and organ) are among the works which appeal to them most. It was they who made the popularity of Tchaikovsky and Richard Strauss, and it is they who will establish the popularity of Scriabin. Together with this desire for sensuous emotion there is often combined a delight in curious and amusing orchestral effects. This was another factor in the enjoyment of Strauss, and it can be satisfied not only in such works as Scriabin's Prometheus, but in Sir Henry Wood's ingenious orchestral transcriptions of Moussorgsky. Brahms has always been too difficult of understanding for the William Tell public, and too austere for what one may call the "wallowers." He is hardly a composer for the Promenade Concerts at all; the Requiem, the chamber music, and the songs are his best works, and those can always be heard in their proper places.

The complaint is frequently made that the music of the modern English composers is crowded out, not so much by foreign contemporaries as by the classics. New works by English composers are played once, it is said, but never again. Yet even if we leave out Elgar, as being a classic as surely established as Saint-Saëns, there are several English works which are played over and over again. Sullivan's In Memoriam is one of those which might well be laid on the shelf; but like Walford Davies' Solemn Melody it brings in the organ, and to many English people music of this kind would appear to offer all the spiritual advantages of church-going without its discomforts, intellectual or physical. Besides these there are Mackenzie's Benedictus and Edward German's Henry VIII. dances, as well as various pieces by Balfour Gardiner and Percy Grainger, which undoubtedly possess those desirable qualities of tune, rhythm, and a jolly noise. In one case Sir Henry Wood has managed to add the attractions both of organ and batterie de cuisine, thus combining mirth with devotion.

It is perhaps because a Promenade audience is so kind and so undiscriminating that these concerts have become the recognized trial ground for new works. This year's novelties have been, on the whole, of little interest. Malipiero's second set of Impressioni dal Vero was the most original, Roger Quilter's Children's Overture the most attractive.

The want of discrimination shown by the audience is most apparent in the case of the vocal and instrumental soloists. A few years ago, it is related, the students of the Paris Conservatoire used to make a hostile demonstration against every concerto on the ground that the concerto was of its nature a bad form of art. There are indeed a fair number of musicians in this country who in private conversation will confess to much the same opinion. Generally, however, if pressed, they will make four or five exceptions, such as the favourite concertos of Mozart and Beethoven, together with Schumann's and the B flat concerto of Brahms. As regards the rest, they at least afford proof of the good manners inculcated at our music schools. The more recent ones, such as those of Rachmaninov and Tcherepnin, are no better than the others. That of Delius alone stands out as a work of real beauty. The real disfigurement of the Promenade Concerts is provided by the singers. One might have supposed that a public which had enjoyed a scena of Wagner or Verdi would refuse to tolerate the vapid domesticities of the second half of the programme. But, alas! it is probably this very domesticity that evokes the applause. The promenaders will admire Isolde's Death Scene or Eri tu, but they must worship at a distance. When they hear the other stuff they know that it is something which they themselves can sing successfully in their own suburban drawing-rooms. Sir Henry Wood was once heard to express the hope that some day there might be a Promenade Concert in London every night of the year. Could that hope ever be realized it would be the noblest monument to the man who for our generation at least has created the Promenade Concerts. But must there always be those songs? They are symbols of bondage to commercial interests.

*      *      *      *      *

After five years of absence Busoni has returned to England, and his recital at the Wigmore Hall on October 15th showed that his playing has lost none of its former strength and vitality, whilst it has undoubtedly gained in dignity and serenity. His audience consisted mainly of musicians, and his programme was evidently intended for serious and cultivated listeners. He began with the first prelude and fugue from Bach's Forty-Eight, producing a wonderful effect at the end of the fugue by a continuous haze of pedal, through which the counterpoint yet stood out with perfect clearness. His reading of the Goldberg Variations was startling, both in its quality of tone and in its departures from the text. But it was clear that there was a considered reason for everything that was done, and as a commentary on Bach the performance was of singular interest. Busoni was at his best in Beethoven's Hammerklaviev sonata. It is probably the most difficult work in all the literature of the pianoforte. When Busoni plays one does not take technical difficulties into account; but this sonata is both supremely difficult to understand and supremely difficult to interpret to an audience. To grasp its vastness of conception and to present it without the least appearance of struggle in perfect balance of poetry and philosophy is a task which Busoni alone of living pianists can accomplish. It was evident from the behaviour of the audience after the end of the sonata that they all realised how in comparison with Busoni most other pianists, despite their admirable qualities, are very small fry.

EDWARD J. DENT.

BIBLIOGRAPHIES OF MODERN AUTHORS[4]

[4] In this section we propose to give monthly skeleton lists of the works of modern authors: where feasible of contributors to the issue current.

THOMAS HARDY

[Poetical works only. Full information as to all his writings may be obtained from the bibliographies by A. P. Webb and H. Danielson.]

COLLECTED POEMS. Macmillan. 1919.

[This volume and that containing The Dynasts, mentioned below, give a full collection of Mr. Hardy's work in verse. The Wessex and Mellstock editions of his complete works include his poems in several volumes.]

SELECTED POEMS. Macmillan. 1916.

[In the Golden Treasury Series.]

WESSEX POEMS. Macmillan. 1898.

[This volume contains illustrations in pen and ink by the author.]

POEMS OF PAST AND PRESENT. Macmillan. 1901.

THE DYNASTS. Macmillan. Part I., 1903. Part II., 1906. Part III., 1908.

[Now published in one volume.]

TIME'S LAUGHING STOCKS. Macmillan. 1909.

SATIRES OF CIRCUMSTANCE, with miscellaneous pieces. Macmillan. 1914.

MOMENTS OF VISION. Macmillan. 1917.

[Certain poems and small collections have been published in very small editions, mainly by CLEMENT K. SHORTER. These include Song of the Soldiers (1914), When I Weakly Knew (1916), In Time of the Breaking of Nations (1916), The Fiddler's Story (1917), Call to National Service (1917), and Domicilium (1918).]

WALTER DE LA MARE

Verse

SONGS OF CHILDHOOD. Longmans. 1902.

[Reissued in Longmans' Pocket Library.]

POEMS. Murray. 1906.

A CHILD'S DAY. Verses to pictures. Constable. 1911.

THE LISTENERS AND OTHER POEMS. Constable. 1912.

PEACOCK PIE. Constable. 1913.

[Reissued with pictures by HEATH ROBINSON.]

THE SUNKEN GARDEN. Beaumont. 1918.

[A limited edition de luxe.]

MOTLEY AND OTHER POEMS. Constable. 1918.

[Embodies the whole of the material in the last-named.]

Prose

HENRY BROCKEN. Murray. 1904.

THE THREE MULLA MULGARS. Duckworth. 1910.

THE RETURN. Arnold. 1910.

W. H. DAVIES

Verse

COLLECTED POEMS. With a portrait by W. ROTHENSTEIN. Fifield. 1916.

[This volume contains a selection of what the author considered the best of his poems up to that date.]

THE SOUL'S DESTROYER. Alston Rivers. 1907.

[This book was published in the Contemporary Poets' Series, after a privately published issue by the author from the Marshalsea. It has since been reissued by Mr. Fifield.]

NEW POEMS. Elkin Mathews. 1907.

NATURE POEMS AND OTHERS. Fifield. 1908.

FAREWELL TO POESY. Fifield. 1910.

SONGS OF JOY. Fifield. 1911.

FOLIAGE. Elkin Mathews. 1913.

THE BIRD OF PARADISE. Methuen. 1914.

CHILD LOVERS. Fifield. 1916.

RAPTURES. Beaumont. 1918.

[A limited edition de luxe.]

FORTY NEW POEMS. Fifield. 1918.

[Contains the poems in the last entry and ten additional pieces.]

Prose

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A SUPER-TRAMP. Fifield. 1908.

[With an introduction by Bernard Shaw.]

BEGGARS. Fifield. 1909.

A WEAK WOMAN. Fifield. 1911.

[A novel.]

THE TRUE TRAVELLER. Fifield. 1912.

NATURE. Batsford. 1913.

[An essay in the Fellowship Books.]

A POET'S PILGRIMAGE. Melrose. 1918.

RUPERT BROOKE

Verse

THE COLLECTED POEMS OF RUPERT BROOKE. With a memoir by EDWARD MARSH.

Sidgwick & Jackson. 1918.

[The memoir was separately printed by the same publishers in the same year.]

SELECTED POEMS. Sidgwick & Jackson. 1917.

*      *      *      *      *

POEMS. Sidgwick & Jackson. 1911.

[This, Brooke's first book, has gone into an enormous number of editions, and the first is so scarce as to cost £4 or more in the second-hand market.]

1914 AND OTHER POEMS. Sidgwick & Jackson. 1915.

[This appeared with a portrait shortly after Brooke's death.]

THE OLD VICARAGE, GRANTCHESTER. Sidgwick & Jackson. 1916.

[A poem from the last volume, separately published.]

Prose

LETTERS FROM AMERICA. With a preface by HENRY JAMES. Sidgwick & Jackson. 1916.

[James's preface was the last of his published writings. The letters originally appeared in the Westminster Gazette; one or two stray papers are added.]

JOHN WEBSTER AND THE ELIZABETHAN DRAMA. Sidgwick & Jackson. 1916.

[Brooke's fellowship thesis at King's. There exists in the British Museum in typescript an essay that Brooke wrote in 1910 for the Harness Prize. The subject is Puritanism as represented or referred to in the Early English Drama up to 1642.]

SELECT LIST OF PUBLICATIONS

ANTHROPOLOGY

THE CENTRAL ARAWAKS. By WILLIAM CURTIS FARABEE. Plates and a map of Southern British Guiana and Northern Brazil. Philadelphia. Published by the University Museum.

ART

RUSSIAN BALLET. By DAVID BOMBERG. Hendersons. 2s. 6d.

THE ENGLISH ROCK GARDEN. Two vols. By REGINALD FARRAR. T. C. and E. C. Jack. £3 3s.

THE "COUNTRY LIFE" BOOK OF COTTAGES. By LAURENCE WEAVER. Second edition. Revised and enlarged. "Country Life." 9s. 6d. net.

THE SOCIETY FOR THE PROTECTION OF ANCIENT BUILDINGS. Report on the treatment of old cottages. By A. H. POWELL, F. W. TROUP, C. C. WINMILL, and the SECRETARY. 20 Buckingham Street, 2s.

BELLES-LETTRES

CONTEMPORARIES OF SHAKESPEARE. By ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. Heinemann. 6s. net.

PROCEEDINGS OF THE BRITISH ACADEMY. For the British Academy. Milford 40s. net.

MORE LITERARY RECREATIONS. By SIR EDWARD COOK. Macmillan. 7s. 6d. net.

DUBLIN ESSAYS. By ARTHUR CLERY. Maunsel. 4s. 6d. net.

ECHOES OLD AND NEW. By RALPH NEVILL. Chatto & Windus. 12s. 6d. net.

THE PROBLEM OF HAMLET. By the Right Hon. J. M. ROBERTSON. Allen & Unwin. 5s. net.

SOME DIVERSIONS OF A MAN OF LETTERS. By EDMUND GOSSE. Heinemann. 7s. 6d. net.

A CRITIC IN PALL MALL. By OSCAR WILDE. Methuen. 6s. 6d. net.

TRAHERNE (an Essay). By GLADYS E. WILLETT. Heffer. 2s. 6d. net.

SOME WINCHESTER LETTERS OF LIONEL JOHNSON. Allen & Unwin. 7s. 6d. net.

THE MEASURES OF THE POETS. A new system of English Prosody. By M. A. BAYFIELD. Cambridge University Press. 5s. net.

BY THE WATERS OF FIUME. A Story of Love and Patriotism. By LORNA DE LUCCHI. Longmans. 3s. 6d.

THE INNER COURT. By H. C. MASON. Heath Cranton. 5s. net.

GULLIBLE'S TRAVELS IN LITTLE BRIT. By W. HODSON BURNET. Illustrated by THOMAS HENRY. Westall. 2s. 6d.

THE ANONYMOUS POET OF POLAND, ZYGMUNT KRASINSKI. By MONICA M. GARDNER. Cambridge University Press. 12s. 6d. net.

THE MYSTICAL POETS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. By PERCY H. OSMOND. Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge. 12s. 6d. net.

NORSE MYTH IN ENGLISH POETRY. By C. H. HEREFORD, M.A., Litt. D Longmans, 1s. net.

APPRECIATIONS OF LITERATURE. By LAFCADIO HEARN. Heinemann. 15s. net.

GEOGRAPHICAL DICTIONARY OF MILTON. By ALLAN G. GILBERT. Yale University Press. Milford. 15s. net.

BIOGRAPHY AND MEMOIRS

MEMORIES. By LORD FISHER. Hodder & Stoughton. 21s. net.

SAMUEL BUTLER, author of Erewhon (1835–1902). Memoir by HENRY FESTING JONES. Two vols. Macmillan. 42s. net.

MEMOIRS OF EDWARD EARL OF SANDWICH, 1839–1916. Edited by MRS. STEUART ERSKINE. Murray. 16s. net.

INGRAM BYWATER. By W. W. JACKSON. Oxford University Press.

FROM MUD TO MUFTI. By BRUCE BAIRNSFATHER. Grant Richards. 6s. net.

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THE END OF A CHAPTER. By SHANE-LESLIE. Constable. New edition. 2s. net.

WILLIAM BLAKE THE MAN. By CHAS. GARDNER. Dent. 2s. 6d. net.

THE LIFE OF LIZA LEHMANN. By HERSELF. Fisher Unwin. 10s. 6d. net.

THE MAN CALLED PEARSE. By DESMOND RYAN. Maunsel. 4s. 6d. net.

THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF LADY DOROTHY NEVILL. Methuen. 18s. net.

CLASSICAL

LUCRETIUS ON THE NATURE OF THINGS. Translated into English verse by SIR ROBERT ALLISON. Humphreys. 7s. 6d. net.

THE GREEK ORATORS. By J. F. DOBSON, M.A. Methuen. 7s. 6d. net.

SPEECHES FROM THUCYDIDES. Oxford University Press. 1s. net.

DRAMA

EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR. By BEN JONSON. Edited by PERCY SIMPSON. Milford. 5s. net.

THE MARRIAGE OF ILARIO. By A. HUGH FISHER. Selwyn & Blount. 1s. 6d. net.

THE CLOUDS OF ARISTOPHANES. Acted at Athens at the Great Dionysia, B.C. 423. Translated into corresponding metres by BENJAMIN BICKLEY ROGERS, M.A., Hon. D. Litt. Bell. 3s. 6d. net.

NAPOLEON. A Play. By HERBERT TRENCH. Milford. 2s. 6d. net.

FICTION

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THE OLD CONTEMPTIBLES. By BOYD CABLE. Hodder & Stoughton. 6s. net.

THE DOMINANT RACE. By F. E. MILLS-YOUNG. Hodder & Stoughton. 7s. net.

AN HONEST THIEF and Other Stories. By FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY. Heinemann. 6s. net.

HIS MAJESTY'S WELL BELOVED. By BARONESS ORCZY. Hodder & Stoughton. 7s. net.

FELIX MORGAINE. By JOSEPHINE PITCAIRN KNOWLES. Methuen. 6s. net.

THE GREAT HOUSE. By STANLEY J. WEYMAN. Murray. 7s. net.

TIME AND ETERNITY. A Tale of Three Exiles. By GILBERT CANNAN. Chapman & Hall. 7s. net.

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LIVING ALONE. By STELLA BENSON. Macmillan. 6s. net.

THE YOUNG PHYSICIAN. By FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG. Collins. 7s. 6d. net.

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YOUTH, YOUTH.... By DESMOND COKE, with illustrations by H. M. BROCK. Chapman & Hall. 7s. 6d. net.

THE ONE WHO FORGOT. By RUBY M. AYRES. Hodder & Stoughton. 6s. net.

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LOVE AND MRS. KENDRUR. By ELEANOR HOWELL ABBOTT. Heinemann. 2s. net.

SECOND YOUTH. By WARWICK DEEPING. Cassell. 7s.

THE MINX GOES TO THE FRONT. By C. N. and A. M. WILLIAMSON. Mills & Boon. 6s. net.

THE IRRATIONAL KNOT. By BERNARD SHAW. Constable. 2s. net.

THE TAMING OF NAN. By ETHEL HOLDSWORTH. Herbert Jenkins. 7s. net.

ALL SORTS. By L. A. R. WYLIE. Mills & Boon. 6s.

THE BOOMING OF BUNKIE. A History. By A. S. NEILL. Herbert Jenkins. 6s. net.

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LITTLE PITCHERS. By OLIVER M. HUEFFER. Stanley Paul. 7s.

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IF ALL THESE YOUNG MEN. By ROMER WILSON. Methuen. 7s. net.

WELSH LOVE. By EDITH NEPEAN. Stanley Paul. 6s. net.

SYLLABUB FARM. By H. T. SHERINGHAM. Hodder & Stoughton. 7s.

A PAIR OF IDOLS. By STEWART CAVEN. Chapman & Hall. 7s. net.

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THE ESCAPE OF THE NOTORIOUS SIR WILLIAM HEANS. WILLIAM HAY. Allen & Unwin. 10s. 6d. net.

GASTRONOMIC

WINE AND SPIRITS. The Connoisseur's Text Book. By ANDREA L. SIMON. Duckworth. 7s. 6d. net.

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THE EXPANSION OF EUROPE. A History of the Foundations of the Modern World. By WILLIAM CORTEZ ABBOTT. Two vols. Bell. 30s. net.

A BRIEF HISTORY OF POLAND. By JULIA SWIFT ORVIS, Associate Professor of History in Wellesley College. Constable. 6s. net.

HISTORICAL NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENT. By RAFAEL SABATINI. Second series. Hutchinson. 7s. 6d. net.

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LAW

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MEDICAL

REMINISCENCES OF THREE CAMPAIGNS. By SIR ALEXANDER OGSTON, K.C.V.O., LL.D., Surgeon in Ordinary to the King in Scotland. Hodder & Stoughton. 16s. net.

DEMENTIA PRÆCOX AND PARAPHERNIA. By Professor EMIL KRAEPELIN, of Munich. Translated by MARY BARCLAY. Edited by G. M. ROBERTSON, Lecturer on Mental Diseases in the University of Edinburgh. E. and S. Livingstone. 15s. net.

LETTERS TO A YOUNG MAN ON LOVE AND HEALTH. By WALTER M. GALLICHAN. Werner Laurie. 4s. 6d. net.

MILITARY

MY WAR MEMORIES, 1914–1918. By GENERAL LUDENDORFF. Two vols. Hutchinson. 34s. net.

A PRIVATE IN THE GUARDS. By STEPHAN GRAHAM. Macmillan. 10s. net.

ESCAPING FROM GERMANY. By EDWARD PAGE (Private R.M.L.I.). Melrose. 4s. 6d. net.

PHILOSOPHY

EMERSON AND HIS PHILOSOPHY. By J. A. HILL. Rider. 3s. 6d. net.

POETRY

REYNARD THE FOX. By JOHN MASEFIELD. Heinemann. 5s. net.

MORE POEMS FROM THE CHINESE. Translated by ARTHUR WALEY. Allen & Unwin. 3s. and 4s. 6d. net.

A MUSE AT SEA. By E. HILTON YOUNG. Sidgwick & Jackson. 2s. 6d. net.

POEMS IN CAPTIVITY. By JOHN STILL. Lane. 7s. 6d.

THE PHARSALIA OF LUCAN. Translated by the Right Hon. EDWARD RIDLEY, sometime Fellow of All Souls College, Oxford, and one of the Judges of the High Court of Justice. Two vols. A. L. Humphreys. £2 2s. net.

THE GIFT. By M. CECILIA FURSE. Constable. 2s. 6d. net.

THE COLLECTED POEMS OF LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS. Martin Secker. 7s. 6d. net.

FORGOTTEN PLACES. By IAN MACKENZIE. Chapman & Hall. 3s. 6d. net.

POEMS NEWLY DECORATED. The Poetry Bookshop. 1s. net.

POEMS OF THE DAWN AND NIGHT. By HENRY MOND. Chapman & Hall. 3s. 6d.

THE SUPERHUMAN ANTAGONISTS. By SIR WILLIAM WATSON. Hodder & Stoughton. 5s. net.

POLITICS, ECONOMICS, Etc.

A PRIMER OF NATIONAL FINANCE. By HENRY HIGGS, C.B. Methuen. 5s. net.

BRITAIN'S OVERSEA TRADE. By W. H. HOOKER. Effingham Wilson. 3s. net.

INDUSTRY AND TRADE. By ALFRED MARSHALL. Macmillan. 18s. net.

THE MASTERY OF THE FAR EAST. The Story of Korea's Transformation and Japan's Rise to Supremacy in the Orient. By ARTHUR JUDSON BROWN. Bell. 25s. net.

THE ORIGIN OF GOVERNMENT. By HUGH TAYLOR. Blackwell. 10s. 6d. net.

THE UNFINISHED PROGRAMME OF DEMOCRACY. By RICHARD ROBERTS. Swaithmore Press. 6s. net.

SPEECHINGS AND WRITINGS OF LORD SINHA. Madras, G. A. Natesan & Co. Rs. 3.

THE GREAT ADVENTURE. Present-day Study in American Nationalism. By THEODORE ROOSEVELT. Murray. 6s. net.

BOLSHEVISM. The Enemy of Political and Industrial Democracy. By JOHN SPARGO. Murray. 7s. 6d. net.

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EUROPE IN THE MELTING-POT. By R. W. SETON-WATSON. Macmillan. 4s. 6d. net.

RELIGION

A COMMENTARY ON THE BIBLE. Edited by ARTHUR S. PEAKE, M.A., D.D., Rylands Professor of Biblical Exegesis in the University of Manchester. With the assistance for the New Testament of A. J. GREENE, M.A., D.D., Principal of the Congregational Hall, Edinburgh. T. C. and E. C. Jack. 10s. 6d. net.

STUDIES IN THE CONFESSIONS OF ST. AUGUSTINE. By R. L. ATTLEY, Canon of Christ Church, Hon. Fellow of Pembroke College, Oxford. Robt. Scott. 7s. 6d.

THE PRIMITIVE TRADITION OF THE EUCHARISTIC BODY AND BLOOD. By LUCIUS WATERMAN, D.D., Rector of St. Thomas' Church, Hanover, New Hampshire. Longmans. 9s. net.

IDEALISM. By WILLIAM WALKER, A.K.C., Rector of Pattiswick. Heath Cranton. 3s. 6d. net.

THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS, or Salvation through Growth. By EDMOND HOLMES. Constable. 12s. 6d.

THE LONDON

MERCURY

Editor—J. C. SQUIRE        Assistant-Editor—EDWARD SHANKS

Vol. I No. 2                          December 1919

EDITORIAL NOTES

OUR last notes in this place were written "in the dark." We sketched, in a general way, our attitude, our intentions, and our hopes whilst we were still without more evidence than our private enquiries could produce as to the degree of confidence that our proposals would inspire and the amount of support that we should receive. We are now more fully informed; and we may honestly say that, although our expectations were not, perhaps, coloured by an excessive diffidence, they have been more than realised.

The extraordinarily cordial reception given us, both by critics in the Press and by our readers, has proved that there is a demand for a paper on the lines which we have laid down, and that our first number was regarded as a satisfactory beginning. We must express our profound gratitude to those—there are hundreds—who have written to us in terms of unqualified appreciation and benevolence, and to the reviewers, whose kindness is more encouraging than they probably know. It now remains for us to attempt to live up to the promises we have made.

One more thing we must add before we turn to detail. Editors do not normally discuss the economics of their enterprises in public, and nobody wishes that they should. But before the LONDON MERCURY appeared, we made a special effort to start it on a firm basis by securing a large number of Original Subscribers. That effort was remarkably successful; thousands of persons subscribed for a year before they had seen a copy of the paper. These proved by their willingness to buy a pig in a poke that they were thoroughly interested in our scheme; and we are entitled to assume that they will be interested to hear that our initial success has been so great that our immediate future is securely guaranteed. In other words (though much ground remains to be won), we have been spared the wearing and worrying struggle to obtain a position and a "hearing" which so often embarrasses literary and artistic periodicals. A direct result of this is that we shall be under no necessity to experiment hastily, but shall be able to give due consideration to every possible development that occurs to us. A direct implication of it is that should we, in the long run, fail to satisfy the public, we should have nothing and nobody but ourselves to blame. Either our conception would have been proved unpopular or our execution would have been deemed inadequate. It is the most comfortable of situations. That is all we need say on the subject. We have spoken frankly about it (rather than affect an impassive indifference) simply because we think our readers would like us to do so.

We have as yet received no great number of detailed criticisms or suggestions for improvement. But there have been some, both in the Press and in the letters from our correspondents. Some of the suggestions that have been made we shall adopt; some we shall not; one or two of the most interesting are based on a misunderstanding. The most noticeable of these derive from the notion that the LONDON MERCURY was intended to be an exact analogue of the Mercure de France, and borrowed its title from that excellent paper. We may as well explain, once and for all, that the similitude with the Mercure de France, happy though it may be, was reached by accident; our own title was derived directly from the Mercuries which were the earliest products of the English periodical Press; and for our scheme we are indebted to no paper, British or foreign. A Scottish critic observes that "Belgian literature owed its notable capture of Europe largely to its [the Mercure's] whole-hearted welcome, and the new movement in Germany associated with the names of Rilke and Zweig found its first foreign recognition in its pages. Moreover, it surveyed the whole field of human intellectual achievement—philosophy, science, religion—in its articles.... The name of M. Davray at the foot of a Mercure article has made more than one British writer's reputation in Paris, and Europe would have been entirely ignorant that there was a new and rich literature in Spanish-America had not the Mercure discovered it and blazoned forth its merits." We might, if we would, make some remark on the detail of this. Rilke is not a major poet; Zweig is an unimportant, over-exuberant critic who tried, in vain, to persuade the late Emile Verhaeren that he was a German; the fame of Spanish-American literature, trumpeted though it may have been by the Mercure, has not yet reached London. But we prefer to concentrate on the more important point, and that is that our functions, as we conceive them, are not those of the Mercure de France. We have already published letters from French and American correspondents; we shall shortly publish letters from Italian, Russian, and German correspondents; we shall from time to time publish fuller articles about recent developments in foreign countries. But there are certain limits to our space, and there is a centre in our plans. It is an admirable thing to disseminate the works of good Belgian and Spanish-American authors, and we hope that we shall not overlook anything really important that comes from any quarter of the globe. But our principal object is to assist people to read the good English authors of the past, and to stimulate the popularity of good English authors of the present. There are those to whom any foreigner, writing in some mysteriously wonderful language, like French or Polish or Spanish-American, is a portent; but we are not amongst them. We desire to keep the British public in touch with all foreign developments that may be considered likely to be of special interest to the British public; but we certainly do not intend to devote to the study of foreign authors space that might more profitably be given to the examination of a dead or living man who has written in our own tongue. The Mercure bestows a great deal of attention on foreign authors; it publishes political articles; it concerns itself largely with problems of philosophy and religion. Some of these questions will be ignored by the LONDON MERCURY. Some it will discuss; regarding some its functions will be purely that of a recorder. But it does not propose to deflect from its original purpose, which was to publish the best contemporary "creative work" that it could obtain, to criticise new books and old, and to minister to the other needs of the British reader and the British book-collector. It is just as well that this should be clear.

In the present number one or two slight changes are to be observed. There is a minor, but not insignificant, typographical change, and two new, and we hope welcome, "features" have been added. These had already been premeditated, but we made them with all the more satisfaction in that several correspondents had recommended—we had almost said demanded—them. We hope, in an early issue, to add to these a section on Architecture, similar to the sections on Art, Music, and the Theatre.

Several correspondents have written to ask us whether we propose to devote any attention to the economics of authorship, and two of them (persons whom we conceive to have a direct and immediate interest in the subject) make special reference to the question of American copyright. To all of them we can reply that, although economics in general, like politics in general, come within the sphere of our self-abnegation, we shall throw what light we can on the economics of authorship, just as we shall hold ourselves free to trespass on politics when politics touch art. American copyright, as a fact, we had already marked out as one of the matters to which we intend to return again and again until America puts her laws straight. The British copyright laws are now, so far as they affect the author, on a very satisfactory footing. The principal countries of the world have signed the Berne Convention, and even Russia, had there been no Revolution, would by this time have agreed that the works of British authors should be automatically copyrighted in Russia. The more widely the civilised custom spreads the more glaring becomes what, without offence, we may call the offence of America. There only—and it is the largest English-speaking and English-reading community in the world—is the British author defenceless, there only may he be robbed with impunity of the fruits of his labour.

Let us recapitulate the elements of the American copyright law as they at present stand. Copyright in America is defined by a law of 1909. That Act lays down that a book, to secure legal protection, must be manufactured in the United States of America; the stipulation was carried on from an earlier statute. A book published in the English language may obtain interim protection for one month from the date of publication if a copy is forwarded to an office in Washington; but at the end of the month protection lapses. Copyright is lost unless a book (or a newspaper contribution) has been "set up" in the States and issued there within a month of its publication in Great Britain.

Now we have no hesitation in describing the present copyright arrangements as between England and America as immoral and unjust. They do not greatly handicap authors of international reputation, so far as their new books are concerned. If—he will forgive us for using his name as an illustration—Mr. Rudyard Kipling has written a new book, he will have no difficulty whatever in getting an American publisher to put it into type in America and issue it at a date approximate to that of the English publication. But even the eminent and the "arrived" are put to some trouble and expense by the necessity of "securing copyright," and on those who are not so eminent the law presses very hardly indeed. There are famous English authors whose early books are not copyright in America; there are young English authors who have to go through the anguish of seeing American copyright expire whilst some American publisher is debating whether or not he shall take "sheets" of a book from England; and "first books" of any character published in England can virtually never be copyrighted in America. It may, and should, be granted that as a body American publishers are more just and generous than their laws. We know of many cases in which the English authors of non-copyright books have obtained from American publishers precisely the same royalties as they have obtained from their English publishers. We know also of cases—relatively few, we gladly admit—in which the works of English authors have been pirated by American editors and publishers without sanction, thanks, or payment. But the mere fact that in most instances American publishers are ashamed to take advantage of the law, and that in other instances they do the handsome thing in order to secure "favours to come," is no palliation of the law. It is a harsh and a selfish law; a law unworthy of a great nation, a nation which is second to none in its professions and in its intentions with regard to the welfare of humanity at large.

The state of the law is commonly ascribed to the typographical unions. "Protection for Printers": books should have no rights in America unless American typographers have been employed upon them. Beneath this argument lies the naked, brutal fact that at present, America having not yet produced the great universal literature that she is destined to produce, America imports much more from us than we do from her. If "sheets" were copyright, whenever sent, we should get the better of the exchange; we produce ten Masefields for one O. Henry, and England would print far more for America than America would for England. This may determine the printers' attitude; though even the printers might realise that a time might come when the boot would be on the other leg, and British publishers will be in a position to squeeze American authors to any extent, and British printers will insist on printing books which might more conveniently and economically be printed in America. But surely, in a matter like this, the law ought not to be dictated by the selfish and shortsighted conceptions of a trade. We have never met an English author who has had, or who has contemplated, relations with America who has not been bitterly contemptuous of the American attitude towards the copyright law. We have never spoken to an American author or publisher who has not admitted that it was a disgrace to America. Authors may be a small body, but they are as entitled to their rights as anybody else; these, also, are God's creatures. President Wilson himself, for all we know, may under the present regime have lost English copyright in his early works; and the irony of the law is that it presses most hardly on those who have still their fortunes to make, for the celebrated, or their agents, can successfully cope with it.

These lines will, as we are happy to know, meet the eyes of many Americans who write and many who do not. We appeal to them to agitate for a change in their law. That the American copyright law should be placed on precisely the same basis as the English copyright law we do not ask, and have no right to ask. But that English authors should automatically enjoy in the United States the same privileges as are enjoyed by native authors is a reasonable proposition. Cannot somebody move the Legislature?

We shall return to this subject at greater length. Meanwhile, if we may hark back for a moment to the point from which our digression started, may we say that we shall welcome any suggestions our readers may make as to the development of the paper within the limits we have defined? Particularly we desire to hear—though we should not be human if we pretended to enjoy—objections, provided they are conceived in a friendly spirit, to anything in our present arrangements which may strike readers as unsatisfactory. It was another god who sprang, perfect and in full panoply, from the head of Jove.

LITERARY INTELLIGENCE

THE death of Mr. Bruce Cummings on October 22nd, at the age of thirty, brought to an end a literary career which was singular alike in its character and in its brevity. He did not expect to live to see the publication of his book, The Journal of a Disappointed Man, and himself inserted the last and the only falsity in it, except the name he gave himself: "Barbellion died on December 31st." But he did actually witness its remarkable success on its appearance in the early part of this year; and it is impossible not to feel that this must, to some extent, have alleviated his disappointment. He was remarkable, not only in his personality and his gifts, but also in the fact that he was fully and frankly conscious, at all events for some years before his death, that his journal would be published and would be examined as a literary composition. He compared it with the journals which were already famous, he speculated on the reception it would have, he experienced a thrill in discovering a sister-soul in Marie Bashkirtseff. And it is hardly doubtful that his expectations will be realised. His career was one of struggle under almost overwhelming difficulties. His earliest ambition was to be a naturalist; and without training or assistance of any kind he had almost achieved it, when the breakdown of his father compelled him to earn a more substantial, though still meagre, living as a reporter on the staff of a provincial newspaper. He struggled out of this pit, and eventually succeeded in obtaining a position at South Kensington, which, in view of the obstacles in his way, was an extraordinary performance. Through all this battle against odds he was handicapped by an ill-health which seems to have affected almost every organ in his body—a weak heart, susceptible, if not actually tubercular, lungs, dyspepsia, and disordered nerves; and these ailments were accompanied and intensified by a perpetual brooding over his health which, had it had no basis, might have been called acute hypochondria. But it was only after his marriage that he discovered, by a dramatic and extraordinary accident, that he was already condemned to death by a more terrible malady than any of these. Under the rapidly-approaching shadow of this end, he continued his work and his journal as long as his strength permitted, and survived, though but for a little and in a state of complete collapse, the success which had been so persistently denied him before. His journal tells an extraordinary story and reveals an extraordinary person. Its confessions are frank, quiet, and obviously truthful; and neither his introspective habit of mind nor his belief that his journal would be published seems ever to have vitiated his powers of observation and notation. But he was something more than a remarkable personality and a veracious reporter of himself. He was also a writer and a critic of great ability. His notes on literature and music, here and there through the diary, show considerable penetration and judgment; and his descriptions of persons and places are vivid, fascinating, and often humorous. A volume of his remains has just been issued under the title, Enjoying Life, and Other Essays; and this includes the paper on the great journal-writers to which he alludes more than once in his diary.

As a token of their admiration for a master in their craft, a number of poets recently united to make a presentation to Mr. Thomas Hardy, O.M., on the occasion of his entering his eightieth year. Their tribute took the form of a manuscript volume in which each of the poets wrote one of his own pieces and which was prefaced by an address written, it is understood, by the Poet Laureate, with whom are joined in the volume the Hon. Maurice Baring, Mr. Hilaire Belloc, Mr. Laurence Binyon, Mr. G. K. Chesterton, Mr. W. H. Davies, Mr. Walter de la Mare, Mr. Austin Dobson, Mr. Edmund Gosse, Mr. Maurice Hewlett, Mr. Ralph Hodgson, Mr. A. E. Housman, Mr. Rudyard Kipling, Mr. John Masefield, Mrs. Alice Meynell, Mr. Sturge Moore, Professor Gilbert Murray, Sir Henry Newbolt, Mr. Alfred Noyes, Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, Mr. G. W. Russell ("A. E."), Mr. Arthur Symons, Mr. Herbert Trench, Sir William Watson, Mr. W. B. Yeats, and many of their younger fellows. A sentence from the address, "We would thank you for the pleasure and increasing delight that your art has given us," explains the purpose of the gift and supplies a text on which a discourse might be pronounced. For if it is a delight for an established master to receive the homage of his juniors, it should be, and is, an especial delight for them to be able to offer it. We think it probable that some of the younger contributors to this volume will live to remember with wonder and gratitude the fact that they were able, while he still lived, to express their gratitude to one of the greatest of modern English poets.

Mr. Edmund Gosse, the doyen of English critics, celebrated his seventieth birthday in September, and, through Lord Crewe, a presentation was made to him accompanied by a memorial of almost unexampled length and distinction. Each of the signatories has since received a beautifully printed "memento." Those who saw Mr. Gosse's paper on George Eliot will not need to be told that his powers seem, if anything, to increase with age. Great and diverse as have been his services to literature since his first book was (when he was in his early twenties) published, his finest work, both "original" and critical, has appeared in recent years; and it is easily conceivable that the decade between his seventieth and his eightieth birthdays will be his most productive. A man of letters can be paid no higher compliment: Mr. Gosse has retained, and will retain to the end, the energy and the freshness of youth, whilst his knowledge and experience, in the natural course of things, broaden and deepen.

The death of Leonid Andreef removes the most savage pessimist of all the pessimists who have come out of modern Russia. But the author of The Life of Man, The Seven that Were Hanged, and The Red Laugh was not a pessimist for pessimism's sake: he suffered and he expressed his suffering sincerely. One of his short stories—that which tells of a student and his girl who were overtaken by a band of ruffians in a wood—is perhaps the most ghastly story that has ever been written; yet the most revolted reader could not suppose that the author had been less revolted than himself. Andreef had refused enormous offers to work for the Bolsheviks, and died, in great poverty, from shock induced by a rain of Bolshevik bombs near his house.

POETRY

Ishak's Song[5]

[5] This song comes from Flecker's unpublished drama Hassan, which those who have seen it consider immeasurably the finest thing that he ever wrote. It has remained in manuscript since his death, awaiting stage production. His Yasmin is another song from the play, and his well-known Golden Journey to Samarkand is its epilogue. Ishak is the Court poet of Haroun-al-Raschid.

Thy dawn, O Master of the World, thy dawn,

The hour the lilies open on the lawn,

The hour the grey wings pass beyond the mountains,

The hour of silence when we hear the fountains,

The hour that dreams are brighter and winds colder,

The hour that young love wakes on a white shoulder,

O Master of the World, the Persian dawn!

This hour, O Master, shall be bright for thee:

Thy merchants chase the morning down the sea,

The braves who fight thy fight unsheath the sabre,

The slaves who toil thy toil are lashed to labour,

For thee the waggons of the world are drawn—

The ebony of night, the red of dawn!

JAMES ELROY FLECKER

The Buzzards

When evening came and the warm glow grew deeper,

And every tree that bordered the green meadows

And in the yellow cornfields every reaper

And every corn-shock stood above their shadows

Flung eastward from their feet in longer measure,

Serenely far there swam in the sunny height

A buzzard and his mate who took their pleasure

Swirling and poising idly in golden light.

On great pied motionless moth-wings borne along,

So effortless and so strong,

Cutting each other's paths together they glided,

Then wheeled asunder till they soared divided

Two valleys' width (as though it were delight

To part like this, being sure they could unite

So swiftly in their empty, free dominion),

Curved headlong downward, towered up the sunny steep,

Then, with a sudden lift of the one great pinion,

Swung proudly to a curve, and from its height

Took half a mile of sunlight in one long sweep.

And we, so small on the swift immense hillside,

Stood tranced, until our souls arose uplifted

On those far-sweeping, wide,

Strong curves of flight—swayed up and hugely drifted,

Were washed, made strong and beautiful in the tide

Of sun-bathed air. But far beneath, beholden

Through shining deeps of air, the fields were golden

And rosy burned the heather where cornfields ended.

And still those buzzards wheeled, while light withdrew

Out of the vales and to surging slopes ascended,

Till the loftiest-flaming summit died to blue.

MARTIN ARMSTRONG

The Moon

(To Maurice Baring)

1

I waited for a miracle to-night.

Dim was the earth beneath a star-swept sky,

Her boughs were vague in that phantasmal light,

Her current rippled past invisibly.

No stir was in the dark and windless meadows,

Only the water, whispering in the shadows,

That darkened nature lived did still proclaim.

An hour I stood in that defeat of sight,

Waiting, and then a sudden silver flame

Burned in the eastern heaven, and she came.

2

The Moon, the Summer Moon, surveys the vale:

The boughs against the dawning sky grow black,

The shades that hid those whispering waters fail,

And now there falls a gleaming, lengthening track

That lies across the wide and tranquil river,

Burnished and flat, not shaken by a quiver.

She rises still: the liquid light she spills

Makes everywhere quick sparkles, patches pale;

And, as she goes, I know her glory fills

The air of all our English lakes and hills.

3

High over all this England doth she ride;

She silvers all the roofs of folded towns,

Her brilliance tips the edge of every tide,

Her shadows make soft caverns in the downs;

Even now, beyond my tree serenely sailing,

She clothes far forests with a gauzy veiling,

And even as here, where now I stare and dream,

Standing my own transfigured banks beside,

On many a quiet wandering English stream

There lies the unshifting image of her beam.

4

Yes, calm she mounts, and watching her, I know

By many a river other eyes than mine

Turn up to her; and, as of old, they show

Their inward hearts all naked to her shine:

Maids, solitaries, sick and happy lovers,

To whom her dear returning orb discovers

For each the gift he waits for: soft release,

The unsealing of imagination's flow,

Her own sweet pain, or other pain's surcease,

The friendly benediction of her peace.

5

I gaze as they: as kind she is, as fair,

As when long since a younger heart drank deep

From that sweet solace, while, through summer air,

Her lucid fingers hushed the world to sleep.

O as I stand this latest moon beholding,

Her forms unresting memory is moulding;

Beneath my enchanted eyelids there arise

Visions again of many moons that were,

Fair, fleeting moons gathered from faded skies.

Greeted and lost by these corporeal eyes.

6

Unnumbered are those moons of memory

Stored in the backward chambers of my brain:

The moons that make bright pathways on the sea,

The golden harvest moon above the grain;

The moon that all a sleeping village blanches,

The woodland moon that roves beyond the branches,

Filtering through the meshes of the green

To breast of bird and mossy trunk of tree;

Moons dimly guessed-at through a cloudy screen

The bronze diffusion shed by moons unseen;

7

Moons that a thin prismatic halo rings,

Looking a hurrying fleecy heaven through;

The fairy moons of luminous evenings,

Phantoms of palest pink in palest blue;

Large orange moons on earth's grey verge suspended,

When trees still slumber from the heat that's ended,

Erect and heavy, and all waters lie

Oily, and there is not a bird that sings.

All these I know, I have seen them born and die,

And many another moon in many a sky.

8

There was a moon that shone above the ground

Where on a grassy forest height I stood;

Bright was that open place, and all around

The dense discovered treetops of the wood,

Line after line, in misty radiance glistened,

Failing away. I watched the scene and listened;

Then, awed and hushed, I turned and saw alone.

Protruding from the middle of the mound,

Fringed with close grass, a moonlight-mottled stone,

Rough-carven, of antiquity unknown.

9

A night there was, a crowd, a narrow street,

Torches that reddened faces drunk with dreams;

An orator exultant in defeat;

Banners, fierce songs, rough cheering, women's screams;

My heart was one with those rebellious people,

Until along a chapel's pointing steeple

My eyes unwitting wandered, and I found

A moon, and clouds a swift and ragged sheet;

And in my spirit's life all human din

Died, and eternal Silence stood within.

10

And once, on a far evening, warm and still,

I leant upon a cool stone parapet.

The quays and houses underneath the hill

Twinkled with lights; I heard the sea's faint fret;

And then above the eastern cape's long billow

Silent there welled a trembling line of yellow,

A shred that quickened, then a half that grew

To a full moon, that moved with even will.

The night was long before her, well she knew,

And, as she slowly rose into the blue,

11

She slowly paled, and, glittering far away

Flung on the silken waters like a spear,

Her crispèd silver shaft of moonlight lay.

The lighthouse lamp upon the little pier

Burned wanly by that radiance clear and certain.

Waiting I knew not what uplifted curtain,

I watched the unmoving world beneath my feet

Till, without warning, miles across the bay,

Into that silver out of shadows beat,

Dead black, the whole mysterious fishing-fleet.

12

These moons I have seen, but these and every one

Came each so new it seemed to be the first,

New as the buds that open to the sun,

New as the songs that to the morning burst.

The roses die, each day fresh flowers are springing,

Last year it was another blackbird singing,

Thou only, marvellous blossom, whose pale flower

Beyond mankind's conjecture hath begun,

Retain'st for ever an unwithering power

That stales the loveliest stranger of an hour.

13

But O, had all my infant nights been dark,

Or almost dark, lit by the stars alone,

Had never a teller of stories bid me hark

The promised splendours of that moon unknown:

How perfect then had been the revelation

When first her gradual gold illumination

Broke on a night upon the conscious child:

My heart had stopped with beauty, seeing her arc

Climbing the heavens, so far and undefiled,

So large with light, so even and so mild.

14

Most wondrous Light, who bring'st this lovelier earth,

This world of shadows cool with silver fires,

Drawing us higher than our human birth:

To whom our strange twin-natured kind suspires

Its saddest thoughts, and tenderest and most fragrant

Tears, and desires unnameable and vagrant:

Watcher, who leanest quietly from above,

Saying all mortal wars are nothing worth:

Friend of the sorrowful, tranquil as the dove,

Muse of all poets, lamp of all who love.

15

Alone and sad, alone and kind and sweet,

But always peaceful and removed and proud,

Whether with loveliness revealed complete,

Or veiling from our vision in a cloud:

Our souls' eternal listener, could we wonder

That men who made of sun and storm and thunder

The awful forms of strong divinity,

Heard in each storm the noise of travelling feet,

Should, gazing at thy face with hearts made free,

Have felt a pure, immortal Power in thee?

16

Selene, Cynthia, and Artemis,

The swift proud goddess with the silver bow,

Diana, she whose downward-bending kiss

One only knew, though all men yearned to know;

The shepherd on a hill his flock was keeping,

The night's pale huntress came and found him sleeping:

She stooped: he woke, and saw her hair that shone,

And lay, drawn up to cool and timeless bliss

Lapt in her radiant arms, Endymion,

All the still night, until the night was gone.

17

By many names they knew thee, but thy shape

Was woman's always, transient and white:

A flashing huntress leaving hinds agape,

A sweet descent of beauty in the night:

Yet some, more fierce and more distraught their dreaming,

Brooded, until they fashioned from thy seeming,

A lithe and luring queen with fatal breath,

A witch the man who saw might not escape,

A snare that gleamed in shadowy groves of death,

The tall tiaraed Syrian Ashtoreth.

18

And even to-night in African forests some

There are, possessed by such a blasphemy;

Through branching beams thy fevered votaries come

To appease their brains' distorted mask of thee.

There in the glades the drums pulsate and languish,

Men leap and wail to dim the victim's anguish

In the sad frenzy of the sacrifice.

They are slaves to thee, made mad because thou art dumb,

And dumb thou lookest on them from the skies,

Above their fires and dances, blood and cries.

19

So these; but otherwhere, at such an hour,

In all the continents, by all the seas,

Men, naming not the goddess, feel thy power,

Adoring her with gentler rites than these:

The thoughts of myriad hearts to thee uplifted

Rise like a smoke above thine altars drifted,

Perpetual incense poured before thy throne

By those whom thou hast given thy secret dower,

Those in whose kindred eyes thy light is known,

Whom thou hast signed and sealed for thine own.

20

For thee they watch by Asian peaks remote,

Where thy snows gleam above the pointing pines;

Entranced on templed lakes is many a boat

For thee, where clear thy dropt reflection shines;

On the great seas where none but thou is tender

Rising and setting, unto thee surrender

All lonely hearts in lonely wandering ships;

And, where their warm far-scattered islands float,

Through forests many a flower-crowned maiden slips

To gaze on thee, with parted burning lips.

21

O thus they do, and thus they did of old;

Our hearts were never secret in thy sight;

Ere our first records were thy shrine was cold

That speechless eyes went seeking in the night;

Beyond the compass of our dim traditions

Thou knewest of men the pitiful ambitions,

Their loves and their despair; within thy ken

All our poor history has been unrolled;

Thou hast seen all races born and die again,

The climbing and the crumbling towers of men.

22

Black were the hollows of that Emperor's eyes

Who paced with backward arms beyond his tents,

Lone in the night, and felt above him rise

The ancient conqueror's sloping, smooth, immense,

Moon-pointing Pyramid's enduring courses,

Heard not his sentries, nor his stamping horses,

But thought of Egypt dead upon that air,

Fighting with his moon-coloured memories

Of vanished kings who builded, and the bare

Sands in the moon before those builders were.

23

Restless, he knew that moon who watched him muse,

Had seen a restless Cæsar brood on fame

Amid the Pharaohs' broken avenues.

And, circling round that fixed monition, came

Woven by moonlight, random, transitory,

Fragments of all the dim receding story:

The moonlit water dripping from the oars

Of triremes in the bay of Syracuse;

The opposing bivouacs upon the shores,

That knew dead Hector's and Achilles' wars.

24

He saw fall'n Carthage, Alexander's grave,

The tomb of Moses in the wilderness,

The moonlight on the Atlantean wave

That covered all a multitude's distress:

Cities and hosts and emperors departed

Under the steady moon. And sullen-hearted

He turned away, and, in a little, died,

Even as he who hunted from his cave

And struck his foe, and stripped the shaggy hide

Under the moon, and was not satisfied.

25

For in the prime, thy influence was felt;

When eyes first saw, thy beauty was as this;

Thy quiet look bade hope, fear, passion melt

Before men dreamed of empire. The abyss

Of thought yawned through their jungle then, as ever

Dark past, dark future, menaced their endeavour:

Yet, on thy nights, stood some by hill and sea

Naked; and blind impulsive spirits knelt,

Not questioning why they knelt, feeling in thee

Thought's strangest, sweetest, saddest mystery.

26

Still Moon, bright Moon, compassionate Moon above,

Thou shinedst there ere any life began,

When of his pain or of his powerless love

Thou heardest not from heart of any man;

Though long the earth had shaken off the vapour

Left by the vanished gleams of fire, the shaper,

Old, old, her stony wrinkled face did grow

Ere aught but her blind elements did move;

Dumb, bare, and prayerless thou saw'st her go,

And afterwards again shalt see her so.

27

A time there was when Life had never been,

A time will be, it will have passed away;

Still wilt thou shine, still tender and serene,

When Life which in thy sister's yesterday

Had never flowered, will have drooped and faded;

Passed with the clouds that once her bosom shaded.

She will be barren then as not before,

Bared of her snows and all her garments green;

No darkling sea by any earthly shore

Will take thy rays: thy kin will be no more.

28

Pale satellite, old mistress of our fires,

Who hast seen so much and been so much to men,

Symbol and goal of all our wild desires,

Not any voice will cry upon thee then;

Dreamer and dream, they will have all gone over,

The sick of heart, the singer and the lover,

An end there will have been to all their lust,

Their sorrow, and the sighing of their lyres;

O all this Life that stained Earth's patient crust,

Time's dying breath will have blown away like dust.

29

Gone from thine eye that brief confusèd stir,

The rumours and the marching and the strife;

Earth will be still, and all the face of her

Swept of the last remains of moving life;

The last of all men's monuments that defied them,

Like those his valiant gestures that denied them,

Into the waiting elements will fade,

And thou wilt see thy fellow traveller,

A forlorn round of rocky contours made,

A glimmering disk of empty light and shade,

30

Ah, depth too deep for thought therein to cast;

The old, the cold companions, you will go,

Obeying still some long-forgotten past,

And all our pitiful history none will know;

Still shining, Moon, still peaceful, wilt thou wander,

But on that greater ball no heart will ponder

The thought that rose and nightingale are gone,

And all sweet things but thou; and only vast

Ridges of rock remain, and stars and sun;

O Moon, thou wilt be lovely alone for none.

31

And so, pale wanderer, so thou leavest me,

Passing beyond imagination's range,

Away into the void where waits for thee

Thy inconceivable destiny of change;

And after all the memories I have striven

To paint, this picture that thyself hast given

Lives, and I watch, to all those others blind,

Thy form, gliding into eternity,

Fading, an unconjectured fate to find,

The last, most wonderful image of the mind.

32

Moon, I have finished, I have made thy song,

I have paid my due and done my worship, Moon;

Yet, though I truly serve and labour long,

Thou givest not, nor do I ask, one boon;

That peace which clings around thee where thou goest,

Which many seek from thee and thou bestowest,

Did never this most faithful heart invest;

Even now thou shinest clear and calm and strong,

And I, and I, the heart within my breast,

Troubled with beauty, Moon, and never at rest.

J. C. SQUIRE

MISADVENTURES

By L. PEARSALL SMITH

At Solemn Music

I SAT there, hating the exuberance of her bust and her high-coloured wig. And how could I listen to the music in the close proximity of those loud stockings?

Then our eyes met: in both of us the enchanted chord was touched; we both looked through the same window into Heaven. In that moment of musical, shared delight—these awful things will happen—our souls joined hands and sang like the morning stars together.

The Platitude

"It's after all, the little things in life that really matter!" I exclaimed, to my own surprise and the general consternation. I was as much chagrined as they were flabbergasted by this involuntary outbreak; but from my reading of the Chinese mystics, and from much practice in crowded railway carriages, I have become expert in that Taoist art of disintegration which Yen Hui described to Confucius as the art of "sitting and forgetting." I have learnt to lay aside my personality in awkward moments, to dissolve this self of mine into the All Pervading; to fall back, in fact, into the universal flux, and sit, as I now sat there, a blameless lump of matter, rolled on, according to the heaven's rolling, inert and unconcerned, with rocks and stones and trees.

The Communion of Souls

"So of course I bought it! How could I help buying it?" Then lifting the conversation, as with Lady Hyslop one always lifts it, to a higher level, "This notion of free will," I went on, "the notion, for instance, that I was free to buy or not to buy that rare edition, seems, when you think of it—at least to me it seems—a wretched notion really. I like to think I must follow the things of desire as—how shall I put it?—as the tide follows the moon; that my actions are due to necessary causes; that the world inside isn't a meaningless chaos, but a world of order, like the world outside, governed by beautiful laws, as the Stars are governed."

"How I love the Stars!" murmured Lady Hyslop. "What things they say to me! They are the pledges of lost recognitions—the promise of ineffable mitigations."

"Mitigations?" I gasped, feeling a little giddy. But it didn't matter: always when we meet Lady Hyslop and I have the most wonderful conversations. And is not their greatest charm precisely the fact that neither of us understands a word the other says?

Disenchantment

Life, I often thought, would be so different if I only had one; but in the meantime I went on fastening scraps of paper together with pins.

Opalescent, infinitely desirable, tinged with all the rainbow hues of fancy, inaccessible in the window of a stationer's shop around the corner, gleamed the paste-pot of my day-dreams. Every day I passed it, but every day some inhibition paralyzed my will; or my thoughts would be distracted in a golden dream or splendid disenchantment, some metaphysical perplexity, or giant preoccupation with the world's woe.

So time rolled on; the seasons followed in each other's footsteps. Empires rose and fell; and still that paste-pot hung, a dragon-guarded fruit of the Hesperides, in the window I walked by every day.

Then one morning, one awful morning, my pins gave out. I met this crisis with manly resolution: I was the master of my fate! Summoning all the forces of my moral nature, I put on my hat and went calmly out and bought that paste-pot. I bought three paste-pots, and carried them with me calmly home. At last the countercharm was found, the spell was broken, and the Devil finally defeated—but, oh, at what a cost! In the reaction, which immediately followed, I sat, facing those pots of nauseating paste, unnerved and disenchanted, beyond the reach of consolation, with nothing to wait for now but Death.

The Listener

The topic was one of my favourite topics of conversation, but I didn't at all feel on this occasion that it was I who was speaking. No, it was the Truth shining through me; the light of the Revelation which I had been chosen to proclaim and blazon to the world. No wonder they were all impressed by my moving tones and gestures; no wonder even the fastidious lady whom it was most difficult to please kept watching me with almost ecstatic attention.

As in an eclipse the earth's shadow falls upon the moon, or as a cloud may obscure the sun in his glory, so a shadow fell, so from some morass of memory arose a tiny mist of words to darken my mind for a moment. I brushed them aside: they had no meaning. Sunning myself in the lovely mirror of those eyes, never, for a moment, could I credit that devil-suggested explanation of their gaze.

And anyhow—thus I laughed away the notion—how could she do it anyhow, even if she tried? Other people perhaps—but me? No, that phrase I had heard, I had heard, was a nonsense phrase; the words, "She mimics you to perfection," could be nothing but a bit of unintelligible jabber. For who can turn the rainbow or the lightning-flash into ridicule, make fun of the moon's splendour, or mimic the Daystar in his shining?

Shrinkage

Sometimes my soul floats out beyond the constellations, then all the vast life of the universe is mine. Then again it evaporates, it shrinks, it dwindles, and of all that flood of thought which over-brimmed the great Cosmos there is hardly enough now left to fill a teaspoon.

The Lift

What on earth had I come up for? I stood out of breath in my bedroom, having completely forgotten the errand, which, just as I was going out, had carried me upstairs, leaping two steps at a time.

Gloves! Of course it was my gloves which I had left there. But what did gloves matter, I asked myself, in a world bursting with misery, as Dr. Johnson describes it?

O stars and garters! how bored I am by this trite, moralizing way of regarding natural phenomena—this crying of vanity on the beautiful manifestation of mechanical forces. This desire of mine to appear out of doors in appropriate apparel, if it can thus defy and overcome the law of gravitation—if it can lift twelve stone of matter thirty or forty feet above the earth's surface; if it can do this every day, and several times a day, and never get out of order, is it not as remarkable and convenient in the house as a hydraulic lift?

The Danger of Going to Church

As I came away from the Evening Service, walking home from that Sabbath adventure, some neighbours of mine passed me in their motor laughing. Were they laughing at me? I wondered uneasily; and as I sauntered across the fields I vaguely cursed those misbelievers, remembering some maledictions from the Prophets, and from the Psalms we had sung that evening. Yes, yes, their eyes should be darkened, and their lying lips put to silence. They should be smitten with the botch of Egypt, and a sore botch in the legs that cannot be healed. All the teeth should be broken in the mouths of those bloody men and daughters of backsliding; their faces should become as flames, and their heads be made utterly bald. Their little ones should be dashed to pieces before their eyes, and brimstone scattered upon their habitations. They should be led away with their buttocks uncovered; they should stagger to and fro as a drunken man staggereth in his vomit.

But as for the Righteous Man who kept his Sabbaths, his should be the blessings of those who walk in the right way. "These blessings"—the words came back to me from the Evening Lesson—"these blessings shall come upon thee and overtake thee." And suddenly, in the mild summer air, it seemed as if, like a swarm of bees inadvertently wakened, the blessings of the Old Testament were actually rushing after me. From the hot, remote, passionate past of Hebrew history, out of the Oriental climate and unctuous lives of that infuriate people, gross good things were coming to reward me with benedictions for which I had not bargained. Great oxen and camels and concubines were panting close behind me, he-goats and she-goats and rams of the breed of Bashan. My barns should burst their doors with plenty, and all my paths drop fatness. My face should be smeared with the oil of rejoicing; all my household and the beasts of my household should beget and bear increase; and as for the fruit of my own loins, it should be for multitude as the sands of the sea and as the stars of heaven. My sons and daughters, and their sons and daughters to the third and fourth generation, should rise up and call me blessed. My feet should be dipped in butter, and my eyes stand out with fatness; I should flourish as the Cedar of Lebanon that bringeth forth fruit in old age.

My Prayer Book began to smoke in my hand from the hot lava embedded in it; the meadow was scorched by the live coals of cursing and still more awful benediction I had so thoughtlessly raked out of the church furnace and brought down in a hot shower on myself and my neighbours.

The Wrong Word

We were talking of the Universe at tea, and one of our company declared that he at least was entirely without illusions. He had long since faced the fact that Nature had no sympathy with our hopes and fears, and was completely indifferent to our fate. The Universe, he said, was a great mechanism; man, with his reason and moral judgments, was the chance product of blind forces, which, though they would so soon destroy him, he must yet despise. To endure this tragedy of our fate with passionless despair, never to wince or bow the head, to confront a hostile universe with high disdain, to fix with eyes of scorn the Gorgon face of Destiny, to stand on the brink of the abyss, hurling defiance at the icy stars—this, he said, was his attitude, and it produced, as you can imagine, a very powerful impression on the company. As for me, I was completely carried away by my enthusiasm. "By Jove, that is a stunt!" I cried.

Interruption

"Life," said a gaunt widow, with a reputation for being clever—"life is a perpetual toothache."

In this vein the conversation went on: the familiar topics were discussed of food-restrictions, epidemics, cancer, and so on.

Near me there sat a little old lady who was placidly drinking her tea, and taking no part in the melancholy chorus. "Well, I must say," she remarked, turning to me and speaking in an undertone, "I must say I enjoy life."

"So do I," I whispered.

"When I enjoy things," she went on, "I know it. Eating, for instance, the sunshine, my hot-water bottle at night. Other people are always thinking of unpleasant things. It makes a difference," she added, as she got up to go with the others.

"All the difference in the world," I answered.

It's too bad that I had no chance for further conversation with that wise old lady. I felt that we were congenial spirits, and had a lot to tell each other. For she and I are not among those who fill the mind with garbage: we make a better use of that divine and adorable endowment. We invite Thought to share, and by sharing to enhance, the pleasures of the delicate senses; we distil, as it were, an elixir from our golden moments, keeping out of the shining crucible of consciousness everything that tastes sour. I do wish that we could have discussed at greater length, like two Alchemists, the theory and practice of our art.

The Rationalist

Occultisms, fairyisms, incantations, glimpses of the Beyond, intimations from another world—all kinds of supernaturalisms are most distasteful to me; I cling to the world of science and common sense and explicable phenomena; and I was much put out, therefore, to find this morning a cabalistic inscription written in letters of large menace on my bath-room floor. TAM HTAB—what could be the meaning of these cryptic words, and how on earth had they got there? Like Belshazzar, my eyes were troubled by this writing, and my knees smote one against the other; till majestic Reason, deigning to look downward from her contemplation of eternal causes, spelt backwards for me, with a pitying smile, the homely, familiar, harmless inscription on the BATH MAT, which was lying there wrong side up.

Justification

Well, what if I did put it on a little at that luncheon-party? Do I not owe it to my friends to assert now and then my claims to consideration; ought I always to allow myself to be trampled on and treated as dirt? And how about the Saints and Patriarchs of the Bible? Didn't Joseph tell of the dream in which his wheatsheaf was exalted, and Deborah sing without blame how she arose a mother in Israel? And didn't David boast of his triumph over the paw of the lion and the paw of the bear? Nay, in his confabulations with His chosen people, does not the Creator of the universe Himself take every opportunity of impressing on those Hebrews His importance, His power, His glory?

Was I not made in His image?

Day-dream

"Yes, as you say, life is so full of disappointment, disillusion! More and more I ask myself, as I grow older, what is the good of it all? We dress, we go out to dinner," I went on, "but surely we walk in a vain show. How good this asparagus is! I often think asparagus is the most delicious of all vegetables. And yet I don't know—when one thinks of fresh green peas. One can get tired of asparagus as one can of strawberries—but tender green peas and peaches I could eat for ever. And there are certain pears, too, that taste like heaven. It's one of my favourite day-dreams for my declining years to live alone, a formal, greedy, selfish old gentleman, in a square house, say, in Devonshire, with a square garden, whose walls are covered with apricots and figs and peaches; and there are precious pears, too, of my own planting, on espaliers along the paths. I shall walk out with a gold-headed cane in the autumn sunshine, and just at the right moment pick a delicious pear. However, that isn't at all what I was going to say——"

EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY POETRY

By GEORGE SAINTSBURY

(A paper based on, but not identical with, a discourse delivered at what may be called the headquarters of the subject—the Pump Room, Bath, October 1st, 1919)

THE effect of convincing anyone against his will is sufficiently familiar, but it may be questioned whether there is not another state of mind which is still more insusceptible of real conviction, which it is still more of a labour of Sisyphus to convince. In this state there is too much mere inertia for the word "will" to come in. There is no intention of relapsing into the same opinion; there is indeed no need of any, for the opinion is never disturbed. The attempts at convincing need not be resisted or contemned; they may even be listened to and enjoyed like a very pleasant song, but they are at once forgotten.

Something of this sort, it may be feared, is the case with the subject of this present paper. People have made up their minds that there was no eighteenth-century poetry or, at best, that such as there was was not properly eighteenth-century poetry at all, but merely a survival or an anticipation. The present writer had a perhaps accidental but certainly curious illustration of the fact in reference to the origin of this very paper; for having expressed his intention of discussing "eighteenth-century poetry," he found the subject announced at first as "eighteenth-century verse." In face of such a popular attitude—let us be bold and give it its proper name: such a vulgar error—it may not be quite idle to make a fresh attempt against it. I am not sure that in some of the versions of the Pagan Apocrypha it is not recorded that Sisyphus did get that stone lodged at last. At any rate it is worth trying, even at the risk, which is almost a certainty, of the very illogical suspicion that if you like eighteenth-century poetry, you don't like—or don't sufficiently understand—seventeenth and nineteenth. On that point the present writer may, he thinks, slap his sword home and decline duello with any man. But he will take the liberty firstly, in order to confine the matter within reasonable limits, of leaving Pope almost entirely out. Obviously the famous and much-argued question, "Was Pope a poet?" can be answered, even in the negative, without deciding our general point here.

There is, of course—the fact has been already admitted by glance—a division of the poetry of 1700–1800 to which, in a more or less grudging way, the poetical franchise is generally granted. Scraps of Lady Winchilsea and Parnell quite early; Dyer and Thomson at the beginning of the second quarter; Collins and Gray in the middle; Blake and Burns and Chatterton if not also Cowper and Crabbe, in the last division are admitted, if only to a sort of provincial or proselyte membership. Gray, indeed, has always been granted special grace, even, as some think, to an unfair comparative extent, and perhaps Mr. Swinburne's exuberant championship was never less wasted than in the cases of Collins and Blake. But Blake really does belong to no time at all except in a few fragments, and most of the others are too well known for further comment. Let us in the very limited space here available, before passing to other aspects of the subject, take two poems, one of the earlier, one of the later time, as examples of pure poetry charged with special eighteenth-century difference—for that is the point at issue. They shall be Dyer's Grongar Hill and Mrs. Greville's Prayer for Indifference. The one is a picture of that external nature to which as a rule the century is supposed to have been blind, yet charged with an "inwardness" to which that century is equally supposed to have been callous. The other is a poem of mood, almost a pathological poem, possessing the same inwardness, but charged with a flutter of feeling, again supposed to be quite unknown to the age of prose and sense. Both are curious examples of what is called the conventional phraseology of the time, flushed and animated by something additional—a characteristic which also appears in Collins, but is more disputable in Gray, save perhaps in the remarkable "Vicissitude" ode. Grongar Hill ought to be given whole, but it is not difficult of access; the "Hymn" is not so easy to get at, but it suffers less from "sampling."

There is not the slightest extravagance, from any catholic point of view over poetry, in calling Grongar Hill simply beautiful. I think it deserves that term better than anything of Gray's, though not perhaps quite so well as some things of Collins's in the first half of the century; while nothing outside them can touch it, and it came before both. Its attractions, to a somewhat close student, are manifold, not the least of them being the fashion in which, for the first time since Milton, and in a way not directly imitated even from him, it moulds the couplet of mixed eight and seven syllable lines. But one need not neglect the late Mr. Lowell's remark that when Edgar Poe talked of iambs and pentameters he made other people d——n metres. The poem has plenty of other attractions for the most untechnical reader. Dyer, who was himself a painter, invokes the Muse of Painting as well as Her of Poetry, and it is really remarkable how, at this time when hardly anybody is supposed to have had his eye on nature except Thomson, and in the very year of Winter itself, full eighty, too, before Scott provoked from Pitt his famous surprise that verse should be able to express the effect of painting—how visual as well as audible effect is produced. The exordium to the

Silent nymph with curious eye,

Who in the purple evening lie

On the mountain's lonely van;

the following description of the landscape in general with its unusual and extraordinarily true conclusion:

And swelling to embrace the light,

Spreads around beneath the sight,

in which everybody who has after climbing a hill turned round and seen the prospect must acknowledge the felicity of "swelling," though he may never have formulated the appearance before; the details of wood, and ruin, and river, with the sudden and just sufficient moral:

A little rule, a little sway,

A sunbeam on a winter's day;

for the castle, and for the rivers:

Sometimes swift, sometimes slow,

Wave succeeding wave they go,

A various journey to the deep,

Like human life to endless sleep;

the fillings in of various detail and the penultimate passage formed into a sort of roundel:

Now, even now, my joys run high

As on the mountain turf I lie,

While the wanton Zephyr sings

And in the vale perfumes his wings;

While the waters murmur deep,

While the shepherd charms his sheep,

While the birds unbounded fly,

And with music fill the sky—

Now, even now, my joys run high;

with the finale to Peace and Quiet, close allied to Pleasure—all these and all the rest of the 150 lines or so of the poem have their own appropriate agreeableness. And it will be very dangerous for anyone to try the usual sneer at eighteenth-century convention, lest haply he be thought to be blinded or hoodwinked by conventions of another sort. He has, for instance, been taught to think "wanton Zephyr" very bad. But has he quite realised the simplicity and perfection with which the single word "sings" distinctively characterises the rush of the wind aloft, and the next line brings before the mind's senses the flowers and crops and woods, from which the "perfume" is derived below? Is "unbounded," in the particular and yet fully legitimate sense, quite what Edmond de Goncourt used disdainfully to call "everybody's epithet" for the apparently limitless freedom of the birds' flight? Without quoting the whole piece it would be impossible to show the singular uniformity of pictorial and musical skill which distinguishes it; but this can be left, with complete security of mind, to anyone who gives it an impartial reading to discover for himself. Even the impartial reader is not recommended to proceed from Grongar Hill to The Ruins of Rome, as the poet in this latter piece most unwisely invites him to do—still less to The Fleece. But no attempt is being made here to prove that the eighteenth century never produced bad poetry: one merely endeavours to point out that it sometimes produced good.

The Prayer for Indifference is much less varied in kind, and much more limited in degree, of attraction, but it is perhaps subtler. The personal application of it can escape no reader of Fanny Burney's Diaries, but is not necessary to appreciation. The idea is that of an appeal to Oberon for a "balm" slightly different from that which plays so important a part in A Midsummer Night's Dream—a spell causing neither love nor hate, but only indifference. The metre is ordinary ballad or common measure; the language not very different from the ordinary poetic diction of the time. You are not, as in Grongar Hill, made to believe that you are not in the eighteenth century at all, or, if at all, as far from its usual and central ways and thoughts as Grongar itself was and is from London. But, by a quaint and pleasing paradox, the suppliant infuses into her prayer qualities which were the very opposite of that which she prays for, and which in a certain sense might be said to be the quality of the century itself at least on the common estimate. Indifference—in the sense of abstinence from enthusiasm—certainly was affected by many, and positively approved by some, in those days. But when the lady says:

I ask no kind return in love,

No tempting charm to please—

Far from the heart such gifts remove

That sighs for peace and ease,

there is a quiver in verse and phrase and sense alike which indicates and expresses very effectively aspirations quite different from indifference. And the quiver becomes a throb, emphasised by the repetition of that potent word "far," as she goes on:

Nor ease, nor peace that heart can know

That, like the needle true,

Turns at the touch of joy or woe,

But, turning, trembles too.

Far as distress the soul can wound,

'Tis pain in each degree;

'Tis bliss, but to a certain bound,

Beyond, 'tis agony.

And there is not much less real passion, though the expression has become ironic instead of direct, in the concluding stanza:

And what of life remains to me

I'll pass in sober ease:

Half-pleased, contented I will be—

Content but half to please.

Now it is probably hopeless to expect readers who have been thoroughly broken to other styles of poetry themselves to be contented, to be even "half-pleased" with this. The metre will seem to them jog-trot, the language hopelessly prosaic, the expression, as Nietzsche says of John Stuart Mill, "offensively clear"; the absence of any attempt at elaborate ornament or elaborate ugliness almost more offensive still. And it may also seem idle boasting or sheer mendacity to observe that there are people who delight in intricate versification, who love even metaphysical ambiguousness and obscurity; people for whom Blake is not too uncommonplace or Rossetti too flamboyant, or—to come to more recent days, while keeping to the equal waters of the dead—Mary Coleridge too problematic, who yet can enjoy this verse very much indeed, and feel that, having known it, they could not do without it, which some have held to be the great test of poetry. Indeed, to them, not the least interesting point about it is that it does take the form and colour of the time to so large an extent and vindicates its indispensableness thereby. On the other hand, if anyone says, "But I do not perceive the quiver, or feel the throb of which you talk," why, of course, there is nothing more to be done or said. For that person Mrs. Greville's work is undoubtedly not poetry. But whether his or her state is the more gracious, because of the fact, is a further question, though one on which we need not enter. The whole purport of this paper is once more to make an effort to establish the old position that there are many mansions in the Heaven of Poetry, and that the mere fact that some one does not care to live in or to recognise the existence of this or that among them does not prove that they ought to be pulled down or that they do not exist at all.

It may, however, be admitted—in fact no admission or confession is required, no idea of contesting or denying having been entertained—that neither the qualities of Grongar Hill nor those of the Prayer, that still less the general characteristics of the group of romantic precursors from Collins to Blake distinguish eighteenth-century poetry generally. And it may in the same way be further allowed that some of the actual characteristics of this poetry in general are not strictly poetic at all. Its didacticism is perhaps the chief of these; but there are undoubtedly others. And we are busy not with what is not poetical in eighteenth-century verse, but with what is poetical in eighteenth-century poetry. There are two departments in which it is almost pre-eminent, in which it is certainly very distinguished. The strict poeticalness of both of them has indeed been denied by extremists. All of us probably have heard it said, perhaps some of us have said it ourselves, that rhetoric is not poetry; and (though here there may not have been so much agreement) that "light" verse, whether regularly satiric or not, is at best poetry by allowance and, short of the best, not poetry at all. Now undoubtedly some rhetoric is not poetry, and a good deal of light verse is poetry only by extremely generous allowance. But the complete ostracising of either kind from the poetical city involves two propositions which are contentious in the extreme, and which I and those who think with me hold to be abominable heresies. The one is that "All depends on the subject" in poetry, and the other is that "Verse is not an essential feature of poetry." We maintain that anything can be treated poetically, though some things are very rebellious to such treatment, and that though rhetoric is strictly a characteristic of prose, it cam be, so to speak, super-saturated with poetry when it adopts poetical form, the same contention extending to the subjects of satiric or of merely light verse. A great deal of the abundant rhetorical verse of the eighteenth century is no doubt not poetry, or not very poetical poetry, and a good deal of its abundant satire, not a very little of its vers de société and trifles is not poetry or not very poetical. But, on the other hand, not a very little of both kinds is poetry, and the reason and origin of its poetical character are by no means uninteresting to trace. There is no room, and indeed not much occasion, to do this at length here. Suffice it to say that for its rhetorical verse the century was very much indebted to Dryden, and that for its light verse it was still more indebted to Prior.

The positions of the two were indeed different, for Dryden was a dead man when the century opened, though he had died on its very eve, while Prior was an actual member of its first great literary group. And, further, Dryden's influence, though it continued to some extent directly through the whole time, was largely exercised at second-hand through Pope, while Prior's was first-hand all through. For which reasons we need not say anything more here on Dryden himself, while we must say something on Prior. But the rhetorical influence which had produced such great poetry (for great it is, let who will gainsay) as the finest passages of Dryden's satires, the opening of Religio Laici, the "wandering fires" paragraph in The Hind and the Panther, and not a few things in the neglected plays, was well justified of its children in the following century. I have never seen any successful attempt to deny the name of poetry to such magnificent things as the close of The Dunciad and the close of The Vanity of Human Wishes. I have never seen any real fight at all made for this denial except the endeavour to turn them, as scapegoats, into the wilderness of rhetoric. And that, as I have said already, is really a begging of the question. Most certainly there is rhetoric which is not poetry—there is a very great deal of it—in fact most of it; as certainly there is rhetoric which is. And the passages which may claim that name in the eighteenth century, if never quite so great as the two just mentioned, are very numerous. There is that fine one in Tickell's epitaph on Cadogan which, after the eclipse of eighteenth-century verse in the earlier nineteenth, Thackeray was the first to rediscover:

Ah, no! when once the mortal yields to fate

The blast of Fame's sweet trumpet sounds too late—

Too late to stay the spirit on its flight

Or soothe the new inhabitant of light,

with its later address to Fame herself:

Thou music, warbling to the deafened ear!

Thou incense, wasted on the funeral bier!

There is Akenside's still finer Epistle to Curio, which Macaulay laughed at rather ignobly as unpractical. Well, Akenside, like Macaulay himself, was a Whig, and I am a Tory; nor are the ideals expressed in the following lines by any means mine. But if they are not fine lines, if they are not, though in one of the outer provinces no doubt, poetical, I will acknowledge that I know nothing at all about poetry:

Ye shades immortal, who by Freedom led,

Or in the field or on the scaffold bled,

Bend from your radiant seats a joyful eye,

And view the crown of all your labours nigh.

See Freedom mounting her eternal throne,

The sword submitted, and the laws her own;

See public power chastised beneath her stand,

With eyes intent and uncorrupted hand,

See private life by wisest arts reclaimed,

See ardent youth to noblest manners framed,

See us acquire whate'er was sought by you,

If Curio! only Curio! will be true.

Well, once more, Curio, alias Pulteney, was not true, but deserted Akenside's party and became Earl of Bath and possessor of no small part thereof. And private life and ardent youth were not reclaimed much in the days of the historic Charteris and the fictitious Lovelace. And the practical realisation of something like Akenside's undoubted principles and aspirations was the French Revolution fifty and the Russian Revolution nearer two hundred years later. But all this has nothing to do with the question whether in this passage also rhetoric, which hardly anybody will deny to it, has not passed under the influence and received the transforming force of poetry. I say it has, though I am perfectly willing to admit that it is not the best or the most poetical form of poetry, and that it is very far indeed from the forms that I myself like best. But one of the cries which the critic should never be tired of uttering, whether in the streets or in the wilderness, is that nothing is bad merely because it is different from another thing which is good, and that in this world there is no equality or fixed standard to which everything must be cut down or stretched out. The best rhetorical poetry of the eighteenth century is not the best poetry, but it is poetry in its own way, exhibiting the glow, the rush, the passion, which strict prose cannot, and which poetry can, give.

There is less specific prejudice against "light" poetry on the part of poetical highfliers than there is against poetical rhetoric, but there is some. Once more I venture to disallow this prejudice in toto as far as kind is concerned, though, of course, each individual specimen of that kind must pass its individual muster as a piece of intenser thought or feeling, expressed in appropriate language and inspired by the charm of verse-music. For that, though no one ever has defined or will define poetry, is one of the divers good approaches to a description of it. Now here, as was briefly said above, the eighteenth century possessed, for nearly the whole of its first quarter as an actual living practitioner, and for the whole of the rest of it as a past contemporary of still living persons, an unsurpassed general of light verse in Matthew Prior. On the whole I know few English poets who have so seldom had full justice done to them. No competent judge, indeed, has ever denied Prior's excellence in pure lightness, but there have been frequent failures to allow for that undercurrent of seriousness, sadness, and almost passion—that "feeling in earnest while thinking in jest," according to the best definition of humour—which characterises him. Thackeray has, indeed, equalled, but in obvious and even frank following, the great lines written (or not written) in Mézeray's History of France; but hardly anyone else has come near them in irony and melancholy and music, blended as three appeals in one. There is even a touch, though more than a touch would have been out of place, in the famous Child of Quality, and a great deal more, not quite so perfectly expressed, in the Lines to Charles Montague. If the touch of sadness be for the moment unwelcome, there is Daphne and Apollo or the famous English Padlock, with a dozen or several dozen others ready to hand. And to go to yet another nuance, the recent discovery at Longleat of Jinny the Just, with its touches of sincere sorrow and the three unequalled stanzas of kindly irony:

Thus still, while her morning unseen fled away,

In ord'ring the linen and making the tea,

That she scarce could have time for the psalms of the day—

And while after dinner the night came so soon

That half she proposed very seldom was done,

With twenty "God bless me's, how this day has gone!"

While she read, and accounted, and paid, and abated,

Ate and drank, played and worked, laughed and cried, loved and hated,

As answered the end of her being created,

especially with that last unsurpassable line; all these and many more exemplify and illustrate that indescribable raising of the expression—that making the common as if it were not common—which is the essence of poetry and the privilege of verse.

How this side of the matter was produced (in the mathematical sense) and maintained throughout the century would take many times the space of the present paper to show in anything but the briefest and barest epitome. Almost all Prior's own shorter later poems would have to be quoted; Swift, though so much greater in prose, and though best in verse on the severer side, especially in the magnificent and quite sufficiently authenticated Judgment Day verses, could not be left out; and it might be possible to make more fight than even lovers of the eighteenth century have recently made for Gray. But perhaps the scraps and orts of lesser men of letters—though sometimes not lesser men—show the strong point of the century even more convincingly. Where will you find more musical lightness of a certain easy but far from unpoetical kind than in those verses on Strawberry Hill in which Pulteney almost paid his rather heavy debts in more serious ways to the House of Walpole? Or than in the others in which he and Chesterfield combined to estimate "Hanover Bremen and Verden," that is to say, the whole continental dominions for which George the Second was making England fight, as worthless compared with the charms of Molly Lepell? Go lower still, take a professional littérateur and laureate like William Whitehead, to whom hardly anybody save Mr. Austin Dobson (and it is certainly no small exception) has been favourable, and read the piece on Celia, which is a more or less independent expansion of Ausonius on Crispa. It begins with a sort of pettish avowal of ignorance how the mischief of love came, and goes on with rather rude depreciations of the lady's face, figure, air, and even sense. Then it slides rapidly into a sort of grudging allowance:

Her voice, her touch, might give the alarm—

'Twas both perhaps or neither,

and then capitulates headlong:

In short 'twas that provoking charm

Of Celia altogether!

Trivial, of course, but then it ought to be trivial, and the trivial can be, and is, here super-trivialised.

One might go on, even in this skipping fashion, for a long time till one came to the great political satires of the close of the century, but once more time and space forbid. As it has been frivolously said:

You have only to search

In Dodsley and Pearch

(the standard ten volumes of eighteenth-century miscellaneous poetry) and you will find; though, of course, if you only look for bad things you will find them, too, in plenty. But even this collection is by no means exhaustive, and with some of the more famous verse-writers it does not deal at all; while we have in this survey confessedly left most of them alone. What has been intended is to show that making of the common uncommon by means of treatment in verse was not an unknown thing between 1700 and 1800; that it was attempted and achieved in various kinds. Finally, if the attempts were rarely and the achievements hardly ever in kinds that can be called the very highest, one may at least urge that there is not an absolute vacuum between the loftiest mountain-tops of poetry and the actual plain of prose—that Parnassus has lower slopes, some of which are not so very low

SAMUEL BUTLER[6]

[6] Samuel Butler: a Memoir. By H. Festing Jones. 2 vols. Macmillan. 42s. net.

By EDWARD SHANKS

SAMUEL Butler was a philosopher whose favourite doctrine was expressed in the words pas trop de zèle; and he spent a great part of his life complaining a little too eagerly that the world was not sufficiently zealous in the appreciation of his works. His reception and his reputation did indeed deserve a considerable part of the almost excessive attention which he lavished on them; for at this moment, now that the first is accomplished and the second enormous, they make a very curious subject for study. In his notebooks they occur again and again as themes for his meditation. "I am the enfant terrible," he says, "of literature and science. If I cannot, and I know I cannot, get the literary and scientific big-wigs to give me a shilling, I can, and I know I can, heave bricks into the middle of them." "I have chosen the fighting-road," he says elsewhere, "rather than the hang-on-to-a-great-man road, and what can a man who does this look for except that people should try to silence him in whatever way they think will be most effectual? In my case they have thought it best to pretend that I am non-existent." There is something pathetic in the spectacle of a man pursuing "the fighting-road" with no one to fight him and heaving bricks into the middle of persons who obstinately continue to ignore his existence. There is something more pathetic in the spectacle of an original thinker and a great wit sitting down in isolation to pen these apologies for his obscure position, always affecting to be indifferent to it and never deceiving anyone. For Butler was not indifferent to his lack of success. Had his been a true and not an assumed indifference he could not have returned to the subject so often as he does and in so many keys. He betrays himself again and again beyond mistake. He was an intensely, a morbidly sensitive man, one to whom success would have been very pleasant. He was damaged, and confirmed in oddity, by the want of it. He missed it because of what first started him in oddity—that is to say, an unfortunate childhood.

"The subject of this memoir," so Butler once suggested that his biography ought to begin, "was the son of rich but dishonest parents." Dishonest they may have been: respectable they certainly were. Dr. Butler, the first distinguished member of the family, was for twenty-seven years headmaster of Shrewsbury, a man with all the attributes of the great schoolmasters of the early nineteenth century, an imposing figure, who, towards the end of his life, became Bishop of Lichfield. His son was not so distinguished. His sole claim to be remembered, if his canonry be disregarded, is the fact that somehow or other he became the father of Samuel Butler. There is much detail, in Mr. Festing Jones's enormous book, on Butler's early life and his relation to his parents; but there is nothing quite so significant as an anecdote which occurs in the second volume:

At Saas he made the acquaintance of Mr. and Mrs. MacCarthy, who were staying in the hotel with their son, an Eton boy. One day the father and son had been for an excursion and the father returned alone. The anxious mother, hearing that her boy preferred speculating in short cuts to accompanying his father, borrowed a red umbrella to make herself conspicuous, and went out "to look for Desmond." Presently she came upon Butler loaded up with his camera and toiling along on his way back after a fatiguing day. He told her he had seen a little white figure among the trees on the mountain-side and had no doubt it was her son who, he assured her, would be all right, and he himself was loitering, intending to be overtaken so that they might arrive at the hotel together.

"You see," he explained, "I know he will be late for dinner, and it may make things a little easier for him if he does not come in alone."

Years afterwards Mrs. MacCarthy told me that she had been reading The Way of All Flesh, and had remembered this incident and had for the first time understood why Butler thought that her son would require the presence of an elderly gentleman to protect him from his parents if he came in late for dinner.

This throws a curious and unexpected sidelight on Butler's childhood from the effects of which he never recovered. His parents learnt the art of bringing up children from a book which adjured them to "Break your child's will early or he will break yours later on." They did not break it, but unquestionably they deformed it. This may have been done on principle. To Butler, however, it sometimes seemed to spring from other motives. "I have felt," he once said of his father, "that he has always looked upon me as something which he could badger with impunity." He said that, like Ernest Pontifex, with regard to his father he could remember no feeling during his childhood except fear and shrinking.

Nor was this life of terror and pain lightened by any gracious or liberal influences. The world which Mr. Festing Jones exhibits to us in his opening chapters is full of the drabbest and most depressing horrors of Early Victorianism. Its measure can be taken by a single story which Butler preserved:

Archdeacon Bather was lunching with my grandfather some two or three years after the Archdeacon had lost his first wife. Dr. Butler dearly loved a hard crust of bread baked nearly black, and it so happened that a piece was set by his plate with hardly any crust, and what little there was, very thin. My aunt, then Miss Butler, observing what had happened, at once said:

"Oh, Papa, this won't do at all! I will find you a piece more to your liking." Whereon she went to the kitchen and returned with a crust baked exactly to Dr. Butler's taste.

When Archdeacon Bather saw this he said to himself: "That is the young woman for me"; and shortly afterwards he proposed and was accepted.

Readers will remember the scene in The Way of All Flesh in which Theobald, driving away for his honeymoon, insists that Christina shall order their dinner at the first stop, and in which Christina protests with tears her nervousness, and Theobald replies, "It is a wife's duty to order her husband's dinner; you are my wife, and I shall expect you to order mine." A sensitive child, neglected or even ill-treated by its parents, might, if the relations of the parents between themselves had anything beautiful or kindly, see some possibilities of happiness in the institution of the family. But Samuel Butler was brought up in a world where no such possibilities seemed to exist. He came to believe, Mr. Festing Jones tells us, that, like Habakkuk, le père de famille est capable de tout. It has often been maintained that the greatest poets and artists do nothing throughout life but draw on those fresh and lovely impressions which they have gathered in childhood. When he was a child Butler acquired habits of suspicion against all those surrounding him who were not connected with him by freely-chosen bonds of friendship. Canon Butler bullied him on moral grounds; and he grew to suspect every claim made on him, every exhortation addressed to him, on moral grounds. Ernest Pontifex is described on one occasion as assuming the expression of a puppy which is being scolded for something it does not understand; and Butler did indeed develop some of the habits of an ill-treated dog. He shied and snarled at a lifted hand, which might have been lifted in kindness or in ignorance of his existence. Having, as he supposed, penetrated the fraud of the family, he felt a distrust of all human institutions. He suspected the world of being in a conspiracy to pretend that parents were naturally kind to their children, that Christ rose from the dead, and that Tennyson was a great poet. And, turning from all these discredited shows, he devoted himself in isolation to the care of his own idiosyncrasies and the companionship of a very few, very intimate friends.

Here, where he might in one case have suspected with justice, he was all blind trust. The story of Charles Paine Pauli is one of the most extraordinary that have been brought to light in human records in recent years. A correspondent who knew him and admired him wrote not long ago to the Times, not to controvert Mr. Festing Jones's account of the relations between him and Butler, but to protest, in an almost agonised manner, that there must be some explanation of it; and this is precisely what the reader, who did not know Pauli, feels when he comes upon these pages. But there seems to be no explanation.

In 1859 Butler rebelled against his father, and finally decided that he could not take Orders, basing his refusal on "doubts," which in after years seemed to him no less absurd than the doctrines against which they were directed. As a result of this, he emigrated to New Zealand, taking with him an allowance from Canon Butler and a promise of support in capital, in order that he might establish himself as a sheep-farmer. In this occupation he was, against all the probabilities, moderately successful and, largely owing to the rapidly-developing condition of the colony, managed to turn an original capital of £4400 into the sum of £8000. But finding the life uncongenial, he concluded that it would be wiser to invest his money in New Zealand, where the current rate of interest was 10 per cent., and go home and live on the proceeds. While he was making preparations to this end, a previous slight acquaintance with Pauli developed into an intimate friendship. Pauli was handsome, fascinating, well dressed, ineffably well mannered. He was, in fact, the Towneley of The Way of All Flesh, though Providence, not doing as well by him as by Towneley, had omitted to make him rich. He was actually poor and in ill-health, and anxious to go to England in order that he might recover. He then proposed to get called to the Bar and to return to New Zealand to practise. Butler, who believed himself to be worth about £800 a year, promptly lavished on this creature the generosity and tenderness which had found no outlet during his childhood. He offered to lend him £100 for his passage, and to allow him £200 a year for three years—that is, until his return to New Zealand as a barrister. They accordingly made the passage together; and Butler kept his promise, and more than kept it, extending the allowance, even through the time of his acutest financial difficulties, until Pauli's death in 1897. It was then discovered that at one time Pauli had been earning £900 a year, and that even at the last he earned between £500 and £700. He left a fortune of £9000; but Butler was not mentioned in the will and received his invitation to the funeral from the undertaker.

A singular and enlightening circumstance in the intercourse between Butler and Pauli unhappily prevents Mr. Festing Jones from making this astonishing but veracious narrative entirely lifelike. The charming young man did not reciprocate the feelings of his pathetic and somewhat uncouth adorer. "I had felt from the very beginning," says Butler, "that my intimacy with Pauli was only superficial, and I also perceived more and more that I bored him." Pauli confessed that he had never been more miserable in his life than once when he spent a holiday with Butler at Dieppe. Consequently it soon came about that the essential part of the relations between them was the punctual payment of the allowance. Latterly, they only met three times a week, when Pauli lunched in Butler's chambers. He discontinued informing Butler of his changes of address, so that at the end Butler did not know where he was living, and Mr. Festing Jones met him "only on business, for he would have nothing to do with any of Butler's friends in any other way." Butler learnt of his death from an announcement in the Times.

Truly a mysterious creature! And his friend is very comprehensible in supposing that there must be some explanation. Possibly Mr. Festing Jones, if he had met him otherwise than purely on business, might have given us some impression of his personality which would have let in light on this dark business. As it is, we must content ourselves with wonder at the extraordinary situations which human nature is capable of creating. But this unhappy friendship is worth examining, apart from its intrinsic curiosity, because it presents in extremity an essential and determining part of Butler's life. His devotion and loyalty to his friends were perhaps the most beautiful things in his character and do much to redeem his somewhat unlovely attitude of snarling and suspicion towards all strangers.

Life might be thought to have treated him savagely in following up his parents with the hardly less cruel Pauli. He disguised the shock of his discovery on Pauli's death by remarking that he would now save not only £200 a year, but also the cost of those three lunches a week in Clifford's Inn. Yet a nature that opened itself so trustingly, so defencelessly, must have suffered on finding its bounty abused. But in his other friends, in Miss Savage, in his clerk, Alfred Emery Cathie, and in Mr. Festing Jones he had ample compensations. He was a man who at first sight was not readily liked. He was awkward and nervous in the company of strangers, and it is likely that he did not disguise so well as he supposed his grave misgivings that they were either pretentious scoundrels or conceited hypocrites. He was always badly and carelessly dressed; and though his portraits, when one is used to them and can associate them with the best one knows of his mind, become attractive, there can be no denial that his appearance was on the most lenient showing decidedly grotesque, that of a difficult, taciturn, maliciously observant gnome, roughly carved in a hard wood. It took some time and some degree of intuition to penetrate behind this mask. Those who did so were rewarded and rewarded him. Miss Savage, who used to meet him first at Heatherley's art-classes, was not attracted by him for a considerable time. When at last she was, it was by a flash of remarkable intuition. In commenting on one of his books, she writes:

I like the cherry-eating scene, too, because it reminded me of your eating cherries when first I knew you. One day when I was going to the gallery, a very hot day, I remember, I met you on the shady side of Berners Street eating cherries out of a basket. Like your Italian friends, you were perfectly silent with content, and you handed the basket to me as I was passing, without saying a word. I pulled out a handful and went on my way rejoicing, without saying a word either. I had not before perceived you to be different from anyone else.

It is not certain whether Miss Savage became a Butlerian or whether Butler acquired something of what we consider his characteristic attitude of mind from her. If it was not so, then her spirit leapt at once to answer his as soon as she had perceived the possibility of common interests between them, for her first letters to him are written in his own vein. She entered immediately into his concerns, read all his books in manuscript, criticised them, gave them more praise than they received from anyone else, and abused his enemies with a gusto equal to his. The only trouble between them in their long connection was his gnawing fear that she wanted to marry him. And he did not want to marry anyone, let alone her who was

Plain and lame and fat and short,

Forty and overkind.

But if all these disabilities had been removed, he would still have been disinclined to marry her. He did not believe in marriage, had a hatred of the family; and he slunk away snarling from the danger like a terror-stricken wild animal at the sight of a trap, only to reproach himself in after years for unkindness to his friend. But his relations with women were not, and he did not intend that they should be, of the sort that lead to marriage. He had mistresses, whom he visited. Mr. J. B. Yeats, in a recent paper of reminiscences, has repeated his avowals on this point in a manner which conveys well enough Butler's view that his lapses were caused by a necessity of the flesh. Mr. Festing Jones reinforces this impression. One of his mistresses, referred to as "Madame," was, after a long connection, allowed to visit his chambers in Clifford's Inn. No other gained this privilege; and Butler extended it to her as he might have done to an old and well-tried servant. Butler did not love these women, he frequented them. He was insensible to the notion that there might be anything beautiful in the relations between the sexes, as he was insensible to the notion that there might be anything of value written in verse. Theobald and Christina pretended to like poetry: Theobald and Christina pretended to love one another and him. It was all of a piece with their pretence that Christianity was a religion of kindliness and enlightenment.

So he remained a bachelor, and, when Miss Savage was dead, contented himself with the intimate companionship of Mr. Jones and Alfred, his clerk. After he had resigned the ambition of becoming a painter, after his odd and disastrous excursion in the world of business, his daily life was that of an eccentric gentleman with a small independent income. He read and wrote in the British Museum, he went for walks in the country and took holidays in Italy, he published his books at his own expense, and he scrambled out of invitations to dinner as best he could. For a hobby he wrote music in collaboration with Mr. Festing Jones, oratorios which were to be as much like Handel's oratorios as possible. The first of them, Narcissus, was inspired by his own misfortunes in business, and the final chorus ran:

How blest the prudent man, the maiden pure,

Whose income is both ample and secure,

Arising from consolidated Three

Per Cent. Annuities, paid quarterly!

"We remembered Handel's treatment of 'continually,'" says Mr. Festing Jones, "and thought we could not do better than imitate it for our words 'paid quarterly.'"

And so his life went on and his interests drifted through the theory of evolution, the authorship of the Odyssey, the life of his grandfather, and the meaning of Shakespeare's Sonnets. The sales of his books pursued a course by no means so varied, but steadily declined. In 1899, when he drew up a statement of profit and loss, the average sales of his eleven books, excluding Erewhon, which was the first, amounted to 306 copies each. Of his Selections from Previous Works, 120 copies were sold in fifteen years. Of The Authoress of the Odyssey, 165 copies were sold. He might well have added discouragement to his first cause of bitterness. The religion of Christ produced Canon Butler, the religion of science produced Darwin, the religion of good looks and good breeding produced Pauli. On paper he was indomitable. He swore he had enjoyed life, that on the balance his good luck overbalanced the bad. But he swore a little too often, he explained a little too much in detail for this to have been quite true. And then, at the very end of his life, the luck turned, and his last book, by a strange irony, was produced at the publisher's own risk, the greatest triumph in his literary career which Butler was able to see since the success of his first book. After he was dead his reputation, magically assisted with incantations by Mr. Bernard Shaw and others, sprang up to an amazing height, like the plant grown from the Indian enchanter's bean.

Now the world is confronted with a situation in which the neglected philosopher of Clifford's Inn has attained an importance he never dreamt of and perhaps would not have approved. "Above all things," he said, "let no unwary reader do me the injustice of believing in me." This useful motto was printed on the menu of the first Erewhon dinner; but a great number of his disciples have disregarded the admonition. I was once the witness of one undergraduate trying to proselytise another and telling him that it was a worthy ambition to desire to be like Christ. "I don't want to be like anyone else," replied the second undergraduate, "but if I did, I shouldn't choose Christ, I should choose Samuel Butler." This is at once an extreme instance and one strictly guarded against Butler's own disapproval: for the kernel of the remark would meet with his applause. But it illustrates the direction in which many of his admirers have more frenetically rushed. It is an ironic fate for so ironic a philosopher that his teaching should have become a sort of Tom Tiddler's ground for so many solemn and ridiculous persons.

What, after all, is his total achievement? He himself summed up what he considered to be his life-work in a statement which is not dated but which must have been written in 1899 or later. It begins with (1) The emphasising the analogies between crime and disease [Erewhon], and ends with (17) The elucidation of Shakespeare's Sonnets [Shakespeare's Sonnets Reconsidered.] "The foregoing," he continues, "is the list of my mares'-nests, and it is, I presume, this list which made Mr. Arthur Platt call me the Galileo of Mares'-nests in his diatribe on my Odyssey theory in the Classical Review." The two to which he probably attached most importance, to judge from the bitterness of his remarks on their reception, were his intervention into the great evolution dispute and his great discovery that the Odyssey was written by a female inhabitant of Trapani in Sicily. With regard to the second he continually complained that no classical scholar had ever replied to his arguments. It was once remarked in answer to this, that if a classical scholar published a book arguing that no player of Rugby football ought to be allowed to pass the ball to another without obtaining a signed receipt for it, the great community of Rugby footballers, intent on other matters, would probably ignore his suggestion. Butler's claim may perhaps be left there. Yet he did apparently take it seriously, in spite of his failure to deal with the singular fact that no scrap of confirmation of his theory has survived from the writings or the traditions of antiquity. His "mares'-nests," he said, "were simply sovereigns which he found lying in public places and which people would not notice and be at the trouble of picking up." They were mostly, however, one cannot help suspecting, recommended to him less because they seemed to be sovereigns than because other people would not pick them up. They were, in fact, the notions of a crank, who, having acquired a distrust of the rest of the world, took pains to differ from it as much as he could.

His theories of evolution hold a different position. Darwin's theory has now been so greatly modified, as much by his supporters as by his opponents, that it cannot be said any longer to hold the field as he first presented it; and Butler's attitude has been in a manner justified. But this change has been accomplished not by the acceptance of Butler's views but by the work of experimental biologists. He did, in fact, offer many general principles, some well founded, some mistaken, all stimulating, for the consideration of practical workers; and it would not be possible to assert, without an exhaustive enquiry into the history of the matter, that his writings have had no influence on the development of science. But Charles Darwin and his followers were practical men—men no doubt with faults, with the intolerance and impatience of the laity that are often to be found in the scientific investigator. It is not hard to see why they received Butler with tepid interest, and finally ignored him when he forsook their path of enquiry. For they did ignore him: they did not, as he supposed, conspire to silence him. He seems to have believed that Darwin was a sort of Anti-Christ malevolently determined to force on humanity a diabolical belief of his own invention; and he was only too ready to suspect him of unscrupulous dealing and machinations. When he conceived that Darwin had engineered an attack on him, though he obtained an expression of regret for an accident, he flung violently into print, and did, though he remained ignorant of the fact, get from Darwin and his friends the attention as an enemy which they would not bestow on him as a scientist. His letter to the Athenæum seriously perturbed Darwin, who drafted two replies to it, and submitted them for advice to the members of his family and to Professor Huxley. The advice given was against replying; and Butler was accordingly confirmed in his opinion. But this was an opinion which a less suspicious man would have been slower in forming and readier to discard.

Darwin was not, in his career or in his handling of Butler, a model of the urbane virtues. Butler did right to protest against the sacerdotal attitude which Victorian men of science frequently adopted. But he did wrong not to realise that Darwin did not take him altogether seriously, and why this was so. Butler's challenging manner of writing, the prickly defensiveness which he developed on the smallest provocation, must have been disagreeable to the great investigator who had spent years of careful research into the problems which Butler airily settled at his writing-table in the intervals of other pursuits. Darwin is perhaps to blame, but not so greatly to blame as Butler contended, if he regarded Butler at first as a well-disposed, and then as an ill-disposed, amateur; and that was in effect his view of the whole matter. When he sent Evolution Old and New to Dr. Krause, he expressed the hope that the German writer "would not expend much powder and shot on Mr. Butler, for he really is not worthy of it. His book is merely ephemeral." And it was in fact ephemeral or nearly so. Butler's works on evolution contain many inspired guesses; but the inherent value of these ceases to have much more than a historical interest when they are confirmed by practical observation. If they are not so confirmed they remain open to question, though they may have their uses in suggesting paths for research. Butler's place in science is somewhat below that of Goethe, who did after all make a practical discovery which remains valid to-day.

Some of his "mares'-nests," then, were "mares'-nests" from the beginning. Others, neglected when they might have been useful, had begun to be superannuated when they first attracted attention. But Butler, apart from his theories and his discoveries, remains as an observer of life and a teacher of conduct. Passages of this nature exist in all his works; but, generally speaking, his claim to be accepted as a philosopher rests on five books, Erewhon, Erewhon Revisited, the Note-books, The Way of All Flesh, and Mr. Festing Jones's biography.

Mr. Festing Jones observes that "I was struck by his uncompromising sincerity. If a subject interested him, he took infinite pains to find out all he could about it first-hand, thought it over and formed an opinion of his own, without reference to what anyone else thought or said." In demonstration of this, Mr. Jones relates the following reminiscence:

We talked about Charlotte Brontë; Butler did not like her; I said, as though taking the odd trick with the ace of trumps:

"Well, at all events, she wrote three splendid novels."

He replied in a low voice, reluctantly but decidedly: "They are not splendid."

These four words shifted the subject under discussion from the splendour or otherwise of Charlotte Brontë's novels to the sincerity or otherwise of my opinion.

It was no doubt well that Mr. Jones's sincerity should be probed; and this is in fact what Butler does at his best. He challenges established opinions and forces those who hold them to consider whether they have any good ground for doing so. But the reader who is not dazzled by Butler's originality of judgment in this instance will ask himself whether the sentence which Mr. Jones quotes is anything more than a very facile assertion. He will then perhaps ask himself how often Butler's original pronouncements on established reputations are of the same order. He will certainly find some. In the Note-books there is an elaborate arraignment of Raphael. It may not be convincing; but the critic has produced his arguments. Here, also, may be found Butler's explanation of his hostility towards post-Handelian music. But one may search the two volumes of the biography for a considerable time without finding his appreciation of any book published in his own time. Here, again, we must be just: Butler did like one book. It was called Pusley, or My Summer in a Garden; its author was Charles Dudley Warner; and Butler said, "I like Pusley very much and have read it all."

But the majority of his opinions are on the model of the much-quoted passage in the Note-books:

Talking it over, we agreed that Blake was no good because he learnt Italian at sixty in order to study Dante, and we knew Dante was no good because he was so fond of Virgil, and Virgil was no good because Tennyson ran him, and as for Tennyson—well, Tennyson goes without saying.

That is an exceedingly witty way of expressing an indolent prejudice; and those who share that particular chain of prejudices may well rejoice in it, without supposing that it proves their case. But this particular form of humour and Butler's independence of attitude would be slightly more entertaining if he had occasionally replaced the reputations he smashed with these hammer-strokes by some discovery of his own. Unfortunately, it is not easy to remember any unknown author whom he brought into the light—unless Nausicaa be taken as an example.

But this is, in a way, the defect of his qualities. It is easy, too easy, to grow incensed with him when he inanely doubts any convention or opinion that comes in sight. It is possible to remark of him, adapting the remark made of Dr. Johnson, that he may have been very sensible at bottom, but that there was a great deal of nonsense on top. But the fact remains that by challenging everything he did detect a great many frauds, and he did let the light of scepticism into a great many topics where scepticism is a healthy attitude. If his view of family life was bigoted and unreasonable, there is a great deal of use in the reminder that family life is not necessarily perfect and needs a deal of watching to keep it from being very imperfect indeed. Some of the assumptions he challenged have now disappeared. We no longer believe that good looks and good manners are the unmistakable indices of an ill heart; and we are becoming convinced that it is better to have these attributes than to be without them. But these lessons can be enforced as Butler continually enforces them. It was his fate that life made him a suspicious man. But suspicion made him a doubting, questioning, and therefore enquiring man. And his natural gift of humour taught him what he has ever since been teaching others, that it is possible to be serious without being solemn. This was perhaps the most valuable thing he had to say to a society emerging from the Victorian era and passing over into another that was to be as desperately serious as we are now realising. It is a reflection pathetically ironical that his loudest followers in these days should be persons whom he would very likely have described as Simeonites of the intellect.

Of the value of his writings judged as literature it is not so easy to speak with confidence. Erewhon is not so much a novel as a collection of essays roughly pressed into a common mould. They are not merely disconnected, they are also composed on different planes of satire, at different removes from reality, so that the reader as he goes from chapter to chapter has an uncomfortable sense of being jolted from level to level. Yet the satire, on its varying levels, is extraordinarily easy, ingenious, and penetrating; and, in another key again, the opening chapters make one of the best introductions to a story of exploration ever written. Erewhon Revisited is the book of an old man; and it has much of the beauty so often to be found in such compositions. The manner of its writing was very different from that of its predecessor, and it is impossible to complain of any unevenness in its structure. Nevertheless the satire is not so easy. It is a little strained, a little too ingenious, a little too closely calculated to make good reading. Butler himself picked out the best part of the book when he complained that none of his critics had noticed the idea of a father attempting by noble conduct to deserve the good opinion of a newly-found and adored son. Thus, at the end of his life, still haunted by early memories, he attempted to fashion in imagination what should have been and completely to invert the facts of his own childhood.

The Way of All Flesh is precisely the opposite of this. It has long been known to be of the photographic order of novels; but how minutely photographic it is we could not know until the appearance of Mr. Jones's book. This need not, and should not, affect our judgment of it, even when we are informed that Theobald's delightful letters are almost literal transcriptions from those of Canon Butler. We can very well continue to admire the inimitable accuracy and vividness with which these real scenes are described, while we suffer from the painful bitterness of this exhaustive improvisation on the old theme of parents and children. But the whole book is not of equal merit. It begins to weaken at the point where Ernest's career diverges from Butler's own experience; and when it reaches the catastrophe it sinks into improbabilities from which it never recovers. The Ernest, whose thoughts and feelings at Cambridge have been described, and who was Butler, would never have made that disastrous mistake over Miss Maitland's real profession. Butler did not in fact ever make it, nor did he ever develop into the super-prig which Ernest became after his release from prison.

Butler's reputation will probably rest more and more, as time goes on, on his Note-books and on Mr. Jones's biography, which might be described together as the story of a distrustful man. Indeed, posterity reading these alone, will probably miss little of what it should retain: for Butler was careful of his best things, and most of them are to be found here as well as in the books in which he enshrined them among more perishable material. On the strength of these two books he will remain a definite and unforgettable character, though he may, probably will, recede in importance, perhaps even to the level of those wits whose "table-talk" is read by the curious in every generation.

But even so, there he will be still: a man whom fate tortured into such distrust of his fellows as to make him question everything and teach others to do the same. He suffered intensely in the process that made him what he was: he suffered again, much more than he would ever admit, from the ineffaceable results of the process. "I do not deny, however," he bursts out, "that I have been ill-used. I have been used abominably." This cry rings truer, echoes longer in the memory, than the assertion which follows that he considered the balance of good fortune to have been on his side. By one of those contrivances of events with which fate marks the lives of distinguished men, an atmosphere of distrust followed him on to his death-bed and beyond it. For the doctors disagreed during his last illness, and Mr. Festing Jones doubts the accuracy of the causes given in the certificate of death.

THE CRYSTAL VASE

By MAURICE HEWLETT

I HAVE often wished that I could write a novel in which, as mostly in life, thank goodness, nothing happened. Jane Austen, it has been objected, forestalled me there, and it is true that she very nearly did—but not quite. It was a point for her art to make that the novel should have form. Form involved plot, plot a logic of events; events—well, that means that there were collisions. They may have been mild shocks, but persons did knock their heads together, and there were stars to be seen by somebody. In life, in a majority of cases, there are no stars, yet life does not on that account cease to be interesting; and even if stars should happen to be struck out, it is not the collision, nor the stars either, which interest us most. No, it is our state of soul, our mental process under the stress which we care about; and as mental process is always going on, and the state of the soul never the same for two moments together, there is ample material for a novel of extreme interest, which need never finish, which might indeed be as perennial as a daily newspaper or the Annual Register. Why is it, do you suppose, that anybody, if he can, will read anybody else's letter? It is because every man-Jack of us lives in a cage, cut off from every other man-Jack; because we are incapable of knowing what is going on in the mind of our nearest and dearest, and because we burn for the assurance we may get by evidence of homogeneity procurable from any human source. Man is a creature of social instinct condemned by his nature to be solitary. Creatures in all outward respects similar to himself are awhirl about him. They cannot help him, nor he them; he cannot even be sure, for all he may assume it, that they share his hope and calling.

Ensphered in flesh we live and die,

And see a myriad souls adrift,

Our likes, and send our voiceless cry

Shuddering across the void: "The truth

Succour! The truth!" None can reply.

That is the state of our case. We can cope with mere events, comedy, tragedy, farce. The things that happen to us are not our life. They are imposed upon life, they come and go. But life is a secret process. We only see the accretions.

The novel which I dreamed of writing has recently been done, or rather begun, by Miss Dorothy Richardson. She betters the example of Jane Austen by telling us much more about what seems to be infinitely less, but is not so in reality. She dips into the well whereof Miss Austen skims the surface. She has essayed to report the mental process of a young woman's lifetime from moment to moment. In the course of four, if not five, volumes nothing has happened yet but the death of a mother and the marriage of a sister or so. She may write forty, and I shall be ready for the forty-first. Mental process, the states of the soul, emotional reaction—these as they are moved in us by other people are Miss Richardson's subject-matter, and according as these are handled is the interest we can devote to her novels. These flitting things are Miss Richardson's game, and they are the things which interest us most in ourselves, and the things which we desire to know most about in our neighbours.

But of course it won't do. Miss Richardson does not, and cannot, tell us all. A novel is a piece of art which does not so much report life as transmute it. She takes up what she needs for her purpose, and that may not be our purpose. And so it is with poetry—we don't go to that for the facts, but for the essence of fact. The poet who told us all about himself at some particular pass would write a bad poem, for it is his affair to transfigure rather than transmute, to move us by beauty at least as much as by truth. What we look for so wistfully in each other is the raw material of poetry. We can make the finished article for ourselves, given enough matter; and indeed the poetry which is imagined in contemplation is apt to be much finer than that which has passed through the claws of prosody and syntax. The fact, to be short with it, is that literature has an eye upon the consumer. Whether it is marketable or not, it is intended for the public. Now no man will undress in public with design. It may be a pity, but so it is. Undesignedly, I don't say. It would be possible, I think, by analysis, to track the successive waves of mental process in In Memoriam. Again, The Angel in the House brought Patmore as near to self-explication as a poet can go. Shakespeare's Sonnets offer a more doubtful field of experiment.

What then? Shall we go to the letter-writers—to Madame de Sévigné, to Gray, to Walpole and Cowper, Byron and Lamb? A letter-writer implies a letter-reader, and just that inadequacy of spoken communication will smother up our written words. Madame de Sévigné must placate her high-sniffing daughter, Gray must please himself; Walpole must at any cost be lively, Cowper must be urbane to Lady Hesketh or deprecate the judgment of the Reverend Mr. Newton. Byron was always before the looking-glass as he wrote; and as for Charles Lamb, do not suppose that he did anything but hide in his clouds of ink. Sir Sidney Colvin thinks that Keats revealed himself in his letters, but I cannot agree with him. Keats is one of the best letter-writers we have; he can be merry, fanciful, witty, thoughtful, even profound. He has a sardonic turn of language hardly to be equalled outside Shakespeare. "Were it in my device, I would reject a Petrarchal coronation—on account of my dying day, and because women have cancers." Where will you match that but from Hamlet? But Keats knew himself. "It is a wretched thing to confess, but it is a very fact, that not one word I can utter can be taken for granted as an opinion growing out of my identical Nature." So I find him in his letters, swayed rather by his fancies than his states of soul, until indeed that soul of his was wrung by agony of mind and disease of body. Revelation, then, like gouts of blood, did issue, but of that I do not now write. No man is sane at such a crisis.

Parva componere magnis, there is a letter contained in The Early Diary of Frances Burney (ed. Mrs. A. R. Ellis, 1889) more completely apocalyptic than anything else of the kind accessible to me. Its writer was Maria Allen, daughter of Dr. Burney's second wife, therefore half-sister to the charming Burney girls. She was a young lady who could let herself go, in act as well as on paper, and withal, as Fanny judged her, "flighty, ridiculous, uncommon, lively, comical, entertaining, frank, and undisguised"—or because of it—she did contrive to unfold her panting and abounding young self more thoroughly than the many times more expert. You have her here in the pangs of a love affair, of how long standing I don't know, but now evidently in a bad state of miss-fire. It was to end in elopement, post-chaise, clandestine marriage, in right eighteenth century. Here it is in an earlier state, all mortification, pouting and hunching of the shoulder. I reproduce it with Maria's punctuation, which shows it to have proceeded, as no doubt she did herself, in gasps:

"I was at the Assembly, forced to go entirely against my own Inclination. But I always have sacrificed my own inclinations to the will of other people—could not resist the pressing Importunity of—Bet Dickens—to go—tho' it proved Horribly stupid. I drank tea at the —— told old Turner—I was determined not to dance—he would not believe me—a wager ensued—half-a-crown provided I followed my own Inclinations—agreed—Mr. Audley asked me. I refused—sat still—yet followed my own Inclinations. But four couple began—Martin (c'etait Lui) was there—yet stupid—nimporte—quite Indifferent—on both sides—Who had I—to converse with the whole Evening—not a female friend—none there—not an acquaintance—All Dancing—who then—I've forgot—nimporte—I broke my earring—how—heaven knows—foolishly enough—one can't always keep on the Mask of Wisdom—well n'importe I danced a Minute a quatre the latter end of the Eve—with a stupid Wretch—need I name him—They danced cotillions almost the whole Night—two sets—yet I did not join them—Miss Jenny Hawkins danced—with who—can't you guess—well—n'importe——"

*      *      *      *      *

There is more, but my pen is out of breath. Nobody but Mr. Jingle ever wrote like that; and in so far as Maria Allen may be said to have had a soul, there in its little spasms is the soul of Maria Allen, with all the malentendus of the ballroom and all the surgings of a love affair at cross-purposes thrown in.

As for Fanny Burney's early diary, its careful and admirable editor claims that you have in it "the only published, perhaps the only existing record of the life of an English girl, written of herself, in the eighteenth century." I believe that to be true. It is a record, and a faithful and very charming record of the externals of such a life. As such it is, to me at least, a valuable thing. If it does not unfold the amiable, brisk, and happy Fanny herself, there are two simple reasons why it could not. First, she was writing her journal for the entertainment of old Mr. Crisp of Chessington, the "Daddy Crisp" of her best pages; secondly, it is not at all likely that she knew of anything to unfold. Nor, for that matter, was Fanny herself of the kind that can unfold to another person. Yet there is a charm all over the book, which some may place here, some there, but which all will confess. For me it is not so much that Fanny herself is a charming girl, and a girl of shrewd observation, of a pointed pen, and an admirable gift of mimicry. She has all that and more—she has a good heart. Her sister Susan is as good as she, and there are many of Susan's letters. But the real charm of the book, I think, is in the series of faithful pictures it contains of the everyday round of an everyday family. Dutch pictures all—passers-by, a knock at the front door, callers—Mr. Young, "in light blue embroidered with silver, a bag and sword, and walking in the rain"; a jaunt to Greenwich, a concert at home—the Agujari in one of her humours; a masquerade—"a very private one, and at the house of Mr. Laluze ... Hetty had for three months thought of nothing else ... she went as a Savoyard with a hurdy-gurdy fastened round her waist. Nothing could look more simple, innocent, and pretty. My dress was a close pink Persian vest covered with a gauze in loose pleats...." What else? Oh, a visit to Teignmouth—Maria Allen now Mrs. Ruston; another to Worcester; quiet days at King's Lynn, where "I have just finished Henry and Frances ... the greatest part of the last volume is wrote by Henry, and on the gravest of grave subjects, and that which is most dreadful to our thoughts, Eternal Misery...." Terrific novel: but need I go on? There may be some to whom a description of the nothings of this our life will be as flat as the nothings themselves—but I am not of that party. The things themselves interest me, and I confess the charm. It is the charm of innocence and freshness, a morning dew upon the words.

The Burneys, however, can do no more for us than shed that auroral dew. They cannot reassure us of our normal humanity, since they needed reassurance for themselves.

Where, then, shall we turn? So far as I am aware, to two only, except for two others whom I leave out of account. Rousseau is one, for it is long since I read him, but my recollection is that the Confessions is a kind of novel, premeditated, selective, done with great art. Marie Bashkirtseff is another. I have not read her at all. Of the two who remain I leave Pepys also out of account, because, though it may be good for us to read Pepys, it is better to have read him and be through with it. There, under the grace of God, go a many besides Pepys, and among them every boy who has ever befouled a wall with a stump of pencil. We are left then with one whom it is ill to name in the same fill of the inkpot, "Wordsworth's exquisite sister," as Keats, who saw her once, at once knew her to be.

In Dorothy Wordsworth's journals you may have the delight of daily intercourse—famigliarmente discorrendo—with one of the purest and noblest souls ever housed in flesh; to that you may add the reassurance to be got from word and implication beyond doubt. She tells us much, but implies more. We may see deeply into ourselves, but she sees deeply into a deeper self than most of us can discern. It is not only that, knowing her, we are grounded in the rudiments of honour and lovely living; it is to learn that human life can so be lived, and to conclude that of that at least is the Kingdom of Heaven.

These journals are for fragments only of the years which they cover, and as such exist for Jan.-May, 1798 (Alfoxden), May-Dec., 1800, Oct.-Dec., 1801, Jan.-July, 1802: all these at Grasmere. They have been printed by Professor Knight, and I have the assurance of Mr. Gordon Wordsworth that what little has been omitted is unimportant. Nothing is unimportant to me, and I wish the whole had been given us; but what we have is enough whereby to trace the development of her extraordinary mind and of her power of self-expression. The latter, undoubtedly, grew out of emotion, which gradually culminated until the day of William Wordsworth's marriage. There it broke, and with it, as if by a determination of the will, there the revelation ceased. A new life began with the coming of Mary Wordsworth to Dove Cottage, a life of which Dorothy records the surface only.

The Alfoxden fragment (20 Jan.-22 May, 1798), written when she was twenty-seven, is chiefly notable for its power of interpreting landscape. That was a power which Wordsworth himself possessed in a high degree. There can be no doubt, I think, that they egged each other on, but I myself should find it hard to say which was egger-on and which the egged. This is the first sentence of it:

"20 Jan.—The green paths down the hillsides are channels for streams. The young wheat is streaked by silver lines of water running between the ridges, the sheep are gathered together on the slopes. After the wet dark days the country seems more populous. It peoples itself in the sunbeams."

Here is one of few days later:

"23rd.—Bright sunshine, went out at 3 o'cl. The sea perfectly calm blue, streaked with deeper colour by the clouds, and tongues or points of sand; on our return of a gloomy red. The sun gone down. The crescent moon, Jupiter and Venus. The sound of the sea distinctly heard on the tops of the hills, which we could never hear in summer. We attribute this partly to the bareness of the trees, but chiefly to the absence of the singing birds, the hum of insects, that noiseless noise which lives in the summer air. The villages marked out by beautiful beds of smoke. The turf fading into the mountain road."

She handles words, phrases, like notes or chords of music, and never gets her landscape by direct description. One more picture and I must leave it:

"26.— ... Walked to the top of a high hill to see a fortification. Again sat down to feed upon the prospect; a magnificent scene, curiously spread out for even minute inspection, though so extensive that the mind is afraid to calculate its bounds...."

Coleridge was with them most days, or they with him. Here is a curious point to note. Dorothy records:

"March 7th.—William and I drank tea at Coleridge's.... Observed nothing particularly interesting.... One only leaf upon the top of a tree—the sole remaining leaf—danced round and round like a rag blown by the wind."

And Coleridge has in Christabel:

The one red leaf, the last of its clan,

That dances as often as dance it can,

Hanging so light, and hanging so high,

On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.

William, Dorothy, and Coleridge went to Hamburg at the end of that year, but in 1800 the brother and sister were in Grasmere; and the journal, which opens with May 14, at once betrays the great passion of Dorothy's life:

"William and John set off into Yorkshire after dinner at half-past two o'clock, cold pork in their pockets. I left them at the turning of the Low-Wood bay under the trees. My heart was so full I could hardly speak to W. when I gave him a farewell kiss. I sate a long time upon a stone at the margin of the lake, and after a flood of tears my heart was easier. The lake looked to me, I know not why, dull and melancholy, and the weltering on the shore seemed a heavy sound.... I resolved to write a journal of the time till W. and J. return, and I set about keeping my resolve, because I will not quarrel with myself, and because I shall give William pleasure by it when he comes again...."

"Because I will not quarrel with myself!" She is full of such illuminations. Here is another:

"Sunday, June 1st.—After tea went to Ambleside round the lakes. A very fine warm evening. Upon the side of Loughrigg my heart dissolved in what I saw."

Now here is her account of a country funeral which she reads into, or out of, the countryside:

"Wednesday, 3rd Sept.— ... a funeral at John Dawson's ... I was affected to tears while we stood in the house, the coffin lying before me. There were no near kindred, no children. When we got out of the dark house the sun was shining, and the prospect looked as divinely beautiful as I ever saw it. It seemed more sacred than I had ever seen it, and yet more allied to human life.... I thought she was going to a quiet spot, and I could not help weeping very much...."

The italics are mine. William was pleased to call her weeping "nervous blubbering."

*      *      *      *      *

And then we come to 1802, the great last year of a twin life; the last year of the five in which those two had lived as one soul and one heart. They were at Dove Cottage, on something under £150 a year. Poems were thronging thick about them; they were living intensely. John was alive. Mary Hutchinson was at Sockburn. Coleridge was still Coleridge, not the bemused and futile mystic he was to become. As for Dorothy, she lives a thing enskied, floating from ecstasy to ecstasy. It is the third of March, and William is to go to London. "Before we had quite finished breakfast Calvert's man brought the horses for Wm. We had a deal to do, pens to make, poems to put in order for writing, to settle for the press, pack up.... Since he left me at half-past eleven (it is now two) I have been putting the drawers into order, laid by his clothes, which he had thrown here and there and everywhere, filed two months' newspapers, and got my dinner, two boiled eggs and two apple tarts.... The robins are singing sweetly. Now for my walk. I will be busy. I will look well, and be well when he comes back to me. O the Darling! Here is one of his bitter apples. I can hardly find it in my heart to throw it into the fire.... I walked round the two lakes, crossed the stepping-stones at Rydalefoot. Sate down where we always sit. I was full of thought of my darling. Blessings on him." Where else in our literature will you find mood so tender, so intimately, so delicately related?

A week later, and William returned. With him, it seems, her descriptive powers. "Monday morning—a soft rain and mist. We walked to Rydale for letters. The Vale looked very beautiful in excessive simplicity, yet, at the same time, uncommon obscurity. The church stood alone, mountains behind. The meadows looked calm and rich, bordering on the still lake. Nothing else to be seen but lake and island." Exquisite landscape. For its like we must go to Japan. Here is another. An interior. It is the 23rd of March, "about ten o'clock, a quiet night. The fire flickers, and the watch ticks. I hear nothing save the breathing of my beloved as he now and then pushes his book forward, and turns over a leaf...." No more, but the peace of it is profound, the art incomparable.

In April, between the 5th and 12th, William went into Yorkshire upon an errand which she knew and dreaded. Her trouble makes the words throb. "Monday, 12th.... The ground covered with snow. Walked to T. Wilkinson's and sent for letters. The woman brought me one from William and Mary. It was a sharp windy night. Thomas Wilkinson came with me to Barton and questioned me like a catechiser all the way. Every question was like the snapping of a little thread about my heart. I was so full of thought of my half-read letter and other things. I was glad when he left me. Then I had time to look at the moon while I was thinking of my own thoughts. The moon travelled through the clouds, tinging them yellow as she passed along, with two stars near her, one larger than the other.... At this time William, as I found the next day, was riding by himself between Middleham and Barnard Castle." I don't know where else to find the vague torment of thought, its way of enhancing colour and form in nature, more intensely observed. Next day: "When I returned William was come. The surprise shot through me." This woman was not so much poet as crystal vase. You can see the thought cloud and take shape.

The twin life was resumed for yet a little while. In the same month come her descriptions of the daffodils in Gowbarrow Park, and of the scene by Brothers Water, which prove to anybody in need of proof that she was William's well-spring of poesy. Not that the journal is necessarily involved. No need to suppose that he even read it. But that she could make him see, and be moved by, what she had seen is proved by this: "17th.... I saw a robin chasing a scarlet butterfly this morning"; and "Sunday, 18th.... William wrote the poem on The Robin and the Butterfly." No; beautiful beyond praise as the journals are, it is certain that she was more beautiful than they. And what a discerning illuminative eye she had! "As I lay down on the grass, I observed the glittering silver line on the ridge of the backs of the sheep, owing to their situation respecting the sun, which made them look beautiful, but with something of strangeness, like animals of another kind, as if belonging to a more splendid world...." What a woman to go a-gipsying through the world with!

Then comes the end.... "Thursday, 8th July.... In the afternoon, after we had talked a little, William fell asleep. I read The Winter's Tale; then I went to bed, but did not sleep. The swallows stole in and out of their nest, and sat there, whiles quite still, whiles they sung low for two minutes or more at a time, just like a muffled robin. William was looking at The Pedlar when I got up. He arranged it, and after tea I wrote it out—280 lines.... The moon was behind.... We walked first to the top of the hill to see Rydale. It was dark and dull, but our own vale was very solemn—the shape of Helm Crag was quite distinct, though black. We walked backwards and forwards on the White Moss path; there was a sky like white brightness on the lake.... O beautiful place! Dear Mary, William. The hour is come.... I must prepare to go. The swallows, I must leave them, the wall, the garden, the roses, all. Dear creatures, they sang last night after I was in bed; seemed to be singing to one another, just before they settled to rest for the night. Well, I must go. Farewell."

Next day she set out with William to meet her secret dread, knowing that life in Rydale could never be the same again. Wordsworth married Mary Hutchinson on the 4th October, 1802. The secret is no secret now, for Dorothy was a crystal vase.

BEN JONSON[7]

[7] Ben Jonson. By G. Gregory Smith. (English Men of Letters Series.) Macmillan, 1919. 3s. net.

By ALDOUS HUXLEY

IT comes as something of a surprise to find that the niche reserved for Ben Jonson in the "English Men of Letters" series has only now been filled. One expected somehow that he would have been among the first of the great ones to be enshrined; but no, he has had a long time to wait; and Adam Smith, and Sydney Smith, and Hazlitt, and Fanny Burney have gone before him into the temple of fame. Now, however, his monument has at last been made, with Professor Gregory Smith's qualified version of "O rare Ben Jonson!" duly and definitively carved upon it.

What is it that makes us, almost as a matter of course, number Ben Jonson among the great? Why should we expect him to be an early candidate for immortality, or why, indeed, should he be admitted to the "English Men of Letters" series at all? These are difficult questions to answer; for when we come to consider the matter we find ourselves unable to give any very glowing account of Ben or his greatness. It is hard to say that one likes his work; one cannot honestly call him a good poet or a supreme dramatist. And yet, unsympathetic as he is, uninteresting as he often can be, we still go on respecting and admiring him, because, in spite of everything, we are conscious, obscurely but certainly, that he was a great man.

He had little influence on his successors; the comedy of humours died without any but an abortive issue. Shadwell, the mountain-bellied "Og, from a treason tavern rolling home," is not a disciple that any man would have much pride in claiming. No raking up of literary history will make Ben Jonson great as a founder of a school or an inspirer of others. His greatness is a greatness of character. There is something almost alarming in the spectacle of this formidable figure advancing with tank-like irresistibility towards the goal he had set himself to attain. No sirens of romance can seduce him, no shock of opposition unseat him in his career. He proceeds along the course theoretically mapped out at the inception of his literary life, never deviating from this narrow way till the very end—till the time when, in his old age, he wrote that exquisite pastoral, The Sad Shepherd, which is so complete and absolute a denial of all his lifelong principles. But The Sad Shepherd is a weakness, albeit a triumphant weakness. Ben, as he liked to look upon himself, as he has again and again revealed himself to us, is the artist with principles, protesting against the anarchic absence of principle among the geniuses and charlatans, the poets and ranters of his age.

"The true artificer will not run away from nature as he were afraid of her: or depart from life and the likeness of truth; but speak to the capacity of his hearers. And though his language differ from the vulgar somewhat, it shall not fly from all humanity, with the Tamerlanes and Tamer-Chams of the late age, which had nothing in them but the scenical strutting and furious vociferation to warrant them to the ignorant gapers. He knows it is his only art, so to carry it as none but artificers perceive it. In the meantime, perhaps, he is called barren, dull, lean, a poor writer, or by what contumelious word can come in their cheeks, by these men who without labour, judgment, knowledge, or almost sense, are received or preferred before him."

In these sentences from Discoveries Ben Jonson paints his own picture—portrait of the artist as a true artificer—setting forth, in its most general form, and with no distracting details of the humours or the moral purpose of art, his own theory of the artist's true function and nature. Jonson's theory was no idle speculation, no mere thing of words and air, but a creed, a principle, a categorical imperative, conditioning and informing his whole work. Any study of the poet must, therefore, begin with the formulation of his theory, and must go on, as Professor Gregory Smith's excellent essay does indeed proceed, to show in detail how the theory was applied and worked out in each individual composition.

A good deal of nonsense has been talked at one time or another about artistic theories. The artist is told that he should have no theories, that he should warble native wood-notes wild, that he should "sing," be wholly spontaneous, should starve his brain and cultivate his heart and spleen; that an artistic theory cramps the style, stops up the Helicons of inspiration, and so on, and so on. The foolish and sentimental conception of the artist, to which these anti-intellectual doctrines are a corollary, dates from the time of romanticism and survives among the foolish and sentimental of to-day. A consciously practised theory of art has never spoiled a good artist, has never dammed up inspiration, but rather, and in most cases profitably, canalised it. Even the Romantics had theories and were wild and emotional on principle.

Theories are above all necessary at moments when old traditions are breaking up, when all is chaos and in flux. At such moments an artist formulates his theory and clings to it through thick and thin; clings to it as the one firm raft of security in the midst of the surrounding unrest. Thus, when the neo-Classicism, of which Ben was one of the remote ancestors, was crumbling into the nothingness of The Loves of the Plants and The Triumphs of Temper, Wordsworth found salvation by the promulgation of a new theory of poetry, which he put into practice systematically and to the verge of absurdity in Lyrical Ballads. Similarly in the shipwreck of the old tradition of painting we find the artists of the present day clinging desperately to intellectual formulas as their only hope in the chaos. The only occasions, in fact, when the artist can afford entirely to dispense with theory occur in periods when a well-established tradition reigns supreme and unquestioned. And then the absence of theory is more apparent than real; for the tradition in which he is working is a theory, originally formulated by someone else, which he accepts unconsciously and as though it were the law of nature itself.

The beginning of the seventeenth century was not one of these periods of placidity and calm acceptance. It was a moment of growth and decay together, of fermentation. The fabulous efflorescence of the Renaissance had already grown rank. With that extravagance of energy which characterised them in all things, the Elizabethans had exaggerated the traditions of their literature into insincerity. All artistic traditions end, in due course, by being reduced to the absurd; but the Elizabethans crammed the growth and decline of a century into a few years. One after another they transfigured and then destroyed every species of art they touched. Euphuism, Petrarchism, Spenserism, the sonnet, the drama—some lasted a little longer than others, but they all exploded in the end, these beautiful iridescent bubbles blown too big by the enthusiasm of their makers.

But in the midst of this unstable luxuriance voices of protest were to be heard, reactions against the main romantic current were discernible. Each in his own way and in his own sphere, Donne and Ben Jonson protested against the exaggerations of the age. At a time when sonneteers in legions were quibbling about the blackness of their ladies' eyes or the golden wires of their hair, when Platonists protested in melodious chorus that they were not in love with "red and white" but with the ideal and divine beauty of which peach-blossom complexions were but inadequate shadows, at a time when love-poetry had become, with rare exceptions, fantastically unreal, Donne called it back, a little grossly perhaps, to facts with the dry remark:

Love's not so pure and abstract as they use

To say, who have no mistress but their muse.

There have been poets who have written more lyrically than Donne, more fervently about certain amorous emotions, but not one who has formulated so rational a philosophy of love as a whole, who has seen all the facts so clearly and judged of them so soundly. Donne laid down no literary theory. His followers took from him all that was relatively unimportant—the harshness, itself a protest against Spenserian facility, the conceits, the sensuality tempered by mysticism—but the important and original quality of Donne's work, the psychological realism, they could not, through sheer incapacity, transfer into their own poetry. Donne's immediate influence was on the whole bad. Any influence for good he may have had has been on poets of a much later date.

The other great literary Protestant of the time was the curious subject of our examination, Ben Jonson. Like Donne he was a realist. He had no use for claptrap, or rant, or romanticism. His aim was to give his audiences real facts flavoured with sound morality. He failed to be a great realist, partly because he lacked the imaginative insight to perceive more than the most obvious and superficial reality, and partly because he was so much preoccupied with the sound morality that he was prepared to sacrifice truth to satire; so that in place of characters he gives us humours, not minds, but personified moral qualities.

Ben hated romanticism; for, whatever may have been his bodily habits, however infinite his capacity for drinking sack, he belonged intellectually to the party of sobriety. In all ages the drunks and the sobers have confronted one another, each party loud in derision and condemnation of the defects which it observes in the other. "The Tamerlanes and Tamer-Chams of the late age" accuse the sober Ben of being "barren, dull, lean, a poor writer." Ben retorts that they "have nothing in them but the scenical strutting and furious vociferation to warrant them to the ignorant gapers." At another period it is the Hernanis and the Rollas who reproach that paragon of dryness, the almost fiendishly sober Stendhal, with his grocer's style. Stendhal in his turn remarks: "En paraissant, vers 1803, le Génie de Chateaubriand m'a semblé ridicule." And to-day? We have our sobers and our drunks, our Hardy and our Belloc, and Chesterton. The distinction is universally and eternally valid. Our personal sympathies may lie with one or the other; but it is obvious that we could dispense with neither. Ben, then, was one of the sobers, protesting with might and main against the extravagant behaviour of the drunks, an intellectual insisting that there was no way of arriving at truth except by intellectual processes, an apotheosis of the Plain Man determined to stand no nonsense about anything. Ben's poetical achievement, such as it is, is the achievement of one who relied on no mysterious inspiration, but on those solid qualities of sense, perseverance, and sound judgment which any decent citizen of a decent country may be expected to possess. That he himself possessed, hidden somewhere in the obscure crypts and recesses of his mind, other rarer spiritual qualities is proved by the existence of his additions to The Spanish Tragedy—if, indeed, they are his, which there is no cogent reason to doubt—and his last fragment of a masterpiece, The Sad Shepherd. But these qualities, as Professor Gregory Smith points out, he seems deliberately to have suppressed; locked them away, at the bidding of his imperious theory, in the strange dark places from which, at the beginning and the very end of his career, they emerged. He might have been a great romantic, one of the sublime inebriates; he chose rather to be classical and sober. Working solely with the logical intellect and rejecting as dangerous the aid of those uncontrolled illogical elements of imagination, he produced work that is in its own way excellent. It is well-wrought, strong, heavy with learning and what the Chaucerians would call "high sentence." The emotional intensity and brevity excepted, it possesses all the qualities of the French classical drama. But the quality which characterises the best Elizabethan and indeed the best English poetry of all periods, the power of moving in two worlds at once, it lacks. Jonson, like the French dramatists of the seventeenth century, moves on a level, directly towards some logical goal. The road over which his great contemporaries take us is not level; it is, as it were, tilted and uneven, so that as we proceed along it we are momently shot off at a tangent from the solid earth of logical meaning into superior regions where the intellectual laws of gravity have no control. The mistake of Jonson and the classicists in general consists in supposing that nothing is of value that is not susceptible of logical analysis; whereas the truth is that the greatest triumphs of art take place in a world that is not wholly of the intellect, but lies somewhere between it and the inenarrable, but, to those who have penetrated it, supremely real, world of the mystic. In his fear and dislike of nonsense, Jonson put away from himself not only the Tamer-Chams and the fustian of the late age, but also most of the beauty it had created.

With the romantic emotions of his predecessors and contemporaries Jonson abandoned much of the characteristically Elizabethan form of their poetry. That extraordinary melodiousness which distinguishes the Elizabethan lyric is not to be found in any of Ben's writing. The poems by which we remember him—Cynthia, Drink to Me Only, It is Not Growing Like a Tree—are classically well made (though the cavalier lyrists were to do better in the same style); but it is not for any musical qualities that we remember them. One can understand Ben's critical contempt for those purely formal devices for producing musical richness in which the Elizabethans delighted.

Eyes, why did you bring unto me these graces,

Grac'd to yield wonder out of her true measure,

Measure of all joyes' stay to phansie traces

Module of pleasure.

The device is childish in its formality, the words, in their obscurity, almost devoid of significance. But what matter, since the stanza is a triumph of sonorous beauty? The Elizabethans devised many ingenuities of this sort; the minor poets exploited them until they became ridiculous; the major poets employed them with greater discretion, playing subtle variations (as in Shakespeare's sonnets) on the crude theme. When writers had something to say, their thoughts, poured into these copiously elaborate forms, were moulded to the grandest poetical eloquence. A minor poet, like Lord Brooke, from whose works we have just quoted a specimen of pure formalism, could produce, in his moments of inspiration, such magnificent lines as:

The mind of Man is this world's true dimension,

And knowledge is the measure of the mind;

or these, of the nethermost hell:

A place there is upon no centre placed,

Deepe under depthes, as farre as is the skie

Above the earth; darke, infinitely spaced:

Pluto the king, the kingdome, miserie.

Even into comic poetry the Elizabethans imported the grand manner. The anonymous author of

Tee-hee, tee-hee! Oh sweet delight!

He tickles this age, who can

Call Tullia's ape a marmosite

And Leda's goose a swan,

knew the secret of that rich, facile music which all those who wrote in the grand Elizabethan tradition could produce. Jonson, like Donne, reacted against the facility and floridity of this technique, but in a different way. Donne's protest took the form of a conceited subtlety of thought combined with a harshness of metre. Jonson's classical training inclined him towards clarity, solidity of sense, and economy of form. He stands, as a lyrist, halfway between the Elizabethans and the cavalier song-writers; he has broken away from the old tradition, but has not yet made himself entirely at home in the new. At the best he achieves a minor perfection of point and neatness. At the worst he falls into that dryness and dullness with which he knew he could be reproached.

We have seen from the passage concerning the true artificer that Jonson fully realised the risk he was running. He recurs more than once in Discoveries to the same theme, "Some men to avoid redundancy run into that [a "thin, flagging, poor, starved" style]; and while they strive to have no ill-blood or juice, they lose their good." The good that Jonson lost was a great one. And in the same way we see to-day how a fear of becoming sentimental, or "chocolate-boxy," drives many of the younger poets and artists to shrink from treating of the great emotions or the obvious lavish beauty of the earth. But to eschew a good because the corruption of it is very bad is surely a sign of weakness and a folly.

Having lost the realm of romantic beauty—lost it deliberately and of set purpose—Ben Jonson devoted the whole of his immense energy to portraying and reforming the ugly world of fact. But his reforming satiric intentions interfered, as we have already shown, with his realistic intentions, and instead of re-creating in his art the actual world of men, he invented the wholly intellectual and therefore wholly unreal universe of Humours. It is an odd new world, amusing to look at from the safe distance that separates stage from stalls; but not a place one could ever wish to live in—one's neighbours, fools, knaves, hypocrites, and bears would make the most pleasing prospect intolerable. And over it all is diffused the atmosphere of Jonson's humour. It is a curious kind of humour, very different from anything that passes under that name to-day, from the humour of Punch, or A Kiss for Cinderella. One has only to read Volpone—or, better still, go to see it when it is acted this year by the Phœnix Society for the revival of old plays—to realise that Ben's conception of a joke differed materially from ours. Humour has never been the same since Rousseau invented humanitarianism. Syphilis and broken legs were still a great deal more comic in Smollett's day than in our own. There is a cruelty, a heartlessness about much of the older humour which is sometimes shocking, sometimes, in its less extreme forms, pleasantly astringent and stimulating after the orgies of quaint pathos and sentimental comedy in which we are nowadays forced to indulge. There is not a pathetic line in Volpone; all the characters are profoundly unpleasant, and the fun is almost as grim as fun can be. Its heartlessness is not the brilliant, cynical heartlessness of the later Restoration comedy, but something ponderous and vast. It reminds us of one of those enormous, painful jokes which fate sometimes plays on humanity. There is no alleviation, no purging by pity and terror. It requires a very hearty sense of humour to digest it. We have reason to admire our ancestors for their ability to enjoy this kind of comedy as it should be enjoyed. It would get very little appreciation from a London audience of to-day.

In the other comedies the fun is not so grim; but there is a certain hardness and brutality about them all—due, of course, ultimately to the fact that the characters are not human, but rather marionettes of wood and metal that collide and belabour one another, like the ferocious puppets of the Punch and Judy show, without feeling the painfulness of the proceeding. Shakespeare's comedy is not heartless, because the characters are human and sensitive. Our modern sentimentality is a corruption, a softening of genuine humanity. We need a few more Jonsons and Congreves, some more plays like Volpone, or that inimitable Mariage à la Mode of Dryden, in which the curtain goes up on a lady singing the outrageously cynical song that begins:

Why should a foolish marriage vow,

That long ago was made,

Constrain us to each other now

When pleasure is decayed?

Too much heartlessness is intolerable (how soon one turns, revolted, from the literature of the Restoration!), but a little of it now and then is bracing, a tonic for relaxed sensibilities. A little ruthless laughter clears the air as nothing else can do; it is good for us, every now and then, to see our ideals laughed at, our conception of nobility caricatured; it is good for solemnity's nose to be tweaked, it is good for human pomposity to be made to look mean and ridiculous. This should be the great social function—as Marinetti has pointed out—of the music halls, to provide this cruel and unsparing laughter, to make a buffoonery of all the solemnly-accepted grandeurs and nobilities. A good dose of this mockery, administered twice a year at the equinoxes, should purge our minds of much waste matter, make nimble our spirits and brighten the eye to look more clearly and truthfully on the world about us.

Ben's reduction of human beings to a series of rather unpleasant Humours is sound and medicinal. Humours do not, of course, exist in actuality; they are true only as caricatures are true. There are times when we wonder whether a caricature is not, after all, truer than a photograph; there are others when it seems a stupid lie. But at all times a caricature is disquieting; and it is very good for most of us to be made uncomfortable.

STEPHEN CRANE

A Note Without Dates

By JOSEPH CONRAD

MY acquaintance with Crane was brought about by Mr. S. S. Pawling, partner in the publishing firm of Mr. William Heinemann.

One day Mr. Pawling said to me: "Stephen Crane has arrived in England. I asked him if there was anybody he wanted to meet and he mentioned two names. One of them was yours." I had then just been reading, like the rest of the world, Crane's Red Badge of Courage. The subject of that story was war, from the point of view of an individual soldier's emotions. That individual (he remains nameless throughout) was interesting enough in himself, but on turning over the pages of that little book which had for the moment secured such a noisy recognition I had been even more interested in the personality of the writer. The picture of a simple and untried youth becoming through the needs of his country part of a great fighting machine was presented with an earnestness of purpose, a sense of tragic issues, and an imaginative force of expression which struck me as quite uncommon and altogether worthy of admiration.

Apparently Stephen Crane had received a favourable impression from reading the Nigger of the Narcissus, a book of mine which had also been published lately. I was truly pleased to hear this.

On my next visit to town we met at a lunch. I saw a young man of medium stature and slender build, with very steady, penetrating blue eyes, the eyes of a being who not only sees visions but can brood over them to some purpose.

He had indeed a wonderful power of vision, which he applied to the things of this earth and of our mortal humanity with a penetrating force that seemed to reach within life's appearances and forms the very spirit of their truth. His ignorance of the world at large—he had seen very little of it—did not stand in the way of his imaginative grasp of facts, events, and picturesque men.

His manner was very quiet, his personality at first sight interesting, and he talked slowly with an intonation which on some people, mainly Americans, had, I believe, a jarring effect. But not on me. Whatever he said had a personal note, and he expressed himself with a graphic simplicity which was extremely engaging. He knew little of literature, either of his own country or of any other, but he was himself a wonderful artist in words whenever he took a pen into his hand. Then his gift came out—and it was seen to be much more than mere felicity of language. His impressionism of phrase went really deeper than the surface. In his writing he was very sure of his effects. I don't think he was ever in doubt about what he could do. Yet it often seemed to me that he was but half aware of the exceptional quality of his achievement.

This achievement was curtailed by his early death. It was a great loss to his friends, but perhaps not so much to literature. I think that he had given his measure fully in the few books he had the time to write. Let me not be misunderstood: the loss was great, but it was the loss of the delight his art could give, not the loss of any further possible revelation. As to himself, who can say how much he gained or lost by quitting so early this world of the living, which he knew how to set before us in terms of his own artistic vision? Perhaps he did not lose a great deal. The recognition he was accorded was rather languid and given him grudgingly. The worthiest welcome he secured for his tales in this country was from Mr. W. Henley in the New Review and later, towards the end of his life, from the late Mr. William Blackwood in his magazine. For the rest I must say that during his sojourn in England he had the misfortune to be, as the French say, mal entouré. He was beset by people who understood not the quality of his genius and were antagonistic to the deeper fineness of his nature. Some of them have died since, but dead or alive they are not worth speaking about now. I don't think he had any illusions about them himself; yet there was a strain of good-nature and perhaps of weakness in his character which prevented him from shaking himself free from their worthless and patronising attentions, which in those days caused me much secret irritation whenever I stayed with him in either of his English homes. My wife and I like best to remember him riding to meet us at the gate of the Park at Brede. Born master of his sincere impressions he was also a born horseman. He never appeared so happy or so much to advantage as on the back of a horse. He had formed the project of teaching my eldest boy to ride and meantime, when the child was about two years old, presented him with his first dog.

I saw Stephen Crane a few days after his first arrival in London. I saw him for the last time on his last day in England. It was in Dover, in a big hotel, in a bedroom with a large window looking on to the sea. He had been very ill and Mrs. Crane was taking him to some place in Germany, but one glance at that wasted face was enough to tell me that it was the most forlorn of all hopes. The last words he breathed out to me were: "I am tired. Give my love to your wife and child." When I stopped at the door for another look I saw that he had turned his head on the pillow and was staring wistfully out of the window at the sails of a cutter yacht that glided slowly across the frame, like a dim shadow against a grey sky.

Those who have read his little tale, Horses, and the story, The Open Boat, in the volume of that name, know with what fine understanding he loved horses and the sea. And his passage on this earth was like that of a horseman riding swiftly in the dawn of a day fated to be short and without sunshine.

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES AND NEWS

Correspondence from readers on all subjects of bibliographical interest is invited. The Editor will, to the best of his ability, answer all queries addressed to him.

GENERAL NOTES

ONE of the great autobiographies, and a very important document for any one who undertakes the most rudimentary study of the English romantic movement, is the Life of B. R. Haydon, drawn from his journals. He was the friend of Keats, Lamb, Wordsworth, Leigh Hunt; he moved in many different spheres, among Dukes and politicians, and artists, and the debtors in King's Bench Prison. A man of boundless energy, an able writer capable of rendering his impressions vividly and with force, he was, indeed, everything but what he believed himself with passionate faith to be, what he even succeeded in persuading others that he was—a great painter. He was convinced—as firmly convinced as of the fact that two and two are four—that he was a genius as overwhelmingly great as Michael Angelo. He was, as a matter of fact, one of the second-rate romantic painters of the early nineteenth century, in some things a little better, in others a good deal worse, than his contemporaries in the same line of trade. The book is a fascinating study in psychology as well as one of the most vivid pictures of an interesting society. It is, therefore, unfortunate that it should now be a matter of some difficulty to lay one's hand on a copy. The first edition of the book appeared in 1853, the second and last some ten years later—more than half a century ago. We venture to express the pious hope that some beneficent publisher will reprint what is certainly one of the most peculiar human and historical documents of the nineteenth century.

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We learn from Mr. Leslie Chaundy, of Oxford, that he has purchased intact the whole library of the late Provost of Worcester. Dr. Daniel's collection comprises a great number of rare and interesting books, including, of course, all the volumes issued from the famous Daniel Press. A catalogue is, we understand, in course of preparation and will be issued shortly.

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October 31st saw the publication of the first number of the Bookman's Journal and Print Collector, qualified in a sub-title as The Journal for the Trade, for Collectors, and for Libraries. "Our aim," we read in the editorial, "is to be useful, not ornamental. Booksellers, publishers, librarians, and collectors alike from all parts of the country have agreed with the need for such a journal as this, and have given us generous support." The magazine contains reviews, a library supplement of "New Publications and Reprints of the Week," miscellaneous articles and notes on books and booksellers, prints and engravings. A useful feature of the journal will be the series of complete bibliographies of modern authors which it is proposed to publish. The first is devoted to the works of Hubert Crackanthorpe, who died in 1896, aged only twenty-six. Similar bibliographies of Masefield, Galsworthy, Conrad, Gissing, George Moore, and Merrick are in preparation. Those who wish to buy or sell books will be interested in the "Books Wanted" and "Books for Sale" columns of advertisements. Altogether, we think that this little paper will have no difficulty in substantiating its claims and will prove very valuable to all book-lovers.

Another interesting event in the world of books is the opening of the Chelsea Book Club at 65 Cheyne Walk. "It is being founded," we are told, "in the belief that in bookselling selection and specialisation are essential. It will aim, therefore, at having a stock of those books, new and second-hand, English and foreign, dealing with Belles Lettres and Art which appear to be most worthy of study and appreciation." A reading-room for the use of members will be attached to the club, in which lectures and exhibitions of works of art will be held from time to time. Those who wish to have further particulars as to membership, country book-service, lectures and exhibitions are asked to apply to the Secretary, 65 Cheyne Walk, London, S.W.3.

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At the sale, by Messrs. Sotheby, of the late Mr. W. J. Leighton's stock, to which we referred last month, a copy of Walton's Compleat Angler (1655) fetched £21 10s.; The Pricke of Conscience, fifteenth century M.S., £50; Myrrour and Description of the Worlde, printed by Laurence Andrews, circa 1530, £72. Important auction sales in the month of November were Messrs. Sotheby's sale of the late Sir Frank Crisp's library and the sale of Mr. Christie Miller's library on the 28th of the month. We shall have gone to press before the results of the sale are known. What will be paid for Lot 81, we wonder?—Mr. William Shakespeare's Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies, the first edition, folio, 1623.

The Christie-Miller library contains many other books of extraordinary interest, among them three unique copies of works by Nicholas Breton: A Smale Handfull of Fragrant Flowers, Selected and Gathered out of the Lovely Garden of Sacred Scripture; A Floorish upon Fancie, As Gallant a Glose upon so Triflinge a Text as ever was Written; and The Workes of a Young Wit Trust up with a Fardell of Prettie Fancies. Robert Greene is represented by three unique copies, one of Gwydonius, and another of Arbasto, The Anatomie of Fortune; and the third of the earliest edition of A Quip for an Upstart Courtier, containing the passage, suppressed in all the later editions, in abuse of Gabriel Harvey and his brothers, which started the literary war between Greene and the pedant of Cambridge.

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ITEMS FROM THE BOOKSELLERS' CATALOGUES

It is possible, with a bundle of booksellers' catalogues, to waste more time more pleasantly than in any other way. As one idly turns the pages, catching sight here and there of a strange title or a book on some impossibly queer subject, one realises, more fully than one could do in years of social intercourse with one's fellow-men, how fantastic a thing is the human mind—a stable full of prancing hobby-horses for crochety horsemen to ride about the world. We can speculate pleasantly on the character of the practical parson who wrote the Clergyman's Intelligencer; or, a Compleat Alphabetical List of all the Patrons in England and Wales, with the ... Benefices in their Gift and their Valuation Annexed (1745), for which Mr. Mayhew asks 5s. In the same catalogue is offered that curiosity in the history of science, P. H. Gosse's Creation (Omphalus); an Attempt to Untie the Geological Knot, published in 1857, two years before the Origin of Species. The title, Ode to the Duke of Wellington and Other Poems, Written Between the Ages of Eleven and Thirteen Years, by Robert Charles Dallas (1819), calls up visions of some tight-trousered infant prodigy; and we wish that the book were not an example of fine binding, and that Mr. Chaundy could part with it for less than 30s. Just above the infant, alphabetically and perhaps also in order of merit, we find the name of D'Adelsward, the author of a volume of poems (of which, in our ignorance, we had never heard) entitled Les Cortèges Qui Sont Passés. The volume, which was published in 1903, is bound in pink watered silk, and costs four guineas. We have a vision of something even more prodigious than the infant of 1819.

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Mr. Chaundy has a number of first editions of Disraeli's novels for sale. The very scarce Contarini Fleming (1832) is priced at £6; The Voyage of Captain Popanilla (1828) at 35s.; Vivian Grey (1826) at 21s.; Venetia (1837) at 20s. A first edition of Borrow's Wild Wales, in three volumes (1862), is offered by Messrs. Heffer, of Cambridge, for £9 9s. It is almost worth paying that for the sake of the description, at the beginning of the book, of the negro who sat on the walls of Chester, spitting into the void. You can have George Eliot for a good deal less. Mr. James Miles, of Leeds, has a Silas Marner (first edition, 1861) for 25s. First editions of Robert Bridges are, we notice, priced a good deal higher than the later firsts of Robert Browning. Eros and Psyche costs 15s. at Messrs. Heffer's, and Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangan only 5s. The four volumes of the first edition of The Ring and the Book (1868) cost one 32s. at the same bookseller's.

Similarly Conrad firsts are more precious than Bennetts, if we may judge from the fact that Hilda Lessways (1911) costs 7s. at Mr. Chaundy's shop, while Chance and Victory (novels of Mr. Conrad's corresponding period), at Messrs. Heffer's, are priced at 12s. and 9s. respectively, and the precious Almayer's Folly of 1895 costs £3 3s.

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Mr. P. J. Dobell has already done good work in the field of bibliography. The catalogue published by him last year, under the title, The Literature of the Restoration, was a useful guide for all students of the period. He has now issued a supplementary catalogue of works connected with the Popish Plot.

Most of the pamphlets which he offers for sale are unknown to us; but here and there we light on an old friend. We can remember laughing heartily over A Modest Vindication of the Earl of S[haftesbur]y, in a Letter to a Friend Concerning His Being Elected King of Poland. The ironical eulogy of Shaftesbury with which the pamphlet begins is an admirable piece of satire. The Earl is praised for "his unshaken obedience to every Government he has been concerned in or lived under; his steady adherence to every religion that had but hopes to be established." It is interesting to note that in this pamphlet, written after the production of the Spanish Friar, and before the publication of Absalom and Achitophel, Dryden is regarded as a Whig poet. For the new King of Poland appoints "Jean Drydenurtzitz to be our Poet Laureate for writing panegyrics upon Oliver Cromwell and libels against his present master, King Charles II. of England." The deputy Laureate is no less a person than "Tom Shadworiski," or Shadwell, Dryden's most bitter enemy in the later years of the Plot. Mr. Dobell's price for the pamphlet is 7s. 6d. Two pamphlets in this collection refer to the fantastic rector of All Saints', Colchester—Edmund Hickeringill, one time chaplain in the Scottish regiments of the Commonwealth, and the author of the first retort to The Medal, The Mushroom, which was written and sent to press on the day following the publication of Dryden's poem—a feat of composition which he modestly suggests was due to divine inspiration.

Great News from the Old-Bayly, Mr. Gar's Recantation; or, the True Protestant Renegade, the Courantier Turn'd Tony, sounds interesting. Henry Care had the distinction of being the first to reply to Absalom and Achitophel. His Towzer the Second was published three weeks after the appearance of the Tory Satire, for Care was a true blue Protestant in those days. "His breeding," says Anthony Wood, "was in the nature of a Petty Fogger, a little despicable wretch ... a poor snivelling fellow." He was a poor literary hack, and at James II.'s accession, "for bread and money sake, and nothing else," he went over to the side in power and turned his pen against the Protestants.

Three pamphlets deal with Roger L'Estrange, or "Towzer," as he was nicknamed by his enemies. But there is one enchanting ballad entitled "A New Ballad on an Old Dog (Towzer) that Writes Strange-lee," of which Mr. Dobell does not seem to have a copy. We could wish that we had space to quote it. But we have embarked on a subject which needs treating at length. The literary history of the Popish Plot remains to be written. A volume of extracts joined together by explanatory notes, biographical, political, and critical, would be a thing of absorbing interest.

*      *      *      *      *

We notice, by the way, in Mr. Dobell's catalogue that The London Mercury, or Moderate Intelligencer, from December 24th to 27th, 1688, may be purchased for 5s. It is to be hoped that the intelligence of its namesake of to-day will prove more than moderate.

A. L. H.

CORRESPONDENCE

THE TEACHING OF ENGLISH

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—All schoolmasters and schoolmistresses will be grateful to you for your services to a great cause in allowing Mr. J. C. Stobart to talk at length on the teaching of English, but I was surprised to find myself selected as his scapegoat and "guillotined in distinguished company" (that of the old régime). My colleagues will be amused at that. Unfortunately Mr. Stobart is not a very skilful executioner. He tries to show that in my English Course I have followed the traditional methods in "thoroughly normal chapters." And yet he does allow that I am "trying to shake off a yoke which is not entirely congenial" to me. It is more than ten years since I shook off the yoke which he describes as uncongenial. "The traditional method," he says, "begins with the copybook and proceeds by way of dictation and formal exercises to its goal in the essay." I do not advocate the use of the copybook for the simple reason that copybooks insist on the Vere Foster type of handwriting, while I require from my pupils an artistic caligraphy which is opposed in every particular to the uniform ugliness of the old Board School and present Army Council standard.

Dictation I use most sparingly, though I certainly do prefer a boy to leave me with an elementary knowledge of punctuation and a slight acquaintance with the more normal forms of spelling rather than with a contempt for or slavish adoration of stops, and a phonetic system of spelling which is intelligible and phonetic to no one but himself. The reading that I advocate, both in my book and in practice, is not limited (has Mr. Stobart himself read all the books that I recommended as useful for boys?), and the text is never obscured with comment. Where did he get this false information from? To definite grammar I assigned four and a half pages out of 500, which exactly expresses my opinion of its importance. Having misrepresented me in every detail so far, Mr. Stobart proceeds to attack me on two sides at once. "If you ask the schoolmaster why he makes his English the dullest subject in the syllabus, he will probably answer that he is preparing for the London matriculation." I am both a schoolmaster and the English examiner for the "Matric." I will pay Mr. Stobart's first-class return fare from his home to Tonbridge and board him for a week if he will visit my English classes and at the end of his stay retain that word "dullest" in all sincerity. I cannot believe that it is only I who enjoy these English hours so whole-heartedly. I certainly should find them dull if I were proceeding on "traditional" lines, either in my book or in the class-room.... I am next taken to task for daring to teach observation and originality. Mr. Stobart rather rudely (I wish he would practise gentleness and love himself) calls my methods here "a generous diet of cold minced hash." It is "up" to him to prove it. The point is, do I or do I not achieve observation and originality by my methods? Come down to Tonbridge, Mr. Stobart, and I will let you judge for yourself.

When, therefore, you suggest that every boy should learn how to express himself freely and to read widely, I can only reply that every boy has been doing so with very great advantage for years. You cannot picture a Public Schoolmaster so zealous for the purity of his own tongue that he treats a misplaced "and which" or "unrelated participle" as a personal affront. You cannot have been inside a Public School class-room for "donkey's years." I can show you scores as devoted to our classics as Whitelaw was to Latin and Greek?—Yours, etc.,

S. P. B. MAIS.

Tonbridge.

MACARONIC POETRY

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—The author of Specimens of Macaronic Poetry, published by J. Richard Beckley in 1831, is William Sandys, F.S.A. (1791–1874). He was a barrister of Gray's Inn, and a member of the law firm of Sandys and Knott, of Gray's Inn Square. He was born and died in London, and, in addition to the book mentioned above, was the author of A Short History of Freemasonry (1829), Christmas Carols (1833), and a few other books, a full bibliography of which will be found in Bibliotheca Cornubiensis. He was an enthusiastic musical amateur from youth, and further biographical particulars will be found in the Dictionary of National Biography.—Yours, etc.,

WINIFRED SPARKE.

Bolton.

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—Specimens of Macaronic Poetry, to which reference is made on page 74 of your last issue, is chiefly remarkable for its interesting introduction to the subject and to the fact that most of the specimens printed are, or were at the date of publication, rarely met with.

The epic which you mention first is discussed on page 17 of the introduction, where it is said to be an imitation of Folengo. I have not been able to trace the author, but it bears many evidences of having been written by Folengo himself. The ode was written by Dr. Geddes, and the author of the old Scottish Testament was Wm. Dunbar, whose name is printed at the end of the verses in my copy.

Macaronic Poetry creates but little interest in these days, though there are still students who appreciate some of its qualities.

If "A. L. H." is interested, I am sure that an article on the subject would be read with very great appreciation even if that quality be confined to very few in number.—Yours, etc.,

B. BAGNALL.

43 Chancery Lane, London, W.C.2.

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—What does "A. L. H." mean by "no" author's name is given? The editor's of the book—or the author's of Mr. Andro Kennedy?

The latter is, of course, my compatriot, William Dunbar, but neither of my editions of him mentions this poem's having been printed in that particular book.

Also, your reviewer of Wilde, on page 91, begins, quite in error, saying that the book has no indication of how it came into existence or who chose them for republication. The wrapper, cover, and title-page, all three, say, "Being extracts from Reviews and Miscellanies" (one of those large white volumes on hand-made paper that smelt so of bad paste, published by Methuen in 1912); while behind the title-page is, "This selection has been made by Mr. E. V. Lucas." The best thing in it is, I think, the charming paragraph on Balzac, "A steady course of Balzac reduces our living friends to shadows and our acquaintances to the shadows of shades"—Yours, etc.,

C. K. S. M.

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—With regard to your query in No. 1, as to who was the author of Specimens of Macaronic Poetry, I think I can supply the answer. After reading your paragraph on the subject I took down the book from its shelf and found that my father, the late Dr. Henry B. Wheatley, had pencilled on the title-page the name of Sandys. I then turned to Lowndes and found the book under the name of William Sandys. The Dictionary of National Biography states that the author was born in 1792 and died in 1874, and that he is best remembered for his share in Sandys' and Forster's History of the Violin, 1864. The Specimens, published in 1831, was his second venture in authorship. My father evidently bought the book when he was engaged in writing his own first book Of Anagrams, containing in the introduction (I quote from the title-page) "numerous specimens of Macaronic poetry, Punning Mottoes, Rhopalic, Shaped, Equivocal, Lyon, and Echo Verses, Alliteration, Acrostics, Lipograms, Chronograms, Logograms, Palindromes, and Bouls' Rimes." To any one interested in queer forms of verse this book is full of entertainment. It was published in 1872, and is now out of print.

In the first of your Bibliographical Notes, in which you notice Mr. Percy Simpson's edition of Every Man in His Humour, you say, "A new edition of Ben Jonson's work is certainly needed: Gifford's, re-edited by Cunningham, is sadly inadequate." I have not yet had the pleasure of reading Mr. Simpson's book, but I would point out that Gifford's edition was not the only predecessor. An edition of Ben Jonson's play was edited, with an introduction and critical apparatus, by my father in 1877, for the "London Series of English Classics," edited by J. W. Hales, M.A., and J. S. Jerram, M.A., and published by Longmans, Green & Co. The excellent introduction contains, besides the facts of Jonson's life, a lucid explanation and examination of the Comedy of Humours, together with a critical comparison of the various editions. The notes are adequate, and placed at the end of the book. It was a labour of love, and, although doubtless scholarship has advanced since it was published, my filial partiality compels me to think that it still ranks as a worthy edition of this classic of our literature.—Yours, etc.,

GEO. H. WHEATLEY.

83 Salisbury Road, Harrow.

VOLTAIRE'S CANDIDE

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—A Bibliographical Note in your first number makes reference to "a charming little first edition of Candide (1759)", and the writer of the paragraph, commenting on the absence of the author's name and of any particulars concerning the publisher and place of publication, states that "it was often Voltaire's custom not to acknowledge his publications till they were a success."

There lies before me as I write, however, a copy of an edition also published in 1759, but which contains the author's name and particulars as to publication. As it may interest some of your readers, as well as "A. L. H.," I venture to transcribe the title-page, which is as follows:—

Candidus: or, the Optimist By Mr. De Voltaire. Translated into English by W. Rider, M.A., Late Scholar of Jesus College, Oxford. London: Printed for J. Scott, at the Black Swan, in Pater-noster-Row, and J. Gretton, in Old Bond-Street. MDCCLIX. [Price One Shilling and Six-Pence.]—Yours, etc.,

LEWIS H. GRUNDY.

Highgate.

PARTICLES

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—Mrs. Meynell has the support of a great master in the niceties of the English language when she takes exception to the particle "less" being tacked on to a verb.

Writing to Bernard Barton (February 7th, 1826) in acknowledgment of his Devotional Verses, Charles Lamb says: "One word I must object to in your little book, and it recurs more than once—FADELESS is no genuine compound; loveless is, because love is a noun as well as a verb, but what is a fade?"—Yours, etc.,

(Mrs) G. A. ANDERSON.

The Moorlands, Woldingham, Surrey

BOOKS OF THE MONTH

POETRY

GEORGIAN POETRY, 1918–1919 Edited by E. M. The Poetry Bookshop 6s. net.

The new collection of Georgian Poetry contains specimens of the work of nineteen poets, fourteen of whom have appeared in one or more of the previous volumes of the series, while five are represented for the first time. The fourteen are Mr. Lascelles Abercrombie, Mr. Gordon Bottomley, Mr. W. H. Davies, Mr. Walter de la Mare, Mr. John Drinkwater, Mr. John Freeman, Mr. W. W. Gibson, Mr. Robert Graves, Mr. D. H. Lawrence, Mr. Harold Monro, Mr. Robert Nichols, Mr. Siegfried Sassoon, Mr. J. C. Squire, and Mr. W. J. Turner. The five are Mr. Francis Brett Young, Mr. Thomas Moult, Mr. J. D. C. Pellow, Mr. Edward Shanks, and Mrs. Fredegond Shove. On account of their editorial connection with the LONDON MERCURY, the contributions of Mr. Squire and Mr. Shanks will not receive further mention in this notice.

"I hope," observes E. M. in his preface, "that [the present volume] may be thought to show that what for want of a better word is called Peace has not interfered with the writing of good poetry." Certainly many critics have supposed that war was the prime generator of what they admit to be a new movement in poetry. But the anthologist's hope is justified, on a priori grounds at least, by the fact that the movement began, however tentatively, before the late war. The first collection of Georgian Poetry appeared in 1912, when the title expressed an act of faith, based on an act of divination, which has since been confirmed. A comparison of the four members of the series suggests that what, for want of a better word, has received this name, is still in a state of slow development towards a certain community of spirit and attitude, which does not however connote any uniformity of style. In the third volume the nebula appeared to be taking shape, and in the fourth the process has advanced a stage. E. M. may be issuing the fourteenth before that shape can be accurately defined and described. The curve has not been drawn far enough for us to say what course it will trace; but there is already enough of it to look like a curve and not merely like a wavy line.

That remote first volume, which was of course a symptom and a rallying-point or the new tendencies, not their origin, seems now to have been somewhat chaotic and lacking in direction. It included such older poets as Mr. G. K. Chesterton, Mr. Sturge Moore, and Sir Ronald Ross; and some of those who appear to-day the most characteristic had not then shown themselves. At that time the most powerful tendency seemed to be leading towards the realism, sometimes informed with a conscious brutality, of Mr. Masefield, Mr. Gibson, and Mr. Abercrombie. In 1919 this sort is fully represented only by Mr. Abercrombie's Witchcraft: New Style, a poem principally in dialogue which is realistic in method, if its conception has a fairy-tale brutality about it. Such lines as the following are in a familiar style:

A little brisk grey slattern of a woman,

Pattering along in her loose-heel'd clogs,

Push't the brass-barr'd door of a public-house;

The spring went hard against her; hand and knee

Shoved their weak best. As the door poised ajar

Hullabaloo of talking men burst out,

A pouring babble of inflamed palaver.

In spite of their vividness and exactitude, they make us think of a good passage of prose slightly spoiled. Mr. Gibson has not continued in the vein, and is confined here to a few momentary impressions, mostly in the sonnet form.

But if we dismiss this tendency from those we imply when we speak of "Georgian," poetry, if we admit too that Mr. W. H. Davies is often not characteristic but a poet who might have appeared at almost any time (as, in another way, is Mr. John Drinkwater), what are we to take for our definition? If we are ever to devise one, we must somehow reconcile and bring under one heading a bundle of qualities, which seem to have but little in common when they are separately described. Yet that there is some common term, some central motive, is suggested by the fact that the pieces in this book which may be thought to be on a lower level than the rest, those by Mr. Moult and Mrs. Shove, are yet not wholly out of place. These writers have been touched in some degree by the spirit of the time, which manifests itself with more power and originality in poets so diverse as Mr. de la Mare, Mr. Sassoon, and Mr. Turner. But it is likely that for some time we shall have to content ourselves with such vague recognitions of spirit, without attempting to be more precise in definition.

We must at all events include Mr. Monro's curious and good poem, Man Carrying Bale, which by its title gives a faint suggestion of some sorts of modern painting, and is actuated by the same desire, to flash suddenly a light on a familiar thing from an unfamiliar angle:

The tough hand closes gently on the load,

Out of the mind, a voice

Calls "Lift!" and the arms, remembering well their work,

Lengthen and pause for help.

Then a slow ripple flows from head to foot

While all the muscles call to one another:

"Lift!" and the bulging bale

Floats like a butterfly in June.

With this may be associated Mr. Davies' remarkable piece, A Child's Pet:

When I sailed out of Baltimore

With twice a thousand head of sheep,

They would not eat, they would not drink,

But bleated o'er the deep.

Inside the pens we crawled each day,

To sort the living from the dead;

And when we reached the Mersey's mouth,

Had lost five hundred head.

Yet every night and day one sheep,

That had no fear of man or sea,

Stuck through the bars its pleading face,

And it was stroked by me.

And to the sheep-man standing near,

"You see," I said, "this one tame sheep:

It seems a child has lost her pet,

And cried herself to sleep."

So every time we passed it by,

Sailing to England's slaughter-house,

Eight ragged sheep-men—tramps and thieves—

Would stroke that sheep's black nose.

Yet of how different a quality is the whole admirable selection of eight poems from Mr. de la Mare, to illustrate which we quote the exquisite Fare Well:

When I lie where shades of darkness

Shall no more assail mine eyes,

Nor the rain make lamentation

When the wind sighs;

How will fare the world whose wonder

Was the very proof of me?

Memory fades, must the remembered

Perishing be?

Oh, when this my dust surrenders,

Hand, foot, lip, to dust again,

May those loved and loving faces

Please other men.

May the rusting harvest hedgerow

Still the Traveller's Joy entwine.

And as happy children gather

Posies once mine.

Look thy last on all things lovely,

Every hour. Let no night

Seal thy sense in deathly slumber

Till to delight.

Thou have paid thy utmost blessing;

Since that all things thou wouldst praise

Beauty took from those who loved them

In other days.

We come again upon another manner in the poems of Mr. Robert Nichols. Here an inadequate passage from a long and very lovely piece called The Sprig of Lime will serve to suggest his qualities:

Sweet lime that often at the height of noon

Diffusing dizzy fragrance from your boughs

Tasselled with blossoms more innumerable

Than the black bees, the uproar of whose toil

Filled your green vaults, winning such metheglyr.

As clouds their sappy cells, distil, as once

Ye used, your sunniest emanations

Towards the window where a woman kneels—

She who within that room in childish hours

Lay through the lasting murmur of blanch'd noon

Behind the sultry blind, now full, now flat,

Drinking anew of every odorous breath,

Supremely happy in her ignorance

Of Time that hastens hourly and of death

Who need not haste.

These poems are not realism, but passages of reality imaginatively seized and transfigured by passion; and the same description may be applied to a number of pieces in this book as different from these as these are from one another. If we attempt to map out the whole achievement and promise which the book represents, we must refer to the originality and beauty of rhythm displayed by Mr. John Freeman in such a poem as The Alde, which begins:

How near I walked to Love,

How long, I cannot tell;

I was like the Alde that flows

Quietly through green level lands,

So quietly, it knows

Their shape, their greenness, and their shadows well;

And then undreamingly for miles it goes

And silently, beside the sea.

We must refer also to Mr. W. J. Turner's noble and largely conceived, if a little chaotic, poem Death; and to Mr. Sassoon's extraordinarily economical and finished pictures of impressions at the front and in England. There is moreover Mr. Brett Young's graceful and delicate talent.

If we say that in all these it is possible to perceive reality imaginatively seized and transfigured by passion, even if we add a general curiosity to penetrate behind the appearances of things to their substance, we say no more than we ought to say of any poetry which we are disposed to praise. Perhaps if we could say much more we should distinguish the literature with which we are dealing as one which has forsaken the proper traditions of the art for qualities of a merely temporary interest. It is not necessarily the business of new poets to discover new objects for poetry; it is their business to bring to bear on the old objects their own new personalities and whatever has accrued both to the language and to general human experience. We are of opinion that the "Georgian" poets are doing this; and though to give them that title still requires something of an act of faith, it is one much easier to make than it was seven years ago.

The survival of the word as the name of a period is, of course, not yet assured. Many of these writers are still extremely young. Some of them will develop in ways which cannot yet be foreseen. Mr. Nichols and Mr. Turner, both of them capable of grandiose conceptions and engaged in making a style to sustain them, will very likely attempt the drama, where an empty throne is waiting. Mr. de la Mare, who is probably the oldest of the distinctively Georgian writers, grows every year deeper and solider, and it is impossible to say what will become of him. Mr. Robert Graves is producing a body of work almost every line of which is as sweet and sound as a nut, and is an influence against the obscurity from which a good many of his contemporaries suffer. The author of A Ballad of Nursery Rhyme, which begins:

Strawberries that in gardens grow

Are plump and juicy fine

But sweeter far as wise men know

Spring from the woodland vine.

No need for bowl or silver spoon,

Sugar or spice or cream,

Has the wild berry plucked in June,

Beside the trickling stream,

may perhaps have done a service by writing these lines at the same time as Mr. Turner was writing such a fine but involved stanza as this from Death:

That sound rings down the years—I hear it yet—

All earthly life's a winding funeral—

And though I never wept,

But into the dark coach stept,

Dreaming by night to answer the blood's sweet call,

She who stood there, high-breasted, with small, wise lips,

And gave me wine to drink and bread to eat,

Has not more steadfast feet,

But fades from my arms as fade from mariners' eyes

The sea's most beauteous ships.

And others no doubt will appear who are now no more thought of than were Mr. Nichols or Mr. Graves or Mr. Turner in 1912.

At least this movement—we do not use the word in the sense of "organised movement" or "school"—has had the luck of early recognition and careful fostering. There are faults to be found with this as with the three earlier volumes of the series, but, in a world which has produced no faultless anthology, we ought not to expect the first to be a collection of contemporary verse. No one will be able to look through the book without objections rising to his lips. Every reader will want this or that poet omitted, this or that included. There are few readers of anthologies who do not find, on mature consideration, that they could have done the work better themselves, and this would be just if, in fact, anthologists worked only for themselves. But to E. M. we must assign the credit of having carried through an exceedingly difficult task with as few mistakes as could be thought possible. He has the extra distinction of having foreseen seven years ago the beginning of a "liveliness" which has justified him by enduring until at this moment it shows no signs of recession. He would be no doubt the last person to claim the invention, or even the discovery, of the "Georgian" movement. But he might reasonably claim, and, if he does not, the honour must be thrust upon him, to have provided it with a means of growing naturally and without undue extravagance.

NEW POEMS. By IOLO ANEURIN WILLIAMS. Methuen. 3s. 6d. net.

Mr. Williams' first book of poems, published four years ago, was a quite little book, noticeable for some polished little songs with a Caroline or Queen Anne air. His tastes have remained the same; his capacity for writing has developed; he paints miniatures, and his ingenuity expends itself on the elaboration and variation of the frames. The frontier between success and non-success is narrow in this kind of work; a slight flaw ruins all, and Mr. Williams does not always escape collapse. But Alice and Song are of a neatness and completeness which would do credit to the best of the Queen Anne practitioners. The Country Songs is a fragment of what may become a really excellent celebration of our folk-songs, and Rocks and Astronomy, though still with something of the song in them, let delicate plummets into deeper waters. The image of the rock, doomed to decay, yet

The lizard's immortal friend,

And deathless to the flower,

is happy Astronomy we quote in full:

Jupiter may be that or this

Of stars that shine in heaven,

Neptune a mere hypothesis,

And Saturn one of seven.

They will not make the dark less bright,

For names I do not know;

Nameless the stars across the night

In nameless beauty go.

Over my head their vault is bent—

A mirror and a screen—

An ever fresh prefigurement

Of glory past the seen.

It is an unambitious and uneven but very pleasant little book.

THE WAR POEMS OF SIEGFRIED SASSOON. Heinemann. 3s. 6d. net.

This volume contains fifty-two poems selected from Mr. Sassoon's previous volumes, and twelve new ones. The former are far too well known to need description at this date; but we think that even in these, and still more in the new poems, there is ground for the conjecture that those who think of Mr. Sassoon primarily as a savage realist and satirist are likely in the future to be surprised. It was a genuine and profound sensibility, tenderness, and a cheated passion for beauty that produced his war poetry; not an innate predilection for violence, vituperation, or caricature. Now the storm has gone over he seems to be becoming more and more a poet of nature. The transition is perhaps symbolised in the most beautiful of the new poems here printed. It is called Everyone Sang, and concludes the book, so full of blood and corpses, rats, evil smells, and all the turmoil and débris of war:

Everyone suddenly burst out singing;

And I was filled with such delight

As prisoned birds must find in freedom

Winging wildly across the white

Orchards and dark green fields; on; on; and out of sight.

Everyone's voice was suddenly lifted,

And beauty came like the setting sun.

My heart was shaken with tears and horror

Drifted away.... O but every one

Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done.

The book contains much that, however sincere, can only be described as journalism in excelsis, but it is all inextricably mixed with genuine poetry, and the collection as a whole, we suspect, will have a permanent interest and value. Better than from a hundred histories posterity will get from these poems a picture of how men felt and looked in that world of

Sad, smoking, flat horizons, reeking woods,

And foundered trench-lines volleying doom for doom.

Their merits are never more clearly displayed than when they are compared to the poems of the imitators who have sprung up like mushrooms since Mr. Sassoon began publishing. These have taken his brutal words, his more obvious attitudes, and the senile and complacent objects of his satire; but in the copies the life is lacking.

ARGONAUT AND JUGGERNAUT. By OSBERT SITWELL. Chatto & Windus 5s. net.

At first sight this book looks like a revolutionary manifesto. Its title is vehement and original, and its paper "jacket" is decorated with the photograph of a negro head surmounted with a towering and tapering wickerwork structure. It has no bearing on the contents, and we can only assume that the author put it there because he liked it or to arrest attention. Attention having been arrested, expectation is disappointed. It is true that Mr. Sitwell often writes in vers libres, and that he opens with a challenge and hearty proclamation in the key of

Let us prune the tree of language

Of its dead fruit.

Let us melt up the clichés

Into molten metal;

Fashion weapons that will scald and flay

Let us curb this eternal humour

And become witty.

Let us dig up the dragon's teeth

From this fertile soil;

Swiftly,

Before they fructify.

And that, at a later stage, he observes that

The world itself

Dances

To make us dance

In cosmic frenzy.

But his frenzies have a very calculated air; he has not got rid of those clichés, and that wit does not emerge. He cannot really play the revolutionary with gusto, so, as Queen Victoria said, "We are not amused": and when he lapses into more ordinary forms and more connected statements he is revealed as an ordinary immature writer of verses. He has some gift of observation which he will waste unless he treats it more conscientiously, but observation will not make a poet.

CARMINA RAPTA. By GRIFFYTH FAIRFAX. Elkin Mathews. 3s. 6d. and 2s. 6d. net.

Mr. Fairfax's volume consists of "Verse translations from the French, Spanish, Italian, German, Greek, Latin, with a few Arabic, Japanese, and Armenian renderings from French prose versions." Mezzofanti and the monk Calepino, in another sphere, must be alarmed for their linguistic laurels. Some of Mr. Fairfax's translations are neat; but we hope those from the Armenian—our Armenian wants rubbing up—are nearer the spirit of the originals than are some of those from European languages. He is at his neatest in some brief poems from the Spanish. His versions of Hérédia and Baudelaire are especially lifeless; and he inflicts an additional injury upon the latter by attributing the famous Don Juan in Hell to Hérédia.

THE CLOWN OF PARADISE. By DORMER CRESTON. Heath Cranton. 3s. net.

We notice this volume merely in order to record a neologism which we commend to the notice of the editors of the Oxford Dictionary. It is found in this passage:

My tearful soul did slip into those silver pools,

And, bathing in that stillness,

Was oned with God.

In the Court of Sir Henry Duke, we may continue, people are twoed.

NOVELS

COUSIN PHILIP. By MRS. HUMPHRY WARD. Collins. 6s. net.

SAINT'S PROGRESS. By JOHN GALSWORTHY. Heinemann. 7s. 6d. net.

IF ALL THESE YOUNG MEN. By ROMER WILSON. Methuen. 7s. net.

MADELEINE. By HOPE MIRRLEES. Collins. 6s. net.

LEGEND. By CLEMENCE DANE. Heinemann. 6s. net.

THE MASK. By JOHN COURNOS. Methuen. 6s. net.

It seems probable that a long time must elapse before the novel escapes altogether from the spell of the war; and the reasons why this should be so are fairly obvious. It is not only that the novelists, like all of us, have received in their minds an indelible impress of that great event. We must recognise that the last five years have made a gulf between us and preceding time only comparable to a long interval of history. The manners and habits of 1913 are not connected in an imperceptibly changing fabric with our own. They are already a matter of archæological interest, and definitely to place the action of a novel in that year requires a course of archæological research—say among old numbers of Punch. In 1919 the war is still so vivid a thread in the web of our minds that we are constantly influenced by it, constantly referring to it, in our actions, our conversations, and our thoughts. When we meet a character, whether in a novel or a drawing-room, it is still our instinct to enquire where he has been, what he has been doing since August, 1914, and the present moment. This is natural indeed; but its tendency in the novel is to produce ephemeral work. The tidal wave may have subsided, but it has left the mental waters exceedingly muddy.

Mrs. Humphry Ward's novel, Cousin Philip, is an excellent example of the work which this state of affairs elicits from even the most serious authors. It is a study, careful and detailed, of the sort of young woman who has emerged from the war. Helena Pitstone, aged nineteen, arrives at the house of her guardian, Lord Buntingford. She looks like Romney's Lady Hamilton; but "the beautiful head was set off by a khaki close cap, carrying a badge, and the khaki uniform, tunic, short skirt, and leggings, might have been specially designed to show the health and symmetry of the girl's young form"—all this though she has been demobilised. She naturally begins her stay with Lord Buntingford by quarrelling with him over one of her men friends, whom he refuses to allow her to invite to his house. This gentleman had run away with the wife of a friend, not for any base motive—"He didn't mean anything horrid," says Helena—but "for a lark," and to show her husband that she was not to be bullied. In the end Helena marries a politician, who says to her, "Are you mine—are you mine at last?—you wild thing!"—a remark which has been made by other lovers in other novels. In between these two points lies Mrs. Humphry Ward's study of the girl of the period, in order to make which, it may be supposed, she wrote this novel. An idea of its quality and usefulness may be gained from the following specimen of Helena's conversation:

"The chauffeur here is a fractious idiot. He has done that Rolls-Royce car of Cousin Philip's balmy, and cut up quite rough when I spoke to him about it."

"Done it what?" said Mrs. Friend faintly.

"Balmy. Don't you know that expression?" Helena, on the floor, with her hands under her knees, watched her companion's looks with a grin. "It's our language now, you know—English—the language of us young people. The old ones have got to learn it as we speak it."

Mrs. Ward would no doubt be shocked by a writer who delivered his, or her, views on the French people with an obvious ignorance of the French language. She would despise the affectation of an author who used Latin tags incorrectly. But it is only fair to say that her views on the younger generation are rendered slightly ridiculous by her obvious ignorance of its idioms. She would perhaps have been better employed in a detailed picture of the manners of 1913, a period to which she doubtless looks back as to a lost paradise of decorous behaviour.

Mr. Galsworthy's Saint's Progress suffers less from insufficient documentation. His heroine Noel, with her short hair, is the daughter of a clergyman, and follows the course gloomily foretold for so many young girls during the war-period to the predestined end of bearing a war-baby. She and her sister Gratian are forced by the pressure of events to think and act for themselves. Gratian, safely married to a doctor, delivers herself as follows:

"Dad," said Gratian suddenly, "we can only find out for ourselves, even if we do singe our wings in doing it. We've been reading James's Pragmatism. George says the only chapter that's important is missing—the one on ethics, to show that what we do is not wrong till it's proved wrong by the result. I suppose he was afraid to deliver that lecture."

But, while Mr. Galsworthy is much superior to Mrs. Ward in the accuracy of his information, he can hardly be said to be superior to her in the justice and clearness of his presentation. The traits of his persons are correctly observed and generalised, but they are not shown through the medium of living individuals. We feel of Noel that many girls of such a disposition found themselves in such circumstances and behaved thus; and so far, regarded as a sociological study, the book is deserving of praise. But what we never feel is that the individual girl, Noel, ever existed; and by the deficiency it is condemned as a novel. This book will be a serious disappointment to those who imagined from Five Tales that Mr. Galsworthy had recovered the original freshness of his talent and was about to begin a new and a sincerer period.

But perhaps the desire to depict, and to comment on, phenomena so fresh and living in the mind as these, which has been fatal to experienced craftsmen of the order of Mrs. Ward and Mr. Galsworthy, is one which will ruin any novel in which it is attempted. Miss Romer Wilson has not the experience of either; but as her first book, Martin Schuler, demonstrated, she has really extraordinary natural gifts. These gifts are still obvious in her second book, which is nevertheless disappointing and all but a complete failure. It describes a circle of non-combatants during the last year of the war, young people, of whom Mrs. Ward has hardly heard, who sway between cynical disgust with the world around them and cynical disgust with their own natures. No man, it has been wisely said, is uninteresting, and these persons, regarded from a sane and tolerantly humorous point of view, might have been the theme for a good book. But since the thoughts, or actions, the manners through which they manifest themselves not being genuine or spontaneous, are important neither for good nor evil, the method of treating them seriously results in making them appear thin and tedious. Affectations, except in the rare event of their producing serious consequences, are a topic only for satire; and here the loves of Josephine and Sebastian, of James Blanchard and Susan and Amaryllis, are expressed purely by affectations, which overlie and conceal whatever genuine feelings these persons may have possessed. This type has had in recent years a curious attraction for young novelists, who have as a result produced many books which are not worthy of attention. But the author of Martin Schuler must sin deeply before we can refuse to read any book of hers, however unwillingly we may persevere in it. And even here her special qualities are altogether beyond mistake. She can still, even in this dreary and pointless tale of people we should prefer not to meet, astonish us with vivid and enchanting fragments of pictorial beauty. A couple of these passages, which are all that redeems the book from dullness, may be given as specimens:

... At the turn of the night it began to rain, and at daybreak the whole country was grey with driving rain, which spluttered against the bedroom window and beat upon the thatch. The noisy sparrows under the eaves shook themselves angrily and fluttered up and down in the garden after worms. The tom cat, who had been out all night, gathered himself up on the doorstep and brooded there with one eye on the sparrows, waiting for the door to be opened. The draught under the door made his paws cold, so he blew himself out and crouched down with his paws folded up underneath him. He was angry and tired, and his fur was covered with minute drops of water that in places had penetrated to his skin, but he sat there patiently dosing and dreaming for two hours until half-past eight, when the bolts were drawn. At the sound of the bolts being shot back he at once stood up and mewed, and the door was hardly opened before he ran into the kitchen, where a stick fire roared in the grate and a frying-pan gave out an odour of frying fat.

... The people came out of the house door, mysterious in the fading light like a procession of Boccaccio's women and a clerk of the Decameron seen through the romantic distance of seven hundred years. They lit the candles in the dark garden-room and sat down as if waiting for somebody to begin a story. Overhead the blue sky gleamed through the gathering darkness, and in the west a rosy glow spread up behind the delicate aspens and maples and acacias of the little plantation above the yew garden. Up in the mazy blue sky the transparent half moon and a few bright planets gleamed beneath the outermost heavens, where faint white constellations began to appear as the darkness quickly gathered upon the earth.

We do not quote these descriptive passages as proving Miss Wilson's aptitude for the novelist's multifarious task. They represent only one of the many gifts of which she must dispose; and they are themselves in several details open to criticism. They do moreover represent almost everything in this book which can be distinguished for commendation. They suggest, however, that Miss Wilson possesses one of the most important gifts of the novelists, namely, a sense of the scene; and it remains for time to show whether she can imagine persons and a situation worthy of her background.

It is a relief to recede from the tangled epoch, which has spoilt and hindered all these writers, into the seventeenth century in France. Miss Mirrlees has written, not a wholly satisfactory or very agreeable, but a very strange book, one far removed from the historical romance of commerce. She has combined what appears to be a close knowledge of her period, of the time of the Jansenists, the Précieuses, and Mademoiselle de Scudéry, with a desire to study a curious case of mental pathology. Madeleine, her heroine, is a provincial girl who removes to Paris with her family and is consumed by an intense longing to enter that fantastic circle of elegance and galanterie which revolved round Mademoiselle de Scudéry and was depicted by her in Le Grand Cyrus. But her awkward shyness forbade that this longing should ever be satisfied; and when she sought to pacify it by the familiar device of the "endless story," she exacerbated it into madness. This is a brief and inadequate account of a most unusual composition, but it will serve to show how Miss Mirrlees has loaded the historical novel with a heavier freight than that ornamental craft is accustomed to carry. But she has not developed either the psychology or the descriptive detail at the expense of the other. She dissects Madeleine's mind with almost morbid closeness and makes of it a terrifying spectacle, but at the same time she has contrived to make her setting in time and place convincing. Her picture of mind and manners may or may not be strictly accurate; but it is certainly not conventional, it is original, it bites. There are certain crudities apparent both in the style and in the construction of the book, as well as in the choice and development of subject; but it will be very interesting to see the next production of a mind so unusual.

Miss Clemence Dane's Legend touches Miss Mirrlees' work fleetingly at one point. It too describes a literary "circle," dominated by women, of the sort which draws weaker characters into it and causes them to deteriorate. But it interests not so much as a study of this particular phenomenon as in that it is an extraordinary attempt, the only one among these books, to carry on the history of the novel, to give that form a new task, to enlarge its range and its adaptabilities. It consists of one long conversation; and the principal character, Madala Grey, makes no appearance, unless the regrettable introduction of her ghost towards the end be counted as such. Madala is a woman-novelist who has contracted what seems to her friends an inexplicable marriage with a dull country doctor. She is in child-bed; and her circle meets to await news, hears of her death, and discusses her. Their views, all mistaken, are reported by the one person present who had never seen her and who deduces the true and simple explanation—that she was actually in love with her husband. This is, it may be objected, merely jumping through a series of hoops; and in a sense the objection has its justification. For, when the story should reach its climax, when Madala herself begins to emerge from the mists of misjudgment and misinterpretation, she is revealed as being only a lay figure. This does not mean that Miss Dane's singular device in the end misses its aim. On the contrary she accomplishes what she set out to do with perfect precision. Nevertheless, the fact remains that she has locked in a very complicated cabinet, and thence extracted again by very subtle means, not a living woman but a doll. Hence her book is not the masterpiece it might have been. But we are almost brought to overlook this fact by the amazing skill with which she manages her invention; and her jumping through hoops, whether it be regarded as an unrelated exhibition of agility or as an experiment in a new method of progress, deserves all attention even though it leads only to disappointment at the end. Miss Dane's first novel, Regiment of Women, was much praised not long ago; her second, First the Blade, did not receive so much notice. This reveals in her originality, daring and ingenuity which could hardly have been predicted from her earlier work; and there is no doubt that it will be widely discussed, since it is in fact rare for any really remarkable display of these qualities to miss its reward. But Miss Dane has yet some distance to advance if she is to do more than win fame as a conjuror or open up paths for other novelists. For an artist capable of so distinguished a conception her style is strangely flat and undistinguished; and the introduction of some very bad and banal passages from the works of Madala Grey is a curious lapse of tact.

Mr. John Cournos's The Mask, which is perhaps the most satisfactory of all these books, though it is not so dazzling and exciting as Legend, is one which has very little to say to the development of the novel. We generally reckon it impertinent to see in any book not avowed as such the autobiography of the author; but in this story of a Jewish boy in Russia and America, without knowing anything of Mr. Cournos, we are forced to make the inference. Its tone and flavour are those of autobiography; and its softened reminiscences of things not always pleasant give it its peculiar charm. It reveals, at all events, more than most novels, a temperament; and this temperament, whatever turn the story may take, is always agreeable and gracious. Vanya Gombarov, the little boy, was brought up in Russia by a stepfather, who wasted all his money in mechanical researches and was obliged to emigrate with his family to America. Here Vanya added to the family income by selling papers, and in other ways, and saw many horrible things. The family experienced many misfortunes; and at the end Mr. Cournos abruptly leaves it moving from one house to another. We have here no pyrotechnics of construction; nor does such a book offer any opportunities for them to the author. But he is able to show himself an artist in the softening veil which his narrative throws over his incidents without in any way distorting them.

BELLES-LETTRES AND CRITICISM

SEVEN MEN. By MAX BEERBOHM. Heinemann. 7s. net.

It is a common ground of complaint against Mr. Max Beerbohm that he publishes too little. But the very fastidiousness which makes him, compared with the word-fountains of our time, so notable an example of limitation of output is what makes the work he does print so surpassingly good. Economy is a word freely used and much abused. It is sometimes applied to writers whose only claim to it is that they use short sentences or that they omit everything except inessentials. But Mr. Beerbohm deserves more than any artist of our time the epithet "economical." Always, and increasingly so with the passage of time, he has taken pains to print no sentence and no word that does not help his effect; and the five stories in this book, even were their other merits less than they are, might serve as models of simple and exact expression, the cunning accumulation of telling detail, the complete avoidance of detail which does not tell.

Of the five stories one, James Pethel, is a study of the gambling temperament localised in an attractive but terrifying man, and one, A. V. Laider, is an astonishingly clever fantasia on the theme of lying. The other, and more ambitious, three are studies, we might almost call them historical studies, of literature, literary men, and "the literary life." They all relate to that remote period, now faded and therefore a little charming, "the nineties"; they give us types of writers, second or third or tenth rate, whose reputations die, but who are interesting enough to be celebrated as types, if not as individuals. Savonarola Brown—the obscure man who spent his life on an unfinished tragedy on the best blank-verse models—is the most slightly sketched of them; but here what the portrait lacks—perhaps that shadowy figure offered no more lines for the pencil to seize—is more than made up for by the best parody that even Mr. Beerbohm has written. Remove the burlesque, the comic stage directions, the juxtapositions of Lucrezia Borgia, St. Francis, Andrea del Sarto and Pippa (who "passes" in her own inimitable way), and the more extravagant convolutions of the plot, and you will see that Mr. Beerbohm could quite easily have manufactured a play better than most modern poetic dramas, and written in verse at once so fluent and so reminiscent of the best masters as to command the respect of the reviewers, and possibly a production (for a few nights) by some manager ambitious to show that he desired to reunite Literature and the Stage. At times we forget that we are reading a burlesque:

POPE. Of this anon.

[Stands over body of Gaoler.]

Our present business

Is general woe. No nobler corse hath ever

Impressed the ground. O let the trumpets speak it!

[Flourish of trumpets.]

This was the noblest of the Florentines.

His character was flawless, and the world

Held not his parallel. O bear him hence

With all such honours as our State can offer.

He shall interred be with noise of cannon,

As doth befit so militant a nature.

Prepare these obsequies.

[Papal Officers lift body of Gaoler.]

Did Mr. Beerbohm write this? Or was it Brown, fresh from The Duchess of Malfi or The Broken Heart?

The two stories that remain are more elaborate. In Enoch Soames we are given the picture of the kind of sepulchral, costive, dedicated, fame-gluttonous minor poet who has haunted the by-ways of literature in all ages; we are given, as well, a realistic picture of what those by-ways were twenty years ago, and a plot (which races between the future and the past) the intricacies of which are followed with equal ingenuity and imperturbability. But there can be little dispute that Maltby and Braxton is the great achievement of the volume. These two were rivals who had a brief vogue in the nineties; the very scent of the time comes back with the titles of their masterpieces, Ariel in Mayfair and A Faun in the Cotswolds. Maltby in a weak moment cheated Braxton out of a week-end at the Duchess of Hertfordshire's, and when the hapless Maltby got to Keeb Hall Braxton's ghost haunted him, driving him into perpetual solecisms and misadventures. There is the background: the gossiping coteries of London, the fleeting fashions of literature, the first vogue of the bicycle, the dabbling great dames, the house-parties, soirées, dinners, church-goings. And in front of it the most comic of tragedies, the most tragic of comedies is played. The story is written with such skill that the cruelty is never quite cruel, the laughter never quite flippant, the extravagances always anchored to reality: at the end, in spite not only of the caricature but of the "tallest" fiction about a ghost that we remember, we feel that we have been reading a plain statement of fact. And this is what, at bottom, the story is: it is more realistic than any naturalist novel: it is the work of one who, for all his fantastic invention and wit, has a prodigiously keen pair of eyes and a profound understanding of human nature. We hope, by the way, that Mr. Beerbohm's passage about literary fauns will finally expel these overworked creatures from our midst.

DONNE'S SERMONS: SELECTED PASSAGES WITH AN ESSAY. By LOGAN PEARSALL SMITH. Milford. 6s. net.

Donne's reputation as a poet, very high for some time after his death, sank almost to nothingness for two centuries. In the last thirty years he has, by virtue partly of his occasional splendours of passion, imagery, and even music, partly of a modernity in him which is attuned to the spirit of our own time, regained his old position. Much has been written of him; Mr. Gosse has written his Life in two volumes, Professor Grierson has edited him in one of the most exhaustive and scholarly of the Oxford editions of poets; he has exercised a traceable influence on men now writing. But the revival has been confined to his poems. His prose, contained in three huge folios and several small pamphlets, has remained unread; and it is significant that until a few years ago he who wished to possess (for none thought of perusing) the Dean's sermons was likelier to find them at a theological bookseller's than in one of those shops which cater for the collector of fine literature. The neglect was doubly explicable. Not only were Donne's Sermons sermons, and therefore liable to fall into the disregard into which the sermons of South and Tillotson, and even those of Jeremy Taylor, have fallen, but they were sermons so voluminous as to be terrifying to the most insatiable reader, and (for the most part) so involved, so stuffed with scholasticism, theological hair-splitting, debate about texts and about commentaries on texts, that a first attempt at perusal might have made the bravest quail. But the few who have dared the darkness of the great mine have never been disappointed; all over it, sparkling magnificently to the explorer's touch, are great jewels of imagination cut with the craft of a master of language.

Mr. Pearsall Smith, performing for his readers the labour they would have shirked, has gone through the whole of Donne's Sermons and extracted a hundred-and-fifty passages, short and long, illustrating his character and his genius. Not quite the whole of the ground is covered; the editor has chosen nothing of which the principal claim to distinction was that it conveyed, with great justice or great force, a doctrine of the Church or an edifying lesson. He has made his anthology as a poet and a student of character would make it; and the result is a volume of passages which exhibit that strange vehement man of genius more clearly than could any biography, and which substantiates his claim to be considered as being, at his best, a writer of English prose that has never been surpassed for music and richness. His greatest passages—and this holds good of all English prose—are those in which he is contemplating large elemental things. A roll like the roll of the prophetic books comes into his voice when he speaks of the majesty of God, the powers of Death and of Evil, the passage of time, the justice that waits for sin, and the decay that will overtake beauty; when he stands in the attitudes and assumes the voice of adoration, of accusation, or of grief. But even in his dialectics the restless intellectual in him was continually striking out sparks of wit; the insatiable observer in him was noting small things, sticks, straws, and insects, puddles and ponds; the insuppressible poet pouring out images copious enough to furnish out a hundred minor men. This is a long-needed book, done with competence and exquisite taste. His greatest, loveliest things are as good as Sir Thomas Browne's; his grandest are grander than Jeremy Taylor's. There is probably no sentence in our language so long as that in which he depicted Eternal Damnation, yet it swells and swells, never breaking its back, always borne up by the mighty mind of his spirit. Hell is deprivation of God. "That God," begins this great passage,

that God should let my soule fall out of his hand, into a bottomlesse pit, and roll an unremoveable stone upon it, and leave it to that which it finds there (and it shall finde that there, which it never imagined, till it came thither) and never think more of that soule, never have more to doe with it. That of that providence of God, that studies the life of every weed, and worme, and ant, and spider, and toad, and viper, there should never, never any beame flow out upon me; that that God, who looked upon me, when I was nothing, and called me when I was not, as though I had been, out of the womb and depth of darknesse, will not looke upon me now, when, though a miserable, and a banished, and a damned creature, yet I am his creature still, and contribute something to his story, even in my damnation....

so it proceeds in tremendous crescendo describing, or failing to describe, what it must mean "to fall out of the hands of the living God ... a horror beyond our expression, beyond our imagination"; and this is but the sublimest of many sublime utterances in these sermons of the greatest of the Church's poets. We commend Mr. Pearsall Smith's book, and shall return to it and its subject at length in an early number.

SOUTH SEA FOAM. By A. SAFRONI-MIDDLETON. Methuen. 6s. net.

The sub-title of this book, "The Romantic Adventures of a Modern Don Quixote in the Southern Seas," gives the clue to a quality in Mr. Safroni-Middleton that might repel a fastidious reader. He is a little too effusive, a little too self-conscious in his adventurousness. But the reader who is repelled early will miss something; for with all its defects South Sea Foam is a full and exciting and often beautiful book. Mr. Middleton has not the technique of the artist; he does not write well. But he has the artist's sensibility, and his writing is at its most vivid when the greatest demands are made upon it. "My greatest literary effort in the following pages," he says, "has been to keep to the truth of the whole matter, even though such frankness should leave me, at the end of this volume, with a blackened name." He need not be anxious about his name; but if this book is all true he has had adventures as wild and strange as any man alive. His book is a medley of Polynesian legends, and the most extraordinary events on the ocean and among the islands; storms, moonlight dances, abductions of "dusky maidens" from chiefs' palaces, orgies in saloons, chases and shots, canoes, sharks, and love-songs: a great flood of brightly-coloured reminiscence tumbled out in language which is never quite "right" but always picturesque. At any page one is liable to come across some passage that thrills or deeply touches; and occasionally there is an episode narrated so well that criticism is silent. Such an episode is that of the old dog Moses, which falls overboard on a murky night. He barks amid the waves to guide the boat; but there comes a scream that means a shark and no more is heard. Next night the old bearded sailor-men sit on their chests in the fo'c'sle puffing out smoke, drinking rum in silence, brooding over the dog: and no scene could be more vividly painted. The last adventure (in a castaway boat with a brown girl), which we should call incredible were it not for Mr. Middleton's assurance, is the loveliest and most terrible of all. We think that anyone who reads this book once will make a habit of reading it.

RUPERT BROOKE AND THE INTELLECTUAL IMAGINATION: A LECTURE. By WALTER DE LA MARE. Sidgwick & Jackson. 2s. 6d. net.

The lecture here printed was delivered before Rugby School on the occasion of the unveiling of a memorial there to Rupert Brooke. Mr. de la Mare, as he recalls, was chosen to go to America as Mrs. Brooke's representative to receive the first presentation of the Howland Memorial Prize, the posthumous award of which to Brooke was an act of international courtesy and generosity, too little noticed in this country at the time. It was fitting that Mr. de la Mare should be again associated with the dead poet; and in this short paper he outlines his character and his achievement with as much affection as discernment. Brooke, he is insistent to make plain, was a happy man, a vigorous, healthy creature, who found the world teeming with food for his multifarious appetites. It is with this fact in mind that all his poems, not omitting those which are "disquieting to read at meals," must be judged. He desired truth at all costs; and "if, unlike Methuselah, he did not live long enough to see life whole, he at least confronted it with a remarkably steady and disconcerting stare." "The theme of his poetry," says Mr. de la Mare, "is the life of the mind, the senses, the feelings, life here and now, however impatient he may be with life's limitations. Its longing is for a state of consciousness wherein this kind of life shall be possible without exhaustion, disillusionment, or reaction." This essay is short, but it is full both of wise judgments and beautiful sayings. It conveys a sense not only of the value of Brooke's poetry but also of the charm of his personality. More, much more, will be written about him; and we shall have his character carefully examined and defined, both by those who knew him and those who did not. But this brief study, at once an exposition and a ceremonial and moving eulogy, will retain its place in the literature collecting around his name.

SOME SOLDIER POETS. By T. STURGE MOORE. Grant Richards. 7s. 6d. net.

This volume contains short essays on the poems of Julian Grenfell, Rupert Brooke, Robert Nichols, Robert Graves, Siegfried Sassoon, R. E. Vernède, Charles Sorley, Francis Ledwidge, Edward Thomas, F. W. Harvey, Richard Aldington, and Alan Seeger: with a paper on "The Best Poetry" at the end. A casual student of the list of contents might make several hasty criticisms. He might suppose that he was going to find here a series of short lives, manufactured because of an accidental connection between them. He might be fortified in this suspicion by the fact that one or two poets are in the list who have no claim to rank with the others. But he need only begin to read the book to remember that Mr. Sturge Moore is a poet, a sound critic, and a writer incapable of hackwork. There is one obvious defect; he has omitted a few poets (Edward Wyndham Tennant is an example) who had better claim to admission than some in his list. But there is little else that can be urged against him. Mr. Sturge Moore wastes no space over biography. He takes, seriatim, the books of these young poets and confronts them in a generous but not an undiscriminating mood, asking himself what is their spirit, what their technical qualities and defects and which are their best poems. These essays are not (even when their subjects are unworthy of effort) facile journalism; they are considered criticism written in the prose of a poet, prose rich with novel and beautiful images and embodying the results of profound reflection upon life and art.

Mr. Sturge Moore's essay on Brooke is too brief to be a final estimate; the main fault of all his essays is that they are not long enough to include sufficient quotations; otherwise they would certainly be of permanent value. But it is a penetrating essay, full of interesting obiter dicta, such as the statement that "the fallacy of impressionism" has tainted modern æsthetic thought, and the more disputable statement that "failure in love and war is much more inspiring to the poet than success; when the real world has rejected a man he feels freer in the Muses' house; he no longer has any interests that conflict with theirs." Julian Grenfell's Into Battle he describes (and we think he is right) as the best poem of the war. Of three poets commonly linked together, he says that "Those who shall gaze back a century hence may discern rather in Nichols than in Sassoon or Graves the poet's mind that is independent of time and approaches all human circumstance with the kinsman's joy and pain," though he admits that the race has only just begun, and another runner may outstrip the others. He is admirable on Sorley, whom many think the greatest loss to literature of all who fell in the war, and he has found—and no one before has, we believe, so celebrated this poem—in Mr. Harvey's The Bugler something like an isolated great poem. The one chapter which we find relatively inadequate is that which deals with Edward Thomas. "Every time I read them I like them better," he says; and he quotes in full Thomas's superb welcome to death; but the reader misses here all the rest of the poet's most beautiful poems and passages. They are even yet not known as they should be; we wait for a collected volume to reveal to most English readers how profuse, in his last two years, Thomas was of exquisite poems crowded with characteristic English landscape, and often profoundly moving by their sincere expression of universal emotions. He died resigned, and fulfilled at last. In Mr. Moore's words, "Our house was not well ordered; he should not have had to write hastily for his own and his children's bread; we have lost the chance of using him to the best advantage; yet he leaves us more than we deserved, something that will be treasured by posterity for ever. As his body fell, its cloak melted off the soul and we caught a glimpse which confounded our poor recollections of the man, and words of his still tolling round our ears make us aware that for him this dark casualty had a different meaning."

A BOOK OF R. L. S. By GEORGE BROWN. Methuen. 7s. 6d. net.

This work is really a Stevenson Encyclopædia reminiscent of that colossal Browning Cyclopædia which still goes into new editions. Mr. Brown arranges, in alphabetical order, the names of Stevenson's books, characters, friends, critics, dwelling-places, etc. We have tested him with several questions and not found him to fail. He gives more than the facts he might be expected to give; for example, when a book is under notice he enters the latest prices paid for its first edition in the sale-room. He also lightens his pages with compact but pungent comments. For instance, he describes Mr. Swinnerton's able but hostile study of Stevenson as "the kind of study which it can be imagined Dr. Clifford would write of Ignatius Loyola." A good book of its kind and one that should be bought by everyone who has a Collected Stevenson. The illustrations do not greatly add to its charms.

HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY

FIFTY YEARS OF EUROPE, 1870–1919. By C. D. HAZEN. Bell. 14s. net.

Professor Hazen ends his survey of the last fifty years of European history with the words: "The evil that men do lives after them." The remark is not original, but it is none the less historically true and melancholy. Upon page 414 of this book it refers to Wilhelm Hohenzollern, but as the final note struck in a text-book of European history it has a wider significance. After reading Professor Hazen one is tempted to ponder the question whether the good men do is interred with the bones of history, and only the evil done by them lives after them and their time. Here is the story of fifty years in 414 pages, and indisputably the story is concerned far more with the evil that men have done than with the good. What is the reason of this? The question is extraordinarily difficult to answer, and, though the reviewer ex cathedra is officially supposed not to admit anything but infallibility, we confess to be at a loss for a prompt and unhesitating answer. The cause may be subjective rather than objective: the historians may look at history from a wrong angle, so that the shadows are exaggerated or intensified. On the other hand, it may really be, as Shakespeare seemed to think, that the effects of evil are actually more permanent than those of good. And there is a third alternative which the philosophical historian and the historical philosopher cannot dismiss out of hand: history is the tale of men's communal actions, and it may be that man is so incompletely a political animal that his communal actions are more often evil than good.

We cannot answer these questions, but they rise naturally from a consideration of Professor Hazen's volume. The first question which a reviewer has to put to himself is "What is the object of this book?" The object of Professor Hazen's is obvious: it is a text-book, a rapid survey of a period of history which, as he rightly says, possesses "a unity that is quite exceptional among the so-called 'periods' of history." As a text-book it has great merits; it is accurate and brief, it runs with great rapidity through all the more important facts of its "period," and the author's opinions and prejudices are severely repressed. It has some obvious faults: the author seems to us ill-advised to have added his last chapter in the form and size adopted by him. This chapter deals with the actual events of the world war, and occupies nearly a quarter of the entire book. This throws the whole of his book out of shape. The war in itself had, of course, enormous importance, but the details of its progress are of little importance in a survey like this. In the previous pages we have been whirled from the Balkan question to the Irish, from the Irish question to the rise of Japan, from the rise of Japan to the Russian internal struggle, and many of these immense complicated problems have necessarily been dismissed in a few pages. There is no room in a book on this scale for a description of the campaigns of the war, and Professor Hazen's volume loses rather than gains by his attempt to deal with them. But as a text-book it has merits above the average. One great merit is inherent in it—it looks at history not from a national but a European or world angle. We are inclined to believe that for use in schools no histories of "France," "England," or other individual countries should be tolerated, that all history should be either of Europe, Asia, of some continent or era, or of the world. And then, perhaps, historians might be able to deal a little more with the good that men do communally than with the evil.

THE TANK CORPS. By MAJOR CLOUGH WILLIAMS-ELLIS, M.C., and A. WILLIAMS-ELLIS. With an Introduction by MAJOR-GENERAL H. J. ELLES, C.B., D.S.O. Country Life. 10s. 6d. net.

This is, if not an official, at least a semi-official history of the Tank Corps; and if the other arms of our fighting forces get histories as good they will be fortunate. It contains the whole story of the machine and of those who manned it—invention, manufacture, organisation, training, use—from the nebulous beginnings in the minds of the various gentlemen whose claims to paternity are now being disputed to the last battle of 1918. The information has an air of final authority: official reports are backed with copious personal narrative. There is no attempt at fine writing; the book is a long series of short paragraphs containing essential facts. Yet, when occasion demands, the authors' terse sentences are far more vivid and more full of emotion than are the elaborate pages of the professional battle-painters. This is never more noticeable than in their chapter on the "Battle of Cambrai," where the fortunes of the whole Tank experiment were at stake. Nothing is elaborated, yet we see very vividly the whole panorama of those days of intense surreptitious preparation, and the final overwhelming advance against the enemy, whose suspicions had been aroused too late. The authors finally dispose of the story that the General's last order to his Tanks told them to "do their damnedest." "That spurious fosterling he hated the more the more he perceived its popularity." The authentic Order is given: a brief restrained document ending "5. I propose leading the attack of the Centre Division." This he did, in the "Hilda," which reached the outposts line in the van of the battle, General Elles standing with his head through the hatch picking up targets for the gunners. The "Hilda's" flag was several times hit, but not brought down. It was at this battle that sixteen Tanks were knocked out by one gun, served single-handed by a German officer, who died at his post. The story of the Tanks that crossed a canal on the back of another does not seem to be verified. The authors' conclusion is that "in the phase at which military science has arrived, and at which it will probably remain for a generation, a superior force of Tanks can always top the scales of the military balance of power." The illustrations are many and well chosen. We recommend the book, both as a work of reference and as a book to read.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN: THE PRACTICAL MYSTIC. By FRANCIS GRIERSON. With an introduction by John Drinkwater. John Lane. 5s. net.

Mr. Grierson states that Abraham Lincoln was "the greatest practical mystic the world has known for nineteen hundred years," thus unnecessarily challenging comparisons with Saint Teresa and others. His book, both as an effort to sustain this thesis and as a book to read, is something of a disappointment. Some of his earlier works—notably the beautiful Valley of Shadows—are closely thought and admirably written; the best have never had in full the credit they deserve. But the present volume is little more than a small scrap-book of other people's impressions and anecdotes of Lincoln, sprinkled with Mr. Grierson's not very profound comments and assertions to the effect that we are now at the end of a dispensation, and are emerging into "the mystical dawn of a new day." That Lincoln was a very great and a very good man we know, and that he lived in the light of conscience. Of such we can never be told too much, and the book might well serve as an introduction to more elaborate biographies. But we cannot say that Mr. Grierson adds anything to our knowledge. He tells us of Lincoln's sense of duty, his dedication to the service of his kind, his premonitions. "One of the most memorable mystical demonstrations ever recorded in any epoch occurred in the little town of Salem, Illinois, in August, 1837, when Lincoln was only twenty-three years of age," and "some of his deepest thoughts on the mysteries of life and death were never voiced by this man, who never spoke unless he deemed it imperative to speak." The New York Times says this or that, the Spectator says so-and-so; Lincoln was a "unique" manifestation of the Supreme Mind, like Moses. "The American people were at that time practical, democratic seers, without whom the greatest practical mystic could not have existed." These passages are not cheering. There is an introduction by Mr. John Drinkwater, who says something and says it clearly.

MEN AND MANNERS IN PARLIAMENT. By SIR HENRY LUCY. Fisher Unwin. 10s. 6d. net.

Sir Henry Lucy's reprint of his notes on the Disraeli Parliament of 1874 will find a place in that world-museum where a bottle containing the Bruce's spider stands next on the shelf to the original kettle which inflamed the young imagination of George Stephenson. They were published serially in (how distant it all seems!) the Gentleman's Magazine, and a set of bound volumes of that venerable periodical found its way (by the steam-packet, no doubt) to the young republic of the United States. There in the beautiful new-world calm of the Chancellor Green Library, at Princeton, the old printed words in their quaint black-letters met the young eye of Woodrow Wilson, a smart student of his seniors, Chatham, Burke, and Brougham, of the more recent writings of Lord Macaulay, then recently dead, and of the positively burning message of the still more topical Mr. Bagehot. But it was Sir Henry Lucy, not yet dubbed a Knight, who produced, if we may believe the official biographer—and Sir Henry does—an "influence ... on his broadening thought." The debt was very gracefully acknowledged by the President long afterwards in a letter which pays tribute to "the interest you stirred many years ago in the action of public affairs in Great Britain." He added that he would always think of Sir Henry as one of his instructors.

The whole story is one more example of the ineradicable romanticism of the New World which led Henry James to the belief that great leaders in England conversed intelligently (if not always quite intelligibly) and drew Whistler to dramatise the Thames. One sees the American undergraduate hanging spellbound over Sir Henry Lucy's parliamentary notes, and rising from the table with bright eyes and burning cheeks to mutter, as he walked out among the chipmunks and prairie foxes, "I too will hold assemblies in the grip of my eloquence like the Right Honourable George Sclater-Booth; in me Mr. Knatchbull-Hugessen shall have his transatlantic counterpart." And one is inclined to wonder, as one rambles through the pages of what the President, remembering his constitutional obligations to the American language, described as "The Syndicated London Letter," which of these amiable pages of political gossip it was that finally tilted the young Wilson on to that inclined plane which led to Washington and the Galerie des Glaces. Was it the picture of Mr. Disraeli on the Treasury Bench, impassive, arms folded, forelock well in evidence, or the more vivacious scenes in which Mr. Bright, Mr. Gladstone, and Mr. Lowe chased one another across the Mid-Victorian stage? No one except Mr. Wilson can say. But the anecdote lends point to the reissue of Sir Henry's notes, which always possess a high interest for political historians, apart from the addition which the story makes to their intrinsic value.

THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF LADY DOROTHY NEVILL. By RALPH NEVILL. Methuen. 18s. net.

This is a most disappointing book. Of Lady Dorothy's charm and intelligence we have had evidence in the two volumes published in her lifetime, and edited by Mr. Nevill. She certainly deserved a biography which should preserve for posterity a true portrait of one who typified what was best and most likeable in a state of society that became historical even in her lifetime. Unfortunately, Mr. Nevill has been content to give us merely gleanings of his mother's notebooks and post-bag. He makes no effort at all at formal biography, keeps no sequence, and betrays no sense of proportion. The writing of the book is slack and formless, as, for instance, in such sentences as the following:

No one probably knew more about the inner social history of her time than Lady Cork; a very clever woman, who long after she had ceased to be able to leave her couch, owing to her numerous visitors, kept herself excellently posted as to everything of interest which was on foot. At the time of the Druce case, being a confirmed invalid, her evidence, which would have completely put any claimant out of court, was taken on commission.

The book is full of writing as careless as this, and is, in consequence, very trying to read. All one can do is to search through the volume for amusing stories of the world Lady Dorothy Nevill adorned, and to make some guess at the character of the woman who could number among her friends Lord Clanricarde, Father Dolling, Lord Beaconsfield, Mr. Chamberlain, Lord Lytton, and Mr. John Burns.

The second task is difficult. One knows her better from that glowing portrait by Watts—which we wish Mr. Nevill had reproduced—than from any of her letters given here. She was not a good letter-writer, though better than some of her correspondents. She had both generosity and an aptitude for mischief, stout prejudices, but a lovable curiosity which prevented her being their slave. Her Toryism was of the "Young England" variety, and never stopped her from making friends where she could. Her wit seems to have been a wit of personality rather than of mind, almost a spiritual glow which is rarely apparent in the printed page. Of her family life we are told practically nothing—not even the date of Mr. Reginald Nevill's death is given.

Many of the anecdotes in the book are old, but we have not met this before. Lady Pollington, Lady Dorothy Nevill's sister, "adored dancing, her love of which may be realised when it is stated that the night before her only son was born she was at Lady Salisbury's dance in Arlington Street till one-thirty and her son was born at three." New to us also is the story of the petition presented to the United States Congress "by some zealots who entertained strong religious objections against the use of oil." Mr. Nevill does not assign its precise date, but gives it as an instance of "mid-Victorian bigotry."

The signatories to this remarkable document prayed that a stop might be put to the irreverent and irreligious proceedings of various citizens in drawing petroleum from the bosom of the earth, thus "checking the designs of the Almighty," Who, they said, had undoubtedly stored it there with a view to the last day, "when all things shall be destroyed."

Mr. Nevill tells us one thing about his mother which possibly reveals her character and the temper of her time more truly than anything else in the book: it seems to belong to the England of General Gordon and Lady Burton. Lady Dorothy practised illumination, presumably as taught in the once popular Owen Jones' volume.

One of the works she executed was Hood's Song of the Shirt, another was The Service for the Burial of the Dead, which she finished and signed in 1848, when twenty-two years of age—a curious instance of the strange mixture of seriousness and vivacity which went to form a highly original mind.

POLITICS AND ECONOMICS

INDUSTRY AND TRADE. By ALFRED MARSHALL. Macmillan. 18s. net.

Dr. Marshall's well-known Principles of Economics was published as long ago as 1890. For many years he continued to work at the volume with which he designed to follow that, but weak health, as well as heavy professional duties and much time devoted to the public service, made his progress slow. It is only now, therefore, after an interval of nearly thirty years, that he has been able to complete the present book. And even so his scheme is not yet complete, for there is still a companion volume to come, which will deal with "influences on the conditions of man's life and work exerted by the resources available for employment; by money and credit; by international trade; and by social endeavour."

Industry and Trade is a monument of lucidity and carefulness. Every student of economics will read it with interest, even though it does not appear to throw much new light on the problems it discusses. Dr. Marshall traces out for us in a general way the technical evolution of industry, both in this country and elsewhere. We have an analysis of the conditions which produced in turn the industrial leadership of Britain, of France, of Germany, of the United States. We have a minute discussion of the dominant tendencies of business organisations, the expansion of the unit, the application of scientific method, the problems of joint-stock companies, of banking, of marketing. And finally the question of monopolies is examined—the American and German experience of trusts and cartels, the great movement towards aggregation, federation, and co-operation in British trade. Dr. Marshall writes throughout in a spirit of large and rather fatherly benevolence, here reproving some "anti-social practices" of trade unionism, there gently censuring abuses of power by a trust. It is admirable, of course, but there are times when his elaborate avoidance of partisanship and his cautious non-committal attitude leave the reader a little perplexed. Dr. Marshall tells us that his aim has been to present as accurate a picture as he can without advocating any particular conclusions. This is very well in a general way, but where an economic problem becomes an ethical problem a conclusion may not be an altogether bad thing. There are two chapters devoted to a consideration of "Scientific Management," in which the author has certainly achieved an almost superhuman impartiality. He thinks, as everyone does, that there is much that is valuable in the application of efficiency methods in industry. He does not think that the worker need be unduly strained by scientific management. He is apparently doubtful about the danger of monotony that it introduces. Finally, he suggests that "though it be true that scientific management diminishes the need of the operative for resource and judgment in small matters, it may help him ... to estimate the characters of those who bear large responsibilities. Unless and until he can do that, democratic control of industry will be full of hazards." True, but some bolder critics will turn back a few pages and refer to a quotation given of some of Mr. F. W. Taylor's principles: "All possible brain-work should be removed from the shop and centred in the planning department, leaving for the foreman and gang-bosses work strictly executive in its nature.... Each man must ... adapt his methods to the many new standards and grow accustomed to receiving and obeying directions covering details large and small, which in the past have been left to his individual judgment." Will a manipulation of human beings on these lines really make ideal "democratic controllers of industry"? Leaving the desirability or undesirability of such control out of the question it will certainly be argued that Mr. Taylor's is not the way to get it. However, Dr. Marshall admits that American methods of scientific management will need to be somewhat modified before they can obtain a very wide acceptance in British industry. He does not discuss how they are being modified in their application in this country, where a good many experiments are actually being made.

*      *      *      *      *

In general, the book presents us with a pretty bright picture of capitalist industry. There is much that needs to be altered, yet progress, we are reminded, has been great: education has spread, the standard of comfort of the working-class has risen enormously, and "both competition and combination in Anglo-Saxon countries generally have been more inclined to construction than to destruction: emulation has often given an incitement to exertion stronger than that which was derived from the desire for gain...." We are not to be led away, therefore, by large socialistic schemes of reform. Collectivism would be unfavourable to the best solution of men for the most responsible work in industry; National Guilds "look only at the surface difficulties of business" and promise to lead us into nothing but chaos.

INFLATION. By J. SHIELD NICHOLSON, M.A., Sc.D., LL.D., F.B.A. (Professor of Political Economy in the University of Edinburgh). King. 3s. 6d. net.

Until the other day we all thought we were threatened with national bankruptcy, and a great many people think so still, despite the recent rapid conversion to optimism of the Government and the House of Commons. Professor Nicholson, we are sure, is not one of those who are impressed by the change. His interesting and outspoken little book may be summed up in two sentences—"The principal cause of the disorder of the body politic is the abuse of paper money," and "Our present need is to get back to a sound monetary system and to get rid of the mirage of inflation." He does not believe in the theory that an internal debt "makes no difference": that it is merely a transference from one set of pockets to another. And he does not think that the burden of the debt can be removed either by a capital levy or by a continuance of inflation, which, as he gloomily observes, is a popular remedy, both with the industrial and commercial classes. If that continues, its evils will continue—high profits, high wages, higher prices, and a general scarcity. The great practical difficulty is to stop the rise in prices. It may be done partly by greater output and lower profits, partly by reduced public expenditure, but, above all, by a reduction in the volume of paper currency. For that, Professor Nicholson observes, moral courage is needed, and also hard thinking.

IRISH IMPRESSIONS. By G. K. CHESTERTON. Collins. 7s. 6d. net.

"These are the notes of a visit to Ireland during the dark days when a last effort was made to undo the blunders that had wrecked the great promise of Irish recruitment." Mr. Chesterton, in lamenting the fact that a large section of the Irish population remained neutral in the war, blames both sides. The case against England and the British Government is familiar; but, he argues, however badly Ireland may have been treated in the past, and however the Irish situation was mishandled in the early days of the war, the Sinn Feiners are still to be blamed. They were as men who should have abstained from Marathon because of a quarrel with some archon, or refused to fight Attila because of a grievance against Ætius. All civilization was at stake; that being so, even the claims of nationality should have been, if necessary, postponed—though, in fact, they would have been actually assisted had Ireland made the plunge. Mr. Chesterton states with characteristic force the existence of a definite Irish nationality, a thing to be perceived in any Irish home. As a practical politician he believes that the extreme demand for separation can still—though time presses—be effaced if Dominion Home Rule is offered. The bargaining peasant lives in the fighting rebel; and when even the last Home Rule scheme was postponed a genuine disappointment was to be seen throughout Ireland.

This is his central case. He argues it characteristically: that is to say, his method of exposition, by means of rapid generalizations, digressions, witticisms, allusions, will fascinate those who believe there is great sagacity behind his fireworks, and irritate or bore those who habitually dislike him. In making out a case for Ireland he also makes out a case for a rural, a Catholic, and a "distributive" civilisation. Everywhere there are quotable sayings. He speaks of "the brilliant bitterness of Dublin and the stagnant optimism of Belfast." "Modern industrial society," he says, "is fond of problems, and therefore not at all fond of solutions."

Arguing that on the outbreak of war England abjured her pro-Teutonist delusions, he says the Sinn Feiners fatally played with the thing they had always denounced:

That is why the Easter rising was really a black and insane blunder. It was not because it involved the Irish in a military defeat; it was because it lost the Irish a great controversial victory. The rebel deliberately let the tyrant out of a trap; out of the grinning jaws of the gigantic trap of a joke.

"Imperialism," he observes, "is not an insanity of patriotism; it is merely an illusion of cosmopolitanism." Such epigrams—and there is always something in them—are all over the book; but in two places, where he is talking of the war and of Kettle's death and where he celebrates the Christian virtues of charity and humility, he reaches an eloquence almost comparable to that of the magnificent passage at the close of his Short History of England. That passage deserves to go into all anthologies of English prose henceforth compiled.

THE HANDMAIDEN OF THE NAVY. By G. S. DOORLY. Williams & Norgate. 6s. net.

There are still two books which ought to be written about the war. One is a real novel of the adventures and sufferings of the Merchant Service, and the other is a historical account of the partnership between the Navy and the Merchant Service, and that marvellous convoy organisation which unobtrusively won the war. Mr. Doorly ought to help with the latter, but we hope he will not attempt the former. These stories, collected under a cumbrous and not too accurate title, are a painstaking but disappointing attempt to deal with both. Mr. Doorly has not the literary gifts necessary to do complete justice to the human side of his subject, though he faithfully pictures the very real camaraderie which the convoy established between the naval officer and the mercantile marine. All his sailors are of the "hearty" type made familiar by "Bartimeus" and the Press. His troopships "plough their way across the leagues of ocean towards the great-little island home." The sinking of a ship is "another foul victory for the wretched Hun." It is a pity, because Mr. Doorly has clearly had a wide experience, and gives the fullest account we have yet seen of the intricacies and anxieties of convoy organisation and escort work, though the convoy of his stories is a primitive affair compared with the perfected form of 1918. He is technically accurate and very thorough, and does not shrink from explaining such complexities as the methods of "zigzagging," and he has an eye for the humorous sides of submarine warfare. But his accounts of exciting moments frankly do not excite, and the merchant captain who says "'Tut-tut,' swallowing a lump in his throat," does not move us as perhaps he should. Yet it is an interesting little book, and until the theme receives the treatment it deserves, we hope it will be read.

POLAND AND THE POLES. By A. BRUCE BOSWELL. Methuen. 12s. 6d. net.

This is a useful and interesting book. It is, as Mr. Boswell says in his Preface, a series of essays. In these essays he deals with the Polish people, their national characteristics, their country, history, literature, music, and art, their industry and commerce, and their future. Poland, which has for centuries exercised a fascination over the romantic mind, always makes good reading; and Mr. Boswell communicates his enthusiasm. He is perhaps not altogether untouched by that partisanship which seems almost inevitably to fall upon the foreigner who becomes intimately associated with any nation. The truth is that all the peoples of the earth have so many good qualities that it is impossible for anyone who is brought into contact with any one of them not to feel for it occasionally as a lover or a child. Mr. Boswell certainly feels for Poland as a lover, and his book is none the worse for that. At first, however, we thought that he was to prove one of those whose love of a particular nation engenders hate of other nations. Indeed, we hardly think that he is altogether fair to Russians, Jews, and others. But his prejudices are mild compared to those of most historians, and, despite his frank bias towards the Polish outlook, when he comes to deal with so vexed a question as that of the Ukraine he displays a praiseworthy impartiality.

SPORT

SUCCESS IN ATHLETICS AND HOW TO OBTAIN IT. By F. A. M. WEBSTER, T. J. PRYCE JENKINS, and R. VIVIAN MOSTYN. Sidgwick & Jackson, 10s. 6d. net.

Every man is more or less an athlete, and training begins in the cradle and ends with the grave—at least it should do. Unfortunately many people of our generation were brought up in the languid atmosphere of Victorianism where ill-health was tolerated, almost worshipped. In due time we went to school—if it was summer we played cricket; if winter, we played football; if spring, we ran races and jumped jumps and threw hammers; but as for any real education in physical culture or athletics we had none. Every young athlete should read Success in Athletics, for in it he will find very simple and very excellent advice as to how to train for every branch of field sport. The elements of success upon which stress is laid are as follows: First, to choose a branch of athletics suitable to the build of the individual. Second, to build up the necessary muscles by training at home and in the gymnasium long before practices are carried out on the track. Third, to study the scientific side of the particular sport chosen, so as to acquire a perfect style and to economise energy to the utmost extent.

The book begins very properly with a tribute of respect to athletes who have fallen in the war; then chapters follow on running, jumping, hurdling, and throwing weights of all descriptions; there are also chapters on diet, massage, and clothing, and an appendix on leg exercises. The book is illustrated with admirable photographs, but it is a pity that these are not placed more in accordance with the text. The chapter on "Hurdling" is among the best. The hurdler must be "tall, fairly slim, and well 'split up,'" which being interpreted means that his height must be contained in his legs rather than in his body. He must build up the strength of his legs by special exercises, such as high kicking, the splits, and skipping; and there is yet another admirable exercise—the athlete, in a sitting position, puts himself into the attitude of a hurdler topping a hurdle, the left leg is stretched straight out, the right leg is at right angles to it, the knee is bent and the inside of the leg is resting on the ground. The exercise consists in raising the body so that only the left heel and the inner side of the right calf are resting on the ground. It is a most painful and excellent exercise.

We are glad to see that in the chapter on diet athletes are warned against an excess of meat; one good meat meal a day is all that is recommended. Meat, besides its nourishment, contains many poisonous substances which are with difficulty eliminated from the system. Many a good athlete has been wasted through inattention to this fact. The chapter on massage is to our mind inadequate.

In the last chapter the following passage occurs: "... it is felt that a new epoch of athleticism in Great Britain is about to commence—that an entirely new breed of athletes will arise or be recruited from the ranks of those who through four and a half years of war have learned the true meaning of discipline and the importance of close attention to the least little detail of instruction." Now we all feel that something good must come after all this suffering and slaughter; the Briton has proved that he is possessed of true greatness; how can this greatness be turned to full account? Let us give up once for all this idea of record-breaking and producing freaks who can jump an inch higher than any other man or throw a hammer a foot farther. At best that is a very low ideal, and such over-specialisation produces ugliness and unhealthiness. The only kind of athlete that we want to contemplate is the all-round athlete who can run fast and far, jump high and broad, and have sufficient strength for heavy events. An instance of what we mean occurs in this book—the pictures of A. E. Flaxman show a magnificent athlete of about eleven stone; such a man would have to compete in heavy events with mountains of flesh weighing twenty stone; hence all Flaxman's symmetry and grace and style are wasted, and the mountain wins the points for his side. This is all wrong. We should abandon the practice of selecting one athlete for one event. We should have teams composed of all-round athletes, each of whom competes in all events; these athletes will not break records, but they will be super-athletes such as a great nation should aim at producing. When we have got rid of this odious specialisation it will be time to aim still higher, and produce not only the all-round athlete but the all-round man, made up of mind, character, and muscle, all developed to the utmost extent.

PHILOSOPHY

AN INVISIBLE KINGDOM. By W. S. LILLY. Chapman & Hall. 15s. net.

The late Mr. Lilly was a Roman Catholic journalist who combined attachment to his faith with adherence to a benevolent paternalism in politics. This posthumous volume, edited by Dr. William Barry, is partly concerned with political and sociological problems, though there are two essays on Memory and Sleep which do little but review current opinion on those two functions. The political essays suffer from their date. Although fond of appeals to history, Mr. Lilly discusses the affairs of the moment from the angle of the moment; there is much talk of universality, but very little application. Indeed at times one doubts if he could have seen the precise significance of his opinions. For instance, he was a determined opponent of democracy, and quotes with approval Mill's statement that "Equal voting is in principle wrong"; and he proceeds to state a doctrine of political justice which does not differ in principle from that stated by Trotsky. Where Mr. Lilly and Trotsky would differ is, of course, on the question into whose hands political power was to be put. Also one finds it difficult to understand how a Roman Catholic can agree—as Mr. Lilly does—with Ibsen's creed, "The minority is always right." Here are Mr. Lilly's words:

If there is one lesson written more legibly than another in the annals of the world it is that majorities are almost always wrong; but that is the prerogative of minorities—nay, it may even be of a minority of one. That is the verdict of history. It holds good of all ages.

Mr. Lilly might contend that he is not bound to square his opinions with St. Augustine's Securus judicat orbis terrarum; but how can his statement be reconciled with the practice of his Church? All General Councils, which decide Catholic dogma, have come to their decisions by taking a vote and accepting the verdict of the majority. This has been so from the Council of Jerusalem to the Vatican Council. Are we to believe that only in matters ecclesiastical the minority is wrong?

Mr. Lilly was also rather apt to substitute mere statement for argument. Thus, in discussing the modern position of women, he writes:

Of course reason itself declares that on the physical and psychical inequality of the sexes, and on the willing obedience of the weaker, the happiness of both depends. It is the lesson which Shakespeare has worked out, with consummate art, in the Taming of the Shrew.

It is evident that, whatever may be thought by a modern man or woman about the equality of the sexes, no satisfactory argument can be based on the premise that women's physical and psychical inferiority is an axiom. In his discussion on Socialism and on Trades Unions, Mr. Lilly displays the same incapacity to understand his opponent's starting-point. He has plenty of sense and a desire for fairness which makes him quote Aquinas' declaration on riches—that they are only lawful if they are possessed justly and used in a proper manner for the owner and others—and apply it to modern fortunes. His last essay is on Newman, and is rather inadequate, as it appears to have been written without reference to Mr. Wilfrid Ward's life. It is too early to write about that excessively human, lovable spirit in the artificial language of the official hagiographer: there are, however, sentences which arouse interest. We do not remember seeing it stated before that, late in life, Newman "perused translations of The Critiques of the Pure and The Practical Reason, pen in hand—that was his usual way—and made some notes on them." It would be interesting to see these notes.

EMERSON AND HIS PHILOSOPHY. By J. ARTHUR HILL. W. Rider. 3s. 6d. net.

This brief essay on Emerson is marked by enthusiasm, and shows evidence of a wide acquaintance with Emerson's works, but is otherwise unremarkable. Mr. Hill gives a brief biography of his hero, and then discusses him in relation to his views on religion, science, with chapters on Emerson's style, poetry, and criticism. His last chapter is a brief résumé of English Traits and Representative Men, treating those very readable books as if they were essays in some unknown language. Mr. Hill's own opinions hardly inspire one with confidence in his capacity to interpret emotions.

Beautiful language, true poetry, often contains little truth and not much passion; we feel that the poetry is in the beauty of the images evoked, or in the sheer unanalysable charm of the words as sounds, or—more generally—both combined. The more "thought" there is in poetry the less poetical it is.

There is much virtue in inverted commas, and no doubt "thought" is absent from the Antigone, the Divina Commedia, Hamlet, Paradise Lost, Tintern Abbey, and The Ring and the Book; but we cannot follow Mr. Hill in his contention that these poems lack truth or passion. Nor indeed can we remember any poem of which his remark would be true. Mr. Hill's observations on Emerson's style and his biographical portions of the essay are not quite so off the mark. Few readers will accept his very high estimate of Emerson, and he fails to remove our suspicion that the great American writer, who was never known to laugh, was at times perilously near being an ordinary prig. As to Emerson's influence on his contemporaries and successors, it is generally underestimated. The Essays in particular are always a delight to youth, and are read with avidity by boys at the most impressionable age. A great deal of modern individualism, of modern defiance, which is often put down to the discredit of Ibsen, or Nietzsche, or Blake, is really due to Emerson. He was the first eminent man to preach disobedience as an ethical duty; his conscience was always uneasy if he caught himself conforming; and this uneasiness, which a more vigorous man in a more natural society would have recognised as an emotional mood, Emerson distorted into a kind of council of perfection. "Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist," he proclaims exaltedly, not seeing that this sentiment has, as a generalisation, already been contradicted by his birth and his marriage, and is to be finally quashed by his death.

SCIENCE

A TREATISE ON GYROSCOPIC AND ROTATIONAL MOTION. By ANDREW GRAY, F.R.S. Macmillan. 42s. net.

It was quite time that we had in English a standard treatise on gyroscopic motion. Space is, of course, devoted to the subject in various well-known text-books on rigid dynamics, and there are one or two good little books of an elementary nature, such as Perry's Spinning Tops and Crabtree's Spinning Tops and Gyroscopic Motion, but hitherto the man in search of detailed information on problems concerning tops in the widest sense has had to go to Klein and Sommerfeld's Theorie des Kreisels, if he could not find what he wanted in Sir George Greenhill's Report. That Professor Gray should be the man to supply our want is only fitting. At the University of Glasgow, where he succeeded to the chair of Natural Philosophy left vacant by Lord Kelvin's death, an interest in gyroscopic motion is traditional, and Professor Gray inherited a collection of apparatus for experiment in this field which he has extended by many ingenious and convenient forms of gyroscope described in the book before us. His own researches on the general dynamics of gyroscopic systems have added clearness to that branch of applied mathematics, and his son is an expert in the design and application of practical gyrostats. A judicious combination of experimental and theoretical treatment forms the great attraction of Professor Gray's book.

The problems of gyroscopic motion range from the behaviour of the schoolboy's top to that of this great top, the earth, and include a great number of engineering applications. The torpedo is kept in its course by a gyroscope; the gyroscopic compass, which makes no use of magnetic properties, has rendered possible the navigation of a submerged submarine; Schlich invented a gyroscopic apparatus, which has been tried successfully in small ships, for keeping a vessel from rolling in a rough sea; with Brennan's monorail the car is kept upright by means of a gyroscopic device; and many other ingenious uses have been made of the seemingly paradoxical properties of spinning tops. The gyroscopic compass is, unfortunately, not treated in Professor Gray's book, nor is there any account of other naval and military applications of the gyroscope, since the author, finding that the official secrecy, necessarily imposed at the time of writing, would prevent him giving anything but a fragmentary account, has preferred to reserve his discussion of these appliances to a promised second volume. Very little is said of the monorail (in fact, Brennan's name is not mentioned), which is less explicable. Many practical applications of gyroscopic theory to such problems as the drift of projectiles, golf balls, and boomerangs (the last-named treated necessarily in a very general manner) come up for consideration, and the forgotten diabolo, child of a passing craze, is resurrected to provide an example of the effect of equality of the principal moments of inertia on the stability of rotation of a body under no forces. Most attention is, however, given to the first two subjects mentioned above—the top spinning on a flat surface, and the earth spinning through space—which are, of course, the classical problems in rotational dynamics. It need scarcely be said that Sir George Greenhill's work is abundantly cited.

"In the present work my aim has been to refer, as far as possible, each gyrostatic problem directly to first principles, and to derive the solutions by steps which could be interpreted at every stage of the progress," says the author in his preface, and he has followed this aim with considerable success. It is, of course, impossible to treat many of the problems of rotational dynamics without mathematical analysis of some complexity, and a knowledge of elliptic functions and such-like weapons of the applied mathematician lies, perhaps, outside the scope of the average engineer and inventor. Professor Gray, who deplores the present ignorance of inventors in the matter of gyroscopic motion, has kept the needs of this class before him, and has taken care to arrange his matter so that those who cannot always follow the mathematical exposition given can, at least, gain a clear knowledge of the results. The first chapter, which contains no mathematical symbols, forms an excellent introduction to the subject and is quite elementary, and elsewhere in the book, when practical problems, such as the drift of a projectile, are being discussed, the nature of the investigation is stated as simply as may be. Throughout the inquiry is illustrated, as far as possible, by experiment and diagram.

"Les Anglais enseignent la méchanique comme une science expérimentale; sur le continent, on l'expose toujours plus ou moins comme une science déductive et a priori. Ce sont les Anglais qui ont raison, cela va sans dire." In these words, the late Henri Poincaré, the greatest mathematician of his generation, praised the British tradition of teaching dynamics as an experimental subject, which is so well maintained in this book. Some specialists, no doubt, will find minor omissions in their subject, but, on the whole, with the exceptions already noted, the book is very complete. It is printed with the well-known elegance in all that pertains to mathematical symbols of the firm of Robert Maclehose, and the general production is very good. We do not understand, however, why the illustrations in the first chapter are nearly all reproduced a second time further on in the book, especially as they are mostly photographs of apparatus, which do not necessitate frequent reference. And—the question that has to be asked so often with English books—why is the index so defective?

EVERYDAY EFFICIENCY: A PRACTICAL GUIDE TO EFFICIENT LIVING. By FORBES LINDSAY. W. Rider & Son. 4s. 6d. net.

It is stated in the preface that the material of this Practical Guide to Efficient Living has been used extensively as a correspondence course, so that anyone who is thinking of paying pounds to be taught by post how to be efficient can save most of his money. All the most notable authorities on Efficiency—Ike Marvel, Buddha, Arnold Bennett, Walter Dill Scott, Prentice Mulford, Yoritomo-Tashi, and Baudelaire (to what the last-named said is added what he might have said)—are quoted, and many varieties of type and a liberal use of capital letters add to the strenuousness of the book. There is much about Ideals ("Ultimate and Other Ideals") and much about Money, much about Character Formation and much about Vocational Efficiency. We attribute our own inefficiency largely to the fact that we cannot whistle, for this seemingly trivial accomplishment is of far-reaching use—"Whistle and wear a smile for fifteen minutes, and you will most assuredly begin to feel cheerful"; "Sing and whistle as you dress." But, again, we have not done the essential thing, which is, we are told, to read the lessons of the Course again and again, and to devote close thought to them. Alas, we fell a victim to Waning Will, a fault early handled in the book, and although somewhat comforted to learn that it is a "common form of weakness," we could not bring ourselves to adopt the cure, which is "When a resolution is formed, record it definitely in your file under the head of Ideals, Aspirations, Tasks, Duties, or other appropriate designation." The appropriate designation for the reading of this book is undoubtedly Task. The author, who has also written books entitled Efficiency and The Psychology of a Sale, is a man who has evidently obeyed his own great precept, "Don't admit any limit to your attainment and capacity." His intense self-respect will prevent him feeling hurt on learning that a smile is the only aid to efficiency which we have derived from his book.

ANAPHYLAXIS AND ANTI-ANAPHYLAXIS. By DR. A. BESREDKA. English Edition by S. Roodhouse Gloyne. Heinemann. 6s. net.

Medical research bears so directly on the well-being of every one of us that it is astonishing that more people do not take an interest in it. The existing indifference may be attributed partly to the lack of good popular books describing recent advances in an easily comprehensible way, partly to the nomenclature adopted by the medical profession, which is apt to frighten the layman into imagining that the exotic polysyllables in question can be used only for phenomena of unimaginable complexity and obscurity. Complex they always are, of course, with the complexity of all natural manifestations, but very often the main lines of the problems which have arisen, and the methods of attack, can be stated in plain language. The book before us, which deals with the profoundly interesting subject of anaphylaxis, is not avowedly written for the enlightenment of the public, yet it is in most parts accessible to anybody with a slight knowledge of medicine, and, not being a "popular" book, it has the advantage of being free from the erroneous generalisations so often introduced in presenting a branch of science to the lay reader. The subject is described as one still in the course of development, and is not given that false air of completion so dear to the populariser.

The phenomena of anaphylaxis are among the most striking in medical science, and have only recently been investigated, for although isolated cases of what we should now call anaphylaxis had been previously noted, Richet was the first to show the significance and extent of the subject in his memoir of 1902, in which he established many of the most important points. The essence of anaphylaxis is that the injection into an animal of a small quantity of one of certain substances—which in some cases are, and in others are not, poisons (with a poison the dose must, of course, be less than the fatal one)—puts the animal in a particular sensitive state, so that a very small second injection produces fatal results of a very violent and well-marked character. Some time must elapse after the first injection for the sensitive state to establish itself, and the second injection must be of exactly the same nature as the first, this latter fact constituting the so-called specificity of the anaphylactic effect. This specificity has been applied for identifying blood of a doubtful source, since an animal which has been sensitised with an injection of blood from a given species is sensitive only to blood of the same species. Further, the blood of an animal in the sensitive state can be used to render another animal sensitive, a result known as passive anaphylaxis.

The important bearing of anaphylaxis on clinical practice is obvious. With therapeutic sera accidents have been fairly common in the past, grave effects following a second injection; this is a pure anaphylactic phenomenon. Much research has been done to find out methods of preventing the anaphylactic shock, and the most important advances in the field of anti-anaphylaxis are due to Dr. Besredka. His book naturally devotes much space to this aspect of the study, and gives details of the successful technique which he has developed. He worked mainly on guinea-pigs, having obtained extreme regularity of reaction with these animals. His most important result, both from the theoretical and the practical standpoint, is that vaccination against anaphylaxis can be produced by a system of gradually increasing doses, starting with the injection of a very small amount of the substance in question. This has led to a routine for serum injection by graduated doses, which has been successful in averting serum sickness. Besredka's interpretation of his results is against Richet's theory that the second injection combines with a substance, the toxogenin, present in the serum as a consequence of the first injection, and so produces a poison, the apotoxin. He considers rather that the reaction of the injected substance, the antigen, with the substance already formed (which he calls sensibilisin) itself produces the fatal result by disturbing the equilibrium of certain nerve cells where the combination takes place. By graduating the doses the reaction is watered down into a series of slight shocks, so that the great shock produced by a single injection is spread over a comparatively large time, and becomes innocuous. He finds an analogy between the effect and the mixing of water and sulphuric acid. If the water is poured in quickly there is an explosive action, but if it is added gradually the combination takes place without violence. "In our opinion the anaphylactic poison does not exist."

There are a great number of interesting experiments cited in the book which we cannot mention here. The translator has done his work well, although we do not like some of his importations from the French. It should not be impossible to find expression more English than "titre of toxicity" and "fulminating cases." He has added an excellent chapter on "Recent Work on Anaphylaxis." We are glad to see at last a short work in English on the subject, which is one of the most fascinating fields in modern medicine. Somebody should translate and bring up to date Richet's excellent little book. It is a pity that the nomenclature of the subject cannot be made uniform.

THE NEW TEACHING SERIES OF PRACTICAL TEXT-BOOKS:

APPLIED BOTANY. By G. S. M. ELLIS.

FOUNDATIONS OF ENGINEERING. By W. H. SPIKES.

CHEMISTRY FROM THE INDUSTRIAL STANDPOINT. By P. C. L. THORNE.

Hodder & Stoughton. 4s. 6d. net each.

This new series is rather pompously announced as striving to build "up the New Humanism on the basis of the student's immediate economic interest and environment" (which implies a considerable modification of the accepted meaning of Humanism). We translate this as meaning that it is intended to give the reader some idea of the various sciences and arts as they find application in industry and commerce. This is a worthy object, and, on the whole, the books are simple and interesting expositions of the utilitarian aspect of the sciences in question. There is, perhaps inevitably, a tendency to hurry over fundamental difficulties which will not, we think, leave an intelligent student satisfied. For instance, to say that a force is whatever changes motion, without further explanation, may well puzzle the reader, who knows that he can push against a heavy stone without producing any apparent motion. However, there is a distinct place for books of this general character, which do good work by showing to a wide audience the peaceful achievements of science and its practical aspects; they act as a counterblast to the deadening tradition of rule of thumb. The industrial chemistry is particularly comprehensive, and has an excellent set of original diagrams of industrial plant. The series is well printed and well illustrated, and, for present times, moderately priced. It deserves wide recognition.

PROJECTIVE VECTOR ALGEBRA. By L. SILBERSTEIN. G. Bell & Sons. 7s. 6d. net.

It is not often that a book appears describing an essential advance in pure mathematics which is intelligible to the man of moderate attainments in that science—by moderate attainments we mean such knowledge of mathematics as is picked up in one or two years at a university. Dr. Silberstein, who is well known in this country for his original work, especially in connection with the theory of relativity, has, in his Protective Vector Algebra, developed his latest researches in geometry in a form which is attractive and free from pedantic formalities, and has throughout aimed at simplicity of expression, in contrast to certain modern mathematicians who endeavour to lend importance to minor conventional problems by a bewildering display of definitions and theorems. The essential novelty of the book, from which the whole theme is developed, is the generalised definition of the addition of vectors, which does not need any construction of parallel lines, but depends solely on a straight line construction making use of the points where the vectors cut an arbitrary fixed straight line. Dr. Silberstein's definition is a generalisation of the Euclidean one, to which it reduces if the arbitrary line just mentioned is moved away to infinity, and if the space is Euclidean. The knowledge of geometry which is demanded is little more than the usual postulates of projective geometry and Desargues' theorem. From his definition the author proceeds to prove the associative law, and then, after dealing with the equality of non-coinitial vectors, gives many interesting uses of the generalised vector algebra. The proof of Pascal's theorem gives a striking example of the power and simplicity of the new method, and the whole treatment of conics will delight the student of projective geometry. Altogether the book is a very original and striking contribution to a fascinating branch of mathematics.

BOOK-PRODUCTION NOTES

By J. H. MASON

THE important work done by the private presses of the last twenty-five years will probably be found to be in its results more far-reaching than that done in any other artistic craft. For, in addition to giving the world monumental editions of chosen works, such as the Kelmscott Chaucer, the Doves Bible, and the Ashendene Dante, they have set up the right standards in type lettering, margins, spacing, paper, illustration, and binding.

Even in binding they have set a standard that can be widely applied; for the linen back and paper sides that were good enough for a Kelmscott Press book set an example of wholesome plainness that has done a great deal to improve the task of publisher and public. The publisher of this generation is in strong reaction, as a rule, against the cloth gilt extra of his father and grandfather. The Artistic Crafts Series, edited by Professor W. R. Lethaby, is a notable example of such a plain, useful cover. One of the earliest, the first I think, of this series was that dealing with Bookbinding, and doubtless this was largely the cause of the series starting right in the matter of covers. One regrets that there wasn't a printer available to have influenced the choice of type and dimensions of the page—the series that is satisfactory in both respects has not yet been published.

Type, paper, proportions of printed page and margins, and finally the cover, are the chief matters to be considered in producing a satisfactory book, and all of these cost no more—with the exception of paper—when right than when they are unsatisfactory. Even in the matter of paper, there is a wide range of choice, in normal times, at every price above the very cheapest.

One generally sees the best attempts at book-production in small volumes of verse. Some of them are very attractive and show that care and thought have been spent in producing them. Yet, as a rule, they show some weakness, some lapse, to which the amateur is liable. The little book of verse, Arcades Ambo, by Lily Dougall and Gilbert Sheldon, published by Blackwell of Oxford, is an instance. A pleasant type, based on that of Jenson, the Venetian printer, pleasing both in design and weight (the thin lines are not in strong contrast to the thicks), predisposes us in favour of the book at first glance. The normal margins are good without being excessive, but they are spoilt on most openings by the dropped beginnings of each poem. Thus, on pages 22, 23, instead of the tail margins being three-quarters of an inch more than the head margins (the normal), they are practically equal. The result is that the type appears uncomfortably low on the page. Yet the good Venetian capital lines would have given an excellent line to the top of the page. The three-line initials are not in keeping with the capitals of the text; for their thin strokes are in too great a contrast with their thick strokes. Moreover, they are of a different shape—note the "T" in the text, and compare with the initial on page 22. The little black ornament in the headlines and the arrangement of the title-page and the label are also unsatisfactory. The press work is good, the inking of the type being full and even, and does the good design of the type full justice.

Another book with pleasant margins—perhaps a little more at the head would have been an improvement—is Max Beerbohm's Seven Men, published by Wm. Heinemann. (Miss Dane's Legend is, roughly, uniform with it.) To secure a good foredge margin without unduly shortening the line the book is half an inch wider than the ordinary crown octavo; this gives a squarer format, which is much preferable to the ordinary octavo. Such a format, too, gives the binder, in case the book is thought worth a leather binding, a chance to make a good design for the sides—the ordinary octavo precludes certain good designs. I cannot commend the "modern" type which has been chosen for this book; but I will discuss "modern" type on some other occasion.

A LETTER FROM AMERICA

New York, November, 1919

AMERICAN life, as it now is, would seem to make original literary production almost impossible. Energy here cannot work distinctively; it is forced at its very birth into one or the other prepared channel. No one who has not lived in this country can have any conception of the unrelenting and unremitting drive that would subdue, and does subdue, all thought, all feeling, to mediocrity. It is a drive of vast circumference: no single activity, whether political or artistic or religious, can escape it. Religion, indeed, it has destroyed; there is no religion in America. The experiences of religion can only be felt by the man who has realised himself as an individual terribly separate and distinct from all others—an individual whose soul has awful significance as a thing-in-itself, a thing eternally unmatched, forever recognisable by God. Such conceptions cannot breathe the American air: neither terror nor awe nor mystery have room within the borders of this sceptical and destructive continent. The implacable rule prevails: that the soul may have no adventures of its own.

"Adventures," indeed, there are, and many. You can go in for anything you like—everybody does—provided that you go in for it in groups. You may present yourself for the smearing of a particular brush, you may band yourself with those who have received a similar treatment. You may become a "society man," a church worker, a Bolshevik revolutionary, a philanderer, a writer of vers libre, a "realistic" sex-novelist, a Cubist, or a Futurist; but whatever you become, you will always know precisely where you are and precisely what will come of your being there. Every square inch of your region will be defined. And the conventionalities of every cult are essentially identical; the set phrases of the man about town or the church worker have the same ring as the set phrases of the littérateur. The raisers of the standards of artistic or political revolt will expound their theories in just the same way, except for the mere words, as the business man will expound his. The various samples of modern American "free verse" resemble one another quite as closely—they keep quite as deliberately clear of individual distinction—as do the articles in the magazines of culture or the jokes in the comic sections of the Sunday papers. Their own conventions weigh no less heavily on the unconventional than the most hidebound provincial's do on him. Even the wicked know what is expected of them, and they, no less than the virtuous, answer public expectation. Conventional or unconventional, virtuous or wicked, all enact their ordered and calculable rôles according to schedule; there can be nothing unexpected anywhere, nothing that can startle or embarrass or discomfort or strike wonder.

Can we say, then, that literature, like wickedness and virtue, like religion—and, of course, education—does not, and cannot, exist at all in America? Is it really true that nothing at this moment can be expected from the land of Edgar Allen Poe and Walt Whitman? Has America no authentic poet now writing, no novelist? Even granting that American conditions are intolerable to the man of artistic impulse, and that most artists must be paralysed by them or forced to a sterile cleverness, must there not be some, at least, who will react?—react violently and at least interestingly and with a certain distinction against the pressure of their period? How about Mr. Theodore Dreiser and Mr. Edgar Lee Masters? What of the novels of Mr. Joseph Hergesheimer? Is not Mr. Dreiser at least original? Have not critics of well-reputed judgment written, strongly moved, of his "deep original mysticism"—that mysticism which "penetrates the rough chaotic surface of American life" and "lays bare its primitive foundations"? Has not the genius of Mr. Dreiser been credited with the "impetus of a huge cosmic plough"?

Yes: and in America one can understand an enthusiasm for Mr. Dreiser, but only in America. This writer has courage, that is undeniable: the courage to look with the naked eye at as much of American life as he can bring within his heavily-blinkered vision. It is not a slight thing to have achieved so direct a gaze in a country where sentimental make-believe triumphs more amazingly and more comically than in any other country under the sun. On this account we can forgive Mr. Dreiser his unequalled incapacity for artistic selection, his unvarying preference for making fifty or a hundred sentences do the work of one; we can forgive him the dullness of his æsthetic nerve, his mountainously heaped banalities of phrase, his grinding tediousness, his incoherence, his clumsiness that produces the distressing effect of some obtruded physical deformity. At least he has done something: he has given us a sense of the Middle West that is almost as depressing, almost as spiritually devastating as any that actual contact with the Middle West itself can produce. He is a realist: and it is an extraordinary feat of heroism to be a realist in America. But if Mr. Dreiser had written in any European country, he could not have been read. The tremendous strain that he imposes on his readers is only tolerable because they feel that he is doing something, or, with the throaty groans and gastric rumbles of an elderly Hercules badly out of condition, trying to do something that no one else has found the nerve or the stomach to attempt.

It will be asked if Mr. Edgar Lee Masters has not also the distinction of having dared to tell the truth in a land where, whenever truth shows itself, public opinion is instantly on the alert to suppress it. Does not the author of the Spoon River Anthology expose, powerfully and memorably, the vices of the respectable provincial bourgeois, the "Pillars of Society"? But again the question may be raised—did the Spoon River Anthology enjoy its vogue on account of its power and distinction as a work of art, or on account of the unusualness that lay in the subjection of American material to treatment of the kind? Guy de Maupassant had, long since, the same idea as Mr. Edgar Lee Masters, and de Maupassant executed it with genius. If a European, coming after de Maupassant, after Ibsen, had written such an Anthology from, say, the Potteries, with so much less than de Maupassant's or Ibsen's power, would his work have made any noticeable impression? Time will show—indeed it has done much to show already—how much less formidable Mr. Masters's power is. And how unfortunate that, induced by the success of Spoon River, Mr. Masters should have committed himself to other verse—rhymed verse, schoolboy exercises limping after models, otiose in expression, commonplace in thought. Mr. Masters writes in America: there is nothing to keep him back.

Mr. Dreiser, it is true, has never done anything quite so deplorable as the later verse of Mr. Masters: the tendencies of the author of The Titan and The Genius go another way. Intrigued by the fantasies of pseudo-scientific speculation he has of late taken to writing queerly and embarrassingly juvenile plays and stories about "energies" that form the subject-matter of Physics: he makes ponderous Teutonic play with electrons and the like. Or, stung by the crass persecution of American Puritanism, he writes grimly and solemnly and staidly about lust, turning pornographer out of a quaint and harassed sense of moral duty, or, it may be, merely out of obstinate combativeness, under impulse to retaliation. Mr. Dreiser is at least a phenomenon of psychological interest.

There are no poets who are in any way observable, but there is Mr. Joseph Hergesheimer, whose novels have been highly commended on both sides of the Atlantic. Indeed, his style, self-conscious though it is, has an unquestionable claim to serious regard. His honesty in characterisation, his vigour, his sense of the running sap of human existence, his energy in narrative, all mark him out. We can hardly, after our later experience of them, expect any new values, any development, from Mr. Dreiser or from Mr. Masters; we can justifiably expect a good deal more from Mr. Hergesheimer than we have yet had, for he has only begun. The Three Black Pennys and Java Head point the way perhaps to much more considerable novels. Mr. Hergesheimer, far less unsurely than any other American writer of to-day, gives us hope for the future of American literature. To anyone familiar with the conditions of American life, it is amazing that he should have been able to write so well, to advance so far under so heavy a handicap. But, of course, no conditions of life are all-powerful. The individual will in the end escape from under the blight and the burden of any general mass whatsoever; partial evasions herald complete release. In ten years time, maybe—or in twenty—there will be very different letters to be written from America.

News there is little. Mr. Nicholas Vachel Lindsay, the one American writer of verse who shows signs of genius, is projecting a visit to England, and Mr. Hugh Walpole, Lord Dunsany, and Mr. Drinkwater are touring the country as so many of their British colleagues have done before. Mr. Walpole's addresses are very popular. Mr. Drinkwater has been more than once to Springfield, the shrine of Abraham Lincoln, in whom he now has a sort of property, and Lord Dunsany has been lecturing to a large audience at the Æolian Hall in this city. His reception was marred by excited interruptions from patriotic Irishwomen who wanted to know why he had ignored the grievances of his country. In a despairing way he repeated again and again, "I am a poet, not a politician."

R. E. C.

LEARNED SOCIETIES, ETC.

THE SOCIETY OF ANTIQUARIES

THE influence of the war is plainly seen in the Society's programme for the coming session, and the prospect of exploring the ancient seats of civilisation hitherto under Turkish rule will give general satisfaction. The Latin monastic buildings of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre will be described and illustrated, and a mosaic pavement found at Um Jerar during the advance in Palestine will be discussed. In Mesopotamia official excavations have been carried out at Ur of the Chaldees, Abu Shahrain, and El-Obeid; a Sumerian figure has been found, dating from the pre-Semitic period; and a marble slab of about 1200 A.D., carved with a double-headed eagle, has found its way to the British Museum from the neighbourhood of Diarbekr. The heraldry of Cyprus and recent excavations in that island are other items from abroad; but discoveries at home will not be neglected. The megalithic monument known as Wayland's Smithy (caricatured by Scott in Kenilworth) was thoroughly examined last summer; a report is promised on excavations at Templeborough, a Roman camp between Sheffield and Rotherham; and a small ivory carving of the later Anglo-Saxon period from St. Cross will take rank as a rarity of peculiar charm. It reached Winchester Museum unprotected among a miscellaneous collection of fossils.

THE PHILOLOGICAL SOCIETY

The Society was just preparing to recover from the loss it suffered by the death of Dr. Furnivall when the war broke out. The officials had to do their best to keep the Society going whilst many members were away. A tentative unofficial revival of the annual report was made official and permanent, but several winter meetings were suppressed on grounds of war economy. The question of a proposed official phonetic transcription came before the Council, which also considered that of adhesion—as a section—to the British Association. In 1917 the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Society's foundation was celebrated. Recent publications include The Tale of the Armament of Igor, A.D. 1185, translated from the Russian by Leonard A. Magnus; an address on Jacob Grimm; and a paper by Sir James Wilson, K.C.S.I., on The Dialect of the New Forest in Hampshire (as spoken in the village of Burley). The President this year is Sir Israel Gollancz, and the secretary Mr. Leonard C. Wharton, of 31 Greville Road, N.W. 6. Forthcoming meetings (at University College) will be held on December 5th, January 9th, and February 6th, the subjects being Existing Parts of Speech Distinctions have no Topical Basis (Mr. H. O. Coleman), A Middle English Topic (Sir I. Gollancz), and The Perception of Sound (Dr. W. Perrett). New members are wanted. The subscription is a guinea.

THE SOCIETY FOR THE PROTECTION OF ANCIENT BUILDINGS

We are hearing at the present moment a good deal about the Enabling Bill, and considerable interest has been evinced at the large majority which approved its second reading. This is not without its bearing on a matter in which the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings feels very strongly—i.e., that the laity should not only have a voice in church legislation, but that where church buildings (which may legitimately be looked on as national possessions of the highest value) are concerned the public has a right to know of improvements or additions which may be in contemplation, and to express its approval or disapproval of any such scheme.

Two cases which have come to the notice of the Society within the last two months have brought this subject again to the fore. In the present condition of things the Dean and Chapter of a Cathedral can exercise an arbitrary ruling over the structure under its charge which none can gainsay.

In certain cases, doubtless, no great harm may result even from the arbitrary decision of a small body of men who may or may not have any architectural or archæological knowledge, but the past bears many glaring instances in which succeeding generations have had good reason to deplore that in a preceding age a Dean and Chapter has held undisputed sway and worked its will.

What is needed is that it should be made illegal to add to or alter a cathedral—in fact, to do anything beyond ordinary works of upkeep (which do not involve removing stones or timbers from the structure)—without the permission of either the advisory board set up under the Ancient Monuments Act (1913), or, if the church would prefer it, some advisory board on which the opinion of such societies as the Society of Antiquaries, the Royal Institute of British Architects, and this Society would be represented equally with the dignatories of the church. This is a case about which the public should express its opinion so strongly that a revision of the existing system would inevitably follow.

THE EGYPT EXPLORATION FUND

The Egypt Exploration Fund is arranging a series of lectures to be given in the rooms of the Royal Society, Burlington House (by the kind permission of the President and Council). The lectures are primarily for the benefit of its own members and subscribers, but others will be admitted by tickets, which can be obtained gratis by application to the Secretary of the Egypt Exploration Fund, 13 Tavistock Square, W.C.1. The first of these lectures was delivered on Friday, November 21st, at 8.30 p.m. The chair was taken by Professor Percy G. Newberry, and the lecture, entitled "The Egyptian Origin of the Alphabet," was given by Mr. T. Eric Peet, who urged the view that both the North Semitic and South Semitic alphabets, from which together the Greek alphabet was derived, were derived in their turn from a common source which was taken, on the acrophonic principle, from Egyptian hieroglyphics. This argument is largely based on the inscriptions discovered in 1905 at Serâbît-el-Khâdim, in the Sinai peninsula, by an expedition of the Egypt Exploration Fund. The fund has recently published a pamphlet dealing with its aims and accomplishments, in which it is pointed out that Egyptology to-day demands more precise and scientific methods than were formerly employed, and that, as Egypt is now a protectorate of the British Empire, the responsibility for safeguarding the records of its history must be accepted by this country in a fuller measure than heretofore.

THE ROYAL NUMISMATIC SOCIETY

At a meeting of the Royal Numismatic Society on November 20th, Mr. Harold Mattingly read a paper on "The Republican Origins of the Roman Imperial Coinage." His main contention was that the Imperial coinage was the direct successor not of the Republican mint of Rome, but of the coinage of the "Imperator" in the provinces, as issued from about 83 B.C. onwards. He traced the history of military coinages under the Republic and brought evidence to show that it was not till about the time of Sulla that the "Imperator" himself exercised the right of striking coins. He then showed how out of this provincial coinage the coinage of the triumvirs naturally developed, and again from that coinage of Augustus. Augustus chose to found his system on this basis in view of the failure of the triumvirs, following in the steps of Julius Cæsar, to establish a personal coinage at the Republican mint of Rome.

THE GEOLOGISTS' ASSOCIATION

This Association celebrated its sixtieth anniversary on December 7th, 1918, when a Lecture was delivered by Major Sir Douglas Mawson, in the Architectural Theatre, University College, Gower Street, W.C.1, on "The Glaciation of Antarctica." During 1919 several important papers have been read, including the Annual Address by the President, Mr. J. F. N. Green, B.A., F.G.S., on "The Vulcanicity of the Lake District" and a paper on "Old Age and Extinction in Fossils," by Dr. W. D. Lang. Three parts of the Proceedings for 1919 have already been published containing a full report of Dr. Lang's paper, another paper by the same authority on "The Evolution of Ammonites," and the Presidential Address by the Past-President, Mr. George Barrow, F.G.S., on "Some Future Work for the Geologists' Association," which is an interesting and exhaustive study of the post-Eocene deposits of clays, sands and gravels, older than the River Terrace deposits. The Proceedings also contain accounts of the excursions made to certain places of geological interest during the year. At Easter an excursion was conducted to the Bristol District by Professor S. H. Reynolds and Mr. J. W. Tutcher, and at Whitsuntide the Association visited the Isle of Wight, under the guidance of Mr. G. W. Colenutt and Mr. R. W. Hooley. Llangollen was selected as the district for the "Long Excursion" in August, and about forty members spent a week in the study of the Ordovician, Silurian and Carboniferous systems of the neighbourhood. Mr. L. J. Wills, M.A., F.G.S., was the Conductor. Excursions were also made to Sevenoaks, Farnham, Berkhamstead, Codicote (Herts), St. George's Hill (Weybridge), Box Hill, Headley Heath and Epsom. The first meeting of the Winter Session was held at University College on November 7th, which was followed by a conversazione. Many exhibits were made of Fossils and Flint Implements. Mr. Llewellyn Treacher showed a fine specimen, one of the largest known, of a flattened, pear-shaped late Chellean implement, 12½ inches long, recently found in the Maidenhead gravels; a slab of shale studded with Graptolites, from the Tarannon of Peebleshire, was exhibited by Mr. R. J. A. Eckford; and Mr. J. Francis showed many fine examples of Jurassic Ammonites and Belemnites, illustrating chambers, septa, siphuncles and sutures.

BIBLIOGRAPHIES OF MODERN AUTHORS

GEORGE SAINTSBURY

[This list is a selection.]

A PRIMER OF FRENCH LITERATURE. Clarendon Press. 1866 (fourth edition, revised, 1912).

JOHN DRYDEN. Macmillan. 1878. (English Men of Letters Series.)

A SHORT HISTORY OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF LE SAGE. Privately printed, London, 1881.

A SHORT HISTORY OF FRENCH LITERATURE. Clarendon Press. 1882 (Current edition, 1917).

FRENCH LYRICS. Kegan Paul. 1882. (Parchment Library.)

MARLBOROUGH. Long. 1885. (English Worthies.)

A HISTORY OF ELIZABETHAN LITERATURE. Macmillan. 1887 (ninth edition, 1907).

[The material in this volume deals with the larger "Elizabethan" period from Wyatt and Surrey to the Restoration.]

MANCHESTER: A HISTORY OF THE TOWN. Longmans. 1887.

ESSAYS IN ENGLISH LITERATURE, 1780–1860. Percival. 1890.

THE EARL OF DERBY. Dent. 1890. Prime Ministers of Queen Victoria.

ESSAYS ON FRENCH NOVELISTS. Percival. 1891.

MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. Percival. 1892 (second edition, Rivington, 1895).

THE COOKERY OF THE PARTRIDGE. 1893. (Watson's Fur and Feather Series.)

THE COOKERY OF THE GROUSE. 1894. (Watson's Fur and Feather Series.)

CORRECTED IMPRESSIONS. Essays on Victorian Writers. Heinemann. 1895.

ESSAYS IN ENGLISH LITERATURE, 1780–1860. Second Series. Dent. 1895.

INAUGURAL ADDRESS AT EDINBURGH UNIVERSITY, October 15th, 1895. Blackwood. 1895.

SIR WALTER SCOTT: A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. Walter Scott Co. 1896. (Famous Scots Series.)

A HISTORY OF NINETEENTH CENTURY LITERATURE, 1780–1895. Macmillan. 1896.

THE FLOURISHING OF ROMANCE AND THE RISE OF ALLEGORY. Blackwood. 1897. (Periods of European Literature.)

A SHORT HISTORY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. Macmillan. 1898.

MATTHEW ARNOLD. 1899. (Modern English Writers.)

HISTORY OF CRITICISM AND LITERARY TASTE IN EUROPE. From the earliest texts to the present day. Three volumes. Blackwood. 1900-4.

THE EARLIER RENAISSANCE. Blackwood. 1901. (Periods of European Literature.)

A HISTORY OF ENGLISH PROSODY FROM THE TWELFTH CENTURY TO THE PRESENT DAY. Two volumes. Macmillan. 1906.

THE LATER NINETEENTH CENTURY. Blackwood. 1907. (Periods of European Literature.)

HISTORICAL MANUAL OF ENGLISH PROSODY. Macmillan. 1910.

THE HISTORICAL CHARACTER OF THE ENGLISH LYRIC. 1912. (From Proceedings of the British Academy.)

A HISTORY OF ENGLISH PROSE RHYTHM. Macmillan. 1912.

THE ENGLISH NOVEL. Dent. 1913. (Channels of English Literature.)

A FIRST BOOK OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. 1914.

THE PEACE OF THE AUGUSTANS. A Survey of Eighteenth-Century Literature as a place of rest and refreshment. G. Bell. 1916.

A HISTORY OF THE FRENCH NOVEL TO THE CLOSE OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. Macmillan. Vol. I., 1917. Vol. II., 1919.

LOCI CRITICI. Passages Illustrative of Critical Theory and Practice from Aristotle downwards; selections, part translation, and arrangement. Ginn. 1903.

CAROLINE POETS. Clarendon Press. Two volumes. (The complete works of certain minor Caroline Poets with reproductions of first edition title-pages, etc., and introductions to thirteen poets. A third volume is in preparation.) 1905.

[Chamberlayne's Pharonnida, Ayres's works, and other rarities are here to be found.]

THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK. Maid Marian and Crotchet Castle; Melincourt; Gryll Grange; Headlong Hall and Nightmare Abbey; Misfortunes of Elphin and Rhododaphne.

He has also edited various series: the works of Dryden, Fielding, Goldsmith, Herrick, Montaigne, Racine, Donne (Poems), Longfellow, Shadwell, Thackeray, Richardson, Smollett, Sterne, Swift, and numerous collected or selected works of English and French authors.

He has written prefatory memoirs to Pride and Prejudice, Merope, A Calendar of Verse, Gil Blas, J. B. B. Nichols' Words and Days, Scott's Lives of the Novelists, Staël's Corinne, and various separate works of Thackeray, and he contributed many chapters to the Cambridge History of English Literature.

JAMES ELROY FLECKER

Verse

THE COLLECTED POEMS OF J. E. FLECKER. Edited with an introduction by J. C. Squire. Secker. 1916.

[Contains several poems not published before Flecker's death.]

SELECTED POEMS. Secker. 1918.

*      *      *      *      *

THE BRIDGE OF FIRE. Elkin Mathews. 1908.

[In the Vigo Cabinet Series.]

THIRTY-SIX POEMS. Adelphi Press. 1910.

FORTY-TWO POEMS. Dent. 1911.

[A reissue of the last with additions.]

THE GOLDEN JOURNEY TO SAMARKAND. Goschen. 1913.

[This book, which contains Flecker's Parnassian preface, was subsequently taken over by Martin Secker.]

THE OLD SHIPS. Poetry Bookshop. 1915.

[Published just after Flecker's death.]

THE BURIAL IN ENGLAND. 1915.

GOD SAVE THE KING. 1915.

[Each of these was privately printed in a very small edition by Clement K. Shorter.]

Prose

THE LAST GENERATION. New Age Press. 1908.

[A short satire.]

THE GRECIANS: A DIALOGUE ON EDUCATION. Dent. 1910.

THE SCHOLAR'S ITALIAN GRAMMAR: An Introduction to the Latin origin of Italian. D. Nutt. 1911.

THE KING OF ALSANDER: A NOVEL. Goschen. 1914.

[Now published by Allen & Unwin.]

DRAMA

THE POETIC DRAMA

THE question, Is there or is there not a future for poetic drama?—that is to say, drama wholly or principally in verse—is very much like the question, Is there a future for sport? There are times when everybody seems to be talking about sport, times when even bookworms begin to play ping-pong; there are other periods—one thinks of the novels of George Eliot and Thackeray—when the world seems to have been without sport, and in the England of Jane Austen and the Brontës (contemporaries of Chopin) the sportswoman-composer, the "horsy" musician revealed in the pages of Miss Ethel Smyth's recent Memoirs is a figure less conceivable than the Phœnix. But through the darkest of ages sport has persisted, often as nothing more than the eccentricity of a few cranks, who in the eyes of the world about them have neglected serious affairs "idly to knock about a ball."

It was characteristic of a utilitarian age that sport and the poetic drama should have been abandoned together for what the unhappy people of that time, caught in an unimaginative and rigid scientific theory, thought to be "real life." The spirit of the age was like the sudden seriousness that seizes a young man when he first realises that he has great ability and that he must improve the universe. It is a state of mind that rests upon the conviction that one knows everything, and that what ought to be done is always as plain as a pikestaff. Once the bottom is knocked out of that omniscient self-confidence the whole policy and fabric of the time crumbles to pieces, and that is exactly what happened towards the beginning of the twentieth century when the scientists, like the decent fellows they are, began to realise that the great clarity and understanding which had fallen upon the middle of the nineteenth century was in reality a thick fog. But the old mental attitude persisted well into the present century, and is by no means yet dead. Owing to the way in which it brought the young intellectuals into practical affairs and set them studying economics and political policy, chiefly under the influence of that great spiritual survival of the nineteenth century, Mr. Bernard Shaw—who happened by a freak of nature which suggests the comic chuckle of an all-seeing God, to have a passion for writing plays—that utilitarian influence continued to pervade the drama when it had almost faded from the rest of literature. Mr. Shaw's plays are really a sort of inverted Smiles' Self-Help, and might well be called Plays for Paralysing the Puny Emotions—all emotions being puny to Mr. Shaw and Mr. Samuel Smiles compared with the necessity of getting on—with the job! With Mr. Smiles the job is one's own career, with Mr. Shaw the career of the universe—that is the only difference. The young intelligentsia of to-day, having almost all of them become materialists under the influence I have just mentioned, have at last, however, begun to realise that the universe is not only not going to have the career planned for it by Mr. Shaw or any other group of thinkers, but also that to plan a career for the universe is like planning an "occupation" for the Sun. To imagine that in a Daylight Saving Bill you have set the course of the Sun is to imagine exactly what this social-political school of realists has imagined in its programme for the universe! Naturally, when one knows what the world ought to be, and knows one has the power to produce that ideal, one has no time to spare for sport or for letting one's feelings interfere with one's business. Supermen, like self-made men, have no time for sentiment. It is here that we find the link—which might escape the superficial glance—between Samuel Smiles and Nietzsche, who has had such an influence on the Shavian school. It explains, also, why this school was so largely "pacificist" during the war, for really its intellectual sympathies were with the Prussians, whose philosophic justification was that they alone had the right conception—the conception of an efficient world—and that it was their task, in fact, their duty, to bring this conception forcibly into being. Such ideas always bring in their train a morality wholly opposed to sport and to poetry—a morality whose essence is the duty of preaching to the unenlightened. The drama became suddenly useful as a vehicle for intellectual propaganda.

The Intellectual Drama

The young intellectuals began to go to the theatre for the pleasure of hearing their theories preached at a public unable to answer back or easily to walk out, but dumbly conscious that it had paid its money to be entertained, and was having its head punched. It is no wonder that the drama suddenly became so popular with the intelligentsia. Here was an end to crying in the wilderness, to preaching your world panacea in dull tracts and essays! They had hit upon a method of getting the man in the street actually to pay to be instructed in the true doctrine, thinking that he was going to see the drama of the modern Shakespeare or of one who was "greater than Shakespeare." This, of course, was hailed as a great dramatic revival, and in so far as it brought the intellectuals back to the theatre which they had deserted, it was a revival. That is to say, it was a revival of the intellectuals, not of the theatre. You do not revive the drama by pouring into it a mass of sociological or philosophical theories, any more than you could be said to have revived poetry by suddenly writing verses about machines. One of the chief objects of art is to keep alive in our minds the realisation of the extraordinary depth and complexity of life. All the greatest dramatists do this; that is why people write books called The Problem of Hamlet; but the characteristic of this modern school of realists is not only that they are propagandists—that is to say, expounders of a certain point of view—but that they really believe that they understand the world. With that amazing certainty which is the hall-mark of the materialistic mind, the mind to which everything presents a hard, distinct superficies, they have no doubts about anything, and they display a set of characters who, to use a horrible but expressive phrase, are "all there." These characters are worthy inhabitants of the world as it appears to their creators. A world whose stupidity and wrong-headedness is so extraordinarily obvious—a world in which it is always so patent what ought to be done, that when one lives in it for the space of two or three hours during the play's performance one feels like a higher mathematician with a child's problem out of Euclid. This outrageous simplification and externalising of life is an intellectual mania fatal to great drama. It is the antithesis of poetry, just as we have seen war become the antithesis of sport, thereby offending the soundest instincts of the English people who, though they could find no arguments against the Prussian intellectual logic, yet felt dumbly but intensely that this simplification of war to something which shut out all ethics and all play made war damnable and finally unendurable.

We find now the war is over that this drama, whether written to get slums abolished, to expose prostitution, to draw attention to our prison laws, to expound socialism, to influence our marriage customs, to kill conventions, to explain strikes, or merely to be witty at the stupidity of mankind, is no longer in demand. There will always be a place for comedy, however bitter, savage, and loveless, and all the subjects named are traditional and excellent for the comic dramatist; but a comedy which is cold at heart, a comedy in which there is no love, occupies a very insignificant position in dramatic literature. At this moment the stage is mainly held by the stage play, which is little more than the bare bones of drama, the actors' device for entertaining an audience, resembling conjuring and the displays of acrobats. This kind of thing will always be more plentiful than poetic drama, for the simple reason that it is easier to obtain and easier to appreciate. Mr. Sutro's The Choice, as well as The Voice from the Minaret, by Mr. Robert Hichens, and Mr. Arnold Bennett's Sacred and Profane Love belong to this category. I find them often much more entertaining than the drama of ideas which to-day lives on the first ghost of its former self, in such a play as Mr. Maltby's A Temporary Gentleman, which has naturally won the approval of no less a person than Mr. William Archer. Mr. Archer has lately had the courage to declare that he has no use for the poetic drama of the Elizabethans (Shakespeare excepted). This is not surprising. Mr. Archer has been the champion of the school of modern English dramatists gathered around Ibsen and Mr. Shaw. It is natural to most Scotsmen to prefer argument to poetry, and Mr. Archer's animadversions on the Elizabethans only reveal Mr. Archer's limitations. But he will find that whereas a quarter of a century ago what he wanted to say was exactly what the young men and women wanted to hear, now nobody has the slightest interest in discussing social problems on the stage, and A Doll's House and Man and Superman are more absolutely dead than Tennyson's Becket. It is amazing to feel the change. I was at Oxford a short time ago, and I found that the forthcoming performances by the newly-formed Phœnix Society of Webster's Duchess of Malfi and other Elizabethan plays aroused the same interest and excitement there as I had felt myself. It is evident that the last wave of Victorian materialism is rapidly ebbing. The Age of Drains is past. This does not mean that we shall sink back into the diphtheric state from which the Victorians rescued us; it is simply that after two or three decades during which the young intellectuals have been annually sucked into a frenzied enthusiasm for social reform there has come a reaction in which we have suddenly had quite another vision of life—a vision far more profound and closer to reality than the one concentrated in the famous saying: "What is the matter with the poor is their poverty"—which has been the social slogan of the last decade.

Materialism and Poetry

It is important to stress this connection of the drama with life, because if we are going to have, as I believe, poetic drama in the near future, it will be because it is the best dramatic form for expressing what we feel, and as the demand must come in the first place from the intellectuals—since in them alone are the common desires sufficiently conscious—it was impossible to get a flowering of poetic drama until the intelligentsia had recovered from the epidemic of materialism, and had begun to feel the need of something more satisfying than glittering theories of reforming mankind by pure economics. The leaders of materialistic thought have always been uncomfortable about art, and have never been completely honest. In their uneasiness as to its practical value they have explained it on the ground that art develops and trains the senses—pictures train the eye, music trains the ear, drama presumably trains both.

To knock the bottom out of this ridiculous nonsense one has only to ask: What drama would you give a man in order to train him to pick up pins in the dark? Is it any wonder that the leaders of this precious substitute for thought could not appreciate Shakespeare, and is it any wonder that under their influence poetic drama has been extinct? The deadening influence of this utilitarian materialism has not only been felt in drama, it has been present in the whole life of the community; but the masses have been less subject to it than the intelligentsia, that is why the masses on the whole have stayed away from the intellectual theatre and have patronised the purely sporting, purely poetic, utterly useless Revue, Musical Comedy, and Farce. And their instinct has been sound, as sound as it is when they ignore the offer from the same quarter of a social millennium to be obtained merely by the exercise of logic. But the result has been a wider cleavage between the people and the intelligentsia than has ever existed before, and most of the dissatisfaction with the present state of the theatre is due to this fact.

It is a curious thing, but Mr. Herbert Trench, in his fine play Napoleon, which was produced last month at the Stage Society, and made a strong impression, occasionally touches on the very idea I have been setting forth. His Napoleon is a type of the materialistic intellectual who has a routine plan for the universe, and he harps continually on "order," as if "order" were something simple, something he had invented to enable the universe to run smoothly: "Your tide-work taught you poetry. I seek order," he says to Wickham—and it sounds like Mr. Shaw or some intellectual dramatist speaking. I will quote one passage from the central scene—the scene between Napoleon and Wickham—which really puts the case against the intellectuals:

Wickham:                                               . . . . . . .

Because you have no love you have no eyes;

Your naked energy, working lovelessly,

Be it balanced like a planet is not wise.

*      *      *      *      *

How we have suffered from you, ghosts of Cæsar,

Suffered through concentrations of our hope,

Age after age about your glittering figures,

That have polarized and crystallized and chained

Awake! Rome left our tribes one great bequest,

Her law. That's in our blood, absorbed for ever.

But is then Europe's many-fountained forest

Bubbling with ten thousand springs of life—clans, nations,

Coloured by the ruddy soils from whence they spring,

Is this multi-coloured, insuppressible world

To be controll'd from one centre? Not again!

To be twice Roman'd? Never!

The grass will lift you as it lifts the stone.

Mr. Trench's play is a beginning. If we had—what is an elementary requirement of civilisation—a National Theatre, we would certainly see Mr. Trench's play there, and I should not be in the least surprised to find it a popular success. The public will never demand Mr. Trench's play; but then the public never demanded compulsory education, much as it needed it. I have little doubt but that what the public needs in the theatre to-day is poetic drama.

*      *      *      *      *

The Phœnix Society produced Webster's The Duchess of Malfi on November 23rd. The performance will be noticed next month. The date of the production of Dryden's Marriage à la Mode has not yet been fixed.

*      *      *      *      *

A series of French Classical Matinées is being given by Mlle. Gina Palerme at the Duke of York's Theatre on Tuesdays and Wednesdays at 2.30. The plays will be produced as at La Comédie Française, with original music by Lully and other old masters. The list of plays is as follows: Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme (Molière), Le Malade Imaginaire (Molière), Les Précieuses Ridicules (Molière), Le Barbier de Seville (Beaumarchais), Les Romanesques (Rostand), Le Voyage de Mr. Perrichon (Laliche).

DRAMATIC LITERATURE

BEN JONSON'S EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR. Edited by PERCY SIMPSON. Clarendon Press. 6s.

This is a pioneer volume to a complete edition of Ben Jonson's works, projected by Professor C. H. Herford and Mr. Percy Simpson, and its excellence is such that it is fervently to be hoped that we shall not have to wait long for the companion volumes. When these appear nothing more will be needed, and it will be possible for the ordinary person to read Jonson without floundering hopelessly among the maze of queries which the text at present available raises, and which its paucity of notes does nothing to explain. Mr. Simpson's admirable introduction deals with the quarto and folio texts, the date of the play's revision, and the general question of the portraiture of humours. It contains some excellent criticism of Jonson's revisions, and Mr. Simpson comes to the conclusion that Jonson began preparing the folio edition in 1612, and his reasons are, on the whole, convincing. There are sixty pages of notes.

SACRED AND PROFANE LOVE. By ARNOLD BENNETT. Chatto & Windus. 3s. 6d.

A writer of Mr. Arnold Bennett's eminence and great sagacity would be the last person to expect us to take this play seriously as a contribution to dramatic literature. Although it is a play of modern life in the most colloquial prose, it has less reality than the wildest and most phantasmagoric drama of the Elizabethans. We may not expect Mr. Arnold Bennett to create for us an imaginative world of his own in which there is an inner and satisfying truth, but we look to him to mirror in his own peculiarly brilliant fashion a part of contemporary life with that precision which has so often delighted us. There is nothing in this play that could not actually have happened, but it is impossible to believe in it as it is happening. Mr. Bennett has not visualised his people intensely enough; they are mere puppets borne along by the machinery of the play. This machinery is from the theatrical point of view effective, and it leaves the creation of the illusion of life to the flesh and blood of the actors, so that on the stage the play may have an effect which it can never have when read. The play, of course, has absolutely nothing to do with sacred or profane love; no hint of the tremendous reality of love in any sense appears between its covers.

W. J. TURNER.

THE FINE ARTS

Group Making and Group Breaking

THERE is a distemper prevalent amongst artists of to-day. I refer to the mania for group forming. We are told by grave scientists that we carry in us the germs of various diseases; the latent microbe is in our system, apt to be shaken into active life by some unforeseen circumstance. Artists, it would appear, have the germ of "group making" inborn in their systems; less quiescent than other microbes, it awaits the often trivial cause for its activity—in some cases too much fame, in other cases the gall of unnoticed mediocrity. Given, then, one or other of these causes, a series of events is set in motion.

Mr. Maguilp gathers round him various fellow-brushmen of whose work he approves and, if he is wise and is conversant with the recipe of group making, he will exclude from the number any one who will be likely to offer serious rivalry to his own position; he may also luckily procure someone who can make play with the quill as well as the brush to boost him and his band of worthies with the public. A manifesto is next issued in which the faithful band begs to be entirely dissociated from any form of art movement prior to its own, and its members present themselves purged from original influences, risen like several phœnixes from the fire. They offer, so to say, a firm breakwater to the untiring waves of mediocrity. Good! After a few exhibitions of their united work the brothers may be considered established and perhaps not unnoticed by the critics. But now, mark the subtlety of the evil genius which haunts artistic circles, the group begins to think of self-aggrandisement. "Let us have other members, let us enlarge, let us, in fact, become (fatal word) representative." But these good men do not really mean "representative," their exact intentions are rather to increase their numbers by a process of eclecticism. Alas! The most carefully selected members may develop different ideas after their election. What trouble might not be averted if we could see the mental condition, as it were, of every chicken's egg through the shell; to emphasise this point, however carefully you choose your cabbage there may always be a slug in it. So, in this little band, which has now become a "group," there are already forces of unrest, as the papers say. The stages of dissolution from this point are very rapid: the undesirables multiply, they question the authority of our original worthies, they manage to introduce other undesirables, and on all sides there is mutual suspicion and distrust of each other's motives. "I fear he intends to swamp us with the work of his followers," or "He intends to try and get control of the Group" is whispered round. Then the rot sets in. One member, for convenience A., refuses to show in the same room as B., as if the mere presence of the latter's work would corrode the gilt on his frames. Another disagrees with the gallery, a third has been maliciously hung. Worse follows, for one of our original friends secedes and forms another group, drawing others away with him: fresh manifestos are issued, and all original ideas revised, "We shall burst upon the public," and so on, da capo al fine. The public! What do they think of it all, does it interest them; do our friends, the artists, fancy that their petty strife is watched with eager anxiety? Surely to the public this formation and dissolution of groups must be as puzzling as were the military categories of the war. A layman, having once become accustomed to one artistic movement, has his attention diverted to another; on refixing his attention to the first he finds it split up into other formations. He is as a man watching a parade of soldiers, he sees each battalion form and reform, wheel and turn, flaunting the while their separate banners as they march, a bewildering kinetic display. Samuel Butler used to wonder why curates could not be hatched fully fledged in surplice and gown, without the troublesome prelude of ordination. Could not artists be allocated at birth in a system of unchangeable groups? Now all this lamentable state of affairs is largely due to "cliquishness," and in a lesser degree to an inherent distrust of each other which all artists seem to possess. There is also another contention which hampers them in their deeper divans. One man regards the exhibition of pictures as a purely business concern, whereby he hopes to sell his work; another man imagines it to be an opportunity of displaying, for the education of the uncultured, the results of his own deep inspiration. The possible difference in their position may be that the former has to live by what work he sells, the latter has very likely a private income. If, for the sake of convenience, we introduce our alphabetical friends again, B. will despise A. for what appear to him to be mercenary feelings, while A. holds B. in contempt for amateurishness. Of the two I prefer A.'s idea because, once he has carried out his painting, his next idea (a very sensible one too) is to sell it; while B. affects indifference and thinks A. has been calculating his possible assets between his brush strokes. This idea is neither just nor relevant. What can be done for us all? We all want to sell our pictures; what need is there for pretence, and why are we at the mercy only of a few members of the "intelligentsia"? After all, I suppose group forming is in a sense a protective instinct against the dealer, though the results are so inadequate. What then is the alternative to group making, the remedy for group breaking?

At the back of my mind I have visions for the future. A huge emporium for pictures, run on business-like lines, and on a scale which will put Mr. Gattie's warehouse scheme completely in the shade. Here each artist may have his work shown in his turn, not one or two isolated pictures disseminated among the exhibits of fifty other artists, but each man's work hung in a group that all may see his development, note his improvement, and criticise his faults. Why not a Selfridge Emporium for the pictorial arts? "Woodcuts, Madame, fourth floor." Orders for drawings and paintings and sculpture might be received, and commissions for decorations undertaken in any possible style. Then imagine the satisfaction of procuring a Lewis or a Nevinson in the Bargain Basement: and the sales! "Things were cheap!" as Little Tich says, especially after the failure of the spring shows.

Mr. Nevinson's Exhibition at the Leicester Galleries

I do not imagine that Sisyphus in Hades ever wantonly let his stone roll down to the bottom of the hill after his laborious ascent, yet this is what Mr. Nevinson appears to have done in his passage up the incline of artistic endeavour. The simile is perhaps not quite applicable because, to be just, his work has seldom shown outward evidence of great stress: perhaps it were better if it had. He seems to have reached with extraordinary ease a position in contemporary art which was entitled to our respect. We are grieved then, rather than angry, to see his descent from that position. If this is his Peace work then give me his War pictures. I suppose we are all conscious that reconstruction is very slow in realising our anticipations; the business of changing from war to peace makes this inevitable, but Mr. Nevinson seems to have rushed, over-hurriedly, from one to the other. I think he has not considered reconstruction enough, for his outlook at present is chaotic and rather vulgar. This might be excused on the ground that he was pulling the public's leg, but the diversion is worn rather threadbare now. There are a few exceptions in the show, and moreover his colouring remains good, even shows improvement, and no one can deny his skill. "See," he cries, "how versatile I am. I have catered for all sorts of people!" Yes, but what sort of people? No, we would speak more in sorrow than in anger; as Ruskin addressed Millais in his decline—"If Mr. Nevinson were to paint nothing but apricots for four years, etc...." But we feel sure his relapse is only temporary.

The London Group

The eleventh exhibition at the Mansard Gallery does not differ greatly from previous exhibitions. Probably most people have ceased to expect any great surprise, pleasant or otherwise, though there may be still a few who mount by lift to the gallery with the feeling rather of an airman approaching some planetary terra incognita. I was assured the other day by a candid friend that "your" London Group was as dull as the Academy. This uncomfortable sort of person must give us a moment's heart-searching, but I think nevertheless that the London Group still holds its own pretty well amongst art exhibitions of to-day. With these hopeful feelings uppermost let us examine the works displayed for our notice. The absence of Charles Ginner's work is to be regretted, and the rather alarming tendency of some artists to fasten on the characteristics of other artists' work and mould them rather obviously to their own use is more marked this year than formerly. I feel sure that several of the members will have to try and throw these ingenious people off their trail, for it is disconcerting to the highest degree to find the plagiarist out-doing the original worker at his own job. One would have thought that Mr. Gertler's apple painting was the last word in that line, but some people appear to differ and you will find many feeble echoes of these rare fruit and many paintings also of the chipped corner variety ad nauseam. I do not really know to whom most sympathy should be extended: to Mr. Gertler for his apples, to Mr. Fry who is very hotly pursued by his admirers, or to the landscape painters who, I think, might almost seek the assistance of the patent law. Mr. Bomberg has returned in great force, and his Barges, No. 31, is indeed an earnest of further excellence; all his paintings have distinction. Mr. Dickey has presented us with a very fine effort in his Kentish Town, a careful and refined painting, very beautiful in colour. Mr. Gertler's paintings at the Goupil Gallery are more interesting than his exhibit here. No. 36, Still Life, by Mr. Coria, is a painting of note, despite its cold flatness of texture. The exhibition deserves more detailed criticism than space permits. There is great character in the two paintings of Caledonian Market, by Therese Lessore, whose exhibition at the Eldar Gallery is now open. Mr. Duncan Grant's pleasant Farmyard painting should not go unmentioned, and there is other good work by A. P. Allinson, Mrs. Bashford, Keith Baynes, Ethelbert White, and Bernard Meninsky.

ARTISTIC PUBLICATIONS

THE LIFE OF JOHN THOMSON OF DUDDINGSTON. By R. W. NAPIER, F.R.S.A. Oliver & Boyd. Price 42s.

This is a vast book. Besides the usual foreword and introduction there are six chapters in which Mr. Napier most anxiously assures us that Thomson's evangelical labours and lack of artistic training in no way interfere with the exercise of his genius. This seems a little unnecessary; for we are quite ready to take him on his merits. Then comes the biography proper, and there are also five indices, a three-part appendix, and six separate catalogues of his work, besides numerous illustrations, etc. All this immense labour and care over an artist who I think was not a very significant figure among British painters. Perhaps he was overshadowed by his contemporaries Turner and Constable. He was not free, it appears, from the landscape tradition of Claude and Poussin, which he applied to his own Scottish scenery, and there would also seem to be a strong influence of Richard Wilson in his work. For all this, I think we may call him a "great little man," and Mr. Napier's book will be most valuable to the student of the history of British art.

JOHN NASH

MUSIC

THE BEECHAM OPERA

THE season of opera in English at Covent Garden, which opened at the beginning of November, offers a programme of unusual interest. Tristan and Prince Igor are its oldest classics; Mozart, so it is rumoured, is being held in reserve for a special season of his own. The list contains hardly a single work that is not either a masterpiece or at least a novelty. Wagner is represented only by Tristan and Parsifal, Verdi by Otello and Falstaff. Except for a few Puccini operas on Saturdays, the commonplace popular operas that are obliged to form the backbone of every continental opera-house's repertory have been struck out altogether. It is certainly to London's credit that for so uncompromising a choice the response of the public has been enthusiastic.

As long as Sir Thomas Beecham was fighting the battle of English opera with dogged persistence and unstinted expenditure of material in the face of apathy and indifference, and possibly the hostility of vested interests as well, there was a very general feeling that his courage and high idealism should not be hampered by a too searching criticism of his performances. The Beecham opera has by now become an established institution, and it is inevitable, now that it has taken possession of Covent Garden, that it should be considered in a more impartial spirit. It need not fear comparison with the imported opera of the summer season. It has made its own high standards; but it follows that its performances must be judged in general by the standards of its highest individual achievements.

The present season has so far been something of a disappointment. Several of the operas to be seen have been given over and over again in the provinces if not in London. In the case of an absolutely new opera insufficiency of rehearsal may be pardoned; but it is not a sign of good management when the performance of stock classics is allowed to become slack and indifferent. Sir Thomas has not been seen very often at the conductor's desk, and this is the more to be regretted, since he has a most remarkable genius for pulling through a performance which in other hands would be always trembling on the verge of disintegration. He has very little sympathy with singers, it seems. He always tends to regard the orchestra as the main thing, and the singers as mere adjuncts to it, so that an opera under his beat might easily become a symphony with voices ad libitum unless, as, for instance, in Trovatore, the composer has understood voices and written for them in such a way that nothing could ever dominate them. Mr. Goossens follows in the steps of his master, but with less genius. The performance of Falstaff was instructive on this problem. Compared with that in the other Verdi operas, the treatment of the orchestra is so complex as to make it almost symphonic in character. None the less, it is an opera in which the voices must lead and the band accompany, for if this is not done the work at once becomes patchy and formless. It requires, in fact, that the singers should have a strong symphonic sense, should feel themselves all parts of a continuous vocal ensemble which must be kept going not by the conductor but by their own co-operative efforts. The orchestra can then accompany, and it must also play its part with a sense of vocal expression and individual personality. This is the real difficulty of Falstaff. As it was, the singers had little or no feeling for ensemble. I use the word in a large sense, meaning not merely the passages where several voices are singing simultaneously, but all those in which the phrase of one voice is answered directly, or even at some bars' distance, by another. Mr. Goossens did his best to hold the singers to a steady beat, but he allowed the orchestra to get very much out of hand. Mr. Percy Pitt has probably suffered too much from the old conventional Covent Garden routine. He lets the singers do more or less what they like, and allows the orchestra to play Wagner and Rimsky-Korsakov as if their music were no more interesting than that of Bellini and Donizetti. The one salvation of the opera season will be Mr. Albert Coates, who, even considered merely as a concert conductor, is in a different category from any of our English conductors. He adds to this a real knowledge and understanding of the stage, and a personality which has the quality of being able to get the best possible work out of every single person under his control. That quality is as rare as it is important.

The stage-management of the season has been, on the whole, good. Falstaff went with plenty of activity and comic business, if with nothing else. Indeed, there seems to be a pretty general tendency to romping, which might well be put under restraint. Romping may pass with some audiences as a substitute for acting, but it can never, even in English opera, quite take the place of singing. Singers, it must be frankly admitted, are the weak point of the Beecham company. Covent Garden, partly by its own acoustic properties, partly by its traditions, which no one who enters the house can quite forget, shows up vocal deficiency only too severely. Sir Thomas Beecham possesses only one really first-class operatic artist—Mr. Frederick Ranalow. He is a real actor, equally at home in comedy or tragedy, and always a real singer. It is because he is a real singer, singing all the time, that one never misses a single word that he says. He is a musician with a large understanding of the deeper things of music. His Falstaff forms a continuous line; as King Mark he makes what with most singers is a tedious recitative into a perfect song of rare beauty. Mr. Frederick Austin is a good second; but whereas Mr. Ranalow is a singer who is also a musician, Mr. Austin is a musician who also sings. Of the other male singers there is not much to be said. Some have voices, some can sing, a few can act and throw their words out. At the best they may in certain cases do remarkably good work in one or two special parts. Among the ladies the most interesting is Miss Sylvia Nelis. At present she is little more than a singer. As a singer she goes on steadily improving, in accomplishment of technique, in diction, and in quality of tone; indeed, there can be little doubt that if she continues at her present rate of progress she will from about 1970 onwards be annually enrapturing the Albert Hall with Home, Sweet Home. As an actress she has a good deal to learn, but with her intelligence and undoubted capacity for hard work there is no reason why she should not develop in this direction. Sir Thomas Beecham has hitherto confined her almost exclusively to coloratura parts; it would be well to give her a chance in some part that required bright and vivacious acting rather than vocal agility. Miss Agnes Nicholls has worked so hard to become an operatic actress that one regrets bitterly the non-existence of the Beecham company in the days when she made her first appearance. As it is, she has obviously sung too often in oratorio. That is the great fault of English singing. It has only two styles (apart from the ballad concert style)—oratorio or Gilbert-and-Sullivan. Neither of these will take a singer through Falstaff. Miss Nicholls did not happen to be in her best vocal form that evening; but her acting was surprisingly good—indeed, she was the only character on the stage, except Mr. Ranalow and sometimes Mr. Percy Heming as Ford, who gave one a real impression of a Shakespearean character. Miss Rosina Buckman has also improved, but is very unequal in different styles. As Isolde she sang with a firmer sense of rhythm than before, and if she did not act very convincingly, at least looked—in a black dress with a long white veil and a small crown—a figure of so queenly a dignity that it was not surprising to see Mr. Mullings as Tristan keeping a respectful distance even in the most passionate moments.

Stravinsky's The Nightingale was the nearest approach to a novelty that has yet appeared. Evidently it had been very inadequately rehearsed. The performance fell far below the level of the Russian production at Drury Lane in 1914. Miss Nelis as the Nightingale seemed to be the only singer who was certain of the notes to be sung, and almost the only singer who was taking the opera seriously. Stravinsky's music is a good deal less bewildering now than it was five years ago. The first act has a good deal of beauty: so has the third. The second seemed merely bizarre—but the performance did not do the composer much justice. A modern opera of such intricate difficulty ought to be staged properly and conscientiously or not at all.

There has not yet been time since the end of the war for foreign artists to visit England in the large numbers which were inevitable five or six years ago. Yet even though the givers of concerts are at the moment almost exclusively natives of this country, or foreigners who have definitely made England their home, the scarcity of concert halls is being very acutely felt. Almost every day there are three concerts at the Æolian and Wigmore Halls, and when operas begin at 7.45 or earlier, music-lovers have often to choose between their first act or their dinner. What is to happen when travelling conditions become easier and the annual foreign invasion reaches its full tide?

A new and very attractive series of Sunday evening concerts has been inaugurated at the Lyric Theatre, Hammersmith, under the direction of Mr. Arthur Bliss. The programmes have been generally of a simple and informal character, with a liberal admixture of seventeenth and eighteenth century music, either for chamber combinations or for what may be called a chamber orchestra. Designed originally to supply the artistic needs of the Hammersmith neighbourhood, these concerts have, as a matter of fact, attracted a great many of the habitual frequenters of the more central concert-rooms. Mr. Bliss intends to continue his concerts after Christmas, and has announced for performance several works, both modern and ancient, which are of exceptional interest.

The Patrons Fund, originally founded by Sir Ernest Palmer, has resumed its concert-giving activities, but on new and much improved lines. Instead of giving performances of new English works at public concerts, the programmes of which contained nothing else but the music of unknown or almost unknown composers, it is proposed to hold a series of semi-private rehearsals in the hall of the Royal College of Music, at which the works selected are tried over and properly studied, as far as is possible within the limits of a single morning. The first of these rehearsals took place on November 13th, and it was very generally agreed that the new system was an undoubted improvement on the old. One could not help feeling that the atmosphere was both more friendly and more genuinely critical. There is undoubtedly a very strong feeling among all lovers of music in this country that the young British composer deserves far more encouragement than he gets, although it must be admitted that the young British composer is actually getting a great deal more than he did twenty or thirty years ago. Rehearsals of this kind are also of great educational value to the representatives of the Press, for in the struggle for publicity it is not always the most serious and genuinely original composers who receive the most attention in this period of violent and natural reaction against the overcharged emotionalism of the last generation.

EDWARD J. DENT

SELECT LIST OF PUBLICATIONS

ART

A BRIEF DESCRIPTION OF THE HOLY SEPULCHRE, JERUSALEM. By GEORGE JEFFERY, F.S.A. Cambridge University Press. 10s. 6d.

SMALL COUNTRY HOUSES OF TO-DAY. Second Series. By LAURENCE WEAVER. "Country Life." 25s.

THE CALIPH'S DESIGN. By WYNDHAM LEWIS. "The Egoist." 3s.

ROBBIA HERALDRY. By ALLAN MARQUAND. Princeton: University Press. London: Milford. 42s.

MODERN WOODCUTS AND LITHOGRAPHS. By British and French Artists. Edited by GEOFFREY HOLME. With Commentary by MALCOLM C. SALAMAN. "The Studio." 10s. 6d.

BELLES-LETTRES

AVOWALS. By GEORGE MOORE. Werner Laurie. 42s.

OUTSPOKEN ESSAYS. By WM. RALPH INGE, C.V.O., Dean of St. Paul's. Longmans. 6s.

THE PHILOSOPHY OF CONFLICT. By HAVELOCK ELLIS. Second Series. Constable. 6s. 6d.

IRISH BOOKS AND IRISH PEOPLE. By STEPHEN GWYNN. Dublin: Talbot Press. London: Fisher Unwin. 5s.

ROMANCES OF OLD JAPAN. By MADAME YUKIO OZAKI. Simpkin, Marshall. 30s.

THE EMBROIDERY OF QUIET AND OTHER ESSAYS. By M. HARDY. Skeffington. 4s.

PATRICK H. PEARSE: STORYTELLER. By JAMES HAYES. Dublin: Talbot Press, 2s.

SOCIETY FOR PURE ENGLISH. Tract No. 1. Preliminary Announcement. List of Members, October, 1919. 1s. Tract No. 2. On English Homophones. By ROBERT BRIDGES. 2s. 6d. Clarendon Press.

SHAKESPEARE AND THE WELSH. By FREDERICK J. HARRIES. Fisher Unwin. 15s.

LITERARY STUDIES. By CHARLES WHIBLEY. Macmillan. 8s. 6d.

MOMENTS OF GENIUS. By ARTHUR LYNCH. Philip Allan. 10s. 6d.

SELECTIONS FROM A. C. SWINBURNE. Edited by EDMUND GOSSE, C.B., and THOS. J. WISE. Heinemann. 6s.

SOME SOLDIER POETS. By T. STURGE MOORE. Grant Richards. 7s. 6d.

BUCHANAN, THE SACRED BARD OF THE SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS. By LACHLAN MACBEAN. Simpkin, Marshall. 5s.

WHAT IS MAN? AND OTHER ESSAYS. By MARK TWAIN. Chatto & Windus. 7s.

UNHAPPY FAR-OFF THINGS. By LORD DUNSANY. Elkin Mathews. 5s.

DONNE'S SERMONS. Selected Passages, with an Essay. By LOGAN PEARSALL SMITH. Clarendon Press. 6s.

THOUGHTS IN MIDDLE LIFE. By GODFREY LOCKER-LAMPSON. Humphreys. 3s. 6d.

THINGS SEEN IN LONDON. By A. H. BLAKE. Seeley Service. 3s.

SEVEN SPIRITUAL SONGS (of Shakespeare's time). Words and Music by THOMAS CAMPION, M.D., 1567–1620. Cambridge University Press, 1s. 6d.

AN ESSAY ON COMEDY AND THE USES OF THE COMIC SPIRIT. By GEORGE MEREDITH. Constable. 6s.

BOOK AUCTION RECORDS. Edited by FRANK KARSLAKE. Vol. 16, Part IV. Karslake, Hampstead, N.W.3.

BIOGRAPHY AND MEMOIRS

SIR VICTOR HORSLEY. By STEPHEN PAGET. Constable. 21s.

IMPRESSIONS THAT REMAINED. Memoirs by ETHEL SMYTH. In two volumes. Longmans. 28s.

MID-VICTORIAN MEMORIES. By MATILDA BETHAM-EDWARDS. Murray. 10s. 6d.

MEMORIES OF A MARINE. By MAJOR-GENERAL SIR GEORGE ASTON, K.C.B. Murray. 12s. 6d.

BEN JONSON. By G. GREGORY SMITH. (English Men of Letters Series.) Macmillan. 3s.

THE STORY OF GENERAL PERSHING. By EVERETT T. TOMLINSON. Appleton. 6s. 6d.

A SECOND CHRONICLE OF JAILS. By DARRELL FIGGIS. Dublin: Talbot Press. 1s. 6d.

MISS EDEN'S LETTERS. Edited by her great-niece, VIOLET DICKINSON. Macmillan. 18s.

PATRON AND PLACE HUNTER (Bubb Dodington). By LLOYD SANDERS. John Lane. 16s.

FIFTY YEARS IN THE ROYAL NAVY. By ADMIRAL SIR PERCY SCOTT, Bart. Murray. 21s.

JOHN REDMOND'S LAST YEARS. By STEPHEN GWYNN. Arnold. 16s.

A CHILDHOOD IN BRITTANY EIGHTY YEARS AGO. By ANNE DOUGLAS SEDGWICK. Arnold, 10s. 6d.

CLASSICAL

THE AJAX OF SOPHOCLES. Translated by R. C. TREVELYAN. Allen & Unwin. 3s. 6d.

THE AGAMEMNON OF ÆSCHYLUS. Translated by RUSHWORTH KENNARD DAVIS. Oxford: Blackwell. 4s. 6d.

THE ICHNEUTAE OF SOPHOCLES. Edited with a translation by RICHARD JOHNSON WALKER. Burns & Oates. £3 3s.

DRAMA

THE SPOILED BUDDHA. A Play in Two Acts. By HELEN WADDELL. Dublin: Talbot Press. London: Fisher Unwin. 1s.

SACRED AND PROFANE LOVE. A Play in Four Acts, founded upon the novel of the same name. By ARNOLD BENNETT. Chatto & Windus. 3s. 6d.

RED OWEN. By DERMOT O'BYRNE. Dublin: Talbot Press. 2s.

THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM. A Play in Four Acts. By DOUGLAS GOLDRING. Daniel. 3s. 6d.

FICTION

THE MASK. By JOHN COURNOS. Methuen. 6s.

NIGHT AND DAY. By VIRGINIA WOOLF. Duckworth. 9s.

A DAMSEL IN DISTRESS. By P. G. WODEHOUSE. Herbert Jenkins. 6s.

ALLEGRA. By L. ALLEN HARKER. Murray. 7s.

ALL ROADS LEAD TO CALVARY. By JEROME K. JEROME. Hutchinson. 6s. 9d.

AN AWFULLY BIG ADVENTURE. By "BARTIMEUS." Cassell. 7s.

THE WORLD OF WONDERFUL REALITY. By E. TEMPLE THURSTON. Hodder & Stoughton. 7s.

THE POWER OF A LIE. By JOHAN BOJER. Hodder & Stoughton. 7s.

THE PLOUGH. By MARY FULTON. Duckworth. 7s.

A SERVANT OF REALITY. By PHYLLIS BOTTOME. Hodder & Stoughton. 6s.

CATHERINE DOYLE. By ANTHONY M. LUDOVICI. Hutchinson. 6s. 9d.

TALES THAT WERE TOLD. By SEUMAS MACMANUS. Fisher Unwin. 6s.

THE WHALE AND THE GRASSHOPPER. By SEUMAS O'BRIEN. Dublin: Talbot Press. London: Fisher Unwin. 6s.

SEVEN MEN. By MAX BEERBOHM. Heinemann. 7s.

RESPONSIBILITY. By JAMES E. AGATE. Grant Richards. 7s.

ROBIN LINNET. By E. F. BENSON. Hutchinson. 6s. 9d.

MRS. MARDEN. By ROBERT HICHENS. Cassell. 7s.

ABBOTSCOURT. By JOHN AYSCOUGH. Chatto & Windus. 7s.

THE PURPLE JAR. By MRS. ALFRED SIDGWICK. Hutchinson. 6s. 9d.

TALES OF A CRUEL COUNTRY. By GERALD CUMBERLAND. Grant Richards. 7s.

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THE LONDON

MERCURY

Editor—J. C. SQUIRE        Assistant-Editor—EDWARD SHANKS

Vol. I No. 3                          January 1920

EDITORIAL NOTES

THE first whole year of peace has ended, and it is natural to throw a backward look upon its literary production. It is certain that to the historian it will be a year in which various tendencies continued to act; it is possible that his eye, in long retrospect, will observe in it the appearance, the sudden appearance, of new literary developments and important personalities. But it is, as a rule, only in long retrospect that such portents are recognised as such; and though we think that during the year certain movements which have been for some years in existence have been continued, that there are drifts which are easier to perceive than to analyse, we cannot persuade ourselves that 1919 added more than the normal amount to the existing volume of good English literature. It was, in fact, as a literary year very much like one of the war years. Perhaps it should properly be regarded itself as a war year. The principal physical factor which, in our present relation, operated during the war was the absence on service of the great majority of those young men who would have been beginning to write. These were, with rare exceptions, precluded by sheer force of outer circumstances from literary enterprises of a sustained kind; and, as most of those who survived have left the Army within the last year, we could scarcely expect so soon as this to find them producing large and ambitious books. It may also reasonably be argued that the war-atmosphere still prevails. Peace has come—and it has not yet come universally or conclusively—not suddenly but with the slowness of a northern dawn. Problems from which even the most self-sufficing mind cannot escape harass the intellect and weigh on the spirit of the civilised world. We are not yet in a position to estimate post-war literature, for we have not yet got post-war literature.

The opinions of intelligent men may differ to some extent as to which were the most remarkable novels of 1919; that they were very few is, we conceive, a matter of general agreement. Of the older novelists, Mr. Conrad produced in The Arrow of Gold (a work begun long ago and recently completed) a book which, though not among his masterpieces, was worthy of him. Mr. Wells, in The Undying Fire, a modernisation of the Book of Job, wrote an imaginative, an exciting, and an eloquent book. It was much better shaped and trimmed than has lately been usual with his books, and, for the first time since he abandoned scientific romance, he concentrated entirely on doing what he can do better than other people instead of trying to do what he cannot do. The other elder novelists did nothing that was unexpected and little that was good; and their successors have not appeared. A Fielding or a Dickens is a rare product; but we see no young novelists of whom it can be predicted with any assurance that ten years hence they will occupy places such as are now occupied by Mr. Wells and Mr. Bennett. It seems certain that they will not be found amongst that pre-war group whose merits Henry James examined with such generous consideration, whose defects he indicated with such delicate diffidence, in a famous article which "betrayed" rather than stated his alarm, even his pity, for the English Novel. There have been a few books which have attracted attention by their qualities of construction and detail or by touches of original genius; but of most of their authors we could not be sure that they will become even habitual, much less great, novelists. The book which more than any other appeared to us to be notable, both for its workmanship and for its imaginative power, was Mr. Joseph Hergesheimer's Java Head—and Mr. Hergesheimer is an American. It was not so good a book (we think Java Head was the earlier written) as The Three Black Pennys; but the two books are certainly the work of a born novelist. Miss Romer Wilson, whose Martin Schuler (1918) was a vivid, vigorous, and original book, published another, and a dull, novel, If All These Young Men, the subject and setting of which offered less scope to her peculiar gifts: but she is clearly capable of doing something surprising. Miss Dane's Legend was a remarkable technical achievement; and Mr. Cournos's The Mask, Miss Macaulay's fantasia, What Not, and Mr. Brett Young's The Young Physician were all, in their degrees, notable for a poetic quality.

Mr. Beerbohm's Seven Men could scarcely be classed with novels. It was Mr. Beerbohm's best book, than which those who appreciate him could pay no higher compliment; but Mr. Beerbohm is an artist who stands outside contemporary movements, literary and other, and one of whose charms arises from that very detachment. "W. N. P. Barbellion's" Journal of a Disappointed Man was a full and poignant record which will probably continue to be read in a narrow circle as Marie Bashkirtseff's memoirs are read; his posthumous essays, Enjoying Life, are even more convincing evidence of what their author might have done had he not been stricken by disease. Amongst works of critical and miscellaneous literature those which will continue to be enjoyed, or—in some cases—used, are Mr. Festing-Jones's Life of Samuel Butler, Professor Gregory-Smith's Ben Jonson, Mr. Gosse's Diversions of a Man of Letters, the late George Wyndham's Essays in Romantic Literature, certain books on the old Drama (Swinburne's The Contemporaries of Shakespeare, and Mr. J. M. Robertson's study of Hamlet especially), and Miss Ethel Smyth's Impressions that Remained. This last is one of the best autobiographies that have appeared in our time, and Dr. Smyth during a long and active life as a composer has been nursing a rich and racy English style.

The department—it is difficult in making such a summary to avoid the language of the catalogue—in which life has been healthiest has certainly been poetry. Several of the best and most promising of our living poets published no book in 1919, but what is incontestably a revival has continued. Several poets of established reputation have done better work than ever before. Mr. Hardy has published little, but his Collected Poems, now published, establish once and for all—and, old as he is, he belongs as a poet to this generation—his right to a place among the great poets. Mr. Masefield's Reynard the Fox is as certainly his finest book, as Mr. Herbert Trench's play Napoleon, whatever its defects on the stage, is Mr. Trench's. There is the largeness about this long and ambitious piece that there was about some of his earlier and shorter poems, and supremely in his Requiem of Archangels. Mr. Binyon's The Four Years was a collection of the verses its author had written concerning the war. It contained several poems made beautiful by the straightforward utterance of a noble and suffering spirit. Mr. Yeats's The Wild Swans at Coole it would be affectation to describe as equal in interest to his earlier volumes, but there were one or two lyrics in it which would adorn any anthology of English verse; and in Mr. Kipling's The Years Between there were also flashes of genius. From Mr. Yeats and Mr. Kipling, however, we do not now expect the unexpected. It is in the hands of the young that the immediate future of our literature lies. The most notable volumes by young poets have been (we are tempted to add Mr. Waley's More Translations from the Chinese) Mr. Brett Young's Poems and Mr. John Freeman's Memories of Childhood. But in periodicals and anthologies there has appeared much new and genuine work. A great deal is to be found in the fourth volume of Georgian Poetry, which was reviewed in our last number. Mr. de la Mare's latest poems show that his thought is steadily deepening, whilst he is losing none of that delicacy of music and beauty of phrase that made his early lyrics as lovely as any in the language; and both Mr. Sassoon and Mr. Nichols have done work which makes their future a matter for profound curiosity. Scattered about in other volumes there have been many single good poems: and it is the characteristic of a prolific lyrical age that a few good things are written by many men. We would mention as especially interesting, in that it is one of the few long successful narrative poems of recent years, Mr. Aldous Huxley's Leda; the myth was difficult and dangerous, the versification often ungainly, but the poem contained passages of great strength and beauty. We may add finally Captain Scott-Moncrieff's fine translation of the Song of Roland.

We used the term "a lyrical age." Opinions may and do differ as to the number and quality of good short poems that have been written in the last ten years, but that the prevalent tendency amongst the most intelligent young men is to write poems, and short poems, cannot be disputed. The paucity of good novels, and especially good novels by young writers, is not entirely to be ascribed to the fact that during the war many of those who might have written, and may write, good novels were not in a position to write books at all. The deflation, temporary perhaps, of the Novel has been proceeding for some years; the absence of even tolerable new novelists has been too nearly complete to be attributable to the peculiar war conditions. The novel of "psychology," the novel of minute observation, the propagandist novel are still produced in quantities; but the best literary brains are not going into them. The drift towards poetry was noticeable before the war; the war accelerated it. It is not a mere matter of change of fashion, of a form being worked out and becoming tedious—though we do, in fact, believe that the next revival of the novel will see a new development of the novel. It is a matter of a change in attitude towards life; a return on the broader emotions; a desire to acknowledge and praise the things men love and find beautiful rather than to labour at analysis and at speculation—not to mention sophistry. It is mostly lyric poetry that men are writing; and it is one of the results of the war, which has intensified our awareness of the old familiar things around us, which were in a sense threatened for all, and the loss of which was imminently before millions of individuals, that much of it is poetry of the English landscape and especially of the English landscape as a historic thing.

Long poetical works, large essays in the poetic drama, are complacently manufactured by mediocre writers in most literary epochs. But it is commonly remarked that in this age men of genius, and particularly young men in whom genius is suspected, are mostly content with "short pieces." It is rash to theorise about such things, as the wind has a way of blowing where it listeth. No one can desire that men should systematically force themselves to literary undertakings which are uncongenial and towards which they feel no inner impulse. If a man agree with that poet who—acutely conscious, it may be, of the nature of his own talent—said that no good poem should or could be longer than a couple of hundred lines, he will serve no useful purpose by manufacturing large patchworks in cold blood. The presumption that any long work is better than any short one by the same hand is made by those (we are referring to intelligent men) who do not go to poetry for the quintessence of poetry, the thing peculiar to it: it is from those that we hear most insistently the demand for works on the large scale, and the complaint that modern writers mostly insist (these are the stock, if unjust and inaccurate, phrases) on writing sonnets to their mistresses' eyebrows and carving peach-stones.

The fact remains that by the common consent of mankind lyrics alone—even the lyrics of a Heine, a Herrick, or a Burns—will not give a man rank with the greatest poetic artists. It may be that in Poe's sense a work of thousands of lines, which maintains the highest level of poetry, is impossible; that what Professor Quiller-Couch calls "the Capital Difficulty of Verse" is insuperable: but this does not invalidate the claim of the Iliad or Paradise Lost to be considered greater than Lycidas or the songs of Meleager. That they share in some measure the defects of The Purple Island and Pharonnida does not prevent The Fairy Queen and Faust being the greatest of their respective authors' works. From a poet as from another we want something beyond "jewels five foot long," the loveliest impressions of the most beautiful particular scenes, reflections of moods, verbal chamber music, momentary vision, sensibility, song. By the common consent of mankind the greatest things in the world are those works which, while full of beautiful details and informed with the poetic spirit, are moulded to a larger conception and attempt a larger picture of the Universe, of the destiny of man, or of the moving life of the world. We can, therefore, to some extent sympathise with those, however broody and disgruntled, who, when they meet a volume of new and exquisite lyrics, complain that the author has not written an epic or a tragedy. Is it likely that the present imaginative revival, assuming it to exist, will produce tragedies or epics, or works on the scale of such?

To us it is difficult to believe that it will not: unless the nervous unrest, the absence of leisure and of the inclination so to employ leisure, are worse even than we suppose them to be. We see in much of the work of the younger men a vigour, a passion, a catholicity of interest, a zest for all life, that nothing but the most ambitious tasks could satisfy. But when we ask of what nature such works are likely to be we cannot answer. This one observation may be made: the demand for long poems is commonly coupled with a demand for doctrine. The poets are to add to scientific knowledge or to contribute new notions towards political or moral development: they are to dogmatise, to enlighten, to direct. Well, poets have done such things. But not all poets have considered it their business to be religious teachers, political liberators, or contentious intellectuals. The question: What did Shakespeare stand for? is disputed to this day. They have read many theories into him but got very few out of him. That he admired fidelity, hated cruelty, believed in honour, and loved his country, might be postulated of him; but the truths he stated there were old truths, and he stated them only incidentally: he did not write his plays with the primary object of illustrating principles, above all principles invented by himself. Milton has been called the poet of Puritanism, and Shelley the poet of Liberalism, but there is no "ism" for Shakespeare, and a very, very small one for Keats. The very persons who most insistently demand "ismatic" poetry are most contemptuous of the didactic, informative and disputatious parts of the works of the late Lord Tennyson, who began as a pure Keatsiam poet. Non omnia possumus omnes: and, over and above this, it is most important to remember that poets, like other men, are affected by the intellectual conditions of their own times. If there is a clear tendency some of the poets will be caught up in it. But the men are very rare who generate their own spiritual revelations in some secluded corner of an antipathetic world. Wordsworth and Shelley were what is called "philosophic poets," but their age was the age of Rousseau and Godwin, of the Libertarian movements that were part cause and part effect of the French Revolution. If the human spirit is moving in one definite direction at this moment we can only say that we do not know what that is. A generation of thorough and often conscienceless scepticism, followed by a breakdown of civilisation, has produced a mental and moral chaos, a welter of doubt amid which numbers of the doubters make random and mutually contradictory affirmations. Something concrete will, if the race is to live, emerge; but we are not yet in a position to see it. Nor are we, as mere holders up of the mirror of nature, in a position as yet to see the vast events in our own material world. For the great philosophic poem we have probably still many years to wait; for the epic of the German war we may have a century to wait; for a great drama we may arguably, owing to the peculiar conditions of the theatre, have to wait for a generally accepted scale of values which does not at present exist. But the imaginative temper is abroad, and the next generation may be a great era in English literature.

LITERARY INTELLIGENCE

THE announcement of a new and especially sumptuous edition of the works of Mr. Thomas Hardy, to be known as the Mellstock, reminds us that there are other authors to whom the same process might be applied with equal benefit to themselves and to their readers. The collected edition presents a writer's career in an orderly shape and in proper perspective: it first permits a sober and probable judgment to be passed on his achievement. We understand that the works of Mr. Joseph Conrad will shortly be collected and issued as a whole; and this will certainly reveal in a definite manner what is now vaguely felt as to his greatness. We believe also that a definitive issue of the writings of Mr. Max Beerbohm is in contemplation. It is to be hoped that it will be found possible to include the full list of his drawings, in some shape not too incompatible with the rest of the volumes. The Collected Poems of Mr. Walter de la Mare have been announced as in preparation; and this will, we think, mark a definite stage in the career of a poet whose real value is not yet fully appreciated. But there are authors, concerning whom no announcement is made, who might be added to the list with advantage. What might be called "selected-collected" editions of Mr. Belloc and Mr. Chesterton would very likely secure for these writers a much higher place in contemporary literature than current opinion is always ready to give them.

Mr. Chesterton will shortly start for the Holy Land. He intends to write a book about it. The book may, and probably will, be his best, for obvious reasons. It is commonly remarked even by those who think him one of the greatest natural geniuses and, at bottom, one of the wisest men of our time that he has never yet written the books of which he is capable. His best books, such as The Ballad of the White Horse and A Short History of England, are, for all their fine qualities, too slight to give his powers full room for display. As a rule, though he cannot be accused of a lack of energy, he has seemed never to put into a whole book that last effort which is necessary if a work is to be completely satisfactory; he has bothered too little, content to waste his imaginative largesse on hastily-written romances and polemical articles. How good The Flying Inn might have been had a little more trouble been taken with it! In Palestine, away from politics and journalism, with a new and romantic landscape around him, in the home of our religion and on the fields of the Crusades, he may provide the last answer to those who do not see an artist in him.

Mr. Percy Lubbock's edition of Henry James's letters will, it is expected, be published in the spring. Mr. Edmund Gosse, with the letters as a starting-point, has written his memories of James. These will be published, in two instalments, in the LONDON MERCURY.

It is five years since James Elroy Flecker died and over three since his Collected Poems were published. Some of his other literary remains will probably appear this year. There will be a collected volume of prose studies and critical articles, and another volume containing his play Hassan, which is awaiting production by Mr. Basil Dean. Some of those who have read this play say that it is the best tragedy since Shakespeare. The claim is not so large a one as it may appear at first sight. There are Ford and Webster. There is Venice Preserved and there is The Cenci, which last is not a great acting play, though it has magnificent scenes in it and contains sublime poetry. He who reflects on the history of the English drama since the age of Elizabeth and James I will be surprised at the paucity of plays of permanent interest, other than comedies, that have been produced.

Monsieur Yves Delage has presented before the Académie des Sciences a most interesting note by Monsieur V. Galippe on micro-organisms in paper. It was, of course, known that paper-making materials of all kinds abounded with these low forms of life, but it was generally assumed that they were destroyed by the chemicals and heat employed during the processes of manufacture. Monsieur Galippe's exhaustive experiments prove that this is not the case, and, moreover, the micro-organisms retain their vitality even in printing paper, apparently irrespective of the lapse of time. Ovoid bacilli were found both free in the mass and in the fibres of papers of all ages.

The method of examination employed was the following: The paper was reduced to fragments and steeped in sterilised distilled water, being frequently stirred. The paper was then dried and again steeped for several hours in sterilised water saturated with ether. After once more drying, cultures were taken from the paper.

Eighteenth-century paper thus treated gave positive results within twenty-four hours, microscopic examination revealing large numbers of rodlike organisms as well as ovoid diplo-bacilli. A leaf from a printed book of 1496 gave a quantity of large micrococci, those from the mass being endowed with movement, and those from the fibre remaining immobile, though preserving the faculty of multiplication. Old Chinese manuscripts and Egyptian papyri dating back ten centuries gave similar results. It is to be noted that exposure to light and air does not appear to have the slightest influence on these organisms.

Although the bibliophile is more particularly concerned in problems relating to fox-marks and the ravages of the borer insect, nevertheless these experiments are of great interest. These investigations, if carried further, may well furnish some explanation of the processes leading to the ageing of paper. From such a vantage-point the technologist might possibly go forward to discover a palliative against the decay of documents and printed paper. Pessimists would probably consider this a doubtful blessing, but, on the whole, it would prove a great boon.

POETRY

A Glimpse from the Train

At nine in the morning there passed a church,

At ten there passed me by the sea,

At twelve a town of smoke and smirch,

At two a forest of oak and birch,

And then, on a platform, she.

Her I could see, though she saw not me:

I queried, "Get out to her do I dare?"

But I kept my seat in my search for a plea,

And the wheels moved on. O could it but be

That I had alighted there!

THOMAS HARDY

Tarantella

Do you remember an Inn,

Miranda?

Do you remember an Inn?

And the tedding and the spreading

Of the straw for a bedding,

And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,

And the wine that tasted of the tar?

And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers

(Under the dark of the vine verandah)?

Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,

Do you remember an Inn?

And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers

Who hadn't got a penny,

And who weren't paying any,

And the hammer at the doors and the Din?

And the Hip! Hop! Hap!

Of the clap

Of the hands to the twirl and the swirl

Of the girl gone chancing,

Glancing,

Dancing,

Backing and advancing,

Snapping of the clapper to the spin

Out and in——

And the Ting, Tong, Tang of the Guitar!

Do you remember an Inn,

Miranda?

Do you remember an Inn?

Never more;

Miranda,

Never more.

Only the high peaks hoar:

And Aragon a torrent at the door.

No sound

In the walls of the Halls where falls

The tread

Of the feet of the dead to the ground.

No sound:

Only the boom

Of the far Waterfall like Doom.

H. BELLOC

Lines Written in Gallipoli[8]

[8] The author of this poem, a Fellow of All Souls, went out to Gallipoli in the Royal Naval Division with Charles Lister, Rupert Brooke, and Denis Browne. He was afterwards killed in France.

I saw a man this morning

Who did not wish to die,

I ask and cannot answer

If otherwise wish I.

Fair broke the day this morning

Against the Dardanelles,

The breeze blew soft, the morn's cheeks

Were cold as cold sea shells.

But other shells are waiting

Across the Ægean sea,

Shrapnel and high explosive,

Shells and hells for me.

O Hell of ships and cities,

Hell of men like me,

Fatal second Helen,

Why must I follow thee?

Achilles came to Troyland,

And I to Chersonese:

He turned from wrath to battle,

And I from three days' peace.

Was it so hard, Achilles,

So very hard to die?

Thou knowest and I know not,

So much the happier I.

I will go back this morning

From Imbros over the sea.

Stand in the trench, Achilles,

Flame-capped, and shout for me.

PATRICK SHAW-STEWART

November

As I walk the misty hill

All is languid, fogged and still;

Not a note of any bird,

Nor any motion's hint is heard

Save from soaking thickets round

Trickle or water's rushing sound,

And from ghostly trees the drip

Of runnel dews or whispering slip

Of leaves, which in a body launch

Listlessly from the stagnant branch,

To strew the marl, already strown

With litter sodden as its own.

A rheum, like blight, hangs on the briers,

And from the clammy ground suspires

A sweet frail sick autumnal scent

Of stale frost furring weeds long spent,

And wafted on, like one who sleeps,

A feeble vapour hangs or creeps,

Exhaling on the fungus mould

A breath of age, fatigue and cold.

Oozed from the bracken's desolate track,

By dark rains havocked and drenched black,

A fog about the coppice drifts

Or slowly thickens up and lifts

Into the moist despondent air.

Mist, grief, and stillness everywhere....

And in me, too, there is no sound

Save welling as of tears profound

Where in me cloud, grief, stillness reign,

And an intolerable pain

Begins.

Rolled on as in a flood there come

Memories of childhood, boyhood, home

And that which, sudden, pangs me most,

Thought of the first-beloved, long lost,

Too easy lost! My cold lips frame

Tremulously the familiar name,

Unheard of her upon my breath:

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"

No voice answers on the hill.

All is shrouded, sad and still ...

Stillness, fogged brakes and fog on high.

Only in me the waters cry

Who mourn the hours now slipped for ever.

Hours of boding, joy and fever,

When we loved, by chance beguiled,

I a boy and you a child;

Child! But with an angel's air.

Astonished, eager, unaware,

Or elfin, wandering with grace

Foreign to any fireside race;

And with a gaiety unknown

In the light feet and hair back-blown;

And with a sadness yet more strange

In meagre cheeks which knew to change

Or faint or fired more swift than sight,

And forlorn hands and lips pressed white,

And fragile voice and head downcast

To hide tears, lifted at the last

To speed with one pale smile the wise

Glance of the grey immortal eyes.

How strange it was that we should dare

Compound a miracle so rare

As, twixt this pace and Time's next pace,

Each to discern th' elected's face;

Yet stranger that the high sweet fire,

In hearts nigh foreign to desire,

Could burn, sigh, weep and burn again,

As oh, it never has since then!

Most strange of all that we so young

Dared learn but would not speak love's tongue,

Love pledged but in the reveries

Of our sad and dreaming eyes....

Now upon such journey bound me,

Grief, disquiet and stillness round me,

As bids me where I cannot tell,

Turn I and sigh, unseen, farewell:

Breathe the name as soft as mist,

Lips, which nor kissed her nor were kissed,

And again—a sigh, a death—

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"

No voice answers, but the mist

Glows for a moment amethyst

Ere the hid sun dissolves away,

And dimness, growing dimmer gray,

Hides all ... until I nothing see

But the blind walls enclosing me,

And no sound and no motion hear

But the vague water throbbing near,

Sole voice upon the darkening hill,

Where all is blank and dead and still.

ROBERT NICHOLS

Draft for "A First and Last Song"

Deep in the harvest of the night the sickle of the moon is sweeping,

We have sowed, O my desire, now is the time for reaping!

Turn not your face, O heart, give not your love

To aught of heaven or the stars above,

These dauntless robbers purloined long ago

The crown of Kaous, the belt of Kai Khosro;

And what have we to search for in the skies

Who have the blue pavilion of your eyes?

Or what need of the gold gates flung apart

Having the crimson portals of your heart?

... So shall it be when some day by and by

You mount the glitt'ring ramparts of the sky,

Loud to the wheeling heavens you shall boast:

"O sun and moon and Pleiads at the most

You're worth a wisp of barley or of straw

Unseen, unheeded, on Love's threshing floor:

And God the praises that your angels sing

Are all celestial but can never bring

The simple wonder of a mortal's doubt

Upon those faces upturned and devout

That every blessing of Your work recall,

Nor ever need to ask: What means it all?"

Be peace! The hour is passing. Here or there

The curtain swings to lay life's secret bare.

Ah, when the dawn of ending breaks around,

Be it that in Love's garden I am found.

To immortality I leave but this:

Your head reclining in a swoon of bliss,

Your hand uplifted to pour out the wine,

The minstrels singing this one song of mine.

COLERIDGE KENNARD

A Country Mood

Take now a country mood,

Resolve, distil it:

Nine Acre swaying alive,

June flowers that fill it,

Spicy sweetbriar bush,

The uneasy wren

Fluttering from ash to birch

And back again,

Milkwort on its low stem,

Spread hawthorn-tree,

Sunlight patching the wood,

A hive-bound bee,

Girls riding nim-nim-nim.

Ladies, trot-trot,

Gentlemen hard at gallop,

Shouting, steam-hot.

Now over the rough turf

Bridles go jingle,

And there's a well-loved pool

By Fox's Dingle

Where Sweetheart, my brown mare,

Old Glory's daughter,

May loll her leathern tongue

In snow-cool water.

ROBERT GRAVES

Scirocco

Out of that high pavilion

Where the sick, wind-harassed sun

In the whiteness of the day

Ghostly shone and stole away—

Parchèd with the utter thirst

Of unnumbered Libyan sands,

Thou, cloud-gathering spirit, burst

Out of arid Africa

To the tideless sea, and smote

On our pale, moon-coolèd lands

The hot breath of a lion's throat.

And that furnace-heated breath

Blew into my placid dreams

The heart of fire from whence it came:

Haunt of beauty and of death

Where the forest breaks in flame

Of flaunting blossom, where the flood

Of life pulses hot and stark,

Where a wing'd death breeds in mud

And tumult of tree-shadowed streams—

Black waters, desolately hurled

Through the uttermost, lost, dark,

Secret places of the world.

There, O swift and terrible

Being, wast thou born; and thence,

Like a demon loosed from hell,

Stripped with rending wings the dense

Echoing forests, till their bowed

Plumes of trees like tattered cloud

Were toss'd and torn, and cried aloud

As the wood were rack'd with pain:

Thence thou freed'st thy wings, and soon

From the moaning, stricken plain

In whorlèd eagle-soarings rose

To melt the sun-defeating snows

Of the Mountains of the Moon,

To dull their glaciers with fierce breath,

To slip the avalanches' rein,

To set the laughing torrents free

On the tented desert beneath,

Where men of thirst must wither and die

While the vultures stare in the sun's eye;

Where slowly sifting sands are strown

On broken cities, whose bleaching bones

Whiten in moonlight stone on stone

Over their pitiful dust thy blast

Passed in columns of whirling sand,

Leapt the desert and swept the strand

Of the cool and quiet sea,

Gathering mighty shapes, and proud

Phantoms of monstrous, wave-born cloud,

And northward drove this panoply

Till the sky seemed charging on the land....

Yet, in that plumèd helm, the most

Of thy hot power was cooled or lost,

So that it came to me at length,

Faint and tepid and shorn of strength,

To shiver an olive-grove that heaves

A myriad moonlight-coloured leaves,

And in the stone-pine's dome set free

A murmur of the middle sea:

A puff of warm air in the night

So spent by its impetuous flight

It scarce invades my pillar'd closes,—

To waft their fragrance from the sweet

Buds of my lemon-coloured roses

Or strew blown petals at my feet:

To kiss my cheek with a warm sigh

And in the tired darkness die.

FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG

Anacapri

THE CREATURES

By WALTER DE LA MARE

IT was the ebbing light of evening that recalled me out of my story to a consciousness of my whereabouts. I dropped my little red book to my knee and glanced out of the narrow and begrimed oblong window. We were skirting the eastern coast of cliffs, to the very edge of which a ploughman, stumbling along behind his two great horses, was driving the last of his dark furrows. In a cleft far down between the rocks a cold and idle sea was soundlessly laying its frigid garlands of foam. I stared over the flat stretch of waters, then turned my head, and looked with a kind of suddenness into the face of my one fellow-traveller.

He had entered the carriage, all but unheeded, yet not altogether unresented, at the last country station. His features were a little obscure in the fading daylight that hung between our four narrow walls, but apparently his eyes had been fixed on my face for some little time.

He narrowed his lids at this unexpected confrontation, jerked back his head, and cast a glance out of his mirky glass at the bit of greenish-bright moon that was struggling into its full brilliance above the dun, swelling uplands.

"It's a queer experience, railway-travelling," he began abruptly, in a low, almost deprecating voice, drawing his hand across his eyes. "One is cast into a passing privacy with a fellow-stranger and then is gone." It was as if he had been patiently awaiting the attention of a chosen listener.

I nodded, looking at him. "That privacy, too," he ejaculated, "all that!" My eyes turned towards the window again: bare, thorned, black January hedge, inhospitable salt coast, flat waste of northern water. Our engine-driver promptly shut off his steam, and we slid almost noiselessly out of sight of sky and sea into a cutting.

"It's a desolate country," I ventured to remark.

"Oh, yes, 'desolate'!" he echoed a little wearily. "But what always frets me is the way we have of arrogating to ourselves the offices of judge, jury, and counsel all in one. For my part, I never forget it—the futility, the presumption. It leads nowhere. We drive in—into all this silence, this—this 'forsakenness,' this dream of a world between her lights of day and night time. Consciousness!... What itching monkeys men are!" He recovered himself, swallowed his indignation with an obvious gulp. "As if," he continued in more chastened tones—"as if that other gate were not for ever ajar, into God knows what of peace and mystery." He stooped forward, lean, darkened, objurgatory. "Don't we make our world? Isn't that our blessed, our betrayed responsibility?"

I nodded, and ensconced myself, like a dog in straw, in that basest of all responses to a rare, even if eccentric, candour—caution.

"Well," he continued, a little weariedly, "that's the indictment. Small wonder if it will need a trumpet to blare us into that last 'Family Prayers.' Then perhaps a few solitaries—just a few—will creep out of their holes and fastnesses, and draw mercy from the merciful on the cities of the plain. The buried talent will shine none the worse for the long, long looming of its napery spun from dream and desire.

"Years ago—ten, fifteen, perhaps—I chanced on the queerest specimen of this order of the 'talented.' Much the same country, too. This"—he swept his glance out over a now invisible sea—"this is a kind of dwarf replica of it. More naked, smoother, more sudden and precipitous, more 'forsaken,' moody. Alone! The trees are shorn there, as if with monstrous shears, by the winter gales. The air's salt. It is a country of stones and emerald meadows, of green, meandering, aimless lanes, of farms set in their clifts and valleys like rough time-bedimmed jewels, as if by some angel of humanity, wandering between dark and daybreak.

"I was younger then—in body: the youth of the mind is for men of an age—yours, maybe, and mine. Even then, even at that, I was sickened of crowds, of that unimaginable London—swarming wilderness of mankind in which a poor lost thirsty dog from Otherwhere tastes first the full meaning of that idle word 'forsaken.' 'Forsaken by whom?' is the question I ask myself now. Visitors to my particular paradise were few then—as if, my dear sir, we were not all of us visitors, visitants, revenants, on earth, panting for time in which to tell and share our secrets, roving in search of the marks that shall prove our quest not vain, not unprecedented, not a treachery. But let that be.

"I would start off morning after morning, bread and cheese in pocket, from the bare old house I lodged in, bound for that unforeseen nowhere for which the heart, the fantasy aches. Lingering hot noondays would find me stretched in a state half-comatose, yet vigilant, on the close-flowered turf of the fields or cliffs, on the sun-baked sands and rocks, soaking in the scene and life around me like some pilgrim chameleon. It was in hope to lose my way that I would set out. How shall a man find his way unless he lose it? Now and then I succeeded. That country is large, and its land and sea marks easily cheat the stranger. I was still of an age, you see, when my 'small door' was ajar, and I planted a solid foot to keep it from shutting. But how could I know what I was after? One just shakes the tree of life, and the rare fruits come tumbling down, to rot for the most part in the lush grasses.

"What was most haunting and provocative in that far-away country was its fleeting resemblance to the country of dream. You stand, you sit, or lie prone on its bud-starred heights, and look down; the green, dispersed, treeless landscape spreads beneath you, with its hollows and mounded slopes, clustering farmstead, and scatter of village, all motionless under the vast wash of sun and blue, like the drop-scene of some enchanted playhouse centuries old. So, too, the visionary bird-haunted headlands, veiled faintly in a mist of unreality above their broken stones and the enormous saucer of the sea.

"You cannot guess there what you may not chance upon, or whom. Bells clash, boom, and quarrel hollowly on the edge of darkness in those breakers. Voices waver across the fainter winds. The birds cry in a tongue unknown yet not unfamiliar. The sky is the hawks' and the stars'. There one is on the edge of life, of the unforeseen, whereas our cities—are not our desiccated jaded minds ever continually pressing and edging further and further away from freedom, the vast unknown, the infinite presence, picking a fool's journey from sensual fact to fact at the tail of that he-ass called Reason? I suggest that in that solitude the spirit within us realises that it treads the outskirts of a region long since called the Imagination. I assert we have strayed, and in our blindness abandoned——"

My stranger paused in his frenzy, glanced out at me from his obscure corner as if he had intended to stun, astonish me with some violent heresy. We puffed out slowly, laboriously, from a "Halt" at which in the gathering dark and moonshine we had for some while been at a standstill. Never was wedding-guest more desperately at the mercy of ancient mariner.

"Well, one day," he went on, lifting his voice a little to master the resounding heart-beats of our steam-engine—"one late afternoon, in my goal-less wanderings, I had climbed to the summit of a steep grass-grown cart-track, winding up dustily between dense, untended hedges. Even then I might have missed the house to which it led, for, hair-pin fashion, the track here abruptly turned back on itself, and only a far fainter footpath led on over the hill-crest. I might, I say, have missed the house and—and its inmates, if I had not heard the musical sound of what seemed like the twangling of a harp. This thin-drawn, sweet, tuneless warbling welled over the close green grass of the height as if out of space. Truth cannot say whether it was of that air or of my own fantasy. Nor did I ever discover what instrument, whether of man or Ariel, had released a strain so pure and yet so bodiless.

"I pushed on and found myself in command of a gorse-strewn height, a stretch of country that lay a few hundred paces across the steep and sudden valley in between. In a V-shaped entry to the left, and sunwards, lay an azure and lazy tongue of the sea. And as my eye slid softly thence and upwards and along the sharp, green horizon line against the glass-clear turquoise of space, it caught the flinty glitter of a square chimney. I pushed on, and presently found myself at the gate of a farmyard.

"There was but one straw-mow upon its staddles. A few fowls were sunning themselves in their dust-baths. White and pied doves preened and cooed on the roof of an outbuilding as golden with its lichens as if the western sun had scattered its dust for centuries upon the large slate slabs. Just that life and the whispering of the wind, nothing more. Yet even at one swift glimpse I seemed to have trespassed upon a peace that had endured for ages; to have crossed the viewless border that divides time from eternity. I leaned, resting, over the gate, and could have remained there for hours, lapsing ever more profoundly into the blessed quietude that had stolen over my thoughts.

"A bent-up woman appeared at the dark entry of a stone shed opposite to me, and, shading her eyes, paused in prolonged scrutiny of the stranger. At that I entered the gate and, explaining that I had lost my way and was tired and thirsty, asked for some milk. She made no reply, but after peering up at me, with something between suspicion and apprehension on her weather-beaten old face, led me towards the house which lay to the left on the slope of the valley, hidden from me till then by plumy bushes of tamarisk.

"It was a low grave house, grey-chimneyed, its stone walls traversed by a deep shadow cast by the declining sun, its dark windows rounded and uncurtained, its door wide open to the porch. She entered the house, and I paused upon the threshold. A deep unmoving quiet lay within, like that of water in a cave renewed by the tide. Above a table hung a wreath of wild flowers. To the right was a heavy oak settle upon the flags. A beam of sunlight pierced the air of the staircase from an upper window.

"Presently a dark long-faced gaunt man appeared from within, contemplating me, as he advanced, out of eyes that seemed not so much to fix the intruder as to encircle his image, as the sea contains the distant speck of a ship on its wide blue bosom of water. They might have been the eyes of the blind; the windows of a house in dream to which the inmate must make something of a pilgrimage to look out upon actuality. Then he smiled, and the long, dark features, melancholy yet serene, took light upon them, as might a bluff of rock beneath a thin passing wash of sunshine. With a gesture he welcomed me into the large, dark-flagged kitchen, cool as a cellar, airy as a belfry, its sweet air traversed by a long oblong of light out of the west.

"The wide shelves of the painted dresser were laden with crockery. A wreath of freshly-gathered flowers hung over the chimney-piece. As we entered, a twittering cloud of small birds, robins, hedge-sparrows, chaffinches fluttered up a few inches from floor and sill and window-seat, and once more, with tiny starry-dark eyes observing me, soundlessly alighted.

"I could hear the infinitesimal tic-tac of their tiny claws upon the slate. My gaze drifted out of the window into the garden beyond, a cavern of clearer crystal and colour than that which astounded the eyes of young Aladdin. Apart from the twisted garland of wild flowers, the shining metal of range and copper candlestick, and the bright-scoured crockery, there was no adornment in the room except a rough frame, hanging from a nail in the wall, and enclosing what appeared to be a faint patterned fragment of blue silk or fine linen. The chairs and table were old and heavy. A low light warbling, an occasional skirr of wing, a haze-like drone of bee and fly—these were the only sounds that edged a quiet intensified in its profundity by the remote stirrings of the sea.

"The house was stilled as by a charm, yet thought within me asked no questions; speculation was asleep in its kennel. I sat down to the milk and bread, the honey and fruit which the old woman laid out upon the table, and her master seated himself opposite to me, now in a low sibilant whisper—a tongue which they seemed to understand—addressing himself to the birds, and now, as if with an effort, raising those strange grey-green eyes of his to bestow a quiet remark upon me. He asked, rather in courtesy than with any active interest, a few questions, referring to the world, its business and transports—our beautiful world—as an astronomer in the small hours might murmur a few words to the chance-sent guest of his solitude concerning the secrets of Uranus or Saturn. There is another, an inexplorable side to the moon. Yet he said enough for me to gather that he, too, was of that small tribe of the aloof and wild to which our cracked old word 'forsaken' might be applied, hermits, clay-matted fakirs, and such-like, the snowy birds that play and cry amid mid-oceanic surges, the living of an oasis of the wilderness, which share a reality only distantly dreamed of by the time-driven, thought-corroded congregations of man.

"Yet so narrow and hazardous I somehow realised was the brink of fellow-being (shall I call it?) which we shared, he and I, that again and again fantasy within me seemed to hover over that precipice Night knows as fear. It was he, it seemed, with that still embracive contemplation of his, with that far-away yet reassuring smile, that kept my poise, my balance. 'No,' some voice within him seemed to utter, 'you are safe; the bounds are fixed; though hallucination chaunt its decoy, you shall not irretrievably pass over. Eat and drink, and presently return to "life."' And I listened, and, like that of a drowsy child in its cradle, my consciousness sank deeper and deeper, stilled, pacified, into the dream amid which, as it seemed, this soundless house of stone now reared its walls.

"I had all but finished my meal when I heard footsteps approaching on the flags without. The murmur of other voices, distinguishably shrill yet guttural, even at a distance, and in spite of the dense stones and beams of the house which had blunted their timbre, had already reached me. Now the feet halted. I turned my head—cautiously, even perhaps apprehensively—and confronted two figures in the doorway.

"I cannot now guess the age of my entertainer. These children—for children they were in face and gesture and effect, though as to form and stature apparently in their last teens—these children were far more problematical. I say 'form and stature,' yet obviously they were dwarfish. Their heads were sunken between their shoulders, their hair thick, their eyes disconcertingly deep-set. They were ungainly, their features peculiarly irregular, as if two races from the ends of the earth had in them intermingled their blood and strangeness, as if rather animal and angel had connived in their creation.

"But if some inward light lay on the still eyes, on the gaunt, sorrowful, quixotic countenance that now was fully and intensely bent on mine, emphatically that light was theirs also. He spoke to them, they answered—in English, my own language, without a doubt: but an English slurred, broken, and unintelligible to me, yet clear as bell, haunting, penetrating, pining as voice of nix or siren. My ears drank in the sound as an Arab parched with desert sand falls on his dried belly and gulps in mouthfuls of crystal water. The birds hopped nearer, as if beneath the rod of an enchanter. A sweet continuous clamour arose from their small throats. The exquisite colours of plume and bosom burned, greened, melted in the level sun-ray, in the darker air beyond.

"A kind of mournful gaiety, a lamentable felicity, such as rings in the cadences of an old folk-song, welled into my heart. I was come back to the borders of Eden, bowed and outwearied, gazing out of dream into dream, homesick, 'forsaken.'

"Well, years have gone by," muttered my fellow-traveller deprecatingly, "but I have not forgotten that Eden's primeval trees and shade.

"They led me out, these bizarre companions, a he and a she, if I may put it as crudely as my apprehension of them put it to me then. Through a broad door they conducted me—if one who leads may be said to be conducted—into their garden. Garden! A full mile long, between undiscerned walls, it sloped and narrowed towards a sea at whose dark unfoamed blue, even at this distance, my eyes dazzled. Yet how can one call that a garden which reveals no ghost of a sign of human arrangement, of human slavery, of spade or hoe?

"Great boulders shouldered up, tessellated, embossed, powdered with a thousand various mosses and lichens, between a flowering greenery of weeds. Wind-stunted, clear-emerald, lichen-tufted trees smoothed and crisped the inflowing airs of the ocean with their leaves and spines, sibilating a thin scarce-audible music. Scanty, rank, and uncultivated fruits hung close their vivid-coloured cheeks to the gnarled branches. It was the harbourage of birds, the small embowering parlour of their house of life, under an evening sky, pure and lustrous as a water-drop. It cried 'Hospital' to the wanderers of the universe.

"As I look back in ever-thinning, nebulous remembrance, on my two companions, hear their voices gutturally sweet and shrill, catch again their being, so to speak, I realise that there was a kind of Orientalism in their effect. Their instant courtesy was not Western, the smiles that greeted me, whenever I turned my head to look back at them, were infinitely friendly, yet infinitely remote. So ungainly, so far from our notions of beauty and symmetry were their bodies and faces, those heads thrust heavily between their shoulders, their disproportioned yet graceful arms and hands, that the children in some of our English villages might be moved to stone them, while their elders looked on and laughed.

"Dusk was drawing near; soon night would come. The colours of the sunset, sucking its extremest dye from every leaf and blade and petal, touched my consciousness even then with a vague fleeting alarm.

"I remember I asked these strange and happy beings, repeating my question twice or thrice, as we neared the surfy entry of the valley upon whose sands a tiny stream emptied its fresh waters—I asked them if it was they who had planted this multitude of flowers, many of a kind utterly unknown to me and alien to a country inexhaustibly rich. 'We wait; we wait!' I think they cried. And it was as if their cry woke echo from the green-walled valleys of the mind into which I had strayed. Shall I confess that tears came into my eyes as I gazed hungrily around me on the harvest of their patience?

"Never was actuality so close to dream. It was not only an unknown country, slipped in between these placid hills, upon which I had chanced in my ramblings. I had entered for a few brief moments a strange region of consciousness. I was treading, thus accompanied, amid a world of welcoming and fearless life—oh, friendly to me!—the paths of man's imagination, the kingdom from which thought and curiosity, vexed scrutiny and lust—a lust it may be for nothing more impious than the actual—had prehistorically proved the insensate means of his banishment. 'Reality,' 'Consciousness': had he for 'the time being' unwittingly, unhappily missed his way? Would he be led back at length to that garden wherein cockatrice and basilisk bask, harmlessly, at peace?

"I speculate now. In that queer, yes, and possibly sinister, company, sinister only because it was alien to me, I did not speculate. In their garden, the familiar was become the strange—'the strange' that lurks in the inmost heart, unburdens its riches in trance, flings its light and gilding upon love, gives heavenly savour to the intemperate bowl of passion, and is the secret of our incommunicable pity. What is yet queerer, these beings were evidently glad of my company. They stumped after me (as might yellow men after some Occidental quadruped never before seen) in merry collusion of nods and wreathed smiles at this perhaps unprecedented intrusion.

"I stood for a moment looking out over the placid surface of the sea. A ship in sail hung phantom-like on the horizon. I pined to call my discovery to its seamen. The tide gushed, broke, spent itself on the bare boulders. I was suddenly cold and alone, and gladly turned back into the garden, my companions instinctively separating to let me pass between them. I breathed in the rare, almost exotic heat, the tenuous, honeyed, almond-laden air of its flowers and birds—gull, mandrake, plover, wagtail, finch, robin, which as I half-angrily, half-sadly realised fluttered up in momentary dismay only at my presence, the embodied spectre of their enemy, man. Man? Then who were these?...

"I lost again a way lost early that morning, as I trudged inland at night. The dark came, warm and starry. I was tired, dejected, exhausted beyond words. That night I slept in a barn and was awakened soon after daybreak by the crowing of cocks. I went out, dazed and blinking into the sunlight, bathed face and hands in a brook near by, and came to a village before a soul was stirring. So I sat under a thrift-cushioned, thorn-crowned wall in a meadow, and once more drowsed off and fell asleep. When again I awoke, it was ten o'clock. The church clock in its tower knelled out its strokes, and I went into an inn for food.

"A corpulent, blonde woman, kindly and hospitable, with a face comfortably resembling her own sow's, that yuffed and nosed in at the open door as I sat on my stool, served me with what I called for. I described—not without some vanishing shame, as if it were a treachery—my farm, its whereabouts.

"Her small blue eyes 'pigged' at me with a fleeting expression which I failed to translate. The name of the farm, it appeared, was Trevarras. 'And did you see any of the Creatures?' she asked me in a voice not entirely her own. 'The Creatures'! I sat back for an instant and stared at her; then realised that Creature was the name of my host, and Maria and Christus (though here her dialect may have deceived me) the names of my two gardeners. She spun an absurd story, so far as I could tack it together and make it coherent. Superstitious stuff about this man who had wandered in upon the shocked and curious inhabitants of the district and made his home at Trevarras—a stranger and pilgrim, a 'foreigner,' it seemed, of few words, dubious manners, and both uninformative.

"Then there was something (she placed her two fat hands, one of them wedding-ringed, on the zinc of the bar-counter, and peered over at me, as if I were a delectable 'wash'), then there was something about a woman 'from the sea.' In a 'blue gown,' and either dumb, inarticulate, or mistress of only a foreign tongue. She must have lived in sin, moreover, those pig's eyes seemed to yearn, since the children were 'simple,' 'naturals'—as God intends in such matters. It was useless. One's stomach may sometimes reject the cold sanative aerated water of 'the next morning,' and my ridiculous intoxication had left me dry but not yet quite sober.

"Anyhow, this she told me, that my blue woman, as fair as flax, had died and was buried in the neighbouring churchyard (the nearest to, though miles distant from, Trevarras). She repeatedly assured me, as if I might otherwise doubt so sophisticated a fact, that I should find her grave there, her 'stone.'

"So indeed I did—far away from the elect, and in a shade-ridden northwest corner of the sleepy, cropless acre: a slab, scarcely rounded, of granite, with but a name bitten out of the dark rough surface, 'Femina Creature.'"

ON BLAKE AS A PROPHET

By A. CLUTTON-BROCK

MEN have always lost their heads over prophets, and prophets have often lost their heads over themselves. The word itself expresses a common misunderstanding. The prophet is not a tipster—if he has any power of foretelling, it is only a part of his wisdom; he is a man in whom the universal man speaks, not the lower or generic or animal universal, but that higher universal to which individuals and societies sometimes attain. You may, of course, disbelieve in it altogether, in which case the prophet is to you merely one who talks nonsense; but he himself is aware of it when it speaks in him, and it makes him vehement, hasty, impatient both of his own medium of language and of all opposition or failure to understand. It is to him an absolute which forces him to utter that, true always and everywhere; but he has to express it in human language, a medium relative to human wants and human conditions. So his expression is always imperfect and cannot be understood except with the goodwill of the hearer. This goodwill he demands, not from egotism, but because he is uttering the universal, and the refusal of it exasperates him. I have piped to you and you have not danced—is always the cry of the prophet. Argument he hates and the dialectic of Dons, because his universal is not to be proved, its convincing power is in itself. It is the truth which, like beauty, is believed when seen; and, if you will not believe it, that is because you refuse to see or hear it. You are like the deaf adder that stoppeth its ears, and you are refusing to see your own truth as well as his; you are refusing to find yourself in the universal. Who are you, says Whitman, that wanted a book to encourage you in your nonsense? Your nonsense is your private opposition to the universal, the obstacle which you set up in yourself to your own wisdom and happiness; and with this the prophet has no patience. He will make no terms with it; he will not attempt a worldly lucidity or even the contrivance of the artist. It is not he who speaks but the universal that speaks in him, often beautifully but careless even of beauty, finding what human words it can; and men must not look this gift-horse in the mouth, must not criticise him, for it is not he who speaks as an individual but—my father that speaketh in me.

So many men, whether they stone the prophet or accept him, misunderstand him always; after they have stoned or ignored him, they worship him as a magician. In the past he was to them one who foretold the future; now they find an equal value in all that he says and does. Any words of his have a biblical authority, and he is the one genuine prophet, compared with whom all others are impostors. They do not know that the chief reason for believing prophets is that they all say the same thing, that this universal of theirs is a real universal, quod semper, quod ubique, quod ab omnibus. When they assert that their particular prophet has a monopoly of the truth, they are depriving him of his chief authority, turning his universal into a particular; and this they do because they will not be at the pains to seek the universal in his works. It must be recognised by its own quality, and every man must recognise it for himself; but they, flinching from the effort of recognition, seek a gospel made authentic by the name of its author; the prophet has said it and it must be true.

Unfortunately the prophet himself often shares this infirmity and believes that he is always a prophet; he becomes a disciple of himself, and sets himself above criticism, not from mere egotism and conceit so much as because he too flinches from the task of discerning his own universal. The prophetic vehemence becomes a habit with him; and he despises the artist's patience and contrivance; he may even believe that he is a prophet because he himself does not clearly understand what he says; he may mistake the automatism, which lies in wait for everyone who constantly practises any art, for the universal speaking in him and imperiously snatching at language to express itself.

Now Blake was artist as well as prophet, a great artist in two arts; but everything conspired to make him confuse the functions of artist and prophet, which indeed are easily confused. A man is helped to understand himself by the understanding of others; and Blake had no one to understand him, as artist or as prophet. His masters were in the past; his own achievements belonged to the future; he lacked that contemporary education which is best worth having. There was no one even for him to talk to, but only a few listeners who were not sure that he was sane. As artist, he was a prophet in the literal sense; he did what men were going to do as well as what they had done long ago. Naturally he believed that, as artist, he was always right, while Reynolds and the other popular ones of his own time were always wrong. He had a blood-feud with them, and was in love with his own work; he believed that the universal, which sometimes possessed him, possessed him always, because his writing and his drawing were unlike those of other men of his time. So he made a myth about himself to express his lack of criticism, namely, that his works were dictated to him by an angel, they were not his, and it was not his business to improve or judge them.

In his own time he was neglected; but now he is subject to the other kind of misunderstanding. He has disciples who are as uncritical of his works as he was, for whom he is always prophet, never artist, or rather an infallible artist because a prophet. They tell us that, if we enjoy his poems as poems or his pictures as pictures, we have not found the key to them. With the key of his symbolism we can enter a sanctuary beyond beauty in which the secrets of the universe are revealed. But they cannot tell us what these secrets are any more than Blake could; and I would rather believe that he told us all he could by the methods proper to a writer, and that the faults of the artist are not the virtues of the prophet; that where in verse that begins beautifully he becomes incoherent, uses catchwords not to be understood except by reference to other writings and often not then, he is himself confusing the artist with the prophet and making the mistake of his disciples.

If you are in danger of believing in the magic of Blake, of treating him as our pious grandparents treated the Hebrew prophets, you may recover your senses by considering his other art; for in that the difference between his artistic failures and successes is plain. I myself believe that Blake was the greatest master of design among all modern artists, that for the shaping imagination you must go back to Tintoret to find his equal. But, whereas in poetry he freed himself easily from all influences foreign to his own character and genius, in his other art he was free only intermittently and blindly. There are two kinds of drawing which I will call rhythmical and constructional, although, of course, there is rhythm in all good constructional drawing and some construction in all good rhythmical drawing. But the difference is one of kind, it is the difference between Cimabue and Michelangelo. Cimabue expresses himself mainly in rhythm to which the descriptive shapes of things are subordinate—it is enough if you can recognise them. Michelangelo's line itself constructs, it tells us how things are made and insists upon their functions. It is the line natural to an age eager for consecutive thought; it is, as it were, an arguing line. Now, Blake was by nature, by conviction, by habit, a rhythmical draughtsman, and all his best work is rhythmical rather than constructive; he is not arguing with us, he is telling us, in line as in words. It is enough for him if we can recognise his shapes for what they are; he expresses his real content in the sway of lines, as if it were a dance or a gesture, and he is most at his ease when his shapes are like flames blown in the wind, almost transformed by his own emotion. And yet he was not often at his ease in drawing, for all his life he was, like Fuseli, haunted by the ghost of Michelangelo, whose actual works he had never seen. Even he was subdued by the prestige of a master whose method was poison to his genius. In poetry he could be inspired by the past art of his own country, and in his earliest poems alone does he speak for a few words, in the language of his time. "And Phœbus fired my vocal rage"; but his drawings are infested by formulæ taken second-hand from Michelangelo. It is only now and then, in the decorations to books which he printed himself, in the magnificent woodcuts for Thornton's Pastorals, in some of the Dante illustrations, that he quite frees himself from a pretence of constructional drawing. If you would excel in that, you must study the particular fact passionately, you must get your construction from the fact, not from your own mind; but Blake, like so many imitators of Michelangelo, did not study the fact; he gives us a pretence of constructional drawing in formulæ often struggling to be rhythmical and failing because they are formulæ of construction. There he is like St. Paul, who sometimes spoils matter that should be prophetic with a pretence of Greek dialectic, who makes a bad argument for the Resurrection out of an image. Even in his most famous design, the Morning Stars of the Book of Job, the rhythm of the wings and garments is cramped by the drawing, anatomical without freshness, of the bodies. Compare this with the last drawing but one of the series, where rhythm is master of all, and you will see how Blake, even in his great maturity, only practised his true method by accident, and when there was no association to mislead him; the nude was a snare to him, and seldom could he find a method of his own for it. Often he was merely an inferior Fuseli; and bits of Fuseli obtrude even in his finer works. Nothing could be more tiresome than the drawing of some of his faces, and no one could for a moment suppose that there was any prophetic infallibility in these failures; they are as dull as late Roman sculpture or the efforts of Reynolds in the grand style.

But, if Blake is not infallible as a draughtsman, he is not infallible at all; for he himself would sometimes claim infallibility in all his works; by the common infirmity of prophets, when they cease to be prophetic, he assumed a status different from that of the artist, and so was induced to set down whatever came into his mind, as if an angel were dictating to him or he had command of the pencil of the Holy Ghost. But the artist and the prophet are both what they are by effort not by status; if they rely on status they become bores or charlatans; and that is true of all human beings, of Blake no less than of Habakkuk. If ever he seems to have written nonsense, then we must take it to be nonsense until we find sense in it; we must pay no heed if we are told that the seeming nonsense is symbolism.

Even in his finest poems we must not assume a clearer purpose than we find. Take, for instance, the third verse of the Tiger:

And what shoulder, and what art,

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

And when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand? and what dread feet?

We may persuade ourselves that there is some peculiar virtue in the two broken questions of the last line; but the original draft of the poem[9] proves that Blake did not at first mean them to be broken questions at all. They were continued in the next stanza:

[9] The original draft is given in the excellent Oxford edition of Blake's Poetical Works, published by Mr. Milford, and edited by Mr. John Sampson, at the price, in 1913, of 1s. 6d. net. In spite of the price, it is the most complete edition of the poems, and contains all the shorter Prophetic Books, including the French Revolution, with extracts from the longer ones.

Could fetch it from the furnace deep

And in thy horrid ribs dare steep

In the well of sanguine woe, etc.

Blake seeing, what was obvious, that this did not promise well and was leading nowhere, gave it up and changed the punctuation of the preceding stanza which had run simply—"What dread hand and what dread feet"—to its present form, so as to finish off the stanza to the eye, if not to the mind.

It is a masterful way out of a difficulty, but it takes the risk that we shall ask what the dread hand and feet are there to do? The original draft tells us—to fetch the tiger's heart from the furnace deep; but in the poem as we know it we may guess for ourselves, and there is no answer. This is not the dark sublimity of the prophet, but the wilfulness of the poet, who, having hit upon a fine sounding line, prefers it to sense. (There is also another reading which may come from Blake himself—"What dread hand forged thy dread feet?" It is not "prophetic," but it does make sense.)

It does not matter much, for the rhythm of the poem carries one through obscurities of detail; but the broken questions are not an added beauty or sublimity, they are merely Blake's way out of a difficulty that may beset any poet.

So I come, gradually and cautiously, to the Prophetic Books themselves, and to my contention that they too are to be judged, like the works of the Hebrew Prophets, as literature, since they were written for men to read. We must make a reasonable allowance for all mystics; they try to say what is very hard to say, what they have seen as in a glass darkly. If you think them worth reading at all, you believe that they are concerned with a reality men do not perceive naturally and immediately with the senses, a reality that we are aware of, if at all, only by hints and whispers. There are no commonly accepted sense-data for this reality, upon which we can reason as we can reason about the movements of the stars. Men are most fully aware of it when they are in an exalted state of mind—a state which expresses itself in images rather than in syllogisms. You may say, of course, that this state of mind is "purely subjective" and therefore only of artistic value; but the mystic himself denies that. He believes that he is aware of a reality not himself, though himself is a part of it; and aware of it, not by the normal use of the senses, but by a more immediate perception of the spirit. He knows it, perhaps, through sense perceptions, but by means of a faculty beyond them; he knows it with the whole of himself, that self which is not often enough of a unity to attain to this kind of knowledge. This you too must believe, or at least not refuse to believe, if you are to take him seriously; but the mystic, even if he does speak to us of an independent reality, speaks with a personal expression of his own, like the artist. Lâo-tsze has put it better than anyone: "It is the way of Heaven not to speak, but it knows how to obtain an answer." When he says Heaven he implies an independent reality; but men make other men aware of it by the answer they give to it, and this answer is personal to them.

So a man must convince us of his experience of this Heaven, this reality not perceived by the senses, by his own expression of it, his own answer. He must say what moves us by the ordinary means of expression; he must not pretend that he has a secret to tell us which we can understand only if he will play his game with his counters, his symbols, and allegories. If he has seen heaven, then it knows how to obtain an answer from him, exoteric in its power if esoteric in its meaning, and leading men into its meaning by its power. The power is in the answer, if the meaning is in the heaven he has seen, and that heaven is to be known by its fruits.

You must, of course, read a mystic with attention; but you should be able to gather his meaning as you read; it is to be found in each sentence and in the whole of each work, not by reference to some other work; for it is the mark of a bad writer not to be able to say what he has to say in the sentence he is writing, to give us always jam yesterday, or jam to-morrow, but never jam to-day. Yet that is what the Blake-fanatics offer us in the Prophetic Books. You cannot understand this unless you know that the key to it is in that. You must grasp Blake's "system" if you are to profit by him. They are like the Gnostics for whom nothing in the Gospels meant what it seemed to mean; they alone could give you the key to Christ's inner meaning.

Master Eckhart says that the eternal birth which God the father bore and bears unceasingly in eternity is now born in time and in human nature. "St. Augustine says this birth is always happening. But, if it happen not in me, what does it profit me? What matters is that it shall happen in me." So what matters for the mystic, and his readers, is that the eternal truth shall happen and be expressed in him, in his actual words. We must not be told that we can find it by turning from one work to another and by piecing them all together. He must utter it sentence by sentence, and it must happen in his sentences, with pain and labour perhaps, but still here and now and in these very words.

In Blake's Prophetic Books sometimes it happens and sometimes it does not, and often Blake by his very method seems to prevent it from happening. He has the weakness of many mystics, the desire for a vast geometrical system equivalent to the reality he believes himself to be aware of. Such a system, if once a man will abandon his mind to it, can unroll itself almost automatically, like a fugue. But many fugues are empty of content; they persuade the composer that he is saying something with the mechanical inevitability of their form; and they may also persuade the hearer. It is the very mechanism that prevents him from saying anything and the hearer from seeing its emptiness. We do not yet understand that automatism of the mind which can produce form without content so easily; the automatism of improvisation in many arts, which you find in some cubist pictures, in much music, and in Prophetic Books of all ages, especially in the Bible. Blake himself speaks of it, with seeming inconsistency, in his preface to Jerusalem: "When this verse was first dictated to me, I considered a monotonous cadence like that used by Milton and Shakespeare, and all writers of English Blank Verse, derived from the modern bondage of Riming, to be a necessary and indispensable part of verse. But I soon found that in the mouth of a true Orator such monotony was not only awkward but as much a bondage as rime itself. I therefore have produced a variety in every line, both of cadences and number of syllables. Every word and every letter is studied and put into its fit place." You may ask how there could be this choice and study where the verse was dictated; but Blake means, no doubt, to describe a process of writing half-conscious and half-unconscious, as a composer might choose to write a fugue and then let it write itself. We may use Sheridan's words of this method: "Easy writing makes damned hard reading"; and Jerusalem is not easy to read.

Yet it contains great passages and ideas, of which Messrs. Maclagan and Russell give a very clear account in their edition of it. Like all the great mystics, Blake was a foreteller of the discoveries of modern psychology; he knew the evils of "suppression"—Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires—and his story, in so far as there is one, is the story of the human mind in its effort to reach unity, not by suppression but by "sublimation." Yet it seems to me that his ideas often lost their way in the myth which he made about them; it is like allegorical painting in which there is a conflict between the allegory and the people and things represented, and a sacrifice of one conflicting element to the other. In Blake's story you have to remember that the characters are not men and women but different parts or faculties of the human mind; this requires a kind of double attention fatal in itself to the experience of a work of art, a double attention like that sometimes demanded by symphonic poems, in which you have to remember the story while you are listening to the music. If you are writing about the faculties of the human mind it must be best, both for yourself and for your readers, to call them by their names and to see them as themselves; so will you think most clearly and so will the reader understand most easily.

The subject-matter of Jerusalem is really philosophy and psychology, and it is better expressed in the prose sentences of the Marriage of Heaven and Hell than in myth. This should be read first by those who wish to understand Blake's ideas. Like Nietzsche, he went "beyond good and evil." Good according to the religious, he says, is the passive that obeys reason; evil is the active that springs from energy; but for Blake himself the conflict between this active and passive is the real evil; it is what makes men prefer dreams to reality. By the Marriage of Heaven and Hell he means the reconciliation of reason and energy and the destruction of the delusive, dreamer's, sense of a sin which yet allures. He who desires but acts not breeds pestilence. If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise. The pride of the Peacock is the glory of God. Exuberance is beauty. Energy is eternal delight. "Those who restrain Desire," he says, "do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained; and the restrainer or Reason usurps its place and governs the unwilling." To Blake Christ means the harmonious man in whom desire is master, and uses reason as an instrument. From this follows his belief, which is the belief underlying all religion, that true, supreme and harmonious desire is for reality, and that from it alone can reality be discovered. "Everything possible to be believed is an image of the truth." But, of course, belief to Blake means real belief, belief of the whole self, belief that is acted upon, not the acceptance of anything on authority. "I asked—Does a firm persuasion that a thing is so, make it so? He replied—All poets believe that it does, and in ages of imagination this firm persuasion removed mountains; but many are not capable of a firm persuasion of anything." Firm persuasion is that unity of the self which, for Blake as for all mystics, is salvation.

Blake is united to Christianity by his mystical doctrine of forgiveness; that is what makes him one of the great designers or creators of Christianity, those who know what Christ himself meant, in whom his passion is born anew, and to whom his theology is natural truth. This doctrine expresses itself in Blake's poetry without symbol; we need no key to understand it, and, whenever it possesses him, it lifts him to its own height and clearness. The evil of unforgivingness, to him, is in the remembrance of sin which keeps the sin itself alive:

To record the sin for a reproach, to let the Sun go down

In a remembrance of the sin, is a woe and a horror,

A brooder of an evil day, and a Sun rising in blood.

Come then, O Lamb of God, and take away the remembrance of sin.

That is so, whether a man remembers the sin of others or his own; and he who remembers the sin of others will remember his own. The sense of sin comes of the conflict between reason and desire; what we have to do is to end that conflict and attain to supreme desire and firm persuasion; thinking of the conflict only perpetuates it. The religion of Jesus was for Blake freedom from the past, and we attain to it by forgetting the sins of others; then we can forgive, and forget, our own past selves. Hence his doctrine that Jesus, the child of desire, was born in the forgiveness of sin; and the most beautiful passage in Jerusalem is the forgiveness of Mary by Joseph and her song that follows, "O Forgiveness and Pity and Compassion! If I were pure I should never have known Thee: If I were unpolluted I should never have glorified thy Holiness, or rejoiced in thy great Salvation." There is the same doctrine in the last section of the Everlasting Gospel, and it runs all through the Songs of Innocence and Experience. God Himself for Blake, as for Christ, is, by the very logic of the idea God, He who pities and forgives, He who blots out the past; the divine energy pours itself out in pity and forgiveness, making life and growth and beauty out of sin itself, justifying even evil, since, by the forgiving and forgetting of it, it is changed into a good more subtle, more entrancing, more assured of an infinite increase than any pure good that needs no change or forgiveness.

In his expressions of this doctrine Blake rises above all our poets by reason of the richness of his mastered content. He is simpler and deeper, more passionate and more philosophic, and attains in art to that harmony which he foretells in life. When I think of it, I am in danger myself of seeing in him the one prophet, the one poet, the infallible. I am sure, at least, that he will seem greater through all the new discoveries and enlarged experience of posterity.

SHELLEY AND HIS PUBLISHERS

(With Some New Letters)

By ROGER INGPEN

SHELLEY'S transactions with his publishers were numerous; the books of no great English poet, and certainly none whose literary career at the most extended for not more than thirteen years, can have borne the names of so many separate firms. Until he placed his poems in the hands of the Olliers, almost every book was issued by a new publisher. Every one of his works was a failure, and only one went into a second edition; his wide fame as a poet was entirely posthumous. Although none of Shelley's publishers was sufficiently interested to repeat the experience of issuing a second book by him, he was not discouraged by this want of sympathy. He continued until the end to write and to print his works at his own expense, and, if possible, to find publishers for them. In the absence of a publisher he issued them himself. He began and ended by verse-writing, but in the interval his work was varied enough, comprising novels, drama, philosophy, satire, religious polemics, and politics. In recalling some facts connected with Shelley's literary enterprises a curious repetition of names and incidents will be noticeable. There were two separate publishers of the name of Stockdale with whom he treated, one in Pall Mall and the other in Dublin. There was an Eton and an Eaton, the former a printer in Dublin, and the latter the publisher of the Third Part of Paine's Age of Reason, on behalf of whom Shelley wrote his Letter to Lord Ellenborough. Stockdale, of Pall Mall, and Munday, of Oxford, both listened with astonishment to his unrestrained conversation on matters of religion, and endeavoured to lead him into an orthodox frame of mind. His boyish appearance and engaging enthusiasm undoubtedly made a strong appeal to them. There was a prolonged similarity in the fate of some of his early productions. Practically the whole edition of the Victor and Cazire volume was destroyed at the author's request, and The Necessity of Atheism and the Letter to Lord Ellenborough shared a like fate, though without Shelley's consent.

In the year 1809 Shelley and his cousin, Tom Medwin, wrote a poem in the style of Scott's narrative verse on The Wandering Jew. It was sent to Scott's publisher, Ballantyne, of Edinburgh, who replied that it was "better suited to the character and liberal feelings of the English than the bigoted spirit" which the writer declared "yet pervades many cultivated minds in this country. Even Walter Scott is assailed on all hands at present by our Scotch spiritual and evangelical magazines and institutions for having promulgated atheistical doctrines with The Lady of the Lake." This astonishing statement was evidently an excuse for declining The Wandering Jew, which found no publisher during Shelley's lifetime. He was, however, at that date busily occupied with his novel Zastrozzi, which he offered to Longmans. He may have been drawn to that firm as the publishers of a romance, which he is said to have admired and indeed to have imitated in Zastrozzi, entitled Zofloya, or the Moor, by Mrs. Byron, or Charlotte Dacre, better known by her pseudonym, Rosa Malilda. Although rejected by Longmans, Zastrozzi was published while Shelley was still at Eton by another Paternoster Row firm, Wilkie and Robinson. We are told that the young author received £40 or £50 for the book, apparently the only money he ever earned by his pen, which sum he spent in providing a farewell banquet to twelve of his schoolfellows.

There is a tradition that Shelley's grandfather, Sir Bysshe, paid for the printing at Horsham of some of the boy's earliest writings, but apparently none of these efforts has survived. Local printing offices seem to have had an attraction for Shelley; we shall see later that he printed books at Dublin, Barnstaple, Oxford, Leghorn, and Pisa.

Shelley's selection of Worthing, rather than Horsham, for his next venture may have been determined by his desire for secrecy. He made a selection of seventeen poems by himself and his sister Elizabeth with the title of Original Poetry by Victor and Cazire, and put it into the hands of C. and W. Phillips, of Worthing. A daughter of the printer, "an intelligent, brisk young woman," was the active member of the firm, with whom Shelley was on very good terms. Shelley took great interest in the technical side of the business, and spent hours in the printing office learning typesetting. Some months later when at Oxford he had occasion to find a printer for his pamphlet, The Necessity of Atheism, he again resorted to Messrs. Phillips, who both printed and added their names to the tract. When Shelley got into trouble in connection with The Necessity, his father's solicitors drafted a letter warning the printers of an impending prosecution, and recommending them not to proceed with the printing of any manuscripts that they might have by Shelley. Apparently the letter was never sent, and no prosecution was instituted against the printers, as Munday, the Oxford bookseller, who had been an unwilling agent in selling the pamphlet, sent a similar warning to them.

Before the printing of the Original Poetry of Victor and Cazire was completed, Shelley called on J. J. Stockdale, a publisher in Pall Mall, and persuaded him to publish the volume. Stockdale was a man with a doubtful past, who had issued a good deal of verse on commission for obscure verse-writers, besides the scandalous Memoirs of Harriette Wilson. In later years he described, in Stockdale's Budget, a curious publication which is to be seen in the British Museum, how he received 1480 copies of the Original Poetry, and how he discovered, after some of them had been sent out to the press, that the volume contained a poem by M. G. Lewis. On inviting Shelley to explain this circumstance, the poet "expressed the warmest resentment at the imposition practised upon him by the coadjutor," and instructed Stockdale to destroy all the remaining copies; only three or four are now known to have survived. In the meantime Stockdale had undertaken to revive and publish Shelley's second novel, St. Irvyne: or, the Rosicrucian. The author's expectation to get at least £60 for this romance from Robinson, the publisher of Zastrozzi, was not realised, as the terms arranged with Stockdale were that the book should be published at the author's expense. The publisher mournfully recorded the fact some years later that the romance did not sell, and that he was never paid for the printer's bill. While St. Irvyne was going through the press Shelley used to call at Stockdale's shop. The publisher became alarmed at the tone of Shelley's conversation, and, in the hope that his intentions would be well received, he communicated his suspicions to Shelley's father. Mr. Timothy Shelley, however, only snubbed Stockdale for his pains. Shelley was furious at the interference, and all hopes of obtaining a settlement of his bill vanished.

When Mr. Timothy Shelley took his son up to Oxford in October, 1810, he called with him at the shop of Munday & Slatter, the booksellers, where he advised him to get his supplies of books and stationery. Then, turning to the bookseller, he said, "My son here has a literary turn, he is already an author, and do pray indulge him in his printing freaks." A month later Shelley took some of his verses to Munday, who agreed to publish them. His friend Hogg saw the proofs and, ridiculing their intended sincerity, suggested that with some corrections they would make burlesque poetry. Shelley somewhat reluctantly agreed, and the verses were altered to fit the title of The Posthumous Verses of Margaret Nicholson, edited by her nephew, John Fitzvictor. The lady in question was a mad washerwoman, who had attempted the life of George III. in 1786, and was in 1810 still an inmate of Bedlam, though nominally dead as far as the world was concerned.

The fictitious nephew Fitzvictor was apparently a son of the Victor who had but recently collaborated with the peccant Cazire. When Shelley informed the bookseller that he had changed his mind about publishing, and showed him the altered verses, Munday was so pleased with the idea that he offered to publish the book on his own account, promising secrecy and as many gratis copies as might be required. The book was issued as a bold quarto, and it became the fashion, says Hogg, among gownsmen to be seen reading it in the High Street, "as a mark of nice discernment of a delicate and fastidious taste in poetry and the very criterion of a choice spirit." Shelley was frequently in Munday & Slatter's shop, where he was in the habit of talking on his favourite subjects. The booksellers, like Stockdale, became uneasy at the tone of his conversation and endeavoured to reason with him. Failing to make any impression, they persuaded him to meet a Mr. Hobbes, for whom they afterwards published a poetical work called The Widower. Mr. Hobbes undertook "to analyse Shelley's arguments, and endeavoured to refute them philosophically." But Shelley was not convinced; he declined to reply in writing to Mr. Hobbes' arguments, and declared that he would rather meet any or all of the dignitaries of the Church than one philosopher. If Mr. Hobbes' arguments were no better than his verses, Shelley was fully justified in his objections. Mr. Slatter, who has left a record of these facts, tells us that when some months later Shelley strewed the windows and counters of Munday's shop with copies of The Necessity of Atheism, which he had caused to be printed by his Worthing friends the Phillips, he instructed their shopman to sell the pamphlet as fast as he could at a charge of sixpence each. The result was magical. Mr. Walker, Fellow of New College, dropped into the shop and examined the tract and drew the booksellers' attention to its dangerous tendency. They resolved to destroy the copies, and promptly made a bonfire of them in the back kitchen. Shelley's expulsion from the University followed in due course.

Shelley's activities in Dublin, in February and March, 1812, made it necessary for him to employ a printer, or printers, for his two pamphlets, An Address to the Irish People and Proposals for an Association of Philanthropists, but neither of these tracts bore the name of a publisher, and there are no details forthcoming of the circumstances connected with their production. Shelley, however, placed a collection of his poems in the hands of a firm of Dublin printers, Messrs. R. and J. Stockdale, but they refused to proceed with the book until they were paid, and it was never issued. The manuscript was recovered after Shelley left Dublin, and remained unprinted for seventy years, until Professor Dowden included some selections from it in his Life of Shelley.

I can find no record of when or how Shelley first met Thomas Hookham, but his earliest published letter to him, July 29th, 1812, was evidently preceded by others that have not been preserved. Hookham's Library was an old-established business in Old Bond Street, and about the year 1811 Thomas Hookham the younger and his brother Edward started publishing on their own account at their father's address. They issued the second edition of Peacock's The Genius of the Thames and The Philosophy of Melancholy, and Hogg's novel, Memories of Prince Alexy Haimatoff, of which Shelley subsequently wrote a review. Shelley sent Thomas Hookham copies of his Letter to Lord Ellenborough, which he had printed at Barnstaple, but the tract shared the same fate as The Necessity of Atheism, and was destroyed by the printer as a dangerous publication. One copy was preserved by Hookham, the only one now known to exist; it is in the Bodleian Library. In March, 1813, when Shelley was in Dublin for the second time, he sent Hookham the manuscript of Queen Mab, and added that he was preparing the notes to be printed with the poem, which was to be long, philosophical, and anti-Christian. "Do not," he said, "let the title-page be printed before the body of the poems. I have a motto to introduce from Shakespeare and a preface. I shall expect no success. Let only 250 copies be printed in a small neat quarto, on fine paper, and so as to catch the aristocrats. They will not read it, but their sons and daughters may." Nothing further seems to be known about the printing of the poem. It was issued as a small octavo, with a title-page bearing the name of Shelley as author as well as printer, and the address of his father-in-law, 23 Chapel Street, Grosvenor Square. The late Mr. Edward Hookham, Thomas Hookham's nephew, stated that Queen Mab was the cause of Shelley's quarrel with Hookham. A coolness was certainly evident between the poet and the publisher after Shelley came to London in 1813. Queen Mab may have been placed in the printer's hands before Hookham saw the notes, and when he saw them he probably declined to go on with the book or allow it to bear his name. But Shelley's connection with Hookham, which previous to this rupture had been friendly, was not entirely severed, for Hookham's imprint, with Ollier's, appears on The History of a Six Week's Tour, 1817. Thomas Hookham was a cultivated and well-read man and the author of an anonymous little record of foreign travel which he undertook during the same year as Shelley's visit to the Continent, and published as A Walk through Switzerland in September, 1816. He is said to have written the Shelley Memorials, which is described on the title-page as by Lady Shelley, the wife of Shelley's son. Thomas Hookham's brother, Edward, was the friend and correspondent of Thomas Love Peacock, whose letters to him have been lately printed.

The Vindication of Natural Diet, Shelley's vegetarian tract, was reprinted in 1813 from one of the notes to Queen Mab. As the text of the pamphlet differs in some respects from that as given with the poem, it is evident that Shelley was responsible for the reprint, which was issued by J. Calow, a medical bookseller in Soho. Nothing, however, is known of the circumstances connected with the publication of this tract, and there are no references to it in Shelley's published correspondence.

John Murray was not one of Shelley's publishers, but he had some correspondence in 1816 with the Great Cham of Albemarle Street. In his first letter he described himself as "a total stranger" and offered Murray the publication of Alastor, of which he had printed 250 copies at his own expense. The offer was declined, and the book was subsequently published by two firms, Baldwin, Craddock & Joy, of Paternoster Row, and Carpenter & Son, of Old Bond Street. In the summer of that year Shelley was in Switzerland with Byron, who requested him to correct and see through the press the third canto of Childe Harold and The Prisoner of Chillon. Shelley brought the MS. of the Childe with him to England, and when he saw Murray he reminded him that he wished to see the proofs. From a later letter it appears that Murray announced the poems without sending the proofs to Shelley, who at once wrote urging him to carry out Byron's request.

The names of the Olliers, Shelley's last publishers, first appear on the title-page of his Hermit of Marlow pamphlet, A Proposal for Putting Reform to the Vote throughout the Kingdom, 1817. This tract must have been one of the first publications of Charles and James Ollier to bear their imprint, for they commenced business at 3 Welbeck Street, Cavendish Square, in the year 1817. The Ollier family was of French descent, but they had been settled in the West of England for many years. Charles Ollier, Shelley's correspondent in his negotiations with the firm, was born at Bath in 1788, came up to London and entered a banking house. At an early age he showed a liking for literature, and developed a taste for collecting and reading old books. He subsequently became an author and the friend of authors, among whom was Leigh Hunt, who probably introduced him to Shelley. Ollier and Hunt were both devoted to the theatre and to music. Hunt addressed his verses, "A Thought on Music: suggested by a Private Concert, May 13th, 1815," to Ollier, who published some volumes of Hunt's poetry. One of the earliest of the Olliers' publications was Keats's first volume of Poems, 1817. The book, unhappily, was not well received, and Keats, who attributed its want of success to the neglect of his publishers, took his next volume, Endymion, to another firm. The Olliers published besides Lamb's works in two volumes, 1818, and Ollier's own stories, Altham and His Wife and Inesilla, all of which are mentioned in the letters printed below. Shelley followed up his pamphlet with a more ambitious venture, namely, Laon and Cythna, which he printed at his own expense, and arranged for it to be published jointly by Sherwood, Neeby, & Jones, and the Olliers. Before the book was published, but after some copies had been sent out, Ollier discovered in the poem certain passages which he regarded as too frank for circulation, at least by his hands. Shelley agreed, though not without some vigorous protests, to tone down the offending expressions, and the book was issued, with the names of the Olliers alone, as The Revolt of Islam. The correspondence relating to this and other matters has been published, but the following letters to Ollier have not, so far as I am aware, been printed, except portions of the first and last. Ollier apparently kept all the letters that he received from Shelley, but when Mrs. Shelley asked for the use of them, he declined on the score that they were valuable to him and he had been offered no money.

To conclude these remarks on Ollier, it may be mentioned that he also published for Shelley The Cenci, second edition (1821), Rosalind and Helen (1819), Prometheus Unbound (1820), Epipsychidion (1821), and Hellas (1822). He also issued a publication called Olliers' Literary Miscellany (1820), to which Peacock contributed an essay on Poetry. This essay prompted Shelley to write as a reply his eloquent Defence of Poetry, which was intended for a later issue, but the first was the only number issued. The Olliers abandoned publishing in 1822, the year of Shelley's death. Their want of success was attributed to a lack of business capacity on the part of the partners and insufficient capital.

To CHARLES OLLIER.

[Great Marlow],

March 14, 1817.

DEAR SIR,—Be so kind as to let the Books I ordered (so far as you have completed them) to be sent together with my prints immediately—by the Marlow Coach.

Mr. Hunt has, I believe, commissioned you to get me a proof impression of a print done from a drawing by Harlowe of Lord Byron: I said that it should be framed in oak, but I have changed my mind and wish it to be finished in black.

How does the pamphlet sell?

Dear sir, yours very truly,

P. B. SHELLEY.

Send in addition Mawe's Gardening Calendar.

Marlow,

April 23, 1817.

Mr. Shelley requests Messrs. Ollier will have the goodness to send the books and the little pictures as soon as they can.

In great haste,

Bagni di Lucca,

June 28, 1818.

DEAR SIR,—I write simply to request you to pay ten pounds on my account to a person who will call on you, and on no account to mention my name. If you have no money of mine still pay it at all events and cash the enclosed at the bank.

Ever most truly yours,

P. B. SHELLEY.

The person will bring a note without date signed A. B.

It is of so great consequence that this note should be paid that I hope if there is any mistake with Brookes you will pay it for me, and if you have none of mine in your hands, that you will rely on my sending it you by return of Post.

[Postmark] F. P. O., Se[p.] 1, 1818.

DEAR SIR,—Oblige me by honouring a draft of £20 that will be presented to you signed A. B. If there should be any mistake with the bankers it shall be rectified by return of Post, but I earnestly intreat you to pay the draft.

Of course these letters are put to my account.

Sir, yours very truly,

PERCY B. SHELLEY.

I had just sealed my other letter when I discovered the necessity of writing again.

Probably August 20 to 24, 1819.

DEAR SIR,—Yesterday evening came your parcel, which seems to have been above a year on its voyage. Be good enough to write soon, instantly, about my books, etc., and how the eclogue[10] sells, and whether you wish to continue to publish for me. I have no inclination to change unless you wish it, as your neglect might give me reason to suppose. I have only had time to look at Lamb's works, but Altham and Endymion are both before me.

[10] Rosalind and Helen.

I have two works of some length, one of a very popular character, ready for the press.

Be good enough to pay for me seven pounds to Mr. Hunt.

With best wishes for your literary and all other success.

I am, yours truly,

P. B. SHELLEY.

Pray send a copy of my Poem or anything which I may hereafter publish to Mr. Keats with my best regards.[11]

[11] Shelley had cancelled here "If I should say when I have read it that I admire Endymion he probably."

Accept my thanks for Altham and His Wife: I have no doubt that the pleasure in store for me this evening will make me desire the company of their cousin Inesilla.

Postmark May 30, 1820.

Pray tell me—are there any differences between you and Mr. Hunt, and if so, do they regard the advance either made or proposed to be made to him on my quitting England?

You know I pledged myself to you to see all right [on] that subject, and if any dispute should have arisen without giving me an opportunity of arranging it, I have reason to think myself slighted—I imagine you cannot mistake the motives which suggest this question. Mrs. Shelley is now transcribing for me the little poems to be printed at the end of Prometheus; they will be sent in a post or two.

Pisa,

April 30, 1820.

DEAR SIR,—I observe that an edition of The Cenci is advertised as published in Paris by Galignani.[12] This, though a piracy both upon the author and the publisher, is a proof of an expectation of a certain demand for sale that probably will soon exhaust the small edition I sent you. In your reprint you will be guided of course by the apparent demand. I send a list of errata; the incorrectness of the forms of typography, etc., which are considerably numerous, you will be so obliging as to attend to yourself. I cannot describe the trouble I had with the Italian printer.

[12] This edition was never published.

I request you to give me an immediate answer to the questions of my last letters. Reynell the printer has sent in his account for the Six Weeks' Tour, which of course I counted upon to pay from the profits—and I therefore suspend my answer until I receive yours and Hookham's accounts. I do not particularly care about an account item by item. I only wish to possess a general idea of our mutual situations in regard to profit and loss—and this will be afforded by your reply to my late letters, which I reiterate my request that you will be good enough to attend to.

Mr. and Mrs. Gisborne, my particular friends, are now on the point of leaving Italy; they will call on you; and any politeness in your power to them I shall regard as a particular favour to myself. Be kind enough to present them with copies of whatever I have published. They only propose to stay in England a few weeks.

I beg you to send me all the abuse.

Dear Sir,

Your obliged faithful Servt.,

PERCY B. SHELLEY.

Address Pisa.

I have just heard from Mr. Hunt, who tells me that you propose publishing Peter Bell. This I have no objection to provided my name is entirely suppressed, not that I am not ready to answer to anything that it contains, but that I think it a trifle unworthy of me seriously to acknowledge.

Naples,

February 29, 1818.

Postmark F.P.O., Mr. 20, 1819.

DEAR SIR,—Pray let me hear from you addressed to Rome on the several subjects of my last letter, and especially to inform me of the name of the ship and the mode of address by which my box was sent. As yet I have no tidings of it.

Your obliged servant,

PERCY B. SHELLEY.

N.B.—If you do not write within three months after the receipt of this address as before, Mr. Gisborne, Livorno.

Pisa,

June 16, 1821.

DEAR SIR,—I am requested to propose to you, for publication, a work, of which the accompanying sheets are a specimen, on the terms stated in the enclosed paper; that is that you should defray the expenses of printing, etc., and divide the profits with the author.[13] Should you object to this arrangement, be kind enough to tell me on what terms, short of the author's entire risk, you would be inclined to engage in it.

[13] This work, a commentary by Taafe on Dante, was printed, like Adonais, at Pisa by a printer who used the types of Didot, the celebrated French typefounder. Byron interested himself in the book, and it was subsequently published by John Murray. Professor Dowden printed the middle paragraph of this letter.

The more considerable portion of this work will consist of the comment. I have read with much attention this portion, as well as the verses, up to the eighth Canto; and I do not hesitate to assure you that the lights which the annotator's labours have thrown on the obscurer parts of the text are such as all foreigners and most Italians would derive an immense additional knowledge of Dante from. They elucidate a great number of the most interesting facts connected with Dante's history of his times; and everywhere bear the mark of a most elegant and accomplished mind. I know you will not take my opinion on Poetry, because I thought my own verses very good, and you find that the public declare them to be unreadable. Show this to Mr. Procter, who is far better qualified to judge than I am. There are certainly passages of great strength and conciseness; indeed the author has sacrificed everything to represent his original truly, in this latter point pray observe the great beauty of the typography; they are the same types as my elegy on Keats is printed from.

You cannot do me a greater favour than in making some satisfactory arrangement with the author. Of course I cannot expect, nor do I wish, that you should undertake any thing that should not fairly promise to promote your own interest. But pray allow my recommendation to overbalance, if your determination should be in equilibrium. I feel persuaded that I am recommending a most excellent work, and one without which the history and the spirit of the age of Dante as relates to him will never be understood by the English students of that astonishing poet.

Dear sir, your obliged and obt. servt.,

PERCY B. SHELLEY.

Pisa, June 16, 1821.

PHOTOGRAPHY AND ART

By HOWARD HANNAY

I

EVER since Plato reluctantly condemned art on the ground that it was mere imitation of superficial outward appearances the problem of art has been disputed on this basis. Plato did not allow the artist any initiative except to imitate, and his conception of ideal beauty had no connection with the activities of the poet, painter, and sculptor: it was not concerned with æsthetic beauty, but with intellectual and moral fitness and perfection. Aristotle gave a slightly different interpretation to the work of the artist, defining it as a description of the possible as contrasted with history which determines what has actually happened. Plotinus introduced the element of the ideal: the artist does not so much imitate natural reality as externalise an archetype existing in his mind or soul. Plotinus partly identified art with Plato's ideal beauty.

These three alternative views constitute the starting-point for the three chief divergent explanations of art which have been developed during the last two thousand years. In modern terminology they would be designated as theories of art, respectively as "reproduction," as "imagination," as "idealisation." The extent of their mutual discrepancy varies according to the exact meaning attached to the last two conceptions, imagination and idealisation. For instance, if the latter ultimately amounts to selecting certain particularly attractive real forms and events, it is virtually merely an eclectic process of reproduction. Imagination, again, may be regarded simply as a composite memory. Samuel Butler said, "Imagination is mainly memory, but there is a small percentage of creation of something out of nothing with it." It is only in so far as imagination is creative that it is different in kind from reproduction, from perception and history. And if idealisation is not a selection of given realities but a making articulate of an inner vision it also is a kind of imagination, only it is confined to the pleasantly beautiful, the attractive. The importance of all three definitions tends to be diminished when, as is often the case with modern theories, the chief emphasis is laid on the feeling or emotional element in art. Natural objects and real events can presumably excite emotion as much as imaginative creations, and this fact appears to lend a new value to the act of reproduction. The centre of interest is transferred from the knowledge content to the feeling of the subject and the knowledge content, the consciousness of the object is regarded simply as a cause which brings about that for which art exists, viz., emotion. The aim of reproduction is no longer intrinsic, but falls outside in the resultant subjective feeling. But this means a somewhat arbitrary distinction between the emotion and the representation. In actual concrete experience the two are so closely linked together that they appear almost identical: the emotion inheres in the representation. It cannot, therefore, be regarded as an instance of cause and effect: it is not analogous to the process of a pin and the ensuing prick, where the cause, the pin, is quite distinct from and independent of the feeling of pain. Mere associations of ideas are, on the other hand, nearer to the cause and effect sequence. A certain scent recalls a whole chapter of one's past history. Mr. Bosanquet's portmanteau reminds him of Florence.[14] For this reason a tendency is apparent to connect emotion more definitely with imaginative and idealistic art. Mere reproduction is cold and bald and only evokes an emotion by a fortuitous association of ideas: whereas the genuine product "expresses" or contains the emotion; and in doing so it is thought that it inevitably alters the "natural" or "historical" fact, distorting, transmuting it.

[14] Three Lectures on Æsthetics, p. 49.

The applicability of these various theories appears on the surface, at any rate, to differ according to the different arts. No one can be a thorough-going realist with regard to music, which is so indisputably a self-contained independent construction. It may be debatable whether music expresses experiences which are not of music, but music certainly does not imitate or reproduce them unless they are in the first place sounds, and for the most part they are not. The problem, therefore, is not whether music reproduces but whether it "expresses" anything except itself. Literature, again, can only directly imitate conversations between people: for the rest it can only reproduce indirectly either by symbolising or expressing. The symbol is purely arbitrary, it is entirely a referring to something other than itself. Letters of the alphabet have become symbolical. The expression, on the other hand, contains something of the object expressed, it carries a world in itself and of its own. Literature is admittedly expression, and here the problem takes the form of a contrast between history and fiction, whether at bottom literature only expresses historical fact (realism) or imagined fact, the possible.

Painting and sculpture are for the æsthetic theorist in many ways the most complex of the arts. As has been pointed out, neither music nor literature can be said to reproduce directly if they reproduce at all, because they employ a different medium, namely, sounds and words. But painting and sculpture apparently employ as a medium the very objects to be reproduced or expressed, viz., colours and lines. In literature the word refers to a reality that seemingly is not itself a word. In painting the picture and the reality can apparently be "matched" so that here literally the picture imitates reality. Outside and around us are already colours and forms, but there are no words, and only the crudest sounds. And so painting is easily regarded as par excellence the imitative or reproductive art, and of all arts to have the easiest and most direct criterion: resemblance to external reality.

II

These are the premises with which the realists and the romanticists, cubists, futurists, etc., start. They all assume rather naïvely the existence of an immediately perceived natural reality of given colours and forms. Their divergence is in their views as to the activity of the artist in respect of this natural reality. The realist considers that the painter's function is to transcribe it, to copy it on to canvas. He may select certain aspects which appeal to him, in fact he paints a particular scene exactly because that scene gives him more pleasure than others. But his creativeness is limited to this selection of given scenes and to their skilful and accurate reproduction.

The opponents of this view (and they include the majority of persons who have any serious acquaintance with painting) maintain that the essential element in a picture is not its resemblance to something else, but its intrinsic interest, and, this being the case, so long as the painting contains and conveys an emotion that is inherent in its line and colour it does not matter if there is not a literal resemblance to real objects. In fact, it is thought that the very effort to express a subjective mood centring round an external situation, to project one's own imaginative life into that which itself has no life, inevitably results in a certain distortion of the natural reality, in a deliberate emphasising of certain features. The line vibrates with feeling, the colour is grouped and blended so as to conform to the emotion of the individual mood, irrespective of whether "out there" the artist can actually "see" such an arrangement. The photograph has tended strongly to confirm this theory. Back in the eighties J. A. Symonds wrote, "The artist cannot avoid modifying his imitation of the chosen object by the impression of his own subjective quality. Human art is unable to reproduce nature except upon such terms as these. It cannot draw as accurately as the sun does by means of the photographic camera. Art will never match the infinite variety and subtlety of nature; no drawing or painting will equal the primary beauties of the living model ... yet art has qualities derived from the intellectual selective imaginative faculties of man which more than justify its existence." Walter Pater went a step further and asserted that "Art constantly aspires towards the condition of music. For while in all other works of art it is possible to distinguish the matter from the form and the understanding can always make this distinction, yet it is the constant aim of art to obliterate it."

The cubist and futurist art theories are a logical development of certain implications contained in arguments such as these: they are an attempt to make pictorial and plastic art identical with what music is supposed to be to get rid altogether of the irrelevant incubus of representation. They are quite distinct from the explanation often advanced for the primitive simplificatory character of Post-Impressionist art. The latter retains and is not a bit afraid of a representative content; it merely advocates a revolt from tradition and from the inclusion of facts which we know to be there in the objects depicted without actually seeing or perceiving them. Its purpose is not a musical elaboration of our vision, but a clarification and purging of it of all derivative and merely intellectual elements. Hence the stress laid on the art and vision of the child and the primitive. There is no doubt, however, that the explanations offered of the art of Gauguin, Van Gogh, and Cézanne gradually led to the cubist theory. It was felt that not only were these artists breaking away from tradition in order to attain clearness and directness of vision, but that their vision was expressive rather than representative. "Primitive art, like the art of children, consists not so much in an attempt to represent what the eye perceives as to put a line round a mental conception of the object. Like the work of the primitive artist, the pictures children draw are often extraordinarily expressive."[15]

[15] Catalogue, Post-Impressionist Exhibition, Grafton Galleries, 1910-11, pp. 11-12.

It should be noted that the early Post-Impressionists were artists first and theorists afterwards, and they did not themselves produce the theories which attempt to explain their art. The later men, on the other hand, appear to have consummated a remarkable marriage of philosophical reflection and artistic expression. Their art is the conscious execution of their argument. There is no a priori objection to this luminous rationality. The only essential is that the argument should be correct. Therefore, while one cannot condemn the art of Van Gogh, Gauguin, and Cézanne on the ground that the explanatory theories subsequently put forward are fallacious, a great many of the cubist experiments live or fall with their theory.

While Cubism and Futurism had a similar origin they very soon parted ways, and each followed the light of its own peculiar interpretation. The difference of opinion concerned not the departure from verisimilitude to persons and natural objects, about which both were in agreement, but the content and character of the expression. The futurists wanted, so to speak, programme music, the cubists pure music without any taint of worldly and literary associations. It is curious that these two movements which started so near together should diverge to either extreme, Cubism to enshrine itself in a pure inhuman emotion which possesses an absolutely divine "in itselfness," but is totally unrelated to the rest of life, and can, therefore, only be ejaculated about, and Futurism "to introduce brutally life into art, to combat the old ideal æsthetic, static, decorative, effeminate, precious, cynical that loathed action."[16] Cubism is fugitive, mystical, averse to science and the world of raw human passion. Futurism is explosive with mundane energy; it is not merely a theory of art, literature, music, it is a new orientation embracing the whole of life; "on every question, in Parliament, in communal councils, and in the market-places, men are divided into lovers of the past (passatisti) and futurists." Yet it is not so much the whole of life that the futurists wish to express as that part of it which is peculiarly modern, its movement, its flux, its dynamism. Any theory of a disruptive, hurly-burly aspect is grist to the mill of Futurism. With what acclamation will Professor Einstein's relativism be greeted: except that space should be angular rather than gracefully curved! And it is again curious how the extremes tend to meet. The Futurist's state, nous aspirons à la création d'un type inhumain en qui seront aboli la douleur morale, la bonté, la tendresse et l'amour.[17] Man must become metallic, mechanical, and dynamical. Mr. Clive Bell aspires (if only in art) after an inhuman emotion crystallised in abstract plastic form, in intricate relations of masses: a sort of divine mathematical matter.

[16] Noi Futuristi! Milan, 1917.

[17] Le Futurisme, by Maxinetti and others. 1911.

Recently an interesting controversy has taken place in the Burlington Magazine between Mr. Roger Fry and Mr. D. S. Maccoll on the question of representative and abstract or purely decorative form. Mr. Maccoll stands for the older school of J. A. Symonds; Mr. Roger Fry would assimilate pictorial art to music and deprive it altogether of a world outside itself. Both are in agreement as to art being non-photographic, and as to the existence parallel with or prior to visual emotional art of a photographic visual consciousness. Art, they both admit, is not reproductive; to reproduce is the function of photography and of the photographic side of our minds.

Art is temperamental, the expression in line and colour of emotion. But while Mr. Maccoll thinks that the emotion lies mainly in the rhythm of the objects represented, Mr. Fry considers that we are wrong in concerning ourselves either with the ideas and sentiments of the artist or with his interpretation of objects. We must appreciate and judge a drawing solely according to the degree of beauty the lines set up among themselves. Mr. Maccoll shrewdly points out that Mr. Fry and his school always lay great emphasis on "mass," "volume," "plasticity," etc., which are definitely characters of objects and, therefore, representative. It is possible, however, to go further: even a line and a colour are natural objects, and if we are able to find enjoyment in simple arrangements of lines and colours, why should we not find equal enjoyment in trees and clouds and hills and people? Stated thus these are generalities, but so are lines and colours: in a picture, however, or a decoration they are endowed with individual life, with a unique tone and significance.

In order to be absolutely logical, neither Mr. Roger Fry nor Mr. Clive Bell should attempt to describe or explain a picture at all. It is a world in a watertight compartment entirely severed and shut off from the ordinary world. It either throws us into an ecstasy or it does not, but these ecstasies are so many discrete units, and if they differ we cannot articulate the difference. We ought not, for instance, to describe early Italian art as ascetically religious, Botticelli as pagan and lyrical, Hogarth as satirical. For this would be ascribing to art a content extracted from life, it would be turning art into literature. Even literature, however, at its best is devoid of meaning. "In great poetry," writes Mr. Clive Bell, "it is the formal music that makes the miracle. The poet expresses in verbal form an emotion but distantly related to the words set down." And he quotes Shakespeare's poetry as an instance of this great meaningless word music. This surely is the reductio ad absurdum of the whole theory.

Mr. Clive Bell defines art as significant form. At first sight it would appear as though the delimitations set up by the reduction of art to abstract form were swept away by the admission of "significance" which might include in its range the whole world. But the significance is indescribable except in terms of form itself. Hence there is a certain justification in Mr. Maccoll's contention that Mr. Clive Bell really means "insignificant form." In his reply Mr. Bell falls back on the conception of emotion. The significance is emotional, it is not only incommunicable except by means of the actual work of art, but is also totally unrelated to life in general: it is an intelligible and self-contained department of its own, and does not require the liaison work of the critical guide and commentator.

The fact is that in their most legitimate preoccupation of ensuring that the work of art shall be a world in itself, a unity whose essential significance and content does not lie outside itself in a world of which it is merely a superfluous copy, but is firmly grasped and held in its imaginative synthesis so that the content is identical with the form. Messrs. Roger Fry, Clive Bell and Co. have gone absolutely to the other extreme and deprived the work of art of all content and significance; they have rendered it a discrete unit instead of an individual unit. Now, there is only one mental activity which deals with discrete units, and that is mathematics. Hence we can detect a gradual assimilation in their critical terminology to the language of mathematics and physics. The mysticism of art is becoming the mysticism of planes, angles, cubes, surfaces and relations of lines and masses.

But Mr. Clive Bell has another and equally legitimate preoccupation. He has observed that he experiences the same kind of pleasure from a fine piece of architecture, a specimen of pottery, a decoration on a carpet, as from a painting inside a frame which ostensibly refers to people and objects existing independently outside the frame. And he concludes that all these works must admit of reduction to a common denomination, they all have that in common which induces us to call them works of art. Obviously as architecture is non-representative in the ordinary sense, we must excogitate a general definition which does not necessitate representation. And so by a simple classificatory abstracting process he arrives at the formula of "significant form."

Now this expressly refers only to pictorial art and does not pretend to be a definition of music, literature, dancing, etc. These, however, all come under the heading of art, and any formula for any single branch of art must contain something of the universal essence of art in general. This cannot lurk in the conception of form, because by form Mr. Bell means not the logical concept, but the spatial physical image. It must, therefore, inhere in the conception of significance. Pictorial art is something significant expressed in the medium of spatial form. But here we come up against the first preoccupation of eschewing all so-called literary content. The significance of Rembrandt's dramatic masterpiece, for instance, "Christ and the Woman taken in Adultery," must consist in the relation of the colours and lines to each other and not in its intensely dramatic human expression, which is an illegitimate literary association of ideas. The significance is wrapt up in the abstract spatial image and, therefore, so far from defining the essence of all art, including literature and music, it will not even cover dramatic representational painting. In his preoccupation of including decorative art in his definition Mr. Bell has excluded all other kinds of art, and has simply universalised the idiosyncrasy of decorative art.

He has not, however, really achieved that, because even decorative art has what Mr. Bell would call a literary significance. No one can seriously reflect upon Egyptian, Greek, and Gothic architecture without admitting how profoundly they are charged with historical meaning, and that it is precisely this meaning which differentiates them and gives them their individuality. They are the spirit of their respective ages, caught up and embodied in what by an abstractive process of thought we refer to as abstract form. Actually it is only abstract when thought of apart from a particular instance: in any given instance, e.g., the Cenotaph in Whitehall, it is as concrete and individual as an ordinary picture or statue: it is a manifestation and expression of the human mind in a particular set of circumstances.

The foregoing analysis brings out two facts. The new art of abstract significant form is not, strictly speaking, anything new: it is as old, if not older, than representational art, and it is equally pregnant with literary meaning. Until quite recently, however, it has never been condensed into the form of a picture and surrounded with a frame; it has almost without exception been connected with objects of utility. This does not detract from its value in the slightest; it may mean that abstract art will outlive the picture; it is simply a statement of historical fact. Nor can we draw the immediate inference that abstract art is inappropriate in a frame. Certainly the contrary would be inappropriate: that is to say, if we built a house in the form of an Assyrian lion or made a hearthrug after Rembrandt's picture of an old woman. But it is significant that the cubist and futurist art has so far exercised a far greater and more beneficial influence in the direction of curtains, upholstery, and dresses than of pictures. Moreover, one of the leading English apostles of futurist art, Mr. Wyndham Lewis, is beginning to realise the immense field which lies open to him in the sphere of architecture, and is growing impatient with the limitations and narrow confines of the picture frame.[18]

[18] The Caliph's Design. The Egoist Ltd. A brilliant piece of destructive writing.

However this may be, the lovers both of representational art and of abstract art must live and let live, and the wrangle as to which is the most perfect, the purest kind of art, is as sterile and futile as the dispute over prose and poetry, opera and chamber music, tragedy and comedy.

III

The problem, however, of photographic reproduction and of imagination still awaits a satisfactory solution. We have seen that no objection whatsoever can be raised against the marvellous representative detail of, say, Jan Van Eyck's "Jan Arnolfini and His Wife." Nor can we explain the joy and love expressed in the picture by reference merely to the forms and colours in abstraction from the objects and persons. For that would be transforming the living and individual unity of artistic vision into the abstract schemata of scientific thought. And art is not science, although it might very well express the delights and struggles of the scientist. But, on the other hand, there are pictures which, at any rate, appear to represent objects with the same accuracy and detail as Jan Van Eyck, and yet definitely fail to rank as works of art. They may often give us pleasure, they are often informative, but a little introspection reveals that that pleasure is due to our being reminded of something that is not itself in the picture, and that the information is not about our emotion but about an historical or a scientific fact. Similarly with the photograph which has still greater precision of scientific (not artistic) observation, and for that very reason is artistically still more jejune and barren. But there is yet another visual product which is neither photographic nor artistic "reproduction," namely, imaginative representation. From internal as well as external evidence we can infer that certain pictures were painted by the artist "out of his head," and others from "the models," and we find that artists like Velasquez, who painted masterpieces from the model, often failed miserably in their attempts at imaginative work.[19] Of course, it is doubtful how far this distinction can be carried; for we have no direct proof that many of the most realistic pictures were not pure inventions, and that much of the apparently imaginative work, such as Blake's, was not simply composite memory. Imagination is just as dangerous and ambiguous a term as reproduction.

[19] Cf. "La Couronnement de la Vierge." A voluminous mass of pompous clothing floating on some well-fed babies' heads.

These, then, are the "facts" to be explained. On the one hand, we have undeniably a reality of perception and photography which is not that of art but often extraordinarily akin to it; on the other hand, we have a visual art which divides itself into three groups, each of which qua art is of equal value: realistic, imaginative, and, thirdly, formal, decorative, or abstract art. What is desired is some synthetic conception which will make intelligible the similarities and differences and contradictions dwelling in these, at any rate, superficially different kinds of vision.

Behind the conception of thinkers like J. A. Symonds there always lay the photographic reality which was the common reality of everyone, and supplied all the materials for the artist's reality: the framework of forms and colours, of objects and persons. It was regarded from the æsthetic point of view as rather a nightmare, for it was so unemotional, so much the same all through, so unpliable. And the explanation of art was that it consisted of this same reality, but as seen through the temperament of the artist and, therefore, somehow, by some mysterious wizardy, coloured with emotion, electrified into all kinds of subjective illuminations, a fascinating mirage. Or instead of the word temperament one substituted the phrase creative imagination. This means substantially the same thing, but it leads us away a bit further from photographic reality, widening the gulf between the two. We cannot create the outer world, but we can create an inner world of imagination, and actually bring into our life something intimately new, shedding a light of its own that never was on sea or land. Drive this argument a little further and we arrive at Cubism and Futurism.

This is the philosophical view which dominates most art criticism of to-day, and probably quite rightly so. It is fairly safe, and it "corresponds to the facts" with tolerable accuracy. It is sufficiently eclectic not to offend either an ardent philosophical realism or an ardent idealism. And it does not fall into the error of condemning one kind of art and exalting another, although our æsthetic taste when unprejudiced by theory proclaims both kinds equally delightful. This, however, is no reason why we should not attempt to deepen the theory with a view to giving it a closer organic unity and explaining facts which it does not seem at present to take into account. Needless to say, we may get entangled and strike out on a wrong track. For thinking, like everything else, is experimental.

IV

1. The very first observation to be made is that ordinary vision is not photographic: it is shot through and through with emotional elements which are part and parcel of every concrete colour and form that is seen. The photographic reality is obtained by a process of thinning down, so that only the skeleton of similarities remains. It consists of a consciousness of general facts—this is a tree, it has leaves with clearly delineated edges, underneath it is a brown and white cow.

2. Nevertheless, even if the normal man in the street were to depict precisely the semi-emotional reality which he sees, it would not necessarily be a work of art. The Royal Academy is a convincing proof of this fact. But this is not because the normal man's vision is essentially different from that of the artist; the reason is just the opposite: his seeing is borrowed from the artist, it is second-hand property. Considered in connection with the co-ordinated arrangement of the ordinary man's life this borrowed vision is absolutely correct and in its place, just as is his borrowed knowledge of science, mathematics, history. But if he tries to isolate it and put it apart in a frame, claiming for it an original independent value, it immediately becomes false, pretentious, sentimental. It still, however, is not photographic: it is an emotion out of place. There is, of course, also in Academy pictures a great deal of photography, that is to say of general statement.

3. The artistic disvalue of such statements lies not in the fact that they are reproductive and "true to nature," but in the deliberate stripping of all emotional content. So far from giving a completer and truer account of reality, the photograph gives a thoroughly impoverished account.[20] It must not, however, be inferred that art should assist or take the place of, say, geological drawings, because these drawings are intentionally confined to similarities and general facts.

[20] The cinematograph drama might become genuine art, because one can look through the generality of the photograph into the human imaginative synthesis. It is on a par with a photograph of a picture or of a building.

4. The conception of the "creative imagination" is liable to lapse into a false kind of mysticism. Imagination is always about reality. Rembrandt possessed a marvellous imagination, yet for that very reason he has considerably increased and enhanced the human consciousness of reality. In the same way the interior of a beautiful church evokes and deepens our consciousness of religious emotion, and, therefore, of the profound significance of life. And it is not the life of some abstract mysticism, but of man in the travail of history. All art is imaginative, but it is equally real and objective, it adds to our consciousness of the world in which we live. We need not even object to the metaphor about holding the mirror up to nature, for we cannot see ourselves except in a mirror.

It might be possible, therefore, to overcome the apparent distinction between "painting from the model" and "out of one's head," and to show that they are both the same kind of activity. There is no doubt that imaginative work has its roots in ordinary perception; even the creator of pure designs is using lines and colours which are visible, and he gets his suggestions from the external world. And even though in the process of creating the artist seems to move away from external reality into his inner being, the created product is definitely about external reality. The Cenotaph in Whitehall is our mourning over the dead: Goya's etchings The Disasters of War are part of our concrete consciousness of war. Blake, too, where he is not lost in impossible symbolism, is always referring back to life.

On the other side, every piece of ordinary perception is shot through with imagination, as with emotion. The mind is not a tabula rasa, but a most marvellous and intricate activity. And there is another explanation possible of the difference between the art, say, of Velasquez and of Fra Angelico than that the one was reproductive, the other the work of fantasy. At the time of Velasquez the whole interest and value of life centred round man and pre-eminently round the life of kings and nobles. On these people was focussed the emotional imagination of the age. To Fra Angelico the world was altogether different; its quintessential value lay outside it in our experience after death: this life was but a preparation for the next, and art was as it were the imaginative anticipation of the loveliness of heaven. Nevertheless, this anticipation spoke in terms of the most refined delights of this world, and the pæan to heaven was but a pæan to the beauty of life. Or if one may diverge from the artist to an appreciator of art, it is clear from Mr. Clive Bell's book, Art, that at the back of his mind there is a mystical metaphysics, a sort of conviction that the objects and events of this muddled material world are contemptible, and that we must seek for the reality of realities in some aloof inhuman state of consciousness. This is his third and in many ways most interesting preoccupation.

5. Each of the three definitions of art referred to at the beginning of this essay, those of Plato, Aristotle, and Plotinus, sets up claims which must be satisfied if we do not want to be continually dogged by their importunate ghosts. One of the strongest objections to Plato's premise that the artist imitates is that it does not allow any element of novelty. It is true that in the physical act of painting the artist reproduces his vision, and that this act requires considerable technical accomplishment. But throughout the principal, all-powerful, radiating influence is the vision. This cannot correctly be called reproductive; it is just the unmediated consciousness of something, and of that something for the first time. For instance, the artist apparently works with a limited number of colours just as the musician with notes; but out of these he produces entirely new colours in combination (colours are never really out of combination), just as the musician produces literally new sounds. And this production is not a mere abstract physical fact, it is emotional and can contain the whole significance of a given period of history. The seeing of the colours and the emotional impulse coincide: it is an act of creation. Nor do the colours belong, so to speak, merely to the artist's palette and canvas, they are seen out there "in nature." It is a new vision of nature. It is, however, futile for the man in the street, when he sees the picture for the first time, to refer back to his own past experience, because this is a new experience, a new vision. At the same time, although the picture is hung up indoors in a room or gallery, the vision pierces, as it were, right through the canvas and walls and comes to a halt out there in the mysterious and infinite world. We have seen that this process of consciousness is undoubtedly imaginative, even if the completed product is almost historically real. It is not a mere statement of fact, but it always includes facts, surrounding them with concrete living individuality. Further, it always contains an element of the ideal, of aspiration, not of an abstract schematised Utopia or stereotyped moralising, but of a pulsating individual love and hate. In all art, even in the most realistic, this is transparent. It is, in a sense, the goodwill bending over the present and dreaming of the future.

Briefly, pictorial and plastic art is the creation of the visual feeling or emotional consciousness of the human mind. As such it is inseparably bound up in real objects, actions, and events. Remove it (speculatively in thought) and you get the bare though magnificent framework of science and the stark matters-of-fact of history.

PROSE AND MORTALITY

By J. C. SQUIRE

IN recent years several editors have put together anthologies of English prose passages, among them Mr. S. L. Edwards (An Anthology of English Prose; Dent), Messrs. Broadus and Gordon (English Prose; Milford), Mr. Treble (English Prose; Milford), and Professor Cowl (An Anthology of Imaginative Prose; Simpkin). Only the last of these books has much in common with the "treasury"[21] now presented by Mr. Logan Pearsall Smith. There are many kinds of good prose, of which Samuel Butler's is one, Jane Austen's another, Cowley's another: but the last two of these authors do not appear, and the first is only here by favour. A few exceptions are made, presumably owing to personal predilections or a feeling that such and such a great prose name should not be omitted. Swift is an instance. His prose, the faithful reflection of his mind, has many qualities, but it is out of place here. Generally speaking, to satisfy Mr. Pearsall Smith, in his present capacity, it is not enough—in fact, it is not anything—that prose should be adequate to its purpose, neat, easy, vivacious, well-knit. It must be prose on what by common consent is the highest level of prose, prose impeccably written, and prose with a dignity, a richness, a sonority or a sweetness of flow that rival the attributes of great poetry. Almost all his examples come into this category: he has no room here for the most vigorous pages of Scott or the most amusing chapters of Dickens. His extracts are to be detachable jewels, gorgeous or exquisite. On his fly-leaf he quotes Keats:

[21] A Treasury of English Prose. Edited by Logan Pearsall Smith. Constable. 6s. net.

"I had an idea that a Man might pass a very pleasant life in this manner—let him on a certain day read a certain page of full Poesy or distilled Prose, and let him wander with it, and muse upon it, and reflect from it, and bring home to it, and prophesy upon it, and dream upon it: until it becomes stale—But when will it do so? Never—When Man has arrived at a certain ripeness in intellect any one grand and spiritual passage serves him as a starting-post towards all the two-and-thirty Palaces. How happy is such a voyage of conception, what delicious diligent indolence!"

"Distilled Prose," "grand and spiritual passage": the editor gives no other explanation than this second-hand one, but that is enough.

We must grant Mr. Pearsall Smith his ground, but on that ground every reader is sure—as an anthologist's readers always will be—occasionally to quarrel with him. His earlier selections, from the Bible, Donne, and Jeremy Taylor, could not, I think, have been better. He was bound to fill a good deal of his space with the seventeenth-century religious writers. He does not overlook South; and he gives a numerous and glittering selection from Milton, one of the few English writers who have contrived to keep their singing-robes about them, with whatever effort, when writing about every sort of mundane subject. He has found almost everything that he could have wanted in the writers of the eighteenth century, and he gives many perfect passages from Coleridge, Shelley, Keats, and Landor. But to some of the Victorian writers, and to some of our contemporaries (though he has quarried some exquisite things from unlikely places) he does, if he will allow me to say so, less than justice. We could have spared some of the eleven pages of Emerson for the sake of some of the best paragraphs of Ruskin, who is given only two pages. The single extract from Cardinal Newman (whose Idea of a University should have been searched) does not represent him, and no single extract could. There are two—there might well have been more—extracts from Mr. Doughty's Wanderings in Arabia. The passage from Samuel Butler is more sustained than Butler's wont, but scarcely worthy of inclusion, though the reader would appreciate in any surroundings his last sentence, "I am not very fond of Milton, but I admit that he does at times put me in mind of Fleet Street." Mr. Shaw appears and Henry James; there are good extracts from Mr. Santayana and Mr. Lowes Dickinson. But Mr. Conrad's works—both his Reminiscences and his novels—should have yielded many more than two pieces, and some admirable modern writers of coloured, musical, and affecting prose are omitted altogether. Mr. Hardy is a curious omission. Mr. Chesterton, as a rule, troubles too little to be a good subject for this anthologist; the journalist and the tumbler are always breaking in; the poet appears arm-in-arm with the politician, an exasperating contiguity. But I think that exploration would have been rewarded even had our collector gone no farther than the splendid last pages of The Short History of England. From Mr. Hudson's books, especially from A Crystal Age and Far Away and Long Ago, passages, I think, could have been taken which would have competed respectably with many that are here; Mrs. Meynell's essays and Mr. Bertrand Russell's last book should be drawn on; and where is Mr. Belloc? Rupert Brooke said that Mr. Belloc had a better prose style than any man alive. I should not dispute that: it is a clear, a precise, an economical style that serves admirably all the diverse uses to which its owner puts it. And it often rises, always quietly, where some poignant thing is clearly seen, into sentences of noble beauty. These are liable to occur almost anywhere; for instance, in a digression during an article on strategy. Possibly because he began his career with public facetiousness about "purple patches" he often seems to allow a promising passage to break its back because he will not seem artificial or affected. He fetters his consciously-exercised powers and he can seldom let himself go, as it were, unconsciously. In his books it would therefore be far more easy to find short passages than long ones of the kind included in this anthology; for any other sort of prose anthology his work should be thoroughly ransacked. Nevertheless there are long ones. My memory is that there are certainly several in The Four Men and in the books of essays. To hunt for examples which one will have no room to quote would be tiresome; there is a long passage in The Absence of the Past which begins:

There was a woman of charming vivacity, whose eyes were ever ready for laughter, and whose tone of address of itself provoked the noblest of replies. Many loved her; all admired. She passed (I will suppose) by this street or by that; she sat at table in such and such a house; Gainsborough painted her; and all that time ago there were men who had the luck to meet her and to answer her laughter with their own. And the house where she moved is there, and the street in which she walked, and the very furniture she used and touched with her hands you may touch with your hands. You shall come into the rooms she inhabited, and there you shall see her portrait, all light and movement and grace and beatitude.

But it is a stupid thing to spend much time talking about the omissions from a good book; only less so than it would be to complain that it is one sort of book and not another sort. Mr. Pearsall Smith set out to collect prose passages of a certain, the most poetical and resounding, kind; and he has made an admirable and a learned choice. A perusal of his specimens confirms in me an opinion previously formed as to the nature of this kind of prose in English. It is that we have a canonical style for such prose, and that such prose most frequently arises from meditation on a definable kind of subject.

In great writers and small, in those whose prose marches always with majesty and in those with whom eloquence is infrequent, in the graceful and the ungainly, in the magisterial and the familiar, this thing is to be discerned: that their prose is least personal when at its highest flights. The observation is common that we have in England no standard and accepted prose style, but a medley of manners which are continually increasing in number. This is true. But it has not been generally noticed that amongst those passages of English prose, drawn from authors of all our literary ages, which are received as being the most sublime and the most musical—passages which have been, and must be, the first resort of all anthologists of our prose who are in search of those attributes of power and beauty—there is a strong likeness of form and feature. There is more: the resemblance is often so close that the differences, normally marked, between the styles of writers divided by a great gulf of time are in such sentences not to be distinguished. Styles so various on the lower plane meet, as it were, on the higher: there is an established, an inevitable, manner into which an Englishman will rise when his ideas and images lift into grandeur. It is the style of the Authorised Version, a style in process of formation long before the date of that Parthenon of our prose, but reaching in that its perfection, and by means of that made an element of the air we breathe, and many generations before us have breathed, in childhood. Even in writers who never entirely lose the marks of their eccentricity the most eloquent "purple patches" are always reminiscent. Emotion deepens suddenly, or reaches an expected climax; the results of reflection are summarised; by whatever route, the author comes to a place at which his expression assumes a sublimity of imagery and a perfection of rhythm; and with the emotion he communicates is always mingled the throe of recognition. The note has been struck and a hundred neighbouring strings respond. The writer has stepped off the common road and into that chapel where there is one ritual and one mode of incantation. "Man that is born of a woman, hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay." It is the Prayer-Book of 1549. "Thou hast drawn together all the far-stretched greatness, all the pride, cruelty, and ambition of man, and covered it all over with these two narrow words, Hic jacit." It is Sir Walter Raleigh. "These wait upon the shore of death, and waft unto him to draw near, wishing above all others to see his star that they might be led to his place; wooing the remorseless Sisters to wind down the watch of their life, and to break them off before the hour." It is Bacon. "A memory of yesterday's pleasures, a fear of to-morrow's dangers, a straw under my knee, a noise in mine ear, a light in mine eye, an anything, a nothing, a fancy, a chimera in my brain, troubles me in my prayer." It is John Donne. "Methusalem, with all his hundreds of years, was but a mushroom of a night's growth to this day; and all the four Monarchies, with all their thousands of years, and all the powerful Kings, and all the beautiful Queens of this world, were but as a bed of flowers, some gathered at six, some at seven, some at eight—all in one morning in respect of this day." That too is Donne, and his subject Eternity. "Since the brother of Death daily haunts us with dying Mementoes, and Time that grows old itself bids us hope no long duration, diuturnity is a dream and folly of expectation." That is Sir Thomas Browne. "They that three thousand years agone died unwillingly, and stopped death two days, or stayed it a week, what is their gain? Where is that week?" That is Jeremy Taylor. "When all is done, human life is, at the greatest and the best, but like a froward child, that must be played with and humoured a little to keep it quiet, till it falls asleep, and then the care is over." That is Sir William Temple. "The present is a fleeting moment, the past is no more; and our prospect of futurity is dark and doubtful." That is Gibbon. "The stars that still sojourn, yet still move onward; and everywhere the blue sky belongs to them, and is their appointed rest and their native country and their natural homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords that are certainly expected, and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival." The argument to the Ancient Mariner needs no specification. "Laodameia died; Helen died; Leda, the beloved of Jupiter, went before. It is better to repose in the earth betimes than to sit up late; better, than to cling pertinaciously to what we feel crumbling under us, and to protract an inevitable fall." That is from a dialogue of Landor's. "And it would not taste of death, by reason of its adoption into immortal palaces; but it was to know weakness, and reliance, and the shadow of human imbecility; and it went with a lame gait; but in its goings it exceeded all mortal children in grace and swiftness." That is Charles Lamb. "In her sight there was Elysium; her smile was heaven; her voice was enchantment; the air of love waved round her, breathing balm into my heart: for a little while I had sat with the gods at their golden tables, I had tasted of all earth's bliss." They have quoted that passage from Hazlitt's Liber Amoris a thousand times. "Like God, whose servants they are, they utter their pleasure not by sounds that perish, or by words that go astray, but by signs in heaven, by changes on earth, by pulses in secret rivers, heraldries painted on darkness, and hieroglyphics written on the tablets of the brain." That is de Quincey. "And again the sun blinks out, and the poor sower is casting his grain into the furrow, hopeful he that the Zodiacs and far Heavenly Horologes have not faltered; that there will be yet another summer added for us and another harvest." That is Carlyle. "To what port are we bound? Who knows? There is no one to tell us but such poor weather tossed mariners as ourselves, whom we speak as we pass, or who have hoisted some signal, or floated to us some letter in a bottle from far." It is from Emerson. "Not to discriminate every moment some passionate attitude in those about us, and in the brilliancy of their gifts some tragic dividing of forces on their ways, is, on this short day of frost and sun, to sleep before evening." That, if modern in conception, altogether traditional in cadence and in the phrasing of its close, is from Pater's Renaissance. "We can therefore be happy in our sorrows, happy even in the death of our beloved who fall in the fight; for they die nobly, as heroes and saints die, with hearts and hands unstained by hatred and wrong." A peroration: the peroration from the Poet Laureate's Spirit of Man. "And in the autumn before the snows come they have all gone—of all that incalculable abundance of life, of all that hope and adventure, excitement and deliciousness there is scarcely more to be found than a soiled twig, a dirty seed, a dead leaf, black mould or a rotting feather." Mr. H. G. Wells, never a careful artist or fully aware of what language can be, permits himself some looseness in the phraseology of the passage from which that sentence comes, but he too falls, as it were unwittingly, into the old music. And here, from another living author is a piece of declamation which contains, indeed, sentiments and words which would have been foreign to the seventeenth century, but is a true child of its loins:

We survey the past, and see that its history is of blood and tears, of helpless blundering, of wild revolt, of stupid acquiescence, of empty aspirations. We sound the future, and learn that after a period, long compared with the individual life, but short indeed compared with the divisions of time open to our investigation, the energies of our system will decay, the glory of the sun will be dimmed, and the earth, tideless and inert, will no longer tolerate the race which has for a moment disturbed its solitude. Man will go down into the pit, and all his thoughts will perish. The uneasy consciousness, which in this obscure corner has for a brief space broken the contented silence of the universe, will be at rest. Matter will know itself no longer. "Imperishable monuments" and "immortal deeds," death itself, and love stronger than death, will be as though they had never been. Nor will anything that is be better or be worse for all that the labour, genius, devotion, and suffering of man have striven through countless generations to effect.

This passage, summarising the conclusions that natural science unaided has been able to reach, is detached from a longer one: it occurs in Mr. Balfour's The Foundations of Belief.

*      *      *      *      *

There is one music and one speech in all these extracts. It is not the result of deliberation, but it is not an accident, that they have so much else in common, that their very subjects are analogous. Chosen, however genuinely, at random and without afterthought, if they are chosen from the best, they will be variations on but a few related themes and half of them will be inspired by the direct contemplation of death. There are innumerable subjects which engage the attention, and they may be seen in countless aspects; but that large utterance comes chiefly to English lips when things, of whatever nature they may be, are regarded sub specie æternitatis. Whatever a man's philosophy and whatever his mood, when he speaks with this music, he speaks with the voice of mankind, awed and saddened by its inscrutable destiny. Time, Death, Eternity, Mutability: those words, the most awful that we know, insistently recur. It is they, unuttered yet present, which give their grandeur to pronouncements of many kinds which do not relate directly to the general operations of Time or of Death: to Burke's passage on Marie Antoinette, to Johnson's Preface to his Dictionary, to Gibbon's moonlight reverie on the conclusion of his History. Those names, those figures with their skirts of thunder and doom, trail through all our literature with a majesty that no others possess. Apostrophising those our shadowy tyrants, celebrating them, rebelling against them, we may clothe our conceptions in many images, though even here, for the most part, we must observe a tendency, natural and spontaneous, to choose as tokens and ornaments a few, in the earthly sense, universal and perennial things. But those shapes tower over our whole world. Anything we look at in the sunlight, a wave, a weed, a travelling insect, may be like a window opening out to them; and at night, under the dark sky, so actual and so symbolical, the reflective man is always aware of them. We have our activities and our distractions. We must satisfy our carnal cravings, eat, drink, and sleep; between birth and death, under that immense and unresponsive heaven, we build and dig, hunt and dance, carve and paint, intrigue, copulate and kill. But whenever the moment comes that we turn round from our toys it is one spectacle that we see: life proceeding from darkness to darkness, change, dissolution, and death. And the greatest utterance of our tongue is a chronicle, again and again resumed and repeated, of the wonder and dread, the certain regret and the wavering hope which that spectacle arouses in hearts which have immortal longings but have loved transient things: a chronicle of grass that withers, leaves that fall, of girls like flowers who fade like flowers, of conquerors who are dust, blown about, of tough oaks that decay, of stone temples and pyramids that as surely, after a few more years, fall into dust, of the world's past, and the past of the individual which cannot be recovered, the innocence and the illusions of childhood, the loss of which typifies all loss and their beauty that Eden to which, with the shadow approaching, we pitifully aspire: all framed by the most abiding things that our senses know, the sea and the wind and the hills, the seasons which come for all generations in their order, the stars, constant, silent, vigilant over all: those also transitory after their own kind, arching to their fall in epochs beyond our computation or guessing, but in relation to us steadfast and immutable.

They say (though I do not believe it) that an age, even if it be still far distant, is coming in which the present preoccupations of man, both physical and mental, will have vanished and new passions and new hopes will have taken their place. Our contact with each other is as yet imperfect; psychological discovery is only beginning; the gates between mind and mind will all be broken down; it will not be a question of universal candour but of automatic communication and sympathy. The individual will be identified with the race, will live only in the life of the race, will not merely not fear but will not even think about any death which does not involve the death of the race. The race will be one animal; its members, sloughed and replaced, will want no more immortality than that qualified perpetuation which the race can give; no two persons will be more to each other than any other two; Man will really be Man and will cease to be men. Should that time come (which, speaking diffidently, it will not) the voice of Man may change. His most eloquent words may be other than they are now, and even though, in his corporate form, he is still most deeply stirred by frustrations that we cannot conjecture, the range of his imagery will have altered, he will have new symbols for his regrets, and new comparisons for his ideas. Pending that change there is no reason to suppose that the essential, or to a large extent the incidental, material of our poetry, or of such of our prose as aspires to the condition of poetry, will substantially alter. We speak most sublimely of what moves us most deeply.

But this is not to say that we should wish that such speech, at the cost of such experience, should be more than intermittent. Sun, sheep, and children may take a sober colouring from the eye that has been much busied with such watchings, but they were not put there solely for that purpose; even if we profess ignorance of the reasons for their existence, we shall employ ourselves better if we act on the assumption that they were not. The last word, after so prolonged a meditation on the incomprehensible, may lie with Stevenson who, not unaccustomed to the thought of death and not incapable of poetry, wrote an essay on the subject which might not supply passages "distilled" enough for this book, but contains many so sensible that they might well be reprinted in others. "The changes wrought by death," he said, "are in themselves so sharp and final, and so terrible and melancholy in their consequences, that the thing stands alone in man's experience, and has no parallel upon earth." That opening might have led to a piece of great orchestral prose; but he turned on himself and wrote instead some pages of cheerful colloquial prose, sprinkled with fine sentences. In all views and situations "there is but one conclusion possible: that a man should stop his ears against paralysing terror, and run the race that is set before him with a single mind"; and "as a matter of fact, although few things are spoken of with more fearful whisperings than this prospect of death, few have less influence on conduct under healthy circumstances." But notice, even in this essay, the old lift, the old attitude, the old accents, when momentarily he looks out over the other wall: "Into what great waters, not to be crossed by any swimmer, God's pale Prætorian throws us over in the end!"

A COLLECTION OF AUTOGRAPHS

By CANON N. EGERTON LEIGH

MY collection of autographs was begun by Lady Sitwell, of Rempstone, who married, 1798, Sir Sitwell Sitwell, Bt., M.P., who died in 1811. She married secondly, as his second wife, my grandfather in 1821, and died in 1860. Lady Sitwell knew everybody, and entertained a good deal. She was a blue-stocking in the days of their power, and most of the letters were written to her by the eminent men and women of the day. But her friends supplied her with other autographs—for instance, Longfellow sends her George Washington and Benjamin Franklyn. The following remarks by Washington are interesting at the present time: "At the beginning of the late war with Great Britain, when we thought ourselves justifiable in resisting to blood, it was known to those best acquainted with the different conditions of the combatants and the probable cost of the prize in dispute that the expense in comparison with our circumstances as Colonists must be enormous, the struggle protracted, dubious, and severe. It was known that the resources of Britain were, in a manner, inexhaustible, that her fleet covered the Ocean, and that her troops had harvested laurels in every quarter of the globe. Not then organised as a nation, or known as a people upon the earth, we had no preparation. Money, the nerve of war, was wanting. The sword was to be forged on the anvil of necessity: the treasury to be created from nothing. If we had a secret resource unknown to our enemy, it was in the unconquerable resolution of our citizens, the conscious rectitude of our cause, and a confident trust that we should not be forsaken by Heaven. The people willingly offered themselves to the battle, but the means of arming, clothing, and subsisting them, as well as of procuring the implements of hostility, were only to be found in anticipations of our future wealth. Paper bills of credit were emitted, monies borrowed for the most pressing emergencies, and our brave troops in the field unpaid for their services. In this manner, Peace, attended with every circumstance that could gratify our reasonable desires, or even inflate us with ideas of national importance, was at length obtained. But a load of debt was left upon us. The fluctuations of, and speculations in, our paper currency had, but in too many instances, occasioned vague ideas of property, generated licentious appetites, and corrupted the morals of men. To these immediate consequences of a fluctuating medium of commerce may be joined a tide of circumstances that flowed together from sources mostly opened during and after the war. The ravage of farms, the conflagrations of towns, the diminution——" Here the MSS. abruptly stops, but we can imagine what would follow.

Mr. Herrick, of Beaumanor Park, gave Lady Sitwell the earliest autograph in the collection, a letter of Robert Herrick from St. John's, Cambridge, which I lent to the late Professor Moorman for his life of Robert Herrick. A curious entry in his uncle's account books discloses the fact that while the impecunious student was finding infinite difficulty in obtaining his quarterly allowance of £10, the wealthy uncle was borrowing hundreds of pounds from the nephew. I pass on to a letter of Lord Byron's accepting an invitation to dinner with Lady Sitwell. In it he says, "The song you have been good enough to send had escaped my observation or my memory when in Greece. I will endeavour to comply with your request. The copy has a few errors which I will try to expunge, though I have nearly forgotten my Romaic. I believe the words should be thus arranged." He arranges them, and then sends her, doubtless knowing her penchant for autographs, the following lines:

1

I wander near that fount of waters

Where throng my country's virgin daughters,

And yet that haunt I might forego

Will she—my Love be there? Ah! No!

2

All, all are there save her alone,

Yet once along that fountain shone

Her imaged eyes within the stream

That glittered with the borrowed beam.

3

Yet—yet that fount is calm and clear,

Nor less to Hellas' daughters dear,

But there Reflection ne'er shall grace

Those waters with so fair a face.

4

She comes not there, yet linger still

My steps around that sacred rill,

Nor know I wherefore there I stray—

But cannot tear myself away.

Albany, April 15th, 1814.

Another manuscript, to which an especial interest attaches at this time, is the following letter from George Eliot:

16 Blandford Square, London, N.W.

My dear Friend—I was delighted to have your letter this morning bringing me good news not only of a literary but of a personal kind. It is pleasant to know that your labours on Adam have been so far appreciated; but I think it is pleasanter still to know that Maman has had the comfort of seeing her son Charles this Christmas, and that your prospects concerning him are hopeful. I begin, you know, to consider myself an experienced matron, knowing a great deal about parental joys and anxieties. Indeed I have rather too ready a talent for entering into anxieties of all sorts.

Mr. Lewes is very much obliged to you for sending him the prospectus and additional information, which he has already dispatched to Mr. Trollope. It will be a valuable widening of his opportunities for choosing a foreign school. I was not aware till I gathered the fact from your letter that Emile Forgues had "analysed" the Mill for the Revue des deux Mondes, for Mr. Lewes, knowing that it would vex me, had carefully concealed it. It is an impudent way of getting money—this cool appropriation of other people's property without leave asked—which seems to have become a regular practice with him. Pray consider me responsible for nothing but what you find in the Tauchnitz edition. I never alter my books after they are printed—never alter anything of importance even in the course of printing, and ce n'est point mon histoire que j'écris, or whatever else you may find in M. Forgues' edition that is not in the English is due to the gratuitous exercise of his own talents in improving my book. I can well imagine that you find the Mill more difficult to render than Adam, but would it be inadmissible to represent in French, at least in some degree, those intermédiaires entre le style commun et le style élégant to which you refer? It seems to me that I have discerned such shades very strikingly rendered in Balzac, and occasionally in George Sand. Balzac, I think, dares to be thoroughly congenial, in spite of French strait-lacing. Even in English this daring is far from being general: inferior writers are hardly ever capable of it, and in the great mass of English fiction, from Bulwer down to the latest young lady scribbler, you find scarcely anything but impossible dialogue—the character speaking as no man or woman ever spoke, except on the stage. The writers who dare to be thoroughly familiar are Shakespeare, Fielding, Scott (when he is representing the popular life with which he is familiar), and indeed every other writer of fiction of the first class. Even in his loftiest tragedies, in Hamlet, for example, Shakespeare is intensely colloquial. One hears the very accent of living men. I am not vindicating the practice, I know that is not necessary to you who have so quick a sensibility for the real and the humorous, but I want to draw your attention to what you may not have observed—the timid elegance (alias unnaturalness) of inferior English writers. You may not have observed it, because naturally you don't read our poorer literature. You, of course, have knowledge as to what is or can be done in French literature beyond any that my reading can have furnished me with. I am glad that you think there are any readers who will prefer the Mill to Adam. To my feeling there is more thought and a profounder veracity in the Mill than in Adam: but Adam is more complete and better balanced. My love of the childhood scenes made me linger over them in epic fashion, so that I could not develop as fully as I wished the concluding "Book" in which the tragedy occurs, and which I had looked forward to with much intention and preparation from the beginning. My books don't seem to belong to me after I have once written them, so I find myself delivering opinions about them as if I had nothing to do with them. I am not afraid that you will be unable to distinguish that frankness from conceit. I cannot write very boastfully about our health; both Mr. Lewes and I are very middling, easily upset, easily put out of order. But in all other respects our happiness grows daily. Our dear boy Charles is more and more precious to us, and seems to delight in pouring all his young affection out in tenderness to me. Thornton, the second, is going on well and happily with his studies at Edinburgh, and seems to have profited morally and physically by the change. I don't know how to describe our locality otherwise than by saying that it lies very near Regent's Park, westward. It is a quiet situation for London—alas, not quiet for me, who dream of still fields! London is hateful to me, and I sometimes think we shall hardly have come to stay in it three years. Mr. Lewes and I constantly recall Geneva—and for us Geneva means all that is associated with you and Maman. It was a vivid pleasure to me that he felt his liking and admiration go out to you both quite apart from the fact that you were my friends. He desires to share in all assurances of affection that I send you. But I send you few assurances. Are they necessary?

Lord Houghton once said that "the Personal is always the interesting." This gives one of the great interests to a collection of autographs, it illustrates the Personal. Take Tennyson's. There is not one word in a long letter to show that he was Poet Laureate. He begins with "Trouble not yourself about the half-crown. I am very glad to pay my debts, however small, tho' Milnes asserts that nothing under five shillings should ever be refunded.... It is not all ladies who would have tolerated my fumigation so mildly; forgive my seeming roughness at parting; there is something in the farewell shake of hands that often breaks me down and makes me seem other than I am." My letter from Rudyard Kipling has in it the sentence, "I was a chorister once, but somehow they managed to agree to get on without me after a while." Samuel Smiles, of Self-Help, etc., writes, 1891, "I think nothing the less of you because you are a Dominie. You have a great mission for training the intellects and hearts of the coming generation. I hope you are kind to the children. My Dominie, he was a hard man, though he had favourites; told me I was only fit 'to sweep the streets of my native borough,' and threatened to 'dash my brains against the wall.' This was his ordinary way of speaking of those who were not his favourites. But I understand that he became better as he grew older. Still he left a very bad taste in my mouth." Leigh Hunt writes a kind letter to a budding poet with the postscript, "Send your sonnets by all means to periodicals, but have no mercy in them on superfluous words." With equal kindness Southey writes to Mr. Ragg in 1835, "I do not remember to have seen a more beautiful little piece than 'Why Does the Sun Go Down?' It ought to find its way into all popular selections." Southey wrote out for Lady Sitwell, in 1813, "The March to Moscow." From these kindly letters let us turn to Robert Lowe: "I am a candidate for the Greek Professorship of Glasgow ... a most excellent appointment, and one which above all I should be anxious to obtain.... My chance is not a bad one, as there is no candidate with whom they are content, and to me there is no objection except my politics, and they are, you know, not very furious or indeed in any way practical principles to me.... This is the fairest chance that has ever offered to me of making myself independent and affluent for the rest of my life. It is one of the few appointments I am able to fill." This was written in 1838. In 1851 he writes to the same person, "I am a candidate for the Chair of Political Economy at Oxford. I have every hope of success as my reception in Oxford has been very flattering.... The contest seems to lie between me and Neate of Oriel, a very good man, I believe, but not very popular." Another politician, John Bright, wrote in 1865, "I fear it would not suit your object for any Englishman to interfere in the course that may be taken in reference to Jeff Davis. I have privately said all I can or ought to say, and from what I hear I incline to think that he will escape the punishment which so many men have suffered for crimes of infinitely less guilt. I am opposed to capital punishment for political or social crimes." Autographs from Prime Ministers include the Duke of Portland, "Your Parishioner named Bradley tried to usurp one of my houses. I do not consider that an amiable weakness," and Lord Salisbury, La Donna e Mobile, given to a lady during an important conversation, when she asked for his autograph. Lord Rosebery heads his letter "Waterloo Day." Mr. Gladstone shows his kindly feeling for Sir Stafford Northcote, but from Melbourne onwards the Prime Ministers content themselves with few words. So does Thackeray, "Dear Sir or Madam—Where does Mr. Ritchie live with whom I dine in 2 hours. Please tell." John Hay says "our visit to Eton will be for Helen and me one of our pleasantest memories of England." Eton is again mentioned by Mr. Justice Coleridge writing to his relation there, one of the masters, "I should like very much to know whether there is any prospect of the College making any movement towards changes." Eton does not like changes; to parody Lord Curzon's motto, "Let Eton hold what Eton held," is as true now as in the past. I will conclude with a pathetic letter from Matthew Arnold, "I lead such a bothered and hard-driven life that I forget what I wrote in better days." I wonder if he remembered writing in an autograph book:

Of little threads our life is spun,

And he spins ill who misses one.

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES AND NEWS

Correspondence from readers on all subjects of bibliographical interest is invited. The Editor will, to the best of his ability, answer all queries addressed to him.

GENERAL NOTES

THE Christie-Miller sale at Messrs. Sotheby's, postponed from November 28th to December 16th, realised the enormous total of £110,356, thus more than doubling the previous "record" for a single day's book-sale achieved at the Yates-Thompson sale last summer, the total of which was £52,000. The great majority of the items were acquired by Mr. G. D. Smith, the American buyer, who seemed to have learnt to think so imperially about book prices that very few English dealers or collectors were able to compete with him. For the most part the bidding resolved itself into a duel between Mr. Smith and Mr. Quaritch, Mr. Smith being almost invariably the victor.

*      *      *      *      *

The highest price for a single lot—the highest price ever given for a single book or manuscript—was £15,100, which was paid for the minute vellum-bound volume containing Venus and Adonis, The Passionate Pilgrim, and Epigrammes and Elegies, by J. D. (Sir John Davies) and C. M. (Christopher Marlowe). The Venus and Adonis is the only copy known of the fourth edition of the poem; six copies of the first three editions exist, all of which are in public libraries. The Passionate Pilgrim is one of the three known copies of the first edition (1599), while only two or three copies are known to exist of the Epigrammes and Elegies, published at Middleborough (? 1598).

*      *      *      *      *

Other Elizabethan books fetched very large prices. Greene's Arbasto (1584), a unique copy, went for £820; Gwydonius (1584) for £770; Morando (1584) for £680; Planetomachia (1585) for £900; and the unique copy of A Quip for an Upstart Courtier (1592) for £1200. A copy of Tottel's Miscellany, second edition, fetched £2400; Nash's Unfortunate Traveller (1594), £680; and the first edition of The Paradyse of Dainty Devises, £1700. Copies of the Arcadia (1590) and of Astrophel and Stella (circa 1595) were sold for £1000 and £2700 respectively.

*      *      *      *      *

The other Shakespeare lots were sold at less astonishing figures. A copy of the First Folio, slightly defective, sold for £2300; £2400 was given for a fine copy of the Third Folio, Much Ado About Nothing, the Quarto of 1600, sold for £2200; and The True Tragedie of Richard the Third, the anonymous play used by Shakespeare in producing his own Richard III., for £2000.

*      *      *      *      *

The Heber Collection of broadsheets and ballads was purchased by Mr. Smith for £6400. This collection, comprising eighty-eight pieces, is a portion of the great collection, a larger collection, half of which passed, under the terms of Mr. Huth's will, to the British Museum. It contains many pieces of remarkable beauty and interest.

*      *      *      *      *

Other interesting items in the sale were three minor works of the "Laureate," John Skelton, printed by Pynson, the three bound together in a single volume, which was bought for £1780; the Amoretti and Epithalamium of Spenser (1595), £1200; The Shepheardes Calendar (1579), £1280; Reynard the Fox (Caxton, 1481), £5900; The Cordyale, or the Four Last Things (Caxton, 1479), £1900; Tullye of Old Age (Caxton, 1481), £1800; Gray's Elegy (1751), £750; Paradise Lost (1667), £460.

*      *      *      *      *

This sale marks the triumph and the reduction to the absurd of book-collecting. The absurdity of picture-dealing is already manifest; prices have long ceased to have the least relation to the merit of the work purchased. It is out of mere snobisme and not from any love of art that people will give fifty thousand pounds for a picture by a second-rate eighteenth-century artist. The same spirit has invaded the book-collecting world. The amateur who collects books out of a genuine love of literature had better retire as gracefully as he may. There is no place for him in the topsy-turvy universe where fifteen thousand pounds is paid for a little volume of poems. One left the sale with a curious feeling of bewilderment and indignation, almost vowing that one would never look at an old book again.

*      *      *      *      *

The centenary of George Eliot was celebrated at Messrs. Hodgsons' by the sale of a first edition of Scenes of Clerical Life, a fine uncut copy. It went for £17. The library of the late James Nicol Dunn was disposed of at the same rooms. Mr. Dunn was a journalist whose career included the editorship of the Morning Post and that of the Johannesburg Star. In earlier years—he always retained some flavour of that association—he was Henley's assistant on the National Observer. He was thus in a position to obtain books, manuscripts, and autograph letters which have since become valuable. His Edinburgh set of Stevenson (accompanied by a note from Charles Baxter, "Louis will have nett complete about £5200 over this") went for £65, and a set of the Scots Observer and National Observer for £47. An inscribed copy of Whistler's Gentle Art of Making Enemies sold for ten guineas, and three first editions, with letters, of John Davidson £5—which suggests that Davidson is at last getting a little notice from collectors.

*      *      *      *      *

Among the autographs were several corrected proofs and typescripts of Mr. Kipling's. A freely corrected typescript of Tomlinson fetched £81, the MS. of Fuzzy-Wuzzy £50. Three manuscript poems of Henley's, with a letter from Mr. Yeats thrown in, brought only £6 10s. Still more surprising was the sale of Mr. Yeats's MS. of The Lake Isle of Innisfree, with another, for £5 15s. In a sale on the following day a first edition of The Shropshire Lad turned up: it was sold for £4.

*      *      *      *      *

The Arbury Library, a portion of which is to be sold at Sotheby's on January 22nd, has an interest apart from the high rarity of many of the books which are to be sold; for these found their way to Arbury, not at the fancy of any individual collector of rare volumes—none of the Newdigates have been great book-collectors in this modern sense—but simply as current literature of the period in which they were published. The First Folio Shakespeare, for instance, which is described as "probably the largest available," has been at Arbury since 1660, when it belonged to Serjeant Newdegate, who was Chief Justice under Cromwell and was made a Baronet at the Restoration; and it is likely that it came into his possession or into that of the elder brother whom he succeeded soon after its publication in 1623. Sir Richard Newdegate's mother was Anne Fitton, sister to Mary Fitton, Queen Elizabeth's frolicsome and wayward maid-of-honour, whom a modern edition of Shakespeare's Sonnets has sought to identify with the Dark Lady. Family papers at Arbury give no support to the late Mr. Tyler's theory, and Mary Fitton's portraits there show her to have been fair rather than dark. It is probable that some of the volumes which are to be sold at Sotheby's were at Arbury when Mary Fitton found a home there with her sister, Lady Newdigate, after her disgrace at Court. No one whose interest in old books lies in their character, their history, and their associations rather than in the price which they may fetch under the hammer can fail to regret the fate by which these precious volumes are at length taken from the home in which they have stood side by side for some three centuries.

*      *      *      *      *

Sounds unheard are the sweetest, and the books that were never written and the books that once existed and have been lost are by far the world's best books. Those chapters on Chambermaids and Buttonholes would have been the most amusing in Tristram Shandy; Milton's epic on King Arthur, great and glorious in itself, would also have nipped The Idylls of the King in the bud, thus earning our gratitude as well as our admiration. The lost books of the Satyricon were the best things Petronius ever wrote, and the vanished poems of Sappho—one dare not think of them.

And now we have news of yet another little work that has joined the great army of the lost. But not, we hope, for ever; for the volume can hardly fail to turn up some time, sooner or later, in some bookseller's shop or some collector's library. The history of this lost volume is not uninteresting, and we propose to quote at some length from an account of it furnished by the owner, Miss E. M. Green, of Modbury, Ivy Bridge, South Devon:

"In 1913 a MS. book fell into my hands, thought first to be a manuscript of Little Gidding, which proved, however, to be the work of the Rev. Richard White, Chaplain to the English nuns of St. Monica in Louvain from 1630 to 1687. This I published with Messrs. Longmans under the title of Celestial Fire. This volume contains in the preface an account of these Louvain Manuscripts, which are singularly beautiful specimens of seventeenth-century script. Consequent on this publication, the community of St. Augustine's Priory, Newton Abbot, who fled to England during the French Revolution, sent me a similar manuscript, Cordial Prayer, to be published also. It was a leather volume, 4 inches by 2¾ inches, 1 inch in depth, bound in holland with quaint brass clasps, and the top of the pages was a beautiful blue. Taking it from the inspection of the Keeper of MSS., British Museum, and from the MSS. Room home with me, I found on entering an omnibus in Sloane Street that I had lost it. It was tied in white paper with my address on the outside."

All efforts have so far, Miss Green tells us, proved unavailing, and no word can be heard of the lost volume. Perhaps some of our readers may have seen or heard of this interesting little manuscript.

*      *      *      *      *

The hand-press and type used by the late Dr. Daniel in the production of the well-known Daniel editions have been presented by Mrs. Daniel to the Bodleian Library. The press has now been set up in the Picture Gallery of the Library with the chase, containing the last pages set up, still in place. A small collection of some of the more interesting books printed on it has been arranged on an adjoining table.

*      *      *      *      *

We recently had the fortune to come across a copy of that very interesting edition of Louise Labé's works, published at Lyons in 1824. Printed at the expense of a local literary society, the edition was limited to 600 copies, a number of which were printed on coloured paper. Our copy was one of the four "coquille rose." One copy exists in which the colour of the paper varies at every sheet.

ITEMS FROM THE BOOKSELLERS' CATALOGUES

Collectors interested in the Restoration Drama will find much in Messrs. Pickering and Chatto's catalogue to engage their attention. Sir William Davenant is represented by First Editions of The Siege of Rhodes (1656), The Cruell Brother (1630), The Unfortunate Lovers (1643). A copy of the first collected edition of Davenant's Works (1673) is offered for sale by Mr. Francis Edwards. Aureng-Zebe (1676), the opera King Arthur (1691), and The Duke of Guise (1683) are all first editions of Dryden. Pordage's Siege of Babylon (first edition, 1678) is priced at £4 4s.; Sir Charles Sedley's Antony and Cleopatra (1677) at £8 8s. Shadwell is well represented by his Virtuoso (first edition, 1676), a comedy that was regrettably not included in the "Mermaid" series reprint of the dramatist's works, The Lancashire Witches (1682), and Bury Fair (1689).

*      *      *      *      *

There are moments when one's literary sense gets the better of one's purely bibliophilous instinct—moments when a profound irritation seizes one that people should be so stupid as to collect books because they are rare and not because they are worth reading. One wonders, for instance, if human labour and ingenuity might not be expended in some more profitable undertaking than the compilation of a catalogue of about one hundred-and-fifty editions of The Picture of Dorian Gray, bibliographically described. Collectors of the works of that second-rate literary man who was the author of this Dorian Gray may be interested to hear that this catalogue is at present being prepared at "The Bungalow," 8 Abercorn Place, London, N.W.8, where they will also find a number of Wilde's books, in every kind and shape of edition, for sale.

*      *      *      *      *

A curiosity of 1890 literature, in the shape of The Blue Calendar: Praises of Twelve Saints, written by John Gray, may also be seen at "The Bungalow." This little book, by the author of Silverpoints, was privately printed at 92 Mount Street in 1896, and may be bought for two guineas.

A. L. H.

CORRESPONDENCE

SURTEES

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—In your admirable columns on Bibliography A. L. H. writes (November issue): "It is interesting to note what high prices the works of Surtees can always command." They certainly do; but is it not Leech rather than Surtees who gives them their value?

Handley Cross is doubtless immortal because of the creation of Jorrocks and James Pigg, the best portrait of the hard-riding, reckless, witty Northumbrian since Shakespeare's Hotspur, but Plain or Ringlets, Ask Mamma, and the rest are surely only valuable on account of Leech's illustrations?

I imagine that the original Handley Cross, in three volumes, 1843, London, will not fetch as much as the later and expanded Handley Cross, with Leech's illustrations, published London, 1854.

I have recently inherited a set of the five Surtees-cum-Leech issue (usually styled first editions), and I am in doubt as to what to insure them for in view of the present high prices.

Still more so in the case of other still greater treasures: early Aldines, Jensons, first editions Jonson, Spencer, Milton, etc., but above and beyond all in the case of a first folio Shakespeare, a splendid copy and intact.

According to Sir Sidney Lee, out of 140 known copies twenty only are "perfect" (with Shakespeare's portrait printed on title-page), other twenty are intact (with portrait inlaid), and the remaining 100 are all deficient in one way or another.

Well, suppose by some dreadful dispensation my library was burned down and this gem consumed, what would it cost to procure another?

My bookseller tells me to insure it for £1500, but would this procure another?

I feel certain it would not. What, then, is the proper insurance?—Yours, etc.,

A PURSUER OF BOOKS AND FOXES.

[We certainly think that figure far too low, but the prices of first folios vary greatly. Perhaps some reader can give insurance information.—EDITOR.]

AMERICAN POETRY

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—The writer of your "Letter from America," in the December number, commits himself to the astonishing statement that "Mr. Nicholas Vachel Lindsay is the one American writer of verse whose work shows signs of genius." Such a statement should not pass unchallenged. It is as if an American writer, visiting England, were to remark that Mr. Rudyard Kipling is the only English writer of verse with signs of genius. The parallel is quite exact. Lindsay has the same free-and-easy facility, the same preference for ragtime rhythms, the same tone of vulgar optimism, the same desire to preach a gospel, as the author of Mandalay. The only difference is that Lindsay is rather more limited in his range, if anything. He has never succeeded in doing but one type of poem—the ragtime exhortation. To say that he and he alone in America shows genius is preposterous.

What about Robert Frost, whose work and influence were paramount in the development of Edward Thomas?—a fact admitted by a recent biographer. What about Edwin Arlington Robinson, a poet who comes nearer to Hardy than anyone in America? What about Conrad Aiken, Carl Sandburg, Wallace Stevens, Alfred Kreymborg, Maxwell Bodenheim? All of these authors have shown signs of genius, each in an entirely different and quite individual way. They have not repeated themselves into tedious stereotype as the magazine writers of vers libre, or as Mr. Lindsay has. Without any desire to belittle Mr. Lindsay's clever but superficial talent, I should respectfully suggest to "R. E. C." that some of his remarks about the conventionality of American writers apply very strongly to Lindsay. They do not apply to the men I have just mentioned.—Yours, etc.,

JOHN GOULD FLETCHER.

37 Crystal Palace Park Road, Sydenham.

TAM HTAB

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—May I point out what seems to me a very curious literary coincidence?

In No. 2 Mr. L. Pearsall Smith, in his delightful collection of "Misadventures," describes "a cabalistic inscription written in letters of large menace on my bath-room floor. TAM HTAB ... Like Belshazzar ... my knees smote one against the other. It was ... BATH MAT, lying there wrong side up."

In the second chapter of Forster's Life of Dickens, among some notes on the hardships of Dickens' childhood, the novelist himself thus describes a coffee shop in St. Martin's Lane: "In the door there was an oval glass-plate, with COFFEE ROOM painted on it.... If I ever find myself in a very different kind of coffee-room now, but where there is such an inscription on glass, and read it backward on the wrong side MOOR EEFFOC (as I often used to do then, in a dismal reverie), a shock goes through my blood."—Yours, etc.,

J. J. BIGGS.

70 West Side, Clapham.

[These public inscriptions are responsible for much distress. There was a woman named Jones who had her child christened Nosmo King, having been taken by those names on two glass doors, which stood open. When she passed again the doors were drawn together.—EDITOR.]

SENSIBLE AT BOTTOM

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—May I point out a small inaccuracy in Mr. Shanks's exceedingly interesting essay on Samuel Butler? Mr. Shanks writes, "It is possible to remark of him (Butler), adapting the remark made of Dr. Johnson, that he may have been very sensible at bottom." The passage in Boswell referred to, I think, is a remark made by Johnson of a "printer's devil" who had married a "very respectable author."—Yours, etc.,

A. H. SCOTT.

Kelstone, Charterhouse, Godalming.

December 15th, 1919.

SOME CORRECTIONS

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—The LONDON MERCURY sets so refreshing a standard of English, by precept, and still more by example, that it is with some temerity that I venture (1) a correction, (2) a criticism, and (3) a query.

1. Major and minor Elizabethan and "Georgian" poets receive full and correct designation. Could not the same be spared for Canon Ottley, of Oxford, who on p. 128 appears as Attley? It might be granted in recognition of his Chancellor's Prize for Latin Verse, the award of which demands, I imagine, a certain measure of poetical feeling in addition to the mathematically stressed rhythms of our schooldays.

2. There may be subtle and political humour intended in the word dignatories (p. 236), but with my last breath I would protest the better (and only) spelling to be "dignitaries," take it derivatively or euphonically as you will.

3. Is the sentence considerable interest has been evinced at the large majority (p. 235) English at all? Should it not be either:

"Considerable interest has been evinced in the ..." Or

"Considerable interest has been evinced by the ..."?

But here, like Rosa Dartle, I merely ask for information—not being a competent grammarian—and leave it to fair judgment.

Could you not follow up the article on "Particles" with one on "Split Infinitives"? We were always taught that they were the unforgivable sin. Yet I have just found two unblushing examples in one of Mr. Thomas Hardy's novels. If he may use them, why may not the children in our village school?—Yours, etc.,

C. A. TAIT.

Meopham, Kent.

December 13th, 1919.

[In answer to the first and second charges we plead guilty to misprints; the third error was due to a slip of the pen.—EDITOR.]

JOHN THOMSON OF DUDDINGSTON

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—A material error occurs in the review of my book, John Thomson of Duddingston, in your journal for December. The price is given as 42s., whereas the published price is 31s. 6d. net; edition de luxe, £3 3s. net. The correct title of the book is: John Thomson of Duddingston, Landscape Painter; with some Remarks on the Practice, Purpose, and Philosophy of Art. Some reviewers express a high opinion on the latter department of my book; the full title ought, therefore, to be given—in justice to the volume.—Yours, etc.,

ROBERT W. NAPIER.

26 Bruntsfield Place, Edinburgh.

THE MOON

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—I do not know whether the scope of your "Correspondence" pages is intended to admit small criticisms of the original pieces of poetry and imaginative prose which you publish. If it is, I would beg leave to offer two perhaps niggling comments upon The Moon.

(1) In Stanza 22, "Emperor" is a fine word and perhaps inevitable: but would it be merely pedantic to remind the poet that when Bonaparte was in Egypt in 1798 he was not yet Emperor, nor even First Consul?

(2) In Stanza 30, eighth line, does not grammar require the reading "but thee" instead of "but thou"? "But" here is a preposition, not a conjunction—in spite of the "Boy on the Burning Deck." Burns (I think) has a line somewhere that clearly shows the true usage:

"Live but thee I canna——"

i.e., "without thee." I do not think "but" in such a phrase can rightly be construed as merely equivalent to "and not."—Yours, etc.,

A. F. G.

December 12th, 1919.

BOOKS OF THE MONTH

POETRY

POEMS, 1916–1918. By FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG. Collins. 5s. net.

Mr. Brett Young's Marching on Tanga was the best written of all the books produced during the war by men on active service. Its imaginative quality and the charm of its style were no surprise to those who knew his early novels, of which The Dark Tower was the most notable. It has been succeeded by two other prose works, The Crescent Moon, an African story, the melodrama of which is veiled by the beautiful descriptive writing, and The Young Physician, a more naturalistic essay which was noticed in our first number. Unobtrusively, amid these other activities, he published two or three years ago a little book of verses, Five Degrees South; and in this new volume are gathered the contents of that book and the poems that their author has written more recently.

The volume is characteristically Georgian. There are hints, here and there, of musings which may develop into a general conception of the universe and of man; there are points of contact with the problems which vex the reflective spirit. But, generally speaking, Mr. Brett Young is content to sing, briefly and with deep feeling, of a few things securely loved: and those points of contact are points of departure. He writes of England—friends, landscapes, and a woman—before he leaves England. When he is in Africa the blood and struggle, the fell tropical scenery, seem but to make acuter the response to the England that is lost; and when he comes home again he sings again of home recovered and loved with a new intensity. The Gift gives the keynote of the book:

Marching on Tanga, marching the parch'd plain,

Of wavering spear-grass past Pangani River,

England came to me—me who had always ta'en

But never given before—England, the giver,

In a vision of three poplar-trees that shiver

On still evenings of summer, after rain,

By Slapton Ley, where reed-beds start and quiver

When scarce a ripple moves the upland grain.

Then I thanked God that now I had suffered pain,

And, as the parch'd plain, thirst, and lain awake

Shivering all night through till cold daybreak.

In that I count these sufferings my gain,

And her acknowledgment. Nay, more, would fain

Suffer as many more for her sweet sake.

That is from Africa, where he rides through marshes swarming with cruel life and admires the sickly beauty of the fever tree, but always as an alien. Then he returns:

I saw a thrush light on a hawthorn spray,

One moment only, spilling creamy blossom,

While the bough bent beneath her speckled bosom,

Bent, and recovered, and she fluttered away.

The branch was still; but in my heart, a pain

Than the thorn'd spray more cruel stabbed me, only

Remembering days in a far land and lonely,

When I had never hoped for summer again.

All his deepest feelings—patriotism, love, friendship—are interwoven with natural beauty. In Testament he leaves to his friend the common memory of a summer in the Cotswolds: sunlight on the gables of Evesham, a boat on the cool water of Avon, sunsets over Bredon, evening stocks and the scent of hay; and in the most eloquent close, putting the most beautiful scenes of earth behind him to sing of spiritual beauty, he lingers on them to describe them. But his descriptions are always prompted and suffused by emotion: like Brooke in The Happy Lover and Mr. Masefield in Biography, he catalogues the scenes, the fields, trees, flowers, and faces that live sweetly in his memory, and his affection is communicated. He is poles away from the "careful nature poet" who makes a neat drawing of anything that at all interests him. Emotion selects his subjects; he does not manufacture. He writes clearly too and unaffectedly. Except in Thamar—the most ambitious poem in the book, but promising a greater success than it achieves—he is never obscure for a moment. And his simplicity of expression conceals a good deal of technical effort. The longer pieces—such as The Leaning Elm—are elaborately musical, and an examination of the first poem quoted above will reveal studied, though not obtrusive, assonances and internal rhymes which show that Mr. Brett Young (it might be deduced elsewhere from his metres) has not read his Bridges in vain. There is scarcely a bad poem in the book, or one without an interest peculiar to itself. Several beyond those we have mentioned—the best are the exquisite Prothalamion and Invocation—are to be found in the recent Georgian book. The poem on prehistoric remains on the battlefield might well have been added, and Bête Humaine:

Riding through Ruwu swamp, about sunrise,

I saw the world awake; and as the ray

Touched the tall grasses where they dream till day,

Lo, the bright air alive with dragonflies,

With brittle wings aquiver, and great eyes

Piloting crimson bodies, slender and gay.

I aimed at one, and struck it, and it lay

Broken and lifeless, with fast-fading dyes.

Then my soul sickened with a sudden pain

And horror, at my own careless cruelty,

That where all things are cruel I had slain

A creature whose sweet life it is to fly:

Like beasts that prey with bloody claw: Nay, they

Must slay to live, but what excuse had I?

This is a book which excites great curiosity about its author's future; but at present his verse, beautiful as it is, lacks energy.

COLLECTED POEMS OF THOMAS HARDY. Macmillan. 8s. 6d. net.

RUDYARD KIPLING'S VERSE: INCLUSIVE EDITION, 1885–1918. Three vols. Hodder & Stoughton. 63s. net.

It is always a satisfaction to have in one volume—or in two or three uniform volumes—the verses of a poet which we have previously had to search for in self-contained books. The publication of a collected edition of Mr. Hardy's poems is welcome for another reason. In the last few years his reputation as a poet—quite apart from the fact that he has continued, right up to his eightieth year, to produce novel and beautiful work—has greatly increased. Critics may now be found who even hold that Mr. Hardy's chief claim to greatness will rest, in the eyes of posterity, upon his poems (including The Dynasts) rather than upon those novels which in themselves made him one of the two or three most conspicuous writers of his generation. But even now we do not think that his stature as a poet is widely realised, the volume and quality of his poetical work generally known: and there will probably be many who, in perusing this "collected" volume, will be struck for the first time with the fact that here alone, leaving all the prose out of the question, is work sufficient, and sufficiently good, to place its author among the greatest English writers of the last century. There are hundreds of pages of short poems, some of them exquisitely beautiful, and all of them so direct and fresh that even the most faulty are worth having. Faults—though we might rather call them idiosyncrasies—Mr. Hardy certainly has. His language is sometimes bald and sometimes cumbrous; his consistent pessimism sometimes leads him, in the dramatic poems, to extremes of deliberate gloom. But can we regret a sad philosophy which has enabled a sweet and sensitive spirit to shine with such uninterrupted brightness amid that gloom? And can we regret a habit of phraseology which has enabled Mr. Hardy to win some of his greatest technical triumphs (for he makes music out of scientific or journalistic words which would ruin an ordinary lyrist) and which will probably have direct results in the way of enlarging the poetic vocabulary, which is in constant need of oxygenation? It is inevitable that a collected edition in one volume should be printed in smaller type than is entirely comfortable, and the text of this edition is not so attractive as that of the separate volumes. But it is all here, and when the reader compares the volume to some of its companion Macmillan collections (Clough, for instance, falls into nothingness) he comprehends that in the history of English literature Mr. Hardy will rank above many of the supposedly established classics. He is a great poet.

The Kipling collection is luxuriously got up, but unfortunately the covers are not all they might be, and the reader is irritated throughout by the presence on the top of every right-hand page of "Inclusive Edition" in large black capitals. Mr. Kipling would show up far better in a selection than in a complete edition, so much of his verse is at best vigorous journalism. Were a good selection made we believe that some of those who depreciate him would admit for the first time that he has a fine poet in him; a collected edition merely shows that he does not know the poet in him from the rhymer. The greater one's admiration for his best work the greater the irritation one sustains when reading through the great body of his jingling journalism and pompous sermonising. Had he written nothing but the Ballad of East and West, the songs from Puck and a few more he would be as well remembered as he will be now with all this mass of versification to his name.

WHEELS 1919: A FOURTH CYCLE. Blackwell. 6s. net.

The end-papers of this volume bear a charming design of athletes throwing darts at targets, and it is to be observed that no one of them as yet has hit the bull's-eye. We do not know if the symbolism was deliberate, but it is apt, for the volume is full of potshots so wayward that we are usually uncertain as to which target these erratic slingers wish to hit. Music at least is not desired: most of the verses consist of strings of statements—if they are not disconnected the connections between them are not apparent to us—interesting neither severally nor jointly, and entirely without beauty of sound. Miss Edith Sitwell's verses, though incomprehensible, contain a good deal of vivid detail, pleasant because it reminds us of bright pictures. There is one poem by the late Wilfred Owen (Strange Meeting) which has a powerful, sombre beginning:

It seemed that out of the battle I escaped

Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped,

Through granites which Titanic wars had groined.

Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,

Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.

Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared

With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,

Lifting distressful hands as if to bless.

And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall.

With a thousand fears that vision's face was grained;

Yet no blood reached here from the upper ground,

And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.

"Strange, friend," I said. "Here is no cause to mourn."

"None," said the other. "Save the undone years,

The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,

Was my life also."

There are several other poems by him which have all the earnestness, and much of the force, of Mr. Sassoon's illustrations of the beastly cruelty of war. But the one poet included who is always arousing interest and curiosity is Mr. Aldous Huxley. Mr. Huxley, when these poems were written (though, in Leda, he seems already to be partly recovering), seems to have been in the same sort of revulsion against sentimentality as Rupert Brooke was in when his first book was being composed. He is anxious that we should not overlook the facts that there are noisome smells in the world, that many people are disgusting to see, and that even the most touching episode may be interrupted by an eructation: though, unlike Brooke, he does not usually even try to sing. There is something very familiar about the restaurant poem:

What negroid holiday makes free

With such priapic revelry?

What songs? What gongs? What nameless rites?

What gods like wooden stalagmites?

What reeking steam of kidney pie?

What blasts of Bantu melody?

Ragtime ... but when the wearied band

Swoons to a waltz, I take her hand,

And there we sit in blissful calm,

Quietly sweating palm to palm.

There is always strength about Mr. Huxley's epithets: he observes accurately and his language is hard, clear, and original. He conveys his unpleasing ruminations with such force that in several places we were incommoded by a rising in our gorge. But it is not in order to obtain sensations of that kind that we read poetry, and we shall not in idle hours beguile our leisure by repeating over and over the much-loved syllables of The Betrothal of Priapus. Mr. Huxley can see things with his own eyes, and has a powerful intelligence, and when he has discovered something to write about he may become a very good poet.

GENERAL WILLIAM BOOTH ENTERS INTO HEAVEN, AND OTHER POEMS. By NICHOLAS VACHEL LINDSAY. With an Introduction by ROBERT NICHOLS. Chatto & Windus. 5s. net.

Mr. Vachel Lindsay is best known as the author of poems, notably poems inspired by negro camp-meetings, which are meant for recitation; they have intoxicating rhythms and the language full of gusto. The Congo, The Daniel Jazz, and others should certainly be introduced to the British public, and perhaps Messrs. Chatto propose to follow up this volume with another containing Mr. Lindsay's later work. It is a pity, however, that the present collection should have come first, for it contains little that is characteristic of Mr. Lindsay at his best, and little, therefore, that will show readers here how good he can be. The title-poem, though not as good as some of its successors, is the only one now published which shows what Mr. Lindsay can do. It describes the entrance of the late General Booth into Paradise at the head of the motley army whom he has saved:

Booth led boldly with his big bass drum—

(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)

The Saints smiled gravely and they said "He's come—

(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)

Walking lepers followed, rank on rank,

Lurching bravoes from the ditches dank,

Drabs from the alleyways and drug fiends pale—

Minds still passion-ridden, soul-powers frail:

Vermin-eaten saints with mouldy breath,

Unwashed legions with the ways of Death—

(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)

The other poems are far more ordinary in form and banal in language. Mr. Lindsay, at this stage, was writing like other people, and his verse was redeemed from commonplaceness only by its sincerity and high spirits. He is an "uplifter" who is as jovial as Falstaff; he is probably the only poet on record, except Shelley, to be a teetotaller, and certainly the only one to take an active part in an anti-Saloon campaign. The second best poem in this book is an elegy, in couplets, on O. Henry; an elegy both romantic and truthful. Of the others an address to the U.S. Senate is decidedly racy. A senator whom Mr. Lindsay regarded as undesirable was elected. His verses on the occasion begin:

And must the Senator from Illinois

Be this squat thing, with blinking, half-closed eyes?

This brazen gutter idol, reared to power

Upon a leering pyramid of lies?

That is what met the eyes of the newly-elected when he opened his local paper on the morning after the poll.

A TREASURY OF WAR POETRY, BRITISH AND AMERICAN POEMS OF THE WORLD WAR: 1914–1919. Edited by GEORGE HERBERT CLARKE. Hodder & Stoughton. 10s. 6d. net.

If this be a treasury it contains not merely gold and silver, but copper, nickel, Britannia metal, brass, and lead. Even if all the good poems inspired by the war were brought together they would not make a book of over four hundred closely-printed pages. Mr. Clarke is Professor of English in the University of Tennessee. His collection, amongst those who are sufficiently undiscriminating to like it, may promote Anglo-American friendship; if it does it will have justified its existence. Otherwise its only value consists in its reproduction of certain poems which are not, we think, to be found elsewhere. We believe that the Poet Laureate's Wounded (which appeared in the Times) is one of these. It is a very lusty poem inspired by Trafalgar Square in sunshine: wounded lads lolling by the lions and Nelson standing above. It ends:

The gentle unjealous Shakespeare, I trow,

In his country grave of peaceful fame,

Must feel exiled from life and glow,

If he thinks of this man with his warrior claim,

Who looketh on London as if 'twere his own

As he standeth in stone, aloft and alone,

Sailing the sky, with one arm and one eye.

This poem—it is not the only one—was overlooked by those who were recently yelping at Mr. Bridges for having written nothing about the war.

NOVELS

CHILDREN OF NO MAN'S LAND. By G. B. STERN. Duckworth. 7s. net,

SIR LIMPIDUS. By MARMADUKE PICKTHALL. Collins. 7s. net.

NIGHT AND DAY. By VIRGINIA WOOLF. Duckworth. 7s. net.

THE POWER OF A LIE. By JONAS BOJER. Hodder & Stoughton. 7s. net.

GOLD AND IRON. By JOSEPH HERGESHEIMER. Heinemann. 7s. net.

The question how far the novel can be, or should be, a criticism of society, not of life in Arnold's sense, but of the forms in which life manifests itself at given times and places, is one that has been discussed but is never likely to find a general settlement. There will always be purists, of the "art for art's sake" order, who will maintain that the discussion or even the exposition, as such, of practical social problems is out of place in fiction. There will always be those who maintain, as did Mr. H. G. Wells some years ago, that "if the novel is to be recognised as something more than a relaxation, it has ... to be kept free from the restrictions imposed upon it by the fierce pedantries of those who would define a general form for it"—writers and critics, in fact, who, like Mr. Wells himself, are prepared to use the novel as a means to any practical end, whether transient or eternal, of which at the moment it seems capable. Nor is it particularly desirable that any such settlement should be arrived at; but the dispute suggests a distinction which has some usefulness. Mr. Wells has picked up, with the forceps of fiction, and examined by turns politics, religion, education, and the relations between the sexes. Mr. Bennett, portraying modern society of all kinds no less closely, has no special suggestion to make to this age or this civilisation: his lesson, if his books contain one, is of universal applicability. Mr. Conrad, so unlike him in all else, is with him in this. Mr. Conrad, the novelist, has no views on the treatment of subject races or the reform of the merchant marine. These two are of the older tradition: for the novel dealing with social questions is a thing of comparatively recent growth. Formerly only one artist was allowed, and even expected, to be didactic—that artist in whom to-day preaching is most bitterly resented, namely, the poet. He was the bard, the seer, the prophet, who thundered out of a cloud and instructed the nation. The dramatist and the novelist were by comparison mere providers of entertainment and were required at most to give their work a flavour of good morals as a proof of decent intentions. The drama led the way; and, in the hands of Ibsen and his disciples, it became an instrument for the examination of topical problems. The novel soon followed suit, so that we are now confronted with a category of works of fiction in which the divided aim by no means destroys all artistic interest.

Such a book, in a high degree, is Miss Stern's Children of No Man's Land, which examines alternately the position of naturalised Germans and their families in England during the war and the position of those members of the younger generation who have been left by parental indulgence to drift between the enforced morality, which is spared them, and the easy immorality, from which their instincts withhold them. In both cases the meaning of No Man's Land is perfectly clear. It is the barren and abhorred territory in which wander those who are rejected by both the contending nations; and it is the land of the demi-vierges or, as Miss Stern somewhat awkwardly calls them, "the demi-maids." Both problems are clearly presented and examined; but it is not obvious what purpose is served by thus combining them and giving to them a common symbolism, or by making a brother suffer in one tract, while his sister strays in the other. They are not problems in the same category or on the same plane; and their alternate treatment here hardly conduces to continuity or clarity of thought.

But it must be admitted that Miss Stern, having thus handicapped herself, carries the unnecessary burden with great dexterity. The whole book is written with a hard, brilliant cleverness that never flags and is conducted through a remarkable variety of incidents and with the help of a remarkable variety of characters. The study of the behaviour of the "half-English" during the war has an inherent air of reality and moderation. But it is not on this that Miss Stern lavishes her fullest powers of description and reasoning. She is actually more concerned with the development of Deb Marcus, the beautiful Jewish girl, who is discovered at the opening of the book being kissed by a middle-aged and unattractive German whom she does not like but whom her fear of seeming foolish forbids her to repulse. We leave her in comfortable wedlock declaring that her daughter will be brought up "As strictly as I can, right and wrong, good and bad ... signposts wherever she may stop and wander. I'm going to superintend her morals; I'm going to say 'don't,' and I'm going to ask questions, and forbid her things. And be shocked whenever it's necessary I should be shocked——" "You little reactionary!" her friend replies; and this, in fact, is the plain moral of Miss Stern's book, that modern laxity has rendered reaction necessary. But the moral lesson, however just it may be, would not be acceptable unless it were supported by sound observation or palatable without good writing. Miss Stern provides both these necessities, and her pictures of both the half-worlds are extremely convincing and entertaining. She makes real and keeps distinct a great variety of characters, who, as one thinks over the book, reappear unmistakably in the mind—Manon, the marketable ingénue, daughter of an operatic singer; Antonia Verity, a Diana whose virginity is almost imperceptibly changing into spinsterhood; Winnie, stupid, sluggish and greedy, in whom inconsistent but rigid conventions have quite taken the place of morals, "a jumble of puritanism and prejudice and incurious sensuality," and a host of others. Her men are equally well done, but perhaps with a care less intense and less from the inside. But it is a sign of Miss Stern's thoroughness that both men and women should be there in such numbers, so delicately differentiated, so intricately taking their places in her prolonged and exhaustive argument. If, of course, she had done no more than provide a gallery of typical portraits to prove a thesis, her work would hardly be worth discussing at so much length. But she has managed to avoid the pitfall of the social critic in fiction, and, without ever losing sight of her main purpose, to compose a book in which no passage is mere argument. The story proceeds levelly through all its multifarious scenes, continuing to present incident and character as a novel must do. The skill is perhaps even too great. The reader's attention is sometimes diverted by it; and it must be said that juggling with cups invites praise rather of the juggling than of the china. But, in one way and another, Miss Stern keeps interest vividly alive through a long book, the theme of which is by no means wholly pleasant. Her wit and vivacity are really remarkable; and the conversations of her persons are unusually animated. She is without great depth of feeling or perception. The types with which she deals are shallow; and it is noticeable that the less shallow they are the more she tends to deal with them from the outside. But Children of No Man's Land is nevertheless an admirable performance in a difficult kind.

Sir Limpidus, by Mr. Marmaduke Pickthall, is another essay in social criticism, for which the author has somewhat disappointingly deserted the Levant. His hero is a member of the ruling classes, the son of a wealthy baronet, who is trained from early youth to follow the code of his peers, in evil-doing and well-doing alike. This leads him, by way of public-school and university, one entanglement and another, including a breach of promise case and a suitable marriage, to a seat in the Cabinet and the reverence of his fellow-countrymen. On the last page:

Suddenly he was recalled to London. There was war in Europe and England might at any moment be involved in it. How would the people take it? was the question of the hour. Sir Limpidus was of the opinion that war just then would be a godsend. It would rouse the ancient spirit of the people and dispel their madness. They would once more rally to their natural leaders, who, for their part, would throw off the mantle of frivolity. Even defeat as a united nation would be better than ignoble peace with the anarchic mob supreme.

But Mr. Pickthall's final verdict on Sir Limpidus occurs earlier than this, and is put into the statesman's own mouth or rather mind. Sir Limpidus has delivered an address at his old school, and is told by his disappointed son that "the fellows ... wanted you to talk about yourself, the things you've done, in Parliament and foreign countries, and all that."

"I've not done anything to make a speech about," said Sir Limpidus, after a moment's hesitation.

His triumph as a statesman was not one of doing. It was the natural consequence of being what he was. If it came to doing, he had fought a duel in his youth, and in Albania had assisted to burn down a village. Those incidents in his career were not fit subjects for a speech to schoolboys; and besides them in the way of doing there was nothing but pursuit of women and field sports. So it was with a smile over the double meaning of the words that he repeated: "I've done nothing to make a speech about."

The headmaster, following his distinguished guest, happened to overhear this mild disclaimer, and he laughed aloud, calling his colleagues round him to enjoy the classic joke.

These two extracts will serve better than any analysis to explain both the direction and the method of Mr. Pickthall's satire. It has the doubtful merit (in a satire) of being consistently moderate; and Sir Limpidus, who is never quite a figure of truth, also misses ever being quite a figure of fun. Social criticism on these lines may put forward quite adequately the author's point of view; but unless it has some imaginative vigour it cannot be said to justify the form in which it is cast. Mr. Pickthall's book is a presentation, by means of characters instead of by abstract arguments, of certain lines of thought regarding politics, education, and other questions; and in so far it is an essay in the same genre as Miss Stern's novel. Where it differs is in the fact that the lines of thought have remained to the author incomparably more interesting than the means of their presentation. These figures are painted in the flat: they have little imaginative life: and, as a work of creative fiction, the book must be regarded as a failure.

With the remainder of the books on our list, we return to the older tradition of the novel, the tradition which seeks to produce a work of art, the lessons deducible from which (if any) are, roughly, applicable to human nature in general. In this sort, Mrs. Virginia Woolf has written a very extraordinary story. Katharine Hilbery, after much hesitation, engages herself to William Rodney, a precise Civil Servant, who writes plays in verse. He develops doubts of their love simultaneously with hers, and is not sure whether he is not in love with her cousin, Cassandra, as, after some curious experiments in emotionalism, he discovers himself to be. He therefore disengages himself from Katharine and engages himself to Cassandra. Meanwhile Ralph Denham, a brilliant and more vital, if less polished, young man, in love with Katharine, seeing her given to William, proposes to Mary Datchet, who loves him but refuses him. When Katharine is free he proposes to her and is accepted. This story Mrs. Woolf tells in nearly five hundred-and-fifty pages of fairly close print.

The taste for her writing is decidedly an acquired one; and, as we have proved by experiment, it is possible to read some two hundred pages without acquiring it. But when a certain saturation point is reached, a remarkable change takes place in the reader's sensibility; and what before he thought amazingly tedious and thin-spun he then finds delightful—delightful enough for it to be worth while turning back to the beginning and reading again the two hundred pages which wearied him at the first attempt. Mrs. Woolf has indeed proved a truth which undoubtedly exists but which few writers are capable of establishing, namely, that no character, properly ascertained and portrayed, can ever be uninteresting. It is not by vivacity or humour that she maintains the readableness of her innumerable scenes and conversations. Perhaps the most vivacious passage in the book is the description of Cassandra, as she appears in William's memory:

Cassandra Otway had a very fine taste in music, and he had charming recollections of her in a light fantastic attitude, playing the flute in the morning-room at Stogdon House. He recalled with pleasure the amusing way in which her nose, long like all the Otway noses, seemed to extend itself into the flute, as if she were some inimitably graceful species of musical mole. The little picture suggested very happily her melodious and whimsical temperament.

Mrs. Woolf is not a satirist, not even so much as was Jane Austen; and she avoids humour for its own sake, not so much because she is not capable of it as because that is not here her concern. The outstanding quality of her book is its consistent wealth of minute and accurate observation, both of behaviour and of states of mind, by means of which the persons are at length fully revealed. Extracts from work of this sort are unfortunately, as a rule, not very convincing: it is like a liquid which has no colour when it is seen in a tea-spoon and a great deal when it is seen in a bucket. But a specimen may be given. Here Katharine and Rodney, sitting together in silence, are considering for the first time the possibility of breaking their engagement:

She would have spoken, but could not bring herself to ask him for signs of affection which she had no right to claim. The conviction that he was thus strange to her filled her with despondency, and illustrated quite beyond doubt the infinite loneliness of human beings. She had never felt the truth of this so strongly before. She looked away into the fire; it seemed to her that even physically they were now scarcely within speaking distance, and spiritually there was certainly no human being with whom she could claim comradeship; no dream that satisfied her as she was used to be satisfied; nothing remained in whose reality she could believe, save those abstract ideas—figures, laws, stars, facts, which she could hardly hold to for lack of knowledge and a kind of shame.

When Rodney owned to himself the folly of this prolonged silence and the meanness of such devices, and looked up ready to seek some excuse for a good laugh or opening for a confession, he was disconcerted by what he saw. Katharine seemed equally oblivious of what was bad or of what was good in him. Her expression suggested concentration upon something entirely remote from her surroundings. The carelessness of her attitude seemed to him rather masculine than feminine. His impulse to break up the constraint was chilled, and once more the exasperating sense of his own impotency returned to him. He could not help contrasting Katharine with his vision of the engaging, whimsical Cassandra; Katharine undemonstrative, inconsiderate, silent, and yet so notable that he could never do without her good opinion.

She veered round upon him a moment later, as if, when her train of thought was ended, she became aware of his presence.

This is woven of gossamer threads, and so indeed is the whole novel; but these threads make together a consistent, flexible, and beautiful fabric. There is one further observation that is perhaps worth making. Writers who go so deeply into the minutenesses of psychology and behaviour as Mrs. Woolf commonly tend to obscurity not only in their material but also in their presentation of it. In the pages of this book there is not one thought or one sentence that is not impeccably lucid.

The Power of a Lie, by Mr. Jonas Bojer, a Norwegian author, whose book, The Great Hunger, has already attracted attention, is preceded by an introduction by Sir Hall Caine; and indeed the farmers and peasants with which it deals do a little recall the Manxmen of that writer's early work. But there the suitability of this sponsorship ends; and we must enter a protest against the practice of handicapping a book with a preface by a critic who is evidently incapable of understanding it or of expressing himself intelligently upon it. The story is sufficiently simple. Knut Norby, a wealthy, simple, good-hearted, irascible old farmer, has allowed himself in a weak moment to be cajoled into backing a bill for Wangen, who is an unbalanced, incompetent, and rather unamiable person. Wangen fails; and Norby is reduced to panic terror by the thought of what his wife will say when she hears of his folly. He therefore puts off the moment of confession by speaking so evasively as to give the impression that he denies having signed the bond, and Fru Norby, indignant against the man who has sought to defraud her husband, takes the matter into her own hands and lays a charge of forgery against Wangen. The innocent man, who is guilty enough in other particulars, having brought many persons who trusted him to destitution, is elevated into a condition of excessive self-righteousness by this unjust accusation. Norby struggles for some time to put matters right, but his courage always fails him at the point of confession; and gradually he comes to regard Wangen as a wicked man and as the tool of unscrupulous persons. Wangen, always weak and shifty, at length forges a letter to prove his case, which he cannot do otherwise, as the only witness to the signature is dead. His forgery is detected, and he is sentenced to a year's hard labour. Meanwhile Norby has argued himself out of the truth and back into the condition of benevolent justice, which is his natural state. The book ends with a banquet given to him by his neighbours to show their sympathy with him in his trials.

On this very remarkable composition Sir Hall Caine has the following observations to make:

This book says, if I do not misunderstand it, that the sense of innocence in an innocent man may be corrupting and debasing; that to prove himself guiltless a man may make himself guilty, and that nearly every good and true impulse of the heart may be whittled away by the suspicion and abuse of the world.

I confess, though I am here to introduce this book to English readers, and do so with gladness and pride, that this is teaching of which I utterly disapprove. It conflicts with all my experience of life to think that a man may commit forgery, as Wangen does, to prove himself innocent of forgery, and that a man may become unselfish, as Norby becomes unselfish, by practising the most selfish duplicity. If I had to believe this I should also have to believe that there is no knowledge of right and wrong in the heart of man, no sense of sin, that conscience is only a juggling fiend, and that the presiding power in the world not only is not God, but is the devil.

This passage is worth quoting because it suggests what Mr. Bojer has avoided. Sir Hall Caine demands, to all intents and purposes, a book like one of his own, in which there are definite and distinguishable categories of good men and bad men, in which virtue is ranged uncompromisingly against vice. But Sir Hall Caine's books, as this preface would suggest, even if we had never seen one of them, are, since the very earliest of them, negligible both artistically and morally. Mr. Bojer has attempted something different and has succeeded in writing a most unusual and interesting novel. He makes the perennial discovery that good and bad are mixed in all men and he adds the discovery that the sufferings of bad men are not always the results of, or proportionate to, their sins. He has done these things in a story which astonishes the reader by its straightforwardness and simplicity. The characters are presented by means of the barest lines; and no incident or theme is elaborated beyond a few pages. Nevertheless the central idea is adequately worked out, and the whole novel leaves a distinct and vivid impression on the mind.

In Mr. Joseph Hergesheimer discriminating English readers found over a year ago an American novelist whom, alone of his generation, they were able to admire and to consider seriously. This may have been partly because he has learnt something, but not so much as to seem ridiculous, from English models, and because he writes with a restraint, moderation, and detachment which are rare in his literary compatriots. But there was certainly also a definite and individual virtue in him to which critical opinion in this country responded. He had a lively and exact visual gift and a power of rendering great passion without risk of bombast; and these qualities were rightly held to redeem many faults and weaknesses in The Three Black Pennys. In Java Head, published in the middle of last year, the first of these qualities was still perceptible, but, as regarded the second, Mr. Hergesheimer's avoidance of rant appeared to have become a paralysing inhibition. We do not know quite what to make of his third book, Gold and Iron. In the absence of any information to the contrary it would be natural to suppose that it is a later work than the other two; but this seems to us almost impossible and, if indeed it be so, decidedly regrettable. It consists of three nouvelles or "long-short stories," of which the first, Wild Oranges, describing the rescue of a girl from a household living in isolation and terrorised by a homicidal man-servant, is, except for a few passages of description, a negligible piece of the magazine order. In the second and third we do discover traces of the Mr. Hergesheimer whose talents excited us in 1918. One deals with the resuscitation, by a cold, contained, and determined man, of a deserted blast-furnace and his attempt to establish himself as a magnate. The other describes the return of a gold-miner, rich but with hands reddened in one of the incidents of Forty-Nine, from California to his prim and sleepy native village on the coast of Massachusetts. In both of these Mr. Hergesheimer's object is to discover to the reader the interior passions of intense but reserved and hardly articulate personalities. This is an ambition worthy of a novelist of the first rank; and indeed, both in setting himself such a task and in his methods of approaching it, Mr. Hergesheimer reveals himself as a writer of more than common powers. But it can hardly be said to be successfully accomplished here. In glimpses both Alexander Hulings and Jason Burrage are grasped and shown as living men. Hulings comes vigorously and convincingly to life in his duel with Partridge Sinnox, the dangerous gentleman from New Orleans; it is possible to see Burrage, smoking a cheroot, feet up on the brass rail of the hearth, with the refined and yet original Honora Canderay beside him, at his first visit to her. But between such glimpses as these both figures disappear, as though in a moving mist, behind Mr. Hergesheimer's attempt to describe them. He will describe them only in the precise and rigid way which he has chosen, a way which involves omissions, reticences, and silences, subtle appeals to the reader's understanding; and, in these stories at least, he has by no means mastered it. It was used with much more success in The Three Black Pennys and in Java Head, and is probably capable of much further development. If we are right in our surmise that these stories are early work, there is a possibility that Mr. Hergesheimer may yet show himself to be a very remarkable novelist indeed.

BELLES-LETTRES AND CRITICISM

THE LETTERS OF CHARLES SORLEY. Cambridge University Press. 12s. 6d. net.

The value set on irony by the Greeks might well be studied by us moderns. A proper sense of irony teaches both humility and patience, and it will not lead to cynicism unless the basis of the soul be cynical. It teaches, above all, proportion, which is the lesson needed most, perhaps, by modern artists and sociologists, philanthropists and theologians, business men and politicians. These letters of Charles Sorley's, the letters of a young, eager, cultivated boy, are rendered ironical by circumstance. After the ordinary life of a public schoolboy at Marlborough he went, in 1914, before going to Oxford, for an educational holiday in Germany. He stayed in a German family, he was enthusiastic about German things and German people as compared with the English, and he reached England only just in time to escape being a prisoner of war in Germany. The letters are lively, intelligent rather than terse, good-humoured, shrewd and full of that enthusiasm which was Charles Sorley's great natural talent. It is not, however, the essays on Masefield and Housman which give the book its interest. It is the pages on his life in Germany and a few passages on life in the Army which make the volume one of the most remarkable records of the young England which bore the brunt of the war.

How delightful is this passage on the German supper—Sorley lodged in an academic household at Schwerin:

The people come at seven, and talk about the rise in the price of butter till 8. From 8 till 9.30 they eat and drink and talk about the niceness of the victuals, and ask the hostess their cost. From 9.30 to 10.30 they talk about the scarcity of eggs. From 10.30 to 11 they drink beer and cross-examine me about the Anglo-German crisis. From 11 till 12 they make personal remarks and play practical jokes on one another. From 12 to 12.30 they eat oranges and chocolate and declare they must be going now. From 12.30 to 1 they get heavy again and sigh over the increased cost of living in Schwerin. At 1 they begin to scatter. By 2 I am in bed.

That is not the only passage which takes the reader straight into the atmosphere of the Caravaners. There is this anecdote, too:

A friend of sorts of the Bilders died lately; and, when the Frau attempted to break the news to Karl at table, he immediately said, "Don't tell me anything sad while I'm eating."

Charles Sorley remarks on this that an exact parallel may be found in the Odyssey where the gentleman expostulates οὐ γαρ ἐγώ γε τερπομ' ὀδυρόμενος μεταδόρπιος {ou gar egô ge terpom' oduromenos metadorpios}—I hate being forced to grieve in the middle of supper.

The letters are full of casual literary criticism, and provide a curious contrast to the letters of Lionel Johnson recently published. Charles Sorley strikes one as having a far clearer idea of the position of literature in life than had Johnson, but he shows little sign of that fine critical intelligence which mark Johnson's best judgments. Sorley passes passionately from Masefield to Housman, from Housman to Hardy, from Hardy to Ibsen and Goethe. It seems odd that a boy of his temperament should think Faust greater than anything of Shakespeare's, and by implication greater than Peer Gynt; elsewhere he passes a really witty judgment on Goethe: "If Goethe really died saying 'More light,' it was very silly of him: what he wanted was more warmth."

His life in the Army was not long. After a hard training in England he left for France in May, 1915, and was killed by a sniper on October 13th. The books he had over there were Faust and Richard Jefferies. To some of us Jefferies is chiefly lovable and remarkable because of the men who have loved him; and that he could charm Sorley and bring to him, amid the disgust of the battlefield, something of the English countryside, gives him an additional claim on our gratitude:

I read Richard Jefferies to remind me of Liddington Castle and the light green and dark green of the Aldbourne Downs in summer.

The book is edited by Professor and Mrs. Sorley, and Mrs. Sorley contributes a brief biographical chapter. There are one or two references to living persons which would, perhaps, be better away, though we cannot imagine any person of humour objecting to the fun of this high-spirited, generous boy. Incidentally, in its picture of Marlborough and Sorley's literary activities, the letters provide a useful counterpoise to the rather reckless attacks made on the uncultured public schools of England.

ESSAYS ON ART. By A. CLUTTON-BROCK. Methuen. 5s. net.

Shall we ever have a satisfactory æsthetic? Sometimes, in moments of hopefulness, one believes that there may be a few points of agreement in ethics, in politics, in metaphysics, even in economics: but to read a new book on æsthetic is to wonder again whether we shall ever get beyond the old tag, that it's a mere waste of time arguing about taste. Certainly Mr. Clutton-Brock's book, interesting, acute, and charmingly written as it is, does not show us how to reconcile, let us say, Tolstoy's What is Art? with Whistler's Ten o'Clock: or either with the great and unjustly-despised body of criticism to be found in Ruskin's works. His essays are provocative: at times he appears to clear up certain matters, and then the reader finds himself wondering.

In the very first essay Mr. Clutton-Brock discourses on nature and art. "There is one beauty of nature and another of art." "Nothing kills art so certainly as the effort to produce a beauty of the same kind as that which is perceived in nature. In the beauty of nature, as we perceive it, there is a perfection of workmanship which is perfection because there is no workmanship. Natural things are not made, but born; works of art are made. There is the essential difference between them and between their beauties." Now is there any truth in those statements? Take, for instance, the simplest kind of beauty, the beauty which appeals to touch: is there any essential difference between the sensations of beauty given by stroking a sable and stroking a piece of exquisite silk velvet? Again, is the beauty conveyed by the sight of Cader Idris really different in kind from the beauty conveyed by the sight of Amiens Cathedral? Is a singer's appeal fundamentally different from the appeal of the nightingale?

Mr. Clutton-Brock goes on to say that "all great works of art show an effort, a roughness, an inadequacy of craftsmanship which is the essence of their beauty, and distinguishes it from the beauty of nature." That sentence betrays what seems to us his saddest error. He is confusing, we think, art and craft. It simply is not true that a work of art must show "inadequacy of craftsmanship." What is essential is that the artist should not seem to be satisfied with his mere technical skill of craft. He should, somehow, convey to us that he knows there is a beauty which no craft can render perfectly. He must, in short, be humble. For lack of that humility Blake refused to call Rubens a great artist. Yet Rubens, superb craftsman as he was, was not the superior of Velasquez, who yet preserves in all his work that sense of something desired yet unachieved—unachieved not because Velasquez's craft was inadequate, but because his vision was interpretative rather than imitative. It is important that the distinction between craft and art should be recognised, otherwise Mr. Clutton-Brock's perfectly sound contention that the beauty of art "is produced by the effort to accomplish the impossible" will be made a mere excuse for slovenly workmanship. This sort of discussion, however, is unsuitable for a review; even where space is, for practical purposes, infinite (e.g. in a conversation), it seldom leads to agreement. We can only say (what everybody knows) that Mr. Clutton-Brock is the sanest of all professional art-critics and that to differ from him is to doubt one's own opinions.

UNHAPPY FAR-OFF THINGS. By LORD DUNSANY. Elkin Matthews. 5s. net.

Lord Dunsany's fancy can generally be trusted to discover many odd prettinesses for our pleasure, but as in old Battersea enamel the prettiness is liable to chip off and show the dull metal beneath; and in these twelve sketches there is little of fancy. They were written "to show," so the Preface tells us, "something of the extent of the wrongs that the people of France had suffered," and the cultivated lack of vigour in style does serve, somehow, to illustrate the desolation of towns laid waste, and—which more peculiarly touches Lord Dunsany's sympathy—gardens. The monotony of the scene is, too, well typified by the same quality in description. Frequently, as in The Real Thing, when he sets out to be fantastic he is merely trivial; and throughout he draws from a wealth of ingenious but ungainly metaphor. However, the author well understands that the utmost terror of desolation can be inspired by the sound (rather than the sight) of man-made things gone to rust. Out in the dead land, where villages are to be conjectured from scattered heaps of stones, he was much impressed—for he refers to it again and again—by the "mournful sound of iron flapping on broken things," and—"this was the sound that would haunt the waste for ever." On the other hand, in Bermondsey versus Wurtemburg, he observed that a German soldier had chalked up the name of his regiment on a wall—the 156th Wurtemburgers. Subsequently a British soldier had prefaced this with "Lost by," and added after "retaken by the Bermondsey Butterflies." This might have served to point the less serious moments of a special correspondent to one of the lighter newspapers, but it scarcely warrants preservation in an admirably printed book with a strong binding in excellent taste.

THE ROMANTIC ROUSSILLON. By ISABEL SAVORY. T. Fisher Unwin. 25s. net.

"The thought of 'the picturesque' repels me," writes Miss Savory in extenuation of her offence in the kind of sightseeing which less sophisticated tourists, for whom she accuses Nature of "touting," joyfully regard as inevitable. But though from time to time she is careful lest the reader should associate her with the organisations of Cook and Lunn, this superiority to the obvious is not always implicit. Whether the ideal book of travels should satisfy us by our own firesides or should merely stimulate us to go and see things for ourselves is a question that Miss Savory has not helped to decide. Her vision is uneven, but on the whole she provokes and does not satisfy curiosity. The book is a record of an exhaustive (and one would say exhausting) exploration of the Eastern Pyrenees, with Perpignan, Ille-sur-Tet, Estagel, and other places as centres for radiating expeditions, and "we did many wanders at Salses," she says. She climbed high mountains, and admired the views; she visited forgotten villages, and raked up their history; she lingered—none too long—under groined roofs and in panelled salles. But in her frank delight in good wine and food there is real vitality and emphatic, if unconscious, art. "We picked bunch after bunch (of grapes) hot in the sun, buried our faces in the warmness of them ... bit not one but mouthfuls, sweet and juicy...." And then she goes on to tell us that at the same moment there would be a "little sad, sour, tight bunch not a quarter grown" on a house in Gower Street, and that nobody was ever quite so dead as Queen Anne.

However, Miss Savory need not fear lest we should fail to recognise her appreciation of the beautiful things she saw, more especially as many of them—carvings, chateaux, plaster-work—are admirably reproduced as illustrations in collotype from the drawings of Miss M. L. MacKenzie: but our recognition would have been quicker if she had been at less pains to impress us with her originality.

JACOPONE DA TODI. By EVELYN UNDERHILL. Dent. 16s. net.

In the preface to her life and letters of this remarkable man, Miss Underhill says: "Three types of mind should find pleasure in Jacopone's work and personality. First, those interested in Christian mysticism.... Next, lovers of poetry.... Last, those who care for the Italy of St. Francis and his descendants." The last two aspects of an arresting personality will doubtless make the wider appeal, admirably as his biographer has traced and explained the spiritual development of the man she calls the first great Italian religious poet.

So sympathetically has Miss Underhill treated the religious experiences of Jacopone that in the light of her exposition, extravagance, futility, seeming madness even, seem to take their rightful place in the spiritual history of a man who expresses that history in strangely beautiful poems. Born probably about 1230, soon after the death of St. Francis, Jacopone da Todi followed very closely in the steps of his more famous master. Like St. Francis, he belonged to a noble Umbrian family; like St. Francis, he turned from a gay worldly existence to the worship of Lady Poverty. His conversion, however, compared with that of the founder of the Franciscan rule, was a late one. St. Francis was only twenty-four, Jacopone was nearly forty when he left the world and its ways to begin the quest for perfection.

A legend (not perhaps entirely legendary, since it is in some respects supported by the self-revelations of his laude) grew up about his name, and was embodied, years later, in the so-called Vita, a manuscript of the fifteenth century.

Here it is related that Ser Jacomo—to give him his worldly title—was passionately devoted to his young wife, who was ascetic at heart, yet to please her husband wore the rich clothes he gave her, and took part in all the gaieties of the town. A tragic ending to Ser Jacomo's happiness was brought about when, on the occasion of a marriage festival, his beautiful Vanna was killed by the fall of a balcony.

"And when" (says the Vita) "they took off those garments of vanity which she had upon her in order to make her ready for the grave they found at last, next to her bare flesh, a harsh shirt of hair."

The legend goes on to relate that the shock of his wife's death, together with the discovery of her pious fraud, led first to madness and then to the conversion of Jacopone. Nowhere in his subsequent poems is there to be found a reference to his marriage. But this in itself is no proof of the falsity of the story, for, as with most mediæval penitents, the casting off of his old life meant to him the abjuration of earthly ties and memories. Jacopone the saint remains nevertheless Ser Jacomo the passionate lover. No songs in praise of an adored wife or mistress could be more fervid, more palpitating with emotion than those addressed to his Saviour.

It is by means of these religious poems—laude, as they were called—that the successive stages in the progress of the mystic may be traced. But leaving the mystic aside, we may feel grateful to Miss Underhill for having placed the poet before us. Many of his laude, in the English translation of Mrs. Theodore Beck, are given at length in this book, and very beautiful they are. To forget their theme and to consider only their form and imagery is to be reminded of secular Italy of the thirteenth century—its troubadours, its Court poets, its Courts of Love. For nearly forty years after all Jacopone had lived in the world, enjoying its laughter, its gaiety, its sunshine, and the poems of the saint, indicate that he had not forgotten all he learnt as a sinner—that is as an ordinary man of the class to which he originally belonged. "O Queen of all Courtesy," he begins in an address to the Blessed Virgin—and we are immediately transported in thought to a fair garden and a lover with his lute.

HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY

THE RIDDLE OF THE RUTHVENS AND OTHER STUDIES. By WILLIAM ROUGHEAD. With thirteen Illustrations. William Green & Son Ltd., Edinburgh. 25s. net.

Whether we may consider the reading of criminal annals a profitable occupation or otherwise, it is an unquestionable fact that they often possess a human interest, for the imaginative person at all events, far in excess of the records of the intrigues and policies of kings, statesmen, generals, and priests. And there is a well-nigh unique and special interest attaching to Scottish causes célèbres which places them in importance far above the general run of the great trials of all the other nations of Europe. This is accounted for by the strangely complex psychology of the average and typical Scotsman. He is a being in whom the emotions are strictly subordinated to the government of his reason. He is deeply metaphysical, and there is a powerful forensic strain in his composition. It is seldom indeed that a Scotsman pleads guilty to any charge, even when he has been caught red-handed. To do so would simply spoil for him all the pleasure of the trial, and there is probably no one in court who follows the evidence and pleadings more carefully or with greater zest than the prisoner himself. Were it possible for him to be closeted with the jury, it is quite conceivable that he should be found arguing the pros and cons of the case as forcibly and with as great detachment as any "good man and true" among them. But there is a fatal flaw in the character of the Scot which detracts to a large extent from the interest that one feels in his other traits, namely, the theological tendency which in persons of evil life at last degenerates into pure cant. The condemned prisoner on the scaffold exhorting the multitude "to avoid the heinous crime of disobedience to parents, inattention to Holy Scriptures, of being idle and disorderly, and especially of Sabbath-breaking," is by no means an edifying spectacle. The existence and prevalence of this trait is all the more curious when one considers that the Scot generally is not lacking in a keen sense of humour.

The special value of this collection of historic criminal trials and other juridical studies by Mr. Roughead, however, lies in the fresh light he has been able to throw upon the respective characters of King James the Sixth of Scotland (First of England), the most despicable poltroon that ever disgraced a British throne; and of Lord Braxfield, the prototype of Robert Louis Stevenson's Weir of Hermiston. An old Edinburgh University Professor of Constitutional Law and History used to say that Charles II. was the most iniquitous ruler that England ever had, but James II. was still worse. It was badly expressed, but there was something in it. Its special application was Constitutional, however, although it might easily be extended to apply universally if we allow the addition of the proviso that James I. was the worst of all. He was a liar, a coward, and a hypocrite, full of pedantry and cant. This is conclusively demonstrated in The Riddle Of the Ruthvens, and in other sketches that deal with the witchcraft prosecutions that were conducted with such a degree of vindictiveness and fury throughout the whole of his reign. But perhaps the greatest service of all that Mr. Roughead has done in the cause of truth and justice is his vindication of the respective characters of the much-maligned Lord Braxfield and Robert Fergusson the poet from so many of the absurd eccentricities which have been attributed to them by incompetent biographers and unscrupulous scandalmongers, and have in course of time, by constant repetition, become traditional. It is a far cry from the Gowrie Conspiracy to "Antique" Smith, the forger of the autograph letters of great literary and historical personages, who is still well remembered in Edinburgh, but these are Mr. Roughead's limits, and between them there is such a mass of history and criminal psychology as the student of either will delight in, while the curious, or merely general, reader will find it very good entertainment.

GEORGE BUBB DODINGTON: PATRON AND PLACE-HUNTER. By LLOYD SANDERS. John Lane. 1919. 16s. net.

Here is a case of book-making of a somewhat explicit kind, since there is little to say, and nothing to print, of Dodington which he has not said of himself. There is, of course, no more harm in making books than there is in making bricks; but if the one wants straw, as Moses says it did, the other wants humanity. God made Bubb Dodington, and therefore let him pass for a man. In his own day he passed for a coxcomb; in ours, which is more censorious, he would certainly have passed for a rascal. In either aspect, if he is to be treated at all, he requires a more philosophical study than Mr. Sanders has been able to supply.

Of mean origin, some ability and unbounded impudence, Dodington inherited both money and land. With the land there accrued to him Parliamentary interest—to wit, in some four seats in Dorset and Somerset, which he spent the rest of his life in hawking from faction to faction with a flagrancy and success which even his own age found shocking. From first to last—and he lived a long time—there were no illusions about him. Pope scoffed at him until he found metal more attractive, and changed "Bubo" for "Bufo"; Walpole remarked to Lord Hervey upon "the second time that worthy has proposed to rise by treading on my neck"; Hervey himself, who seldom had a good word for anybody, never had a worse than for him. Hanbury Williams, who was never malevolent, wrote of him that he was

To no one party, no one man,

Nor to his own self tight;

For what he voted for at noon

He rail'd against at night.

Horace Walpole called him a political journalist, meaning by that that he was daily in the market-place, and for the highest-bidder. Lord Chesterfield thought that "God made Dodington the coxcomb he is; mere human means could not have brought it about. He is a coxcomb superior to his parts, though his parts are superior to almost anybody's." These are Bubb Dodington's best credentials except those which he supplied for himself. With those, with colossal impudence and four boroughs, he set up in trade, and did pretty well. He miscalculated the odds more than once: first on the accession of George II., when he dropped Sir Robert for Spencer Compton; next when Frederick Prince of Wales enticed him over to Carlton House for the second time, and promptly died. Slips like those kept him out in the cold until near the end of the reign. Just in the nick of time he made friends with Lord Bute, and on the accession of George III., a year before his own death, was made a peer. There is evidence that he died a contented and complacent man.

Mr. Sanders proposes to "explain" Dodington, but fails for lack of matter. There is really nothing to explain. There would have been a good deal to expose had not the creature done it for himself in his egregious Diary. That to be sure is an unexampled document. Men, before it and since, have written themselves down rogues and peasant slaves of various kinds, some for amusement, some for edification. But few—I think no others—have written themselves down in the act and intention of writing themselves up. Casanova occurs to the mind; but Casanova neither wrote himself up nor down, whereas Dodington's complacency in the act to be a scoundrel is his most remarkable feature.

"I desired Lady Aylesbury to carry you Lord Melcombe's Diary. It is curious indeed; not so much from the secrets that it blabs, which are rather characteristic than novel, but from the wonderful folly of the author, who was so fond of talking of himself that he tells all he knew of himself, though scarce an event that does not betray his profligacy; and (which is still more surprising that he should disclose) almost every one exposes the contempt in which he was held, and his consequential disappointments and disgraces!"

That is Horace Walpole, writing to Conway in 1784, when the Diary was out. Lord Hervey, long before it was written, gave him a pungent paragraph. "Mr. Dodington," he says, "whilst some people have the je ne sais quoi in pleasing, possessed the je ne sais quoi in displeasing in the strongest and most universal degree that ever any man was blessed with that gift.... His vanity in company was so overbearing, so insolent, and so insupportable that he seemed to exact that applause as his due which other people solicit, and to think that he had a right to make every auditor his admirer." And so indeed it is, in this Diary of his dealings between the Prince of Wales and the Administration, that he solemnly records all his disgustful traffickings of himself and his boroughs, as if they were negotiations between high contracting powers, and in every page declares himself both knave and fool in a way which would afford pleasant reading if it were not so long and so dull. It is enlivened by one delicious, but entirely unconscious, gleam. In April, 1754, he went down to Bridgewater to an election, having done his best to sell the seat to the Duke of Newcastle. He spent £2500 on it, and he lost it. The fourteenth and two following days, he records, "were spent in infamous and disagreeable compliance with the low habits of venal wretches." Those wretches naturally were burgesses whom it was necessary that he should buy in order that he might afterwards sell himself. It is the only good thing in the book, but it is good enough. The next best thing is the naïve excuse of its editor of 1784 for publishing it, that by its means politicians might be advised how not to conduct their and the country's affairs!

Mr. Sanders has done his part of the business with industry and candour. He says the best he can for his subject, and has left nothing of importance out, either for or against him, except the account of the trouncing which he received in the House of Commons for his speech against Sir Robert in 1742. It is told by Horace Walpole, with gusto, as is only natural, but with obvious accuracy. Mr. Sanders should not have let him off the chastisement of an insolence and hypocrisy paralleled only by Disraeli's attack upon another Sir Robert. On the credit side of the account he rightly selects the defence of Admiral Byng as the most disinterested action of Dodington's long career. Add to that that Lady Hervey really liked him, and that he used a steel machine with which to pick up his handkerchief.

AN OXFORD SCHOLAR: INGRAM BYWATER, 1840–1914. By W. W. JACKSON, D.D. Clarendon Press. 1917. 7s. 6d. net.

There are probably a good many people who know something about Jowett and have read several works of Gilbert Murray's, and yet could not even guess who was the Regius Professor of Greek at Oxford who bridged the gap. It was Bywater. Between two great popular influences the pendulum took a swing towards scholarship in the strictest sense, and from 1893 to 1908 the chair was filled by one of the most learned Hellenists of his day in any land, a man less great indeed than Scaliger and Bentley and the present Professor of Latin at Cambridge, but assuredly of their type. Those three rank even higher, not so much because they are more "brilliant" as because their interest in the classics is primarily the literary one. They apply their criticism and interpretation to the more purely literary authors, and their style has a quality not relevant to scientific scholarship, however welcome there—it has the creative writer's zest. Bywater's learning ranged, certainly, over the whole field of Greek prose and poetry; he had, moreover, a keen interest in literature as such, read the chief contemporary poets and novelists, and had views about them; he was master of an admirable Latin style; but his ruling passion was not literature so much as knowledge, and it was in the philosophic writers that he found his special field. For that reason his most characteristic work may be said to be his edition of Aristotle's Ethics, published in 1890. At the same time, that by which he is deservedly best known is an edition of a work on the borderland between philosophy and literature, Aristotle's Poetics, to which he supplied, in 1909, an English paraphrase and a fully explanatory commentary, both the best things of their kind for any student of that work; and as these will always be many, the book's future seems assured.

"Bywater," writes a relative, "was always studying"; and again, in words of insight, "but if he were not actually a genius he was far from being merely a learned man." His enlightenment and humanity are brought out in Dr. Jackson's admirable little biography, which, as the story of a scholar who died soon after the European War began, seems worth commending now. Though he disliked what we know as Liberalism, the word is the right one for his educational views; he supported the abolition of University religious tests, and was against compulsory Greek. Further than that it is not applicable; he was a Tariff Reformer. As an undergraduate he belonged to the famous "Old Mortality Club." He was a friend and disciple of Mark Pattison, and, like him, married a lady who was an excellent scholar and at the same time humane and charming. Of Walter Pater he was a friend and no disciple; "his style I do not like: it seems to me affected and pretentious and often sadly wanting in lucidity." In congenial company one of the most sociable of men, he showed much kindness to promising young scholars. Some of the mots ascribed to him are rather donnish, but not all: "I often think that modern education is a conspiracy on the part of schoolmasters and dons to keep men babies until they are four-and-twenty" is profounder than it looks; and he realised that "those who care for manuscripts per se are usually dull dogs."

All through his life he was a great bibliophile, and even in this respect happily mated. Few wives would pack their husbands off to Paris immediately after breakfast to inspect a copy of the editio princeps of Homer, and when they returned with it the following evening give it to them for a birthday-present. But he possessed something even more remarkable than that (for of Homer there are, after all, other editions); in his copy of Melanchthon's De Anima was an autograph of Rabelais.

SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY LIFE IN THE COUNTRY PARISH. By ELEANOR TROTTER, M.A. Cambridge University Press. 10s. net.

This book has one serious fault: there is not enough of it. Miss Trotter gives a feast of good things, suggests so many interesting happenings of the period, that she might have expanded almost every page into three, and still we might ask for more. It is, however, confined strictly to showing how the ordinary business of government was carried on during this troubled century. Readers will find good exercise for the imagination in filling in the outlines. Take this for example: "The beadle's chief work was of a punitive nature; he was expected to help the constable in apprehending and punishing rogues; he wore a special dress, and carried a whip or wand in his hand with which he drove the dogs out of church." A footnote says: "In 1887 at Wensley Church the wands were still to be seen. They were six in number, and were attached to the front of the churchwardens' high pews." The vestry book at Pittington, page 104, shows this entry: "Maie 3, 1646, John Lazing was appointed to be bedel for driving doggs out of the church in time of public worship, and other necessary dutys." The office of church-warden was then of great importance, and carried with it the dignity of a special "high pew," a matter of moment when the seating arrangements in church almost created a table of precedence. But why did the dogs of those days show such a church-going disposition? The beadle's office to-day would be a sinecure, for during many years of regular attendance the writer has only twice seen a dog in church.

The next page refers to "Rogue Money," the colloquial term for a contribution not exceeding 6d. or 8d. a week levied on Sunday on the parish for the maintenance of poor prisoners in the county gaol. A further levy of not less than 20s. per annum from the whole North Riding was made for the relief of poor prisoners of the King's Bench and Marshalsea. Even taking into account the greater value of money then, this would not go far among destitute prisoners, but it is somewhat surprising to find that any provision at all was made in those hard days.

The temptation to go on extracting these vignettes is great, but must be resisted. Surprises of this sort, however, are numerous, and when we remember the lack of hard roads, the absence of any postal facilities, and the difficulties and cost of any sort of communication, it is astounding to find how well acquainted the local justices were with the statutes, and to what an extent they succeeded in administering them. Miss Trotter's investigations have evidently much impressed this upon her, and her preface gives an excellent summary of the conclusions at which she has arrived.

The great majority of the men who took their share in the government of England in the seventeenth century had neither learning nor culture; some probably were not able to write their own names; nevertheless, through being made responsible for the well-being and good order of the little community to which they belonged, they gained a considerable amount of political education. The work of local government, carried on voluntarily from father to son through untold generations, has produced certain characteristics—a moderation of outlook, a reasonableness and sanity of mind, an intensely critical faculty and a political insight—which are typical of our race.... There is a fear lest the masses through ignorance of the work of their forefathers may demand a centralisation of governmental functions, which is alien to the character of the English Constitution.

The author has earned public thanks for bringing to light these interesting records of an interesting period. It should be compulsory for every education authority to use this and similar works as part of the historical instruction given in all our schools. Such books would clothe the dry bones of history, as ordinarily taught, in a so much more attractive garb that lessons might become a pleasure instead of a penance. The Royal Commission on Public Records received a letter from M. Paul Meyer, of the Ecole des Chartes, in which he says: "En Angleterre tout est en désordre," referring to our widely scattered and unorganised records. This Royal Commission is doing a great service in trying to bring order out of chaos, but it is not its function to do for the general reader what a book like this may do—bring to life in a handy and digested form some of the buried records of our past.

POLITICS AND ECONOMICS

BALKAN PROBLEMS AND EUROPEAN PEACE. By N. BUXTON and C. L. LEESE. Allen & Unwin. 4s. 6d. net.

Among all the ignorances of the British public there is none more calamitous than its ignorance of the Balkan peoples and of their importance in European politics. We persist even now in lumping them together as a set of semi-savage tribes, who may be manipulated by the civilised Powers in this way or that, but who ultimately will have to fight it out among themselves like the Kilkenny cats. Any book that is not mere partisan propaganda, that will throw light on that dark corner of Europe, is to be welcomed. And this little volume, slight though it is, is all to the point. Its authors are experts, and practical experts, in their subject. Mr. Noel Buxton especially has known the Balkans, as few Englishmen have known them, for twenty years, and in the early days of the war he went there as the accredited agent of the British Government to try to attach Bulgaria to our cause. The story of our diplomatic failure is sketched for us in rapid outline. "Allied diplomacy," Messrs. Buxton and Leese say, "exerted no comprehensive activity, but at intervals made isolated efforts to please one State or another by promises, some of which proved only contradictory and embarrassing to action in another direction demanded by circumstances a little later." We were handicapped, they say, by the policy of Russia. We were handicapped also by ill-grounded fears of alienating Serbia and Greece. The final chapters of the book deal with the future prospects in the Balkans. They were written before the conclusion of the Bulgarian Treaty, and most of the things which they deprecate have found a place in that Treaty. Many Englishmen will not regret this; but no reader of Mr. Buxton will believe that his plea for Bulgaria is based on hostility to Serbia or Greece or Rumania, or, indeed, on anything but a single-minded desire for lasting peace in the Balkans.

THE SKILLED LABOURER, 1760–1832. By J. L. HAMMOND and BARBARA HAMMOND. Longmans. 12s. 6d. net.

This book is the third of Mr. and Mrs. Hammond's important studies of that period of English history which fell between 1760 and 1832. Together with The Village Labourer and The Town Labourer it makes a remarkable trilogy. It is marked by the same scholarly research, the same vividness of presentation, the same polished style as its predecessors. Some readers may perhaps find it of slightly less general interest: if it is so, it is simply because its scope is rather more limited. In The Village Labourer the authors gave an account of the enclosures of common lands and of the agricultural labourers' rising of 1830; in The Town Labourer they drew a very striking picture of the civilisation of the time, of the governing classes as well as of the poor, of the new social and economic conditions. The present volume gives us the history of certain selected bodies of workers during the same period. It is, in fact, a detailed account of the Northumberland and Durham miners, the cotton and woollen and worsted operatives, the Spitalfields silk-weavers, and the framework knitters, together with a very full description of the Luddite risings in the Midlands and in Lancashire and Yorkshire. Mr. and Mrs. Hammond have made very large use of the Home Office Papers, and they have been able to throw a great deal of new light on their subject. Their tale is, of course, a gloomy one—a tale of desperate struggles against grinding poverty and serfdom, of wages, often family wages, of 10s. a week or less in times of dear living, of a working day of anything from twelve to eighteen hours, of tiny children in the mines and the mills, of passionate strikes and brutal repressions. The chapters on the Luddite riots are of especial importance: they are the best, if not the only, connected account of that little-known episode in the annals of industry. They will remove the wrong impression, which, as Mr. and Mrs. Hammond say, is widely prevalent, that these troubles originated in Nottingham over the introduction of new and improved stocking-frames. In fact, the cause was not new machines at all, but the adaptation of old machines to the manufacture of a new and inferior kind of article. And the workmen had the sympathy and support of many of the employers in their campaign against the degradation of the industry. Not the least remarkable feature of the story of Luddism is the part played by spies and agents provocateurs. The military, the local magistrates, and the Government all had their spies, and the wide extent of the mischief done by those vile creatures is very thoroughly exposed by Mr. and Mrs. Hammond. One of them, by name Oliver, alias Richards, alias Hollis, has a chapter all to himself. He was "a person of genteel appearance and good address, nearly six feet high, of erect figure, light hair, red and rather large whiskers, and a full face, a little pitted with the small-pox. His usual dress was a light fashionable-coloured brown coat, black waistcoat, dark-blue mixture pantaloons, and Wellington boots." He was a special pet of Lord Sidmouth, and in 1817 he performed the inestimable services of fomenting sedition in the Midlands and the North and of getting quite a number of poor and ignorant men hanged, transported, or imprisoned.

Altogether, The Skilled Labourer is a book which puts every student of history very deeply in the debt of Mr. and Mrs. Hammond.

IN THE SIDE SHOWS: OBSERVATIONS BY A FLIER ON FIVE FRONTS. By CAPTAIN WEDGWOOD BENN, M.P., D.S.O., D.F.C. Hodder & Stoughton. 12s. net.

Captain Wedgwood Benn's experiences in the side shows may well fill with envy those whose lot was cast in the main theatre of the war. We confess that we took up his book rather doubtfully—for who was not long ago surfeited with stories from the front? But we found it, after all, full of diverting adventures in many lands, as well as in the water and the air. It is written straightforwardly, without that straining after effect which marred so many of its kind. Captain Benn began his military career in 1914 in the Middlesex Yeomanry. He was bored, like every one else, at Ismailia: he fought and was bored again at Gallipoli. Then he was fortunate enough to get into the Naval Air Service. He flew in the Mediterranean and the Red Sea. He bombed the Turks near Aden, passed the time of day over the telephone to the King of the Hedjâz at Mecca, made a brief "Cook's Tour" to the Sudan and was presently "observing" in Palestine, blowing up portions of the Bagdad Railway, and commanding an astounding mixed force of British soldiers and French sailors in Castelorizo, near Adalin. After this he comes home on leave, gets his "wings," and is off to Taranto to join the Adriatic Barrage, the aerial force whose task was to keep the Austrian submarines out of the Mediterranean. Finally, after Caporetto, he is on the Piave fronts attached to General Plumer's force. He apparently managed from there to do a good deal of sight-seeing up and down Italy, and he has some amusing tales of the people and places he visited. He also took part in the melodramatic adventure of Alessandro Tandura, the Italian spy who was dropped from an aeroplane in the Austrian lines. This is the best adventure in the book, and must be read to be properly appreciated.

Now and then Captain Benn interrupts his narrative to discuss an idea or a problem. The most notable of these interludes is his criticism of our military system. He can find little to say in praise of it. The much-vaunted discipline seems to him to mean only mechanical obedience. The "system" puts a premium on waste of time, on the "spit and polish" spirit; it discourages ideas, imagination, initiative. And most of the higher officers are monuments of stupidity and ignorance. In all this there is no doubt much truth. But a good many of his readers will suspect that Captain Benn was exceptionally unfortunate in the senior officers he met.

IRELAND A NATION. By ROBERT LYND. Grant Richards. 7s. 6d. net.

Many Englishmen are now sick of the "Irish Question"; many are ashamed of it. Some have argued an inconsistency between our attitude to Poland or Czecho-Slovakia or Jugo-Slavia and our attitude to Ireland. Others have come to feel that damage is done to our reputation abroad, both among friends and enemies, by our Irish policy. Mr. Lynd knows how to gauge public opinion here as well as in Ireland, and he seizes the opportunity to press home the point that the Irish problem is an international problem. His argument, which is as closely reasoned as it is eloquent, is that England can save herself and save the world only by saving Ireland. What does saving Ireland mean? "It means," says Mr. Lynd, "the immediate surrender of Ireland into the hands of the Irish people, to rule it either as a republic or a dominion, according as the people themselves decide."

Many, of course, made up their minds on the matter long ago; but Mr. Lynd is by no means satisfied with all who profess themselves friends of Ireland. He has some pungent remarks on what he calls "the hesitating sort of Liberal" who wants to give Ireland a carefully-conditioned measure of self-government which will prevent her from abusing her liberty or inconveniencing England. But there are others who are still baffled by Ulster. It is not that they think of the Irish as "a mob of Celts" instead of as a nation. The trouble is that we are apparently confronted by two nations—two irreconcilable nations. What has Mr. Lynd to say to that? He says firstly, bluntly, that Ulstermen are Irishmen, and that "the Ulster question" is an invention of British Statesmen. "Cabinet Ministers have no moral objection whatever to coercing Ireland. If they have any objection to coercing Ulster, it is not on moral grounds, but because Ulster provides them with a plausible palliation for their guilt in denying freedom to a race of white men." He cannot, of course, disregard the Ulstermen's fear of Home Rule. He can only argue that it is an utterly unreasonable fear; for "Ulster is much more likely to dominate an Irish Parliament than to be dominated by it."

Mr. Lynd does not confine himself to the mere politician. He has much that is of profound interest to say on the Irish soldier, on Ireland's record in the war, on Irish literature, and Irish poetry. His book is one which ought to be read by everyone who cares for Ireland—and still more by those who do not.

AGRICULTURE AND RURAL LIFE

COTTAGE BUILDING IN COB, PISÉ, CHALK, AND CLAY: A Renaissance. By CLOUGH WILLIAMS-ELLIS, with an Introduction by Mr. ST. LOE STRACHEY. Published by Country Life, London. 6s. net.

This little volume of unassuming proportions marks a period in the evolution of housing the people of this country. Perhaps the word revolution is more apt in this connection, for it indicates either a reversal of the wheel of time, taking us back to ancient methods, or a completion of the circle, bringing us round again to the use of building materials which Nature has provided to the hand of the builder. The author addresses himself particularly "to those who have in the past built only with stone, brick, concrete, timber, and plaster, etc.," but there are many people to-day thinking of building who never thought of it before; for the scarcity of houses (not merely of the five-roomed cottage but of the ten or twelve-roomed middle-class house), with the consequent inevitable increase in rent, to say nothing of the contumely of house-agents and their kind, are giving rise to a wonder if there is no alternative to tenancy. To all such this book will be of value, for not only will it widen the field of possibility, but it is packed with definite facts, which have involved much labour in their compilation. To build with either of the materials named in its title will appear to the uninitiated, i.e., to all those who only think of brick and stone houses, as being worthy of the man who "built his house upon the sand"; but plenty of instances are given to show that if proper though simple methods of construction are followed, such houses will last for many generations. We well remember our surprise when, some twenty years ago, we first saw in Leicestershire and Warwickshire a number of what were locally termed "mud" cottages, and found on enquiry that many of them were from two to three hundred years old.

Building by-laws effectually put a stop to the use of any such materials as those under consideration, wherever by-laws were in operation. They were looked upon by the officials of many local authorities and by other well-meaning but short-sighted people as a gleam of sunshine on a dark world: they were to check jerry-building and prevent bad housing. Though this ray of light first shed its beams upon a startled world so long ago as 1858, through the Local Government Act of that year, we are now discovering that jerry-building is as rampant as ever, housing conditions are, in very many places, execrable, and that by-laws sometimes only act as a deterrent to men who want to build. Parliament in its wisdom has passed quite a number of Acts since the year named dealing with the subject, which might have been admirable if they could have been administered by supermen. As, however, this duty fell to the lot of ordinary mortals, by-laws have actually prevented the use of improved methods and materials, which happened to be unknown at the time the old ones were drawn up. These have been somewhat relaxed in recent years, but even to-day it is to be feared that a serious proposal to build with Pisé, or Cob, might cause the sudden death of many respected representatives of Bumbledom. The Ministry of Health have expressed the view that further relaxation in the direction of allowing such materials might be permitted, but many local authorities would, we suppose, require more than that to induce them to adopt the suggestion.

For the moment cost is of even more importance than longevity, and if the usual materials are to be insisted upon the building of cottages and small houses on economic lines is impossible. Transport is one of the large items in the cost of construction; but if the heaviest and bulkiest materials are on the spot, this item can be almost entirely eliminated. It is, therefore, not unreasonable to hope that local authorities will give every facility, nay, encouragement, to use any suitable material, rather than insist upon the letter of their by-laws. The author's view is as follows, but it must be borne in mind that the builder is not always a free agent:

Formerly he who carried bricks into Merioneth or the Cotswolds, or slates into Kent, or ragstone-rubble into Middlesex, was guilty of no more than foolishness and an æsthetic solecism. Under present conditions such action should render him liable to prosecution and conviction on some such count as "wasting the shrunken resources of his country in a time of great scarcity."

Mr. St. Loe Strachey contributes an instructive and amusing preface, the humour of it giving point to his own experiences. No one has done more than he in trying to find the cheapest suitable material for cottages; in Pisé he has rediscovered the very thing he wanted. As one who served under his chairmanship on the Committee of the First Cheap Cottage Exhibition at Letchworth Garden City in 1905, the present reviewer is glad to offer a tribute to his persistence and success. The illustrations in this book are both interesting and instructive.

ANTHROPOLOGY

THE MYSTERY OF EASTER ISLAND: THE STORY OF AN EXPEDITION. By MRS. SCORESBY ROUTLEDGE. Sifton, Praed, & Co. 31s. 6d. net.

Any map of the Pacific will show a minute dot standing by itself far to the eastward of any other island south of the line, yet some 2000 miles away from the American coast. This is Easter Island, long famous as a land of archæological wonders. Apart from these it is an unattractive place, consisting of a triangular patch of volcanic rock, grass-covered, bare of trees, waterless but for the rain that collects in the craters of its extinct volcanoes, and, of course, wind-swept and harbourless. At present it serves as a cattle-ranch managed in the interests of a Chilian company, the natives, no more than 250 in all, being huddled into a single village on the west coast in order to keep them out of mischief. Formerly, however, there were enough of them to form ten clans, who kept things merry with their local feuds. The navigators of the eighteenth century, Roggeveen, who discovered the island, Gonzalez, Cook, and La Pérouse, estimate their number at anything from 700 up to 2000 souls.

How, then, in such a solitary spot, inhabited by a handful of savages, does it happen that hundreds of giant statues of stone are to be found, not to speak of smaller statues of wood, curious rock-carvings, and finally a script? A few passers-by had pleasantly trifled with the problem, but a serious attempt to solve it had not been made until Mr. and Mrs. Scoresby Routledge gallantly resolved to take the matter in hand. The task before them was no light one; for in order to study Easter Island one must first get there. So a yacht, the Mana, was built for the purpose. The Polynesian word means "luck," and luck certainly attended the little vessel on its long run of 100,000 miles. Quite apart from the account given of Easter Island itself, the log of the voyage provides the matter for a fascinating book, proving as it does that there are many odd corners of the much-betravelled earth which still await exploration. This becomes apparent as soon as Magellan Strait is traversed, and the ship hazardously works her way north through the intricate uncharted channels that run up the western coast of Patagonia. It was hereabouts, by the way, that the Dresden, after the Falkland fight, played hide-and-seek with our gunboats for several months. Helped by many striking illustrations, we are enabled to picture to ourselves the deep gorges overlooked by snowy peaks, and the gaunt half-naked Indians that these waters precariously support. Afterwards Selkirk's Island, Juan Fernandez, was visited, and when the Easter Island investigations were complete, the expedition went on to Pitcairn, the home of the descendants of the Bounty mutineers, an incidental consequence being that King George in due course received at Buckingham Palace two loyal representatives of this, the smallest of British Colonies. But space would fail if we dwelt further on the nautical side of the adventure, complicated as it was by the fact that during the greater part of the three years and four months during which it lasted there were German foes above and below water to be circumvented. Even Easter Island, it must be added, proved no haven of refuge, for first von Spee's squadron and subsequently the armed cruiser Prinz Eitel Friedrich paid a call there, though luckily Mana was away on both occasions.

Passing to the archæology, we must begin by gratefully recording the fact that at length an adequate description is available of the monuments as they exist to-day. Thanks to the maps, plans, and pictures, every detail is brought home to the reader; while he cannot complain that Mrs. Routledge's commentary, precise though it be, is ever dull. She is indeed to be congratulated on having composed a popular account that is likewise as far as it goes scientifically sound; though it is to be hoped that the whole collection of evidence, of which but a digest is presented here, will hereafter be published. The expedition was evidently at great pains to survey, catalogue, measure, photograph, and, so far as was necessary, actually disinter, the entire mass of remains, despite their great number and the considerable extent of country over which they are distributed. And fortunately the stonework is still there to be studied, since it cannot be easily removed or destroyed, as has mostly been the fate of the woodwork, namely, the carved human figures, twenty to thirty inches high, with their characteristic goatee beards and prominent ribs, and the tablets on which the script was carved. Yet, if not altogether demolished, the statues are in large part dethroned. Those at least that decorated the burial platforms of Cyclopean architecture that border the coast are all overthrown; how and why we can but guess. On the other hand, there is a certain volcanic hill with many huge figures still standing, both within the crater and along its outer skirts. It was here that all the images were quarried; and many exist in a half-finished condition, while some, including the largest of all, sixty-six feet in length, were perhaps never meant to be completely detached from the parent rock. Excavation at these quarries revealed the whole process of manufacture, and proved that with stone tools it was possible to hew the soft rock into shape, though the precise manner of the transportation and erection of the unwieldy monsters, while plainly creditable to human muscle, remains by no means easy to discern.

Who were the makers? What did they mean to represent? At this point we pass from description to explanation, from the ascertained to the purely conjectural. Certain it is that the present natives have no use for the statues, and are not only ignorant but likewise incurious about their origin. Even by Cook's time, namely, in 1774, though still standing, they were apparently ceasing to be respected; whereas Roggeveen, in 1722, rightly or wrongly, saw in them objects of an existing worship. Thus we seem to get at least a downward limit for the epoch during which they were part of the living culture, and this view is borne out by the relatively unweathered condition of some statues. It would look, then, as if the direct and not very remote ancestors of the present islanders were the image-makers, and not some mysterious extinct race, such as has often been postulated. Further, the pendant ear-lobes of the statues recall a practice hardly yet obsolete among the population of to-day.

The best argument of all, however, amongst those making for a connection with the indigenous culture is derived from the study of a remarkable bird-cult which it is a chief triumph of the expedition to have rescued from oblivion. Not only can it be thus shown to the point of demonstration that the rock-carvings occurring in a deserted village of stone houses on the south-western headland of the island represent the annual "bird-man" who got the first egg of a sacred bird, and so became himself highly sacred; but it can also be made a probable corollary that the statues of the image-mountain are memorials of bird-men, since it was close by that the bird-man must abide in strict seclusion for the five months in which his sacredness was at its height. Indeed, many are the clues which are afforded by a close examination of this curious custom. Thus it seems certain that the present cult which centres round the Sooty Tern is derived from the worship of the Frigate Bird as practised in far-off Melanesia. The Frigate Bird, too, seems to have suggested various symbols belonging to the script. The inference is that there is a Melanesian stratum in the population; though, as a Polynesian immigration must also be assumed in order to account for the language, responsibility for the culture as a whole must somehow be divided between the two parties. All these difficult questions, we fear, cannot be thrashed out within the limits of a brief review. Yet perhaps enough has been said to induce every student of the wider history of man not to miss a golden opportunity of learning that anthropology and romance are sisters.

SCIENCE

SOME WONDERS OF MATTER. By the RIGHT REVEREND J. E. MERCER. Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge. 5s. net.

CHEMISTRY AND ITS MYSTERIES. By CHARLES R. GIBSON. Seely, Service & Co. 5s. net.

THE REALITIES OF MODERN SCIENCE. By JOHN MILLS. The Macmillan Company. 10s. 6d. net.

England has a high tradition in books on popular science. Men like Faraday and Tyndall did not consider it beneath them to write for children and laymen, and their books on the elementary facts of science are models of their kind. Strangely enough—or naturally enough—the best expositors of the elements of a science are, in general, those who have themselves contributed to the advances of that science, while those who are professedly popularisers present the subject not only less correctly and logically but also less simply and pleasantly. The books before us confirm this opinion.

Mr. Gibson is a practised hand at writing books for children, the volume before us being the sixth of a series. He has the merit that he attempts to bring before the reader the experimental basis of the science of chemistry and some of its historical aspects, and does not make a series of dogmatic statements without reference to the researches on which they rest, as does Bishop Mercer. He describes many experiments, and gives diagrams to illustrate them. The book covers a wide field of interesting and, for the most part, elementary chemical phenomena. The chief fault which we have to find is with the style in which it is written. We find the imaginary questions put to the writer by boys and girls distinguished as big, little, facially peculiar, and so on, irritating, and we very much doubt if his patronising manner will find favour with most boys, who, we believe, prefer to be treated as friends who happen not to know. We do not pretend to Mr. Gibson's knowledge of children, but base our criticism on the fact that Faraday and most of his successors at the Royal Institution have managed to interest and instruct their juvenile audiences without this painfully evident condescension.

Bishop Mercer's method of striving to excite the wonder of his young readers is based upon a liberal use of notes of exclamation (seldom less than three on a page, and sometimes three together, for extra effect) and of the words "wonder" and "wonderful," together with the constant citation of very large numbers, which fill him with awe—"A million is bad enough with its six cyphers. But eighteen of them—that is awful—it is a million million million!" The machinery of nature, as revealed by modern science, does not impress him as do these rows of cyphers. If there were any serious attempt to show how they have been arrived at we should think more highly of the educational value of the book. As it is, the information is often incorrect on quite simple matters—water does not occupy "exactly" (or approximately) "the same space as before" after sugar has been added to it; hydrogen is not often regarded, in these days when it has been solidified, as a metal. Often the book is most misleading, as in the description of how the author saw a man's ribs by X-rays when the "machine" was put the other side of the man in question. No mention is made of any phosphorescent screen, and the inexperienced reader is led to infer by the analogy given that he actually saw through the man. The style is vague and slipshod in the extreme, a typical sentence being, "The elasticity of the atoms is so perfect that they always bang about just the same." We will not criticise the Bishop's theology, or his philosophy, which insists that "what you really see is not the matter of the tree, but the ether-quiverings which that matter throws off." We will, however, take it upon ourselves to suggest that, if he should decide to write another book on elementary science, he should model himself rather upon Faraday's "Lectures Upon the Physical Forces" than upon an American temperance lecture.

Mr. Mills' book on The Realities of Modern Science is in a different class from the two already noticed, and is intended for adult readers. It gives a sketch of modern conceptions of the composition of matter, the electron theory, and the recent experimental work on the magnitude of molecules and electrons. The early chapters of the book are devoted to a very brief but excellent treatment of certain aspects of the history of physical science. A great merit of the book is that it devotes particular attention to the recent important advances in molecular physics, which are neither yet included in the text-books nor easily available in popular form. We may mention especially the work of Millikan on the electronic charge, that of the Braggs and Moseley on X-ray spectra, and the photographs taken by C. T. R. Wilson (whose name is not, however, mentioned) of the paths of α {a} and β {b} particles and of X-rays. The style is simple and sober, and the author, who hails from the research laboratories of the Western Electric Company, wisely leaves the results which he describes to produce their own impression. The book is, of course, written for more advanced readers than the others here noticed, but, all the same, an intelligent schoolboy with a smattering of scientific knowledge would, in all probability, prefer it to the books written expressly for his benefit. The adult reader is not likely to find a better presentation of the more striking aspects of modern physics.

BOOK-PRODUCTION NOTES

By J. H. MASON

LAST month, in laying down the chief matters to be considered in producing a satisfactory book, I began with type. And as if the subject were in the air, as it were in solution, I find it precipitated in the form of an important article in the pages of the Saturday Review. An illustrated article, too, with specimens of the chief types referred to. This is all to the good; if this example is followed by other literary journals we shall soon form a right opinion in the lay public on what is a good type. The appearance of our books will be improved, the offensive advertisement—I am speaking typographically—will lose its vulgarity, and public lettering in posters, shop names, and street signs will reflect the improvement.

*      *      *      *      *

It is interesting to note that my view on the importance of the work of the private presses is also confirmed by the article referred to, and that their work is beginning to influence the typefounders, however tardily.

*      *      *      *      *

It is quite frequently said that it costs no more to print from good type than from bad. We might go further in the case of certain bad types and say that their use sends up the cost of printing. For when "modern" type of the extreme form is used, as De Vinne pointed out, their hair-lines are soon battered by any inequality in the paper and print imperfectly, or involve a loss of time in changing the damaged letters. The attempt to emulate the hair-line of the engraver of plate lettering is altogether misplaced in relief or letterpress printing.

*      *      *      *      *

The Victorian greyness of page led some printers and publishers to resort to the use of heavier type to give their pages a richer black. But almost all the heavier types at their disposal had been designed for display lines in advertisements, and went too far in the thickening of the line. Even Morris's "Golden" type, excellent as it is in his use of it, is too heavy to be adopted as the staple type-face of our printing.

*      *      *      *      *

Not till quite recently have type-faces of the right weight for bookwork been designed and placed on the general market. The work of the American Goudy, the type cut by Mr. Prince (who cut the punches for the Kelmscott, the Doves, and other celebrated founts) for Messrs. Shanks and christened "Dolphin," and some of the modern versions of Venetian founts are pretty satisfactory and generally available.

*      *      *      *      *

With the exception of the Monotype Company, who designed an excellent modified "old style" type for the "Imprint," the composing machines that produce our newspapers, journals, and a large proportion of our books have repeated the stock designs originally made for movable or hand-set type. It is very desirable that they should not limit themselves to these, and the instance mentioned above is a most encouraging one to follow up.

*      *      *      *      *

The Studio has just issued a special number dealing with modern woodcuts and lithographs—British and French. This is the first attempt to collect representative work of modern artists who practise wood-cutting. The revival of the woodcut in book illustration demands special discussion. This will form the subject of next month's Notes à propos of the Studio Woodcut Number.

A LETTER FROM FRANCE

THE FRENCH POETRY OF TO-DAY

Paris, December, 1919

FRENCH poetry has not been renewed since the Symbolist Movement by any new and powerfully original poet. Besides, the Symbolist Movement is not finished, and it is in its spirit, in its influence, in its metric, that our poetry still lives to-day. The majority of the best French poets have passed the age of forty and come from Symbolist circles. The influence of the four Symbolist masters, of after 1870, Rimbaud, Laforgue, Mallarmé, and Verlaine, is still visible. A sleeper, like Wells's character, who fell asleep in 1898 and woke up twenty years afterwards, would find poetry much as he left it and with the same essential names.

He would see only that a reign has ended and that another head wears the crown on the coinage; but this by itself is not in the ordinary way a capital event. In his time the name of the prince of the poets was Mallarmé. To-day his name is Paul Fort; and it is very obvious that there is hardly any resemblance between the two. But our sleeper would very well remember having known Paul Fort at the Thursdays in the rue de Rome and in the Mercure, and having once read five or six volumes of Ballades, among them what was perhaps the poet's masterpiece, the astonishing Roman de Louis XI. The prince has nothing absolutely novel to show except his crown.

The sleeper would then ask news of the prince who reigned in his time, and would learn that in the year when he closed his eyes for twenty years Mallarmé closed them for ever.

One of the numerous surprises of the war was the sudden return of the purest and most authentic of the disciples of Mallarmé, M. Paul Valéry, to the poetry which he had abandoned for twenty years. M. Valéry then produced that admirable pendant to Mallarmé's Hérodiade which is called La Jeune Parque, and he published in reviews a few poems that connoisseurs cut out and keep jealously as once they did the sonnets of Hérédia. The volume, which will doubtless appear in a short time, will be published by the Nouvelle Revue Française, and will be a jewel of the same kind as the poems of Mallarmé, and will make the second peak of a double snow-covered Parnassus. Another disciple of Mallarmé, M. Jean Royère, has published a collection of poems, Par la lumière peints, that the master of Valvins would have loved. One finds in them a curious contrast between a somewhat cold and Parnassian form and a beautiful mobility of images which change without ceasing one into the other.

The sleeper, happy to see that the spirit of Mallarmé is still alive, would ask news of the two poets who were in 1898 the leaders of the Symbolist school, M. Henri de Régnier and M. Viélé Griffin. "They still make an honourable figure," we should answer, "but the twenty years during which you have been asleep have not added much to what is essential to their work. In 1898 they had already written all their most beautiful verses, those that your generation knew by heart, which made indeed two original visions of the world."

"I remember, also," the sleeper would continue, "two other poets who were frequently named together and who, if they did not resemble one another in their inspirations, resembled one another in their life apart and their solitary work. One of them lived in a little town of the Pyrenees, and painted there with a naive fervour like that of Francis of Assisi, and also with the irony of a shrewd observer, the things and the faces of his quiet life, the animals and the people of his small countryside. This was Francis Jammes. The other had made at the age of eighteen or twenty two tragic masks shining with genius, Tête d'or and La Ville. Then he went as consul to China and elsewhere. We received sometimes from him strange things, printed at Fou-Tcheou by a widow named Rosario. This was Paul Claudel. Are they still of this world?" "Of this poetical world and of another world still: these are to-day our two great Catholic poets. These in the last twenty years have, all the same, produced new works that you could not have looked for in 1898. But they also belong to the generation that you knew, and all of Claudel was already potentially in Tête d'or, as all of Jammes was potentially in the trilogy of the Poète."

"Am I myself," the sleeper will ask, "an image of this poetry? Has it, like me, been asleep for twenty years or repeating itself indefinitely?" "Not altogether, but it has added nothing essential, except this little in Claudel and Jammes, to what was germinating or flourishing in the garden of 1898." "I understand. You must have been for twenty years one of these happy people who have no history. France has lived peaceful days. And this united and undisturbed life has proved favourable to the continuity of the poetic routine?" "Not at all, O Epimenides. You went to sleep precisely when France was beginning the Dreyfus affair, which was a famous earthquake, and you wake at the moment when we are emerging from a world-wide war which has killed a dozen million men on our planet, and which has given to Europe the appearance you can see here, on the wall, on this map." "And all this has not yet produced any new poets? And, in 1919, when my eyes open again to the light, you send me back where I was in 1898, you give me again all my old poets and none but them, and the great news is that Mallarmé's workshop is open again, that the attention of the poetical world is hung on the new Hérodiade, which M. Valéry is exhibiting there! That is a stupefying thing which is enough to wake up a sleeper, which might even wake up a dead man!"

"Well, my dear sir, poetry has its own logic. The war has, we know, been favourable for those who trade in iron; learn also that it has been an age of gold for those who trade in diamonds. It has pleased us to hold in our hands the diamonds of former times. But be reassured. The war has sometimes brought into the poetic light a kind of iron which is not without beauty. We have had true war poets. The Hymns of Joachim Gasquet make a superb book. He is certainly not attached to the Symbolist Movement. Gasquet is a southerner, a classic, a man with sonorous lungs, with an unquenchable abundance of oratory. The book of this poet from Aix seems as though it were written by a Mirabeau of the trenches."

"But in 1898 I knew Gasquet pretty well, I read his verses. They resembled most closely those of Emmanuel Signoret, and they were very beautiful. Can you only quote to me these ghosts of my own time? Are there, then, no young men?"

"Here are the poems of Henri Ghéon, delicate in their harmony, pure in their emotion, Foi en la France."

"I remember Ghéon very well."

"The devil! I forgot that he also was of the group of 1898. All the same, here are some that will be new to you. Here is Europe, by Jules Romains, in which we find again the powerful and vigorous poet of the Vie Unanime.

"Here is a charming little book which Louis de Gonzague-Frick wrote in pencil on his military postcards: it is called Sous le Bélier de Mars. In that book we find again the succulence and verve of Laurent Tailhade. And you will find them again, in a different form, in Fernand Fleuret's Falourdin. It is a pity that Georges Duhamel has written nothing during the war except some admirable books of prose; but that will not prevent me reminding you of his earlier, beautiful poems in Compagnons. You would also like Charles Vildrac's Livre d'Amour. You should certainly also read the poems, sometimes rather awkward but very original and robust, that Jules Supervieille wrote in South America. And as dessert I will keep for you that exquisite confection L'Appartement des Jeunes Filles, by Roger Allard. Together these make a charming bouquet, but I grant you it is a small one."

Here I end this dialogue, designed to show French poetry stationary in the positions of twenty years ago. We may end by saying that in thus remaining alive and healthy, in thriving for a longer period than the Parnassian movement, French symbolism has made a place for itself which will deserve the respect of posterity. The poetic form which will take its place is not yet in sight. But that form will surely appear when the generation of our sleeper has gone down, to the last man, into slumber irrevocable.

ALBERT THIBAUDET

LEARNED SOCIETIES, ETC.

THE SOCIETY OF ANTIQUARIES

THE Near East has been opened up by the war, and reports are coming in. The Augustinian Priory of the Holy Sepulchre, a complex of buildings, including the Calvary, St. Helen's Chapel, and the Prison of Christ, has been described by Mr. A. W. Clapham, who, being on military duty in Jerusalem, recently surveyed the ruins, and succeeded in making an almost complete plan of the Latin monastery, founded in 1114. Architectural features, both Western and Byzantine, were noticed, and the hope expressed that cleaning and repair would soon be undertaken now that the Holy Places are under British protection. In Babylonia Mr. H. R. Hall has been excavating for the British Museum at Eridu and Ur of the Chaldees. Work on the former site was begun by Mr. Campbell Thompson last year, and buildings of the First Dynasty at Ur have been discovered, dating about 2400 B.C. Still earlier finds of Sumerian origin, dating from pre-Semitic times, have come to light at Tell el-Obeid near Ur, including heads of lions and panthers in copper, on a bitumen foundation, with inlaid tongues, eyes, and teeth of coloured stone and shell; and a lion-headed eagle in copper relief, flanked by stags, the group being 8 feet long and 4 feet high. Nearer home Mr. Reginald Smith has brought forward evidence to prove that flint daggers belong to the early Bronze Age in Britain, but to the last phase of the Stone Age in Scandinavia. The earlier daggers point to connection between the two areas about 2000 B.C.

THE SOCIETY OF GENEALOGISTS OF LONDON

Since Her Majesty the Queen graciously consented to become a Patron membership has considerably increased, and now stands at 377. During the winter papers have been read as follows: By Mr. Watson-Taylor on "Joan of Arc, Her Relatives and Descendants"; by Mr. Austen-Leigh on "Editing a School Register," Eton to wit; by Dr. G. C. Peachey on "Bookplates"; and by Mr. George Sherwood on "Pedigrees and Next-of-Kin Cases," all of which were well attended, and the papers recommended for publication. A paper is promised by the Rev. T. C. Dale on "Durham Records." The last Report of the Royal Commission on Public Records has been much discussed, and measures suggested for getting its recommendations put into practice. Recognition has been accorded by the British Museum authorities, with the result that the genealogical papers of the late R. W. Twigge, F.S.A., have been added, with the consent of Mrs. Twigge, to the Society's collection.

The Society's aim is simply to facilitate research: by making records more accessible, by forming a collection of printed books, documents, and MSS., and by making a great index on the card-index system to the less-known records of biographical fact. Application should be made for the latest Annual Report to the Secretary, at the Society's Rooms, 5 Bloomsbury Square, W.C.1.

THE VASARI SOCIETY

The Committee of the Vasari Society have decided to resume the publication of their annual Portfolio in 1920 if enough subscribers are forthcoming. The Society's aim is to reproduce in facsimile fine drawings by the Old Masters from both public and private collections. While attempting in the first place to publish less-known drawings from private collections, it will not forget that the essential aim is to reproduce masterly drawings rather than secondary pieces of historical interest, and on that account will draw, as in the past, to a considerable degree on the better-known works in public collections.

In the first ten years of the Society's work an annual Portfolio was published with an average of thirty reproductions, covering the fourteenth to the eighteenth centuries. The new series may be somewhat broader in scope in admitting the nineteenth century, and allowing "Old Masters" to include any deceased master of acknowledged excellence in draughtsmanship. Moreover, it is desired to give ampler representation to draughtsmen of the British School than has been done in the past.

To continue the annual publication at the same subscription of one guinea, it has been decided to reduce the size of the Portfolio from 18 by 15 to 16 by 11½ inches, and it is thought that this will be welcomed by members who have little space for the larger folios. It will not imply reduction in size of the reproductions, which will continue to be as far as possible facsimile in size and colour, and every effort will be made to keep up the standard of quality. Intending subscribers should communicate with the Hon. Secretary, Mr. A. M. Hind, at the British Museum, London, W.C.1. Subscriptions for 1920 will not be due until May 1st, and those who have intimated their willingness to become members will be informed before that date if the number of subscribers promised does not justify the committee in issuing the publication.

THE BIBLIOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY

The Annual Report of the Bibliographical Society announces that the Society's Transactions will henceforth be published in quarterly parts, and that with a view to lessening the cost it is proposed to allow copies to be purchased by non-members and to accept advertisements. It is hoped also that The Library, founded by Sir John MacAlister in 1888 and edited during recent years by Mr. A. W. Pollard, the Keeper of Printed Books at the British Museum, and the Honorary Secretary of the Bibliographical Society, may be brought into the scheme, and that the quarterly numbers may be gradually worked up into a full bibliographical magazine.

At the December meeting of the Society a point of great bibliographical interest was raised by a paper read by Mr. F. W. Bourdillon on "Some French Romances." He showed how many of the woodcuts used in illustration were reproduced by one printer after another with a marked fall in quality by a method of transfer on to wood-blocks called by the technical name of pocher, which, he submitted, may be an ancestor of the modern English verb "to poach." Mr. Bourdillon urged the importance of the comparative study of such woodcuts, and suggested that a Society should be formed for reproducing early book illustrations in facsimile.

*      *      *      *      *

DISCOVERY

A Conference was called last January by the joint invitation of the President of the Royal Society, the President of the British Academy, and a large number of others, interested both in the production and distribution of knowledge, to frame, if possible, a scheme for a journal which should present in popular form the most recent results of research in all the chief subjects of knowledge. This Conference appointed a committee to frame a scheme, and their report was presented and adopted at the adjourned meeting of the Conference held recently in the rooms of the Royal Society, Burlington House. Professor R. S. Conway, of Manchester, has acted throughout as Secretary of the movement. The meeting approved the name Discovery for the new journal, and established a trust for its maintenance, the first trustees being Sir Joseph J. Thomson, O.M., P.R.S., Sir Frederic G. Kenyon, D.Litt., K.C.B., P.B.A., Professor A. C. Seward, Sc.D., F.R.S., Professor R. S. Conway, Litt.D., P.B.A.

The meeting further approved of the agreement made provisionally by the Executive Committee, with Mr. John Murray as Publisher, and of his and the committee's joint recommendation of Captain A. S. Russell, M.C., D.Sc., recently of the R.G.A., now of the University, Sheffield, and Reader-elect in Chemistry at Christ Church, Oxford, as Editor. The first number will be issued on January 15th, 1920, at the price of sixpence.

The Conference further considered in detail and adopted the committee's scheme for the management of the journal, of which the chief principles may be mentioned. The control of the trustees is final, but they undertake to exercise it through a managing committee, which they will appoint on the nomination of a large number of bodies, the chief of whom are the Conjoint Board of Scientific Societies, who will nominate five members, the Classical, Historical, English, and Geographical, each of whom will nominate one member, and the Modern Language Association, if, as is hoped, that also adheres to the scheme. Further the British Psychological Society and the Royal Society of Economics will appoint one member.

This, however, is only one side of the committee's constitution. It will comprise also representatives of the great Associations which represent different bodies of students and teachers, and the public libraries. Those that have already pledged themselves to take part are the National Union of Teachers, which is to nominate two representatives; the Co-operative Union; the Associations of Headmasters and Headmistresses, who will appoint one member. Similar co-operation is hoped for from the Royal Society of Literature, the Library Association, the Young Men's Christian Association, the Workers' Educational Association, the Associations of Assistant Masters and Assistant Mistresses, and the Association of Education Committees, all of which have expressed sympathy with the movement.

BIBLIOGRAPHIES OF MODERN AUTHORS

ARTHUR CLUTTON-BROCK

ETON. Bell. 1900. (Handbooks of Great Public Schools.)

SHELLEY: THE MAN AND THE POET. Methuen. 1909.

DESCRIPTION IN POETRY. English Association. 1911.

WILLIAM MORRIS. Williams & Norgate. 1914. (Home University Library.)

THOUGHTS ON THE WAR. Methuen. 1914.

MORE THOUGHTS ON THE WAR. Methuen. 1915.

[Several times reprinted. Collected from the Times Literary Supplement.]

SIMPSON'S CHOICE: AN ESSAY IN VERSE ON A FUTURE LIFE. Omega Workshops. 1916.

A MODERN CREED OF WORK. Design and Industry Association. Miscellaneous Publications. 1915.

THE ULTIMATE BELIEF. Constable. 1916.

STUDIES IN CHRISTIANITY. Constable. 1918.

WHAT IS THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN? Methuen. 1919.

ESSAYS ON ART. Methuen. 1919.

[Reprinted from the Times Literary Supplement.]

(He has also written Introductions to Shelley's Works (1911); to Kenneth Richmond's Permanent Values in Education (1917); to Letters of a Soldier (1917); and an essay on Immortality in the Rev. B. H. Streeter's collection of theological essays (1917).)

HILAIRE BELLOC

Prose

DANTON—A study. Nisbet. 1899. Reprinted, 1911, in Nelson's Shilling Library.

PARIS. E. Arnold. 1900. Second Edition. Methuen. 1907.

ROBESPIERRE. Nisbet. 1901.

THE PATH TO ROME. George Allen. 1902. Now published by Allen & Unwin and by Nelson.

[Illustrated by the author.]

AFTERMATHS AND GLEANINGS OF A BUSY LIFE CALLED CALIBAN'S GUIDE TO LETTERS. Duckworth. 1903. Greenback Library.

TRISTAN AND ISEULT. George Allen. 1903. (French Romances.)

THE GREAT ENQUIRY. Duckworth. 1903.

[A Tariff Reform satire with illustrations by G. K. Chesterton.]

EMMANUEL BURDEN: A Novel. Methuen. 1904.

[Illustrated by G. K. Chesterton.]

THE OLD ROAD. Constable. 1904. Reprinted. 1910.

AVRIL: Being an Essay on the Poetry of the French Renaissance. Duckworth. 1904.

ESTO PERPETUA: Algerian Studies. Duckworth. 1906.

[Both the above have been reprinted in the Reader's Library.]

HILLS AND THE SEA. Methuen. 1906.

THE HISTORIC THAMES. Dent. 1907.

MR. CLUTTERBUCK'S ELECTION. Nash. 1907.

[Now published by Nelson.]

THE EYE WITNESS. Nash. 1908.

ON NOTHING AND KINDRED SUBJECTS. Methuen. 1908.

ON EVERYTHING. Methuen. 1909.

MARIE ANTOINETTE. Methuen. 1909.

THE PYRENEES. Methuen. 1909.

A CHANGE IN THE CABINET. Methuen. 1909.

ON ANYTHING. Constable. 1910.

ON SOMETHING. Methuen. 1910.

PONGO AND THE BULL: A Novel. Constable. 1910.

THE GIRONDIN. Nelson. 1911.

FIRST AND LAST. Methuen. 1911.

THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. Williams & Norgate. 1911. (Home University Library.)

WARFARE IN ENGLAND. Williams & Norgate. 1911. (Home University Library.)

THE PARTY SYSTEM. Stephen Swift. 1911. (Written in collaboration with Cecil Chesterton.)

SOCIALISM AND THE SERVILE STATE. Debate with Mr. Ramsay Macdonald, Independent Labour Party. 1911.

BRITISH BATTLES Stephen Swift. 1911. Now published by Hugh Rees.

[Six Monographs on Waterloo, Blenheim, Tourcoing, Malplaquet, Crecy, and Poictiers.]

THE GREEN OVERCOAT. Arrowsmith. 1912.

THE FOUR MEN. Nelson. 1912.

[Illustrated by the author.]

THIS, THAT, AND THE OTHER. Methuen. 1912

THE RIVER OF LONDON. Foulis. 1912.

THE SERVILE STATE. Foulis. 1912.

THE HILAIRE BELLOC CALENDAR. Frank Palmer. 1913.

THE BOOK OF THE BAYEUX TAPESTRY. Chatto & Windus. 1913.

THE STANE STREET: A Monograph. Constable. 1913.

A PICKED COMPANY. Methuen. 1915. (Selected Writings.)

THE TWO MAPS OF EUROPE AND SOME ASPECTS OF THE GREAT WAR. Pearson. 1915.

A HISTORY OF ENGLAND FROM THE FIRST INVASION OF THE ROMANS TO THE ACCESSION OF GEORGE V. By J. Lingard and Hilaire Belloc. 1915.

[Mr. Belloc wrote a concluding volume to Lingard, covering the period from 1688.]

A GENERAL SKETCH OF THE EUROPEAN WAR. Vol. I. Nelson. 1915. Vol. II., 1916.

THE LAST DAYS OF THE FRENCH MONARCHY. Chapman & Hall. 1916.

THE FREE PRESS. Allen & Unwin. 1918.

Verse

VERSES AND SONNETS. Ward & Downey. 1895.

[Withdrawn from circulation.]

THE MODERN TRAVELLER. Arnold. 1898.

A MORAL ALPHABET. Arnold. 1899.

LAMBKIN'S REMAINS. Alden, Oxford. 1898.

THE BAD CHILD'S BOOK OF BEASTS. Alden, Oxford. 1897.

MORE BEASTS FOR WORSE CHILDREN. Arnold. 1898.

[The above five books are now published by Duckworth.]

CAUTIONARY TALES FOR CHILDREN. Nash. 1907.

[Now published by Nelson.]

VERSES. Duckworth. 1910.

[A collection including certain poems from previous books.]

MORE PEERS. Verses. Stephen Swift. 1911.

(He has also written numerous Introductions, a chapter in (Oxford) Essays in Liberalism, a number of penny religious tracts published by the Catholic Truth Society, and contributions to various anthologies.)

DRAMA

THE DUCHESS OF MALFI

THE production by the Phœnix Society of Webster's The Duchess of Malfi at the Lyric Theatre, Hammersmith, gave many people an opportunity to make an exhibition of themselves. In the first place, it was somewhat astonishing to find that on the Sunday night the audience, which one might have supposed to have been made up of people of some education, contained many persons who were evidently unaware that Webster wrote at the very beginning of the seventeenth century, and who had gone to the Lyric Theatre expecting to find a classical and not a renaissance tragedy. Perhaps this is being too kind to them; perhaps they thought The Duchess of Malfi was a Revue, or a Viennese Musical Comedy by Leo Fall or Franz Lehar, which, owing to D.O.R.A., could not yet be produced on the ordinary stage. But perhaps they did not even think at all, and their tittering and nudging was merely the manifestation of the vacancy of their minds. Whatever the explanation, it is certainly odd that such people should be—as they presumably were—members of the Phœnix Society. It has been said to me that this section of the audience was composed largely of the profession, to whom Sunday night is their one opportunity of the week to enjoy the role of spectator. I hesitate to believe it. I refuse to believe it, although the notorious and shameful ignorance of many actors and actresses of the dramatic literature of their own country is difficult to forget. But if this is the explanation—and it is an unpalatable one—it also accounts for the reception given—again by a section only of the audience—to Mr. Farquharson's extraordinarily fine effort to grapple with the part of Ferdinand. The rank and file of actors, like the rank and file of musicians, are notoriously poor judges of their own art. They are sound enough when it is a question of merely conventional skill. They know in an ordinary way the difference between the professional and the amateur. Mere clumsiness, roughness, or smoothness of technique they can discern and, to some extent, understand; but even in these matters it is the conventional, the accustomed way of doing a thing rather than the essentially good way of doing it that they judge by. The moment an actor goes outside routine methods he runs the risk of being ridiculed; his slightest faults and exaggerations and mistakes are fastened upon, while what there may be of insight, imagination, and power in his characterisation is completely passed over.

This is what happened to Mr. Robert Farquharson at The Duchess of Malfi. He gave an interpretation of the character of Ferdinand which was a real creative effort of the actor's imagination. Even if he had been less successful than he was in producing the effect he aimed at, he should have met with a respectful attention from his fellow-artists in the audience. But such an attention would have proceeded from an interest in and some glimmer of an understanding of the serious efforts of an artist; whereas these people who disgraced themselves by loudly giggling at Mr. Farquharson were not obviously blind to serious art.

Of Mr. Farquharson's interpretation I will say this. It was essentially sound and convincing. In portraying Ferdinand as a man abnormal, fanatical, and almost insane on the subject of sex, we are made to understand all his subsequent conduct. Ferdinand, as drawn by Webster, is a man of diseased imagination; he is described in the very first scene by Antonio as "a most perverse and turbulent nature"; his very language right from the start is more violent, more imaginative than that of any other character in the play. Sex is an obsession with him; his first words to his sister are:

You are a widow:

You know already what man is;

And his second:

Marry! they are most luxurious

Will wed twice. Their lovers are more spotted

Than Laban's sheep.

He cannot let the subject alone, he is always returning to it. Earlier in the scene, when he tells Bosola that he does not wish his sister to marry again, he says:

Do not you ask the reason, but be satisfied

I say I would not.

Mr. Farquharson said these words with just the right emphasis, an emphasis that sent a shudder through one's flesh, it was so simple, so vague, and yet so peculiar.

Now, for this Mr. Farquharson ought to have been highly praised. It meant, first of all, that Mr. Farquharson had an original conception of his part; and, secondly, that he had the technique to carry his conception across the footlights. But imagination must meet imagination; if it meets nothing but dullness it might just as well be dull itself, its effect is necessarily nil; and, apparently, that is what Mr. Farquharson's noble effort did meet. It was really astonishing to find written in the daily Press the pained little grumblings of men who had been unable to discover an adequate motive for Ferdinand's conduct, and who expressed their dissatisfaction with Webster's capacity as a dramatist, after having been accustomed for many years to the dramatic genius of Mr. Walter Ellis (the author of A Little Bit of Fluff), Mr. George R. Sims (the author of The Great Day), Mr. Oscar Asche (author of Chu Chin Chow), Mr. Robert Hichens (author of The Voice from the Minaret), and many others of equal greatness but too numerous to mention. It was perhaps an over-familiarity with the works of this galaxy of genius that led one London newspaper to describe The Duchess of Malfi in headlines as "Funnier than Farce." The atmosphere of a genuine tragedy might easily appear "funny" to anyone accustomed to that of the average London play. One great difficulty that confronted some critics was the impossibility—after a war in which millions were slaughtered—of imagining the murder of four men. Because Webster's tragedy ends in the death of four of the principal characters, it is, apparently, farcical or funny. It never even seems to have occurred to these detractors of a great work that in Italy of the Renaissance—the place and period with which Webster is dealing—such incidents were as common as divorce suits nowadays; but it would, assuredly, be asking too much to expect people to exercise a little historical imagination who have no imagination of any sort, and who are, therefore, to be pitied for their inability to understand any play that does not contain a telephone.

On the bulk of the audience, however, Mr. Farquharson's Ferdinand made a deep impression, and the wonderful fifth scene in the second act, where Ferdinand enters with the words: "I have this night digged up a mandrake," was very nearly one of the finest and most blood-curdling things I have ever witnessed. It was just marred by a few exaggerations of gesture and crudities which could have easily been put right, but in conception and power it was magnificent. I have used the word "blood-curdling," although I know that nobody's blood curdles nowadays, least of all the blood of dramatic critics. But that is just what is wrong with them. It is no distinction to have blood that does not "curdle." The blood of an ox does not curdle—not at the tragedy of King Lear, nor Macbeth, nor the third act of Die Walküre, nor the Prometheus of Scriabin. There must be an imagination in the spectator to take fire, and without imagination the work of a poet like Webster must of necessity appear incomprehensible:

Methinks I see her laughing—

Excellent hyena! Talk to me somewhat quickly,

Or my imagination will carry me

To see her in the shameful act of sin.

To the unimaginative these lines of Ferdinand's will seem nothing, but they are wonderful in their dramatic vividness and appropriateness. I have quoted them because it is the sort of writing Webster gives us on every page; it is not one of his purple patches. Webster's command of language is little short of marvellous. To anyone with a sense of words it is a wonderful experience to read The Duchess of Malfi for the first time; and after seeing it played one returns to the book and finds it all ten times more wonderful still. Could anything be more utter cant than the suggestion that the plays of many modern dramatists are superior to Webster's even as literature? How many of them can be read at all, even once? It is so nearly impossible that more than half of them cannot be published, and of those that are published the perusal of a few pages leads to their prompt consignment to the dustbin. As for ever attaining that combination of great poetry with perfect dramatic appropriateness culminating in moments when vox in faucibus hæsit, it is utterly beyond them. Such passages as:

Bosola.   Strangling; here are your executioners.

Duch.     I forgive them:

The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o' the lungs

Would do as much as they do.

Bos.       Doth not death fright you?

Duch.     Who would be afraid on't

Knowing to meet such excellent company

In the other world?

Bos.       Yet, methinks

The manner of your death should much afflict you:

This cord should terrify you.

Duch.     Not a whit:

What would it pleasure me to have my throat cut

With diamonds? or to be smotherèd

With cassia? or to be shot to death with pearls?

I know death hath ten thousand several doors

For men to take their exits; and 'tis found

They go on such strange geometrical hinges

You may open them both ways.

Such passages are as abundant in Webster as dots in the novels of Mr. H. G. Wells. The only readable modern English dramatist—with the exception of Mr. Granville Barker, and possibly of Sir James Barrie—is Mr. Shaw; but one reads Mr. Shaw for his wit, and his wit, like water-ices, is, though tasty, very poor sustenance. Yet the same people who treat The Duchess of Malfi as "Farce" take Mr. Shaw's amusing buffoonery quite seriously; and there is one explanation for both phenomena, and it is the one with which I began—lack of imagination. An imaginative man does not need Mr. Shaw to show him in a play that soldiers value their lives, and there being nothing astoundingly novel in the idea, he is free to appreciate Mr. Shaw's extravagant humour; but the unimaginative man thinks, firstly, that it is some perilous and subversive doctrine, or some new and wonderful truth—according to his political prejudice—and then, secondly, when some personal experience fits Mr. Shaw's formula, looks upon Mr. Shaw as a dealer in real property, and has for him that serious consideration he has for his landlord. This explains the fate of such a brilliant piece of extravaganza as Arms and the Man, which Mr. Loraine has produced at the Duke of York's Theatre. Originally the darling of unimaginative intellectuals—to whom it had brought light—and the bugbear of equally unimaginative Philistines—to whom its "light" was the flame of revolution—it is now accepted by the ordinary man in the pit as an ordinary, matter-of-fact account of what war is, because the man in the pit is just back from one and recognises the likeness. The deafening applause from ex-soldiers at the Duke of York's Theatre is something to go and hear. To them Mr. Shaw is no intellectual forerunner opening up obscure paths of thought, but a man who has described exactly what used to go on in the only army they have ever known, and they have for him the serious respect they have for all retailers of materials. He is a dealer not in "fancies," but in real goods. But this "reality" is just as imaginary as the former "light." Neither Bluntschli nor Cyrano de Bergerac represents the soldier. There is, in fact, no such thing as a soldier, there are only soldiers. The intellectual has never had his "light" nor the plain man his "reality"; for, being without imagination, they cannot have these things. There is no way of truth reaching an unimaginative man; he is doomed to live under a series of illusions, only shedding one to receive another, but, by a sublime paradox, the only illusion he can never shed is the illusion that poetry is an illusion, an illusion of the senses. It is the fate of poetry, of such magnificent poetic drama as Webster's, to remain always undraped in the world of imagination and never by any protective mimicry to take the colour of its surroundings and put on a fashionable dress. This, its unique greatness, is in the eyes of the unimaginative man its weakness, because he fails to recognise in it any of the outward appearances of his daily life—in short, he fails to see his washerwoman because to him she is a washerwoman and not a woman.

It is pleasant to think that there are actors and actresses who practically, for sheer love of their art, will give their time and ability for two isolated performances of a long and difficult work like The Duchess of Malfi. The performance, as a whole, was remarkably good, and it seems to me worth while recording the cast here:

FERDINAND, Duke of Calabria

ROBERT FARQUHARSON

CARDINAL, his Brother

ION SWINLEY

ANTONIO BOLOGNA, Steward of the Household to the Duchess

NICHOLAS HANNEN

DELIO, his friend

MURRAY KINNELL

DANIEL DE BOSOLA, Gentleman of the Horse to the Duchess

WILLIAM J. REA

CASTRUCCIO

FREDERICK HARKER

MARQUIS OF PESCARA

ROBERT ATKINS

COUNT MALATESTE

BASIL GORDON

RODERIGO

IVAN SAMSON

SILVIO

CLAUDE ALLISTER

GRISOLAN

J. ADRIAN BYRNE

DOCTOR

JOSEPH A. DODD

THE DUCHESS OF MALFI

CATHLEEN NESBITT

CARIOLA, her Woman

FLORENCE BUCKTON

JULIA, Castruccio's wife and the Cardinal's mistress

EDITH EVANS

OLD LADY

BLANCHE STANLEY

The Play produced by ALLAN WADE, in a setting designed by NORMAN WILKINSON of Four Oaks.

Of Mr. Farquharson I have already spoken. Equally fine but smoother and more accomplished was the work of Miss Cathleen Nesbitt as the Duchess. Mr. William J. Rea gave a fine and convincing study of Bosola, whose "garb of melancholy" he wore with an exquisite naturalness. Mr. Rea has a beautiful voice, and I hope it gave him as much pleasure to speak Webster's wonderful verse as it gave me to hear it so beautifully spoken. Antonio is difficult to make attractive, but Mr. Nicholas Hannen might have been more successful. I thought Miss Edith Evans's Julia excellent, but the Cardinal might well have been more sinister; he has some splendid lines to speak, including the famous:

When I look into the fish-ponds in my garden,

Methinks I see a thing armed with a rake,

That seems to strike at me,

and they were not always as effective as they might have been. It is to be hoped that the Phœnix Society will get a large number of new members through this fine production.

*      *      *      *      *

The French Classical Matinées at 2.30 every Tuesday and Wednesday afternoon at the Duke of York's Theatre will be as follows: Les Plaideurs, January 6th, 7th, 13th, 14th, 20th, and 21st.

W. J. TURNER

THE FINE ARTS

British Comic Drawing

I have before me the Christmas Number of Punch. After a conscientious perusal of its illustrated pages, I was led to think seriously about comic drawings. Punch has probably the largest circulation of comic papers, its position is undeniably established, it is, in fact, an institution in much the same way as the British Museum: we are accustomed to it, it exacts its quota of mirth from hundreds of thousands of people each week. It always contains some amusing things, but it is a pity that its drawings are not funnier. As comic drawings, most of them are quite valueless; they are not comic drawings but drawings of persons correctly portrayed in more or less amusing situations, the whole greatly helped by the wording beneath. Even the faces joined to the carefully-rendered bodies, with their carefully-drawn clothes (texture is felt here) and surroundings, are presented with the correct lines and expressions which a professor of physiognomy would connect with the various human emotions. The artist's personality behind these productions is rarely felt except as a stumbling-block to any progress of the absurd or whimsical. Mr. Max Beerbohm sums the matter up in his preface to a recent book of nonsense: "That a comic drawing should itself be comic seems to be a reasonable demand. Yet it is a demand which few comic draughtsmen meet. Comic drawings for the most part are but comic ideas seriously illustrated. We are shown an angry man who has just raised his stroke at golf; near him a caddie grinning behind his hand; and a view of the golf-links. Admirable! The man's stockings and knickerbockers, his cap, his collar, and tie are so rendered that a hosier would not blush to sign them. The drawing of the caddie's fingers would satisfy any drawing-master in any municipal art school. The treatment of the golf-links is faithful, sensitive, reverent. But—where does the fun come in? Through the text beneath maybe. But only for a moment. Out it goes, arrested, in the grip of the artist's firm and laborious hand."

Quite recently a friend of mine, whose drawings were more remarkable for their absurdity than for their strict draughtsmanship, attempted to obtain some work at the offices of one of our latest and most frivolous papers. The following conversation matured between him and the art editor:

ART EDITOR: These drawings are too queer for us, they won't go down over here.

ARTIST: How do you mean won't go down?

ART EDITOR: People don't understand them. They might do for France, but (mind you) they'd be queer even there.

ARTIST: Ah!

ART EDITOR: Now frankly (I hope you don't mind my being frank?)—(ARTIST: Not at all.)—You wouldn't say you could draw, would you?

ARTIST: I should not dare to be so presumptuous.

ART EDITOR: Well, these are the sort of drawings that children do in the suburbs of an evening.

ARTIST: Indeed!

ART EDITOR: Now, see here, in this drawing—you've only put three fingers on one hand. People notice that, you know. Now, if you could do us something like this (producing a third-rate imitation of Bateman figuring some gentleman of a pronounced Semitic type) we might be able to find you a job.

ARTIST: Well, I think I won't swell the ranks of people who are doing drawings of this kind.

ART EDITOR (surprised and suspicious): Ah, I'm sorry, I fear the drawings are no use to us, but I hope you don't mind my giving my opinion?

ARTIST: No, no, not at all. I shall value it. And now, please, how do I get out of this building?

Among the hosts of illustrators working for the comic papers there are very few comic artists and more artists than comedians. Punch would do well to relieve the monotony of its pages more often with the drawings of Mr. Bateman. There is a strength and subtlety in Mr. Bateman's line which places him far above other illustrators of this nature, while his knowledge and portrayal of types with the utmost economy of means is very stimulating: but then he can afford to be realistic also because he is above all a humorist. He possesses the faculty for letting himself go. Mr. George Morrow pleases us frequently by his gentle humour, and Mr. Haselden, a remarkable man, sustains our daily interest in the Daily Mirror. Mr. Heath Robinson is a master of whimsical invention, but I am not certain if he is not a very skilful engineer and mechanician in disguise—but certainly ingeniously disguised. Of the too regular contributors to Punch very little need be said, and of the illustrators of the cheaper comic publications still less: the best one can say of some of them is that they reproduce drawings from Continental papers. Between the extremes of academic respectability on the one hand and feeble vulgarity on the other there would seem to be no middle course. Our humorous papers are far below the level of such papers as the German Jugend or Simplicissimus, or the French Le Rire. One feels that their draughtsmanship is more simple and effective and their humour more spontaneous. This is not a plea for mere savagery of caricature, which appears foreign to our national temperament. But what a relief it would be if one fine week Punch went quite mad and appeared with its print upside down, or, better still, no print at all, and if all the artists gave free rein to whatever absurdity possessed them that week!

M. Henri Matisse

I suppose it is natural that the landscapes of M. Matisse should have a stronger appeal to me than his other works in the Leicester Galleries. Yet, apart from any purely egotistical considerations, I think many people will agree that his landscapes play a very important, if not the most important, part in the success of his exhibition. In many of them there seems to be no striving for the accomplishment of a unique or startling design, but there is a depth of feeling in their form and a mystery in their colour that alone accounts sufficiently for Matisse's reputation in modern art. I am extremely covetous of any one or all of these pictures. Matisse, in his landscapes, is a poet as well as a painter: his intense feeling for the quiet and rather awe-inspiring moments in Nature, his rendering of the vague profusion of growth, the cool grey horizontal clouds and subtle effects of light, make him a master in this branch of his art. I do not find this intensity of feeling in his other works, they are apt to cool one's ardour after the landscapes, and we are brought to think of design per se, and confronted with a flatness of handling that is not nearly so intriguing. His largest painting, Portrait de Femmes (trois sœurs), is very noble, and the drawings should not fail to satisfy the diminishing (I hope) body of people who will sniff at such an exhibition and utter those well-worn and unpardonable remarks on lack of draughtsmanship. Messrs. Brown and Phillips are to be congratulated on procuring for us such an interesting exhibition, and for giving us in the catalogue a photograph of M. Matisse. A glance at this likeness might still the outcries of Philistia more effectually than much argument.

Goupil Gallery Salon

Mr. William Marchant's salons, discontinued during the war, have come to life again, and the ninth of the series has been open during November and December. The Goupil Gallery has a large capacity, and Mr. Marchant seems to have gone out into all parts of the United Kingdom and gathered in a large crowd of artists, nor has he been able entirely to exclude some of the halt and the blind. A detailed criticism from picture to picture, or even from one man's group of work to another's, would be very tedious, for there are some 300 exhibits displayed in the series of rooms. The choice of work is very comprehensive, ranging from James Pryde to Pamela Bianco, from Mr. Lewis's portrait of Mr. Pound to the post-Millais backwash of Mr. Ranken.

In the Large Gallery are Mr. Augustus John and Mr. Sickert. The former exhibits two soldier portraits and No. 51, Birdie, all of which serve to remind us of his unequalled position in that branch of art. Mr. Sickert, the contemporary in age with most of the artists in this room, shines forth in his work with all the vigour and freshness of youth. His No. 49, Bridge at Bath, challenges the declining interest in the work of the more established artists in the room, while he runs level with, even sets the pace for, the younger generation.

In the First Gallery Mr. Lewis's portrait of Mr. Ezra Pound is apt to blunt our sensibilities to the other works therein. It is indeed a remarkable painting, standing like a ferro-concrete factory amidst a peaceful and rather decaying village. Of its faithfulness I am unable to judge, being acquainted with Mr. Pound solely in the pages of the Little Review, but its hard compelling colour and the solidity of its built-up design make it a thing difficult to forget. Mr. Robert Bevan's landscape, No. 100, has a reposeful design that is very telling. Mr. Ginner's sturdy realism is refreshing, and his painting in this room is, I think, more successful in design and colour than his other exhibit.

The Third Gallery.—Here, again, Mr. Sickert's two charming paintings attract our attention, and Mr. Mark Gertler's fine portrait is essentially a picture that leaves an impression in this maze of paintings. There are besides two fine wall paintings by Mr. William Rothenstein.

The Grey Room deserves its name indeed. It is difficult to say why the standard of water-colours is so low compared to the oils: with a very few exceptions, noticeably the drawings of Mr. Albert Rutherston, we seem to have touched bottom in this room, and a very muddy bottom too, so that coming at last to Mr. Shackleton's Peace Day one felt there remained nothing but to burst through the skylight into the air again. The absence of line in the water-colour drawings is very depressing.

ARTISTIC PERIODICALS

ILLUSTRATION

Foremost among the periodicals issued recently is Mr. Gerard Meynell's Illustration. This is a trade circular, and as such would naturally demonstrate within its covers the printer's aspirations in the reproduction of blocks and lettering. "Circular" is not an attractive word, but Mr. Meynell is no ordinary printer, and his circular is still less an ordinary affair. To those who are unacquainted with it, I would hasten to say that Illustration is more like a beautifully-coloured fairy-tale book than the accepted idea of a circular. This time Mr. Meynell has surpassed himself in his efforts not merely in the turn-out of his book, which to the professional and the amateur glance must be entirely admirable, but in giving us the added interest of a Supplement containing eight reproductions of modern art.

JOHN NASH

MUSIC

COVENT GARDEN

ONE success at least Covent Garden has achieved—Parsifal. It fills the house, and it deserves to do so, for it is by far the best performance that has been seen this season. The scenery and costumes, as far as could be seen from the topmost proscenium box, in which the LONDON MERCURY was accommodated, were those of the original Covent Garden production. The Temple of the Grail was dignified and beautiful, the magic flower-garden ridiculous. The flower-maidens, who sang extremely well and were in themselves quite competent to look their parts, wore dresses that might have been discarded by a travelling Gilbert-and-Sullivan company, half from Iolanthe and half from The Mikado. The swan was as ridiculous as ever. That worst trap of all for producers of Parsifal, the undressing and washing of the hero in the first scene of the third act, was painfully successful. It was a toss-up whether Kundry would not remove Parsifal's wig along with his helmet, and the struggles of the holy knight to pull his white draperies down from under his armour were comic in the extreme. There are many little hitches and absurdities in all operas which pass unnoticed, because something of greater importance happens at the same moment and distracts the attention. But these particular episodes are in themselves the most important things happening at their particular moments. It is on them that all attention must be concentrated by the audience, and if they are made ludicrous by careless handling the solemnity of the drama is very gravely impaired. It is not as if they depended upon elaborate machinery. What is required is forethought and common sense.

Miss Gladys Ancrum's Kundry was a very notable achievement. Her gestures would be the better for a little more restraint and a good deal more sense of definite design. Her singing was full of colour, and she showed great dramatic power in the use of different qualities of tone. It is a part which covers a very wide range of character-drawing; there are at least four distinct personalities in Kundry, and Miss Ancrum went a very considerable way towards distinguishing them and endowing them with life. Parsifal is one of the most ungrateful parts ever given to a hero. Pure fools may be quite attractive people in ordinary life, but on the operatic stage, especially when tenors, there is little to be done with them. Van Dyck, who was reputed the greatest of Parsifals, was corpulent, and sang out of tune. Mr. Walter Hyde did not look very boyish, but he at least sang well. Mr. Langley's melodramatic manner was well suited to the part of Klingsor. As Gurnemanz Mr. Norman Allin showed a fine voice and a dignified presence; but of all Wagnerian bores Gurnemanz is the most boring, surpassing even Wolfram in tediousness, and it is only a very ripe actor, with that quality of vocal style which may be called either unction or unctuousness according to taste, who can make the part really effective on the stage. The most sympathetic character in Parsifal is Amfortas, and Mr. Percy Heming being one of the most sympathetic actors and singers in the company, it was very poignantly realised.

When we read of a new opera by Mr. Delius, Fennimore and Gerda, having been produced recently at Frankfurt with great success, it was indeed a bitter disappointment that Covent Garden could not even resuscitate A Village Romeo and Juliet. The Beecham Company performed it in a previous season, so it cannot have presented all the difficulties of a new creation. It may well have been better to withdraw it altogether than to give it badly; but if more time was wanted for rehearsal it might well have taken the place of Nail, which reflects more credit on Sir Thomas Beecham's good nature than on his artistic judgment.

Moussorgsky's Khovantchina had an indifferent performance and an indifferent house. It is less popular than Boris Godunov, and less obviously dramatic, but it has more unity of purpose and contains much better music. Both operas, however, are invariably so much cut about that the difficulty of following the story is very much increased. Mr. Norman Allin had a magnificent opportunity in the part of Dositheus, but it is not sufficient to treat it as if Dositheus were one of the conventional operatic ministers of religion. It was one of Chaliapin's most overwhelming creations; but Mr. Allin, though undoubtedly a fine singer, has far to go before he can achieve the ease and perfection of Chaliapin's vocalisation. Our singers do not concentrate nearly enough attention on the pure art of singing. They may be divided roughly into two categories: the clever ones who think that the psychological understanding of a character and the vigorous declamation of words are enough to carry them through any part, and the stupid ones who think that fine singing consists in imitating the external mannerisms of Caruso or any other Milanese or Neapolitan star. The clever ones are quite right in realising that English singing can never be achieved by trying to make a bad copy of Italian tricks. Many of these tricks do not indeed belong to the fine art of singing at all; they are merely appeals to false emotion, which excite a vulgar Italian audience just as the well-worn ballad-concert mannerisms excite a vulgar audience in England. A training in the real Italian style is without doubt of the greatest possible value to an English singer, provided that it means a thorough training in Italian literature and conversation, for that involves a study of speech-rhythms and a purity of articulation, which are invaluable to any one who makes use of his voice either as a singer or as a speaker. Pure singing and pure speaking are essential requirements to any operatic artist, and the singer must grasp the principle that his vocal technique is to be the servant of his artistic idea and not a hindrance to its sincere expression.

For Bizet's Djamileh Sir Thomas Beecham would no doubt have deserved sincere gratitude had it not been postponed until too late for inclusion in this notice. There was much that was laughable in the The Fair Maid of Perth, but Bizet even at his lowest has always charm and, what is more important, unexpected turns of originality.

There are historical reasons for thinking that the lighter forms of opera are those most suited to the English temperament in general. Attempts are constantly being made to re-establish light opera of a really artistic kind in this country, and although no one has yet succeeded in rivalling Sullivan in this field, Sir Thomas is certainly doing an excellent work in perpetually holding up Mozart and Bizet as working models for both the English composer and the English public to study and to enjoy.

CONCERTS

When Busoni next visits this country it is to be hoped that he will have better opportunities of being heard under appropriate conditions. The crowded and enthusiastic audiences which filled the Wigmore Hall for his two recitals showed that he might well have given half-a-dozen similar programmes instead of appearing as star turn at the Albert Hall on Sunday afternoons, and there is not the slightest doubt that the Wigmore Hall audiences were of the kind that he could play to with real pleasure. He appeared at one of the Queen's Hall Symphony Concerts as composer and conductor, and also played Mozart's Concerto in C minor. Here, too, it was impossible to separate Busoni the pianist from Busoni the composer, for the concerto was embellished by cadenzas of singular originality and loveliness. Those inserted in the slow movement were startlingly modern, but with a modernity that Mozart himself might well have achieved if he had lived to the age of his interpreter, for they were certainly designed on thoroughly Mozartian principles of composition. Two fragments from a Faust opera, on which Busoni is now engaged, gave the highest hopes of the complete work, for they were most noble and impressive musical pictures. At his farewell recital on December 6th he played Liszt's Sonata in B minor with a breadth and dignity that placed Liszt almost on a level with Beethoven. As a player of Chopin, Busoni has always been somewhat hard to accept; but the mellowing of style which the last five years have brought him was very apparent in his treatment of the Five Ballades, and still more in the Nocturne in C minor, which of all the Nocturnes is the most suited to Busoni's very monumental interpretation.

Of singers by far the most interesting has been Mme. Jane Bathori, who appeared at one of the Classical Concert Society's concerts. She has long been known as the finest exponent of modern French songs. She is also an excellent pianist, and often plays her own accompaniments, thus securing a perfect homogeneity of performance, which the best pair of partners can hardly ever realise.

The Royal Philharmonic Society, after passing through some trying moments during the war, has made energetic efforts to regain its ancient honourable traditions. With Mr. Coates, Mr. Geoffrey Toye, Mr. Adrian Boult, and Mr. Landon Ronald as conductors, it is quite clear that London has no scarcity of orchestral directors. A new departure has been made by the establishment of the Philharmonic Choir, under the management of Mr. Charles Kennedy Scott, the conductor of the Oriana Madrigal Society. The programmes of the concerts exhibit a judicious selection of classic and modern works, among which English music is prominent. The general verdict on the first two concerts was that some of the pieces chosen, both old and new, were not of first-rate importance. The compilers of the programmes were probably quite well aware of that fact. There are, in fact, plenty of works, such as Holbrooke's Ulalume and Meyerbeer's Struensee Overture, to name two examples only, which certainly are not immortal masterpieces, but are none the less quite interesting and well worth an occasional hearing. Even acknowledged masterpieces have been known to suffer from too frequent performance.

A new Italian composer, Francesco Malipiero, has been very prominent in recent programmes. M. Yves Tinayre sang his Chanson Morave, Mr. Mark Hambourg played his Barlumi for pianoforte; of his orchestral music, Impressioni dal Vero was heard at the Promenades, a Ditirambo Tragico at the Queen's Hall Symphony Concerts, and, lastly, at the second Philharmonic, Le Pause del Silenzio. No explanation has been offered of this curious title, but it may possibly bear some connection with an interesting passage in D'Annunzio's novel, Il Fuoco, in which Stelio Effrena maintains that the essence of music lies not in the sounds but in the silences that separate them. It is something of a compliment to Malipiero that his last work succeeded in rousing a Philharmonic audience to hostility. Such demonstrations are rare in this country, though their rarity is due less to broadminded receptivity than to courteous indifference. Malipiero will survive his hisses. His language is harsh and obscure, although a study of his scores shows that he has plenty of technical skill, for he is evidently dealing with emotions which he has not yet been able to express clearly, and which we have probably not been accustomed to hear expressed. Judging from the scores, it seemed that the performances, both under Mr. Toye at the Philharmonic and under Sir Henry Wood, were lacking in the singing sense. There is a temptation in these days to lay too much stress upon the strangeness of strange harmonies. They would become clearer if more attention was given to the elucidation and intensification of the strange melodies which are at the foundation of all modern music that is likely to last. There can be no doubt about the sincerity and depth of feeling in Malipiero's music, though it has not the more attractive qualities of Casella's facile ingenuity.

EDWARD J. DENT

SELECT LIST OF PUBLICATIONS

ART

ESSAYS ON ART. By A. CLUTTON-BROCK. Methuen. 5s.

GARDENS: THEIR FORM AND DESIGN. By VISCOUNTESS WOLSELEY. Arnold. 21s.

PERSONALITIES. Twenty-four Drawings. By EDMOND X. KAPP. Secker. 21s.

BYE-PATHS IN CURIO COLLECTING. By ARTHUR HAYDEN. Fisher Unwin. 21s.

WINCHESTER CATHEDRAL: ITS MONUMENTS AND MEMORIALS. By JOHN VAUGHAN, Canon Residentiary of Winchester Cathedral. Selwyn & Blunt. 10s. 6d.

SAXON AND NORMAN CHURCHES IN ENGLAND. By the REV. E. HERMITAGE DAY, D.D., F.S.A. Mowbray. 3s. 6d.

BRITISH MARINE PAINTING. With articles by A. L. BALDRY. Edited by GEOFFREY HOLME. "The Studio." 10s. 6d.

HAROLD GILMAN: AN APPRECIATION. By WYNDHAM LEWIS and LOUIS F. FERGUSSON. Chatto & Windus. 21s.

HEXHAM: ITS ABBEY. By CHARLES CLEMENT HODGES and JOHN GIBSON. London: Batsford. 10s. 6d.

ATHLETICS

FIFTY YEARS OF GOLF. By HORACE G. HUTCHINSON. "Country Life." 10s. 6d.

BELLES-LETTRES

SHAKESPEARE AND THE MAKERS OF VIRGINIA. By SIR A. W. WARD. (The Annual Shakespeare Lecture, 1919.) For the British Academy. Milford. 4s.

NOT THAT IT MATTERS. By A. A. MILNE. Methuen. 6s.

RATHER LIKE ... SOME ENDEAVOURS TO ASSUME THE MANTLES OF THE GREAT. By JULES CASTIER. Herbert Jenkins. 7s. 6d.

ADDRESSES IN AMERICA, 1919. By JOHN GALSWORTHY. Heinemann. 6s.

SMALL THINGS. By MARGARET DELAND. Appleton. 5s.

PLOUGHSHARE AND PRUNING HOOK. By LAURENCE HOUSMAN. Swarthmore Press. 6s.

THE ART OF WRITING VERSE. By EDITHA JENKINSON. Erskine Macdonald. 2s. 6d.

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH PROSE. Edited by LOGAN PEARSALL SMITH. Constable. 6s.

THE OFFICIUM ET MIRACULA OF RICHARD ROLLE OF HAMPOLE. Edited by REGINALD MAXWELL WOOLLEY, D.D., Rector and Vicar of Minting and Canon of Lincoln. S.P.C.K. 5s.

THE PHANTOM JOURNAL. By E. V. LUCAS. Methuen. 6s.

ENJOYING LIFE AND OTHER LITERARY REMAINS OF W. N. P. BARBELLION. Chatto & Windus. 6s.

NOTHING AND OTHER THINGS. Longmans. 3s. 6d.

LITTLE HOURS IN GREAT DAYS. By AGNES EGERTON CASTLE. Constable. 6s. net.

VENTURES IN COMMON SENSE. By E. W. HOWE. New York: A. A. Knapf. $1.50.

AN INTERPRETATION OF KEATS'S ENDYMION. By H. CLEMENT NOTCUTT. (University of Stellenbosch, South Africa)

THE RECREATIONS OF AN HISTORIAN. By GEORGE MACAULAY TREVELYAN. Nelson. 2s. 6d.

DOMUS DOLORIS. By W. COMPTON LEITH. John Lane. 7s. 6d.

THE EVOLUTION OF AN INTELLECTUAL. By JOHN MIDDLETON MURRY. Cobden-Sanderson. 7s. 6d.

BIOGRAPHY AND MEMOIRS

THE LETTERS OF CHARLES SORLEY. Cambridge University Press. 12s. 6d.

A MEDLEY OF MEMORIES. Fifty Years' Recollections of a Benedictine Monk. By the Right Rev. SIR DAVID HUNTER BLAIR, Bart. Arnold. 16s.

SWINBURNE AS I KNEW HIM. By COULSON KERNAHAN. John Lane. 5s.

THE LIFE OF JOHN PAYNE. By THOMAS WRIGHT. Fisher Unwin. 28s.

S. CATHERINE OF SIENA. By ALFRED W. POLLARD. (Messages of the Saints Series.) Sidgwick & Jackson. 3s.

ALL AND SUNDRY. By E. T. RAYMOND. Fisher Unwin. 10s. 6d.

JOHN PORTER OF KINGSCLERE. Grant Richards. 31s. 6d.

THE LIFE OF RONALD POULTON. By his father, EDWARD BAGNALL POULTON. Sidgwick & Jackson. 16s.

MEMORIES OF AN OLD ETONIAN, 1860–1912. By GEORGE GREVILLE. Hutchinson. 16s.

MEMORIES OF GEORGE MEREDITH, O.M. By LADY BUTCHER. Constable. 5s.

NOEL ROSS AND HIS WORK. Edited by his parents. Arnold. 10s. 6d.

A YOUNGER SON. By GEORGE A. B. DEWAR. Grant Richards. 12s. 6d.

JOHN MURRAY III., 1808–1892. A Brief Memoir. By JOHN MURRAY IV. Murray. 3s. 6d.

SIR ROBERT ANDERSON, K.C.B., LL.D. A Tribute and Memoir by His Son, A. P. MOORE-ANDERSON. Morgan & Scott. 3s.

W. J. COURTHOPE, 1842–1917. For the British Academy. Milford. 1s. 6d.

EDUCATION

THE TRAINING OF MIND AND WILL. By W. TUDOR JONES. Williams & Norgate. 2s. 6d.

FICTION

COUSIN PHILIP. By MRS. HUMPHRY WARD. Collins. 7s.

ST. JOHN OF HONEYLEA. By G. I. WHITHAM. John Lane. 7s.

BLINDMAN. By ETHEL COLBURN MAYNE. Chapman & Hall. 7s.

MAUREEN. By PATRICK MACGILL. Herbert Jenkins. 7s.

MARCIA REBELS. By SARAH COMSTOCK. Eveleigh Nash. 7s.

THE MESSENGER. By ELIZABETH ROBINS. Hodder & Stoughton. 7s.

FELICITY. By KATHERINE HARRINGTON. Allen & Unwin. 6s. 6d.

SIMON. By J. STORER CLOUSTON. Blackwood. 6s.

FETTERS. By C. S. GOLDINGHAM. Allen & Unwin. 7s.

THE RISING OF THE TIDE. By IDA M. TARBELL. Macmillan. 6s.

IN SECRET. By ROBERT W. CHAMBERS. Hodder & Stoughton. 7s.

VALMOUTH. By RONALD FIRBANK. Grant Richards. 6s.

EVANDER. By EDEN PHILLPOTTS. Grant Richards. 6s.

THE HUSBAND. By E. H. ANSTRUTHER. John Lane. 7s.

COGGIN. By ERNEST OLDMEADOW. Grant Richards. 7s. 6d.

THE END OF A DREAM. By A. M. N. JENKIN. John Lane. 7s.

SANITY JANE. By the COUNTESS BARCYNSKA. Hurst & Blackett. 6s. 9d.

INTERIM. By DOROTHY M. RICHARDSON. Duckworth. 7s.

SUSIE. By the Hon. MRS. DOWDALL. Duckworth. 7s.

OLD WINE IN NEW BOTTLES. By ELINOR MORDAUNT. Hutchinson. 6s. 9d.

THE HOUSE OF DREAMS-COME-TRUE. By MARGARET PEDLER. Hodder & Stoughton. 6s.

A THIN GHOST. By MONTAGUE RHODES JAMES. Arnold. 4s. 6d.

RAMSEY MILHOLLAND. By BOOTH TARKINGTON. Hodder & Stoughton. 7s.

SIR LIMPIDUS. By MARMADUKE PICKTHALL. Collins. 7s.

INVISIBLE TIDES. By BEATRICE KEEN SEYMOUR. Chapman & Hall. 7s.

JOHN BROWN. Confessions of a New Army Cadet. By R. W. CAMPBELL. Chambers 6s.

THE LUCK-PENNY. By OSWALD WILDRIDGE. Chambers. 3s. 6d.

THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES. By ARTHUR BEVERLEY BAXTER. Chambers. 6s.

THE MARGARET BOOK. By ALFRED CLARK. John Lane. 5s.

MOUNT MUSIC. By E. Œ. SOMERVILLE and MARTIN ROSS. Longmans. 7s. 6d.

GOLD AND IRON. By JOSEPH HERGESHEIMER. Heinemann. 7s.

SOMEWHERE IN CHRISTENDOM. By EVELYN SHARP. Allen & Unwin. 6s. 6d.

HAPPY HOUSE. By BARONESS VON HUTTEN. Hutchinson. 6s. 9d.

BUNKER BEAN. By HARRY LEON WILSON. John Lane. 6s.

THE BROKEN LAUGH. By MEG VILLARS. Grant Richards. 7s.

HISTORY

WESTMINSTER. A Historical Sketch. By H. F. WESTLAKE. (The Story of English Towns Series.) S.P.C.K. 3s. 6d.

THE REFORMATION IN IRELAND. By HENRY HOLLOWAY. S.P.C.K. 7s. 6d.

THE EMPEROR JULIAN. By EDWARD J. MARTIN. S.P.C.K. 3s. 6d.

LAW

LOCAL DEVELOPMENT LAW. By HAROLD CHALONER DOWDALL. Fisher Unwin. 10s. 6d.

NAVAL AND MILITARY

IN THE SIDE SHOWS. By CAPTAIN WEDGWOOD BENN, D.S.O., D.F.C., M.P. Hodder & Stoughton. 12s.

THE STORY OF THE TYNESIDE SCOTTISH. By BRIGADIER-GENERAL TREVOR TERNAN, C.B. Newcastle-on-Tyne: Northumberland Press. 3s.

A POPULAR HISTORY OF THE GREAT WAR. By JOHN G. ROWE. Epworth Press. 10s. 6d.

THE DARDANELLES. By MAJOR-GENERAL SIR C. E. CALLWELL, K.C.B. Constable. 18s.

PRECEPTS AND JUDGMENTS BY MARSHAL FOCH. By MAJOR A. GRASSET. Translated by HILAIRE BELLOC. Chapman & Hall. 9s.

TANKS, 1914–1918. By LIEUT.-COLONEL SIR ALBERT G. STERN, K.B.E. Hodder & Stoughton. 12s.

MARCHING ON TANGA. With General Smuts in East Africa. By FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG. New and revised edition. Collins. 10s. 6d.

"GREEN BALLS." The Adventures of a Night-Bomber. By PAUL BEWSHER. Blackwood. 6s.

MESOPOTAMIA. By CAPTAIN H. BIRCH REYNARDSON. Melrose. 9s.

THE STORY OF OUR SUBMARINES. By "KLAXON." Blackwood. 6s.

THE TURKS IN EUROPE. By W. E. D. ALLEN. Murray. 10s. 6d.

THE ROAD TO EN-DOR. By E. H. JONES. John Lane. 8s. 6d.

COMRADES IN CAPTIVITY. By F. W. HARVEY. Sidgwick & Jackson. 10s. 6d.

RECORDS. By ADMIRAL OF THE FLEET LORD FISHER. Hodder & Stoughton. 21s.

POETRY

LETTERS TO X. By H. J. MASSINGHAM. Constable. 6s.

THE WHEEL. By LAURENCE HOUSMAN. Sidgwick & Jackson. 5s.

MESOPOTAMIA. By CAPTAIN GRIFFYTH FAIRFAX. Murray. 3s. 6d.

MYSTICA ET LYRICA. By CLOUDESLEY BRERETON. Elkin Mathews. 6s.

ROSALYS AND OTHER POEMS. By GERALD CUMBERLAND. Grant Richards. 3s. 6d.

ARGONAUT AND JUGGERNAUT. By OSBERT SITWELL. Chatto & Windus. 5s.

WALLS AND HEDGES. By JOHN REDWOOD ANDERSON. Sidgwick & Jackson. 3s.

THE LAND OF MEMORY. By LAUCHLAN MACLEAN WATT. Hodder & Stoughton. 5s.

SCHOOLBOYS AND EXILES. By GODFREY ELTON. Allen & Unwin. 3s. 6d.

A TANKARD OF ALE. An Anthology of Drinking Songs. Compiled and edited by THEODORE MAYNARD. Erskine Macdonald. 5s.

POEMS, 1916–1918. By FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG. Collins. 5s.

POEMS. In Time of Peace. In Time of War. By C. KENNETT BURROW. Collins. 5s.

WHEELS. Fourth Cycle. Edited by EDITH SITWELL. Oxford: Blackwell. 6s.

BACK TO THE LAND. By BERNARD GILBERT. Oxford: Blackwell. 3s. 6d.

WORMS AND EPITAPHS. By H. W. GARROD. Oxford: Blackwell. 3s. 6d.

DOMESTIC DITTIES. By GUY BOAS. Embellished with numerous elegant designs by GABRIEL PIPPET. Oxford: Blackwell. 3s.

RUDYARD KIPLING'S VERSE. Inclusive Edition, 1885–1918. Three volumes. Hodder & Stoughton. 63s.

THE SONG OF ROLAND. Done into English in the original measure. By CHARLES SCOTT MONCRIEFF. Chapman & Hall. 7s. 6d.

THE YELLOW ROCK. By HAROLD CHILD. Nisbet. 2s. 6d.

IMAGES OF WAR. By RICHARD ALDINGTON. Allen & Unwin. 3s. 6d.

SNOW BIRDS By ŚRÎ ĀNANDA ĀCHĀRYA. Macmillan. 7s. 6d.

SETTLERS AND SUNBIRDS. By FRANCIS CAREY SALTER. Blackwood. 4s.

SONNETS FROM A PRISON CAMP. By ARCHIBALD ALLAN BOWMAN. John Lane. 5s.

THE SUPREME SACRIFICE. By JOHN S. ARKWRIGHT. Skeffington. 7s. 6d.

POEMS: SECOND BOOK. By EDITH ANNE STEWART. Swarthmore Press. 1s. 3d.

THE PATHS OF GLORY. A Collection of Poems written during the War, 1914–1919. Edited by BERTRAM LLOYD. Allen & Unwin. 3s.

THE TRAMP OF ETERNITY. By OLAF BAKER. Allen & Unwin. 2s. 6d.

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THE LONDON

MERCURY

Editor—J. C. SQUIRE        Assistant-Editor—EDWARD SHANKS

Vol. I No. 4                          February 1920

EDITORIAL NOTES

AN interesting exchange of opinions about modern art took place in the Times last month. The art-critic stated that modern English artists were afraid of ugliness; Sir Sidney Colvin replied that so far was this from being the truth "that the prevalent malady of the time, at least among those artists and critics who arrogate to themselves the title of 'modern,' was a much less becoming form of cowardice—namely, the fear of beauty. Because the beauty-blind may be taken in by prettiness, and because a new fashion in critical theory has come over from France (to perish, as I have seen dozens of such theories perish in their day), nothing, in the circles to which I refer, is attempted or applauded which either bears any resemblance to nature or records any predilection of the mind except for what is shrieking and dissonant in colour and jumbled and jarring, like a kind of insane geometry, in form. Of all things such 'modernity' is doubtless doomed soonest to be ancient, or not to give it so honourable a name, at least obsolete, discarded, and unregretted."

That there are many English artists who are in a sense afraid of ugliness, in other words, who will only make pretty imitations of things recognised as beautiful, is not to be denied: it might almost be said that artists may be divided into those who have an unreasonable fear of ugliness and those who have a reprehensible love of it. Many difficult questions are involved in such a discussion: often two disputing parties will be found to be fundamentally in agreement. The Times critic was emphasising the truth that unoriginality is bad; Sir Sidney Colvin the equal truth that bogus originality is bad. But his remarks reminded us of a great many observations we have all recently heard with respect to certain tendencies to be observed in contemporary art or pseudo-art. The elderly and many of the soberer young are alarmed at much that they see painted or published. What does it all mean? they ask. Are the world's artists rushing over a steep place into the sea? Is there some new revelation in what looks at first sight like obscure rubbish? Are these noisy rioters really the young? Do they really hate everything that has ever been considered true? Will the whole of the coming generation be captured by them? Mingled with the dislike there is a great deal of bewilderment. Men doubt themselves. After all, new artistic developments have often been incomprehensible; these things are undeniably incomprehensible, so perhaps they are new artistic developments. Those who are tired of strife shiver, wrap their coats around them, prepare to retire into corners where the cold blast cannot reach them. But we really do not think that they should be so depressed, or that more vigorous men like Sir Sidney Colvin should be so alarmed: a rational diagnosis of the situation dissipates these apparent dangers.

Now we had better begin by premising that in the sphere of the fine arts we are not (these things are never taken for granted) denying the value of modern developments and the possibility of later ones. Not all the technical experiments of modern intellectual artists (akin to experiments in new media) may be fruitful, but at the centre of most movements, however extravagant, may be found an original artist who has either a peculiar way of looking at the world (El Greco is an example) or desires to experiment with some method in order to find out what results may accrue from it. But it is not a good thing to base a theory on the mannerisms of an original artist; it is still worse to build a convention on his unsuccessful experiments; and worst of all, perhaps, for an artist to paint not what he sees as he sees it through the medium of his temperament, but what some philosophical critic, with a distaste for both Nature and humanity, tells him to paint. A painter with intelligence, however, will soon tire of something which produces results which do not interest him; and the painting of foolish pictures by people who desire merely to attract attention is to some extent limited because anything that would deceive anybody involves a good deal of time and trouble. The fine arts will look after themselves; few members of the public will pay large sums for pictures that convey nothing to them. The printed word is in a rather different category. The world is always full of ineffective people who have a desire to write: a thing which can be done at any moment by anyone who has pen, ink, and paper. They also desire to attract attention by their writing. In our time "stunts" for their assistance have been discovered which have never been hit upon before.

The various stunts with which we are now familiar have spread over the whole world with a rapidity that no genuine spiritual movement or technical discovery has ever equalled. Just before the war that vivacious Southerner, Signor Marinetti, introduced us to the type-page, which consisted of capital letters and notes of exclamation tumbled about in apparent confusion. The first large English enterprise of the Futurist-Vorticist-Cubist kind was (though it contained normal patches) the magenta magazine Blast. It succumbed shortly after a hostile critic, consulting his Webster, had discovered the definition: "Blast:—a flatulent disease of sheep." But it died to give place to countless smaller magazines and books containing bewildering designs and extraordinary poems. The drawings and, to the eye which can take in only their typography, the poems are indistinguishable from others which are being published all over the world. The blagueurs attach themselves to anything which will give them publicity. There is something pathetic about the way in which, wherever the political Bolsheviks get into office, they print the verses and cartoons of the artistic anarchists. They don't understand them; all they know is that the bourgeois dislike them; so in Munich last Easter, and (we daresay) in Moscow now, there is an excellent opening for those who, for all anyone would be able to say to the contrary, have only to scratch out the old titles of their interlocked triangles and write underneath "Uprising of Proletariat," or some such thing. The Vorticists and verslibrists exist from Spain to Sweden. We saw this month a most beautifully produced volume from Tiflis. The words, scattered about in the Paris-and-London style, were in Georgian and Russian; but no translation was necessary; when one was supplied, the words and the lack of sense were precisely what we expected. They might have been Italian or English; and in the illustrations, mingled with the parallelograms, could be seen fragments of wasp-waisted "nuts" in opera-hats and shirt fronts, such as never were seen in Tiflis, where their heads are clad with fur. In a recent number of the Monthly Chapbook Mr. Flint, giving specimens of good and bad contemporary verse, quoted one gentleman who begins a poem with:

éo    ié    iu    ié

é     é     ié    io    ié

ui    ui    io    iè

aéoé        iaoé.

And another poet who writes:

vrron—on—on—on—on—on

vrrr     vrrr      vrrr

hihihi.

It isn't really serious; but is any of this kind of thing serious? And is this mere noise at bottom sillier than much of the free verse to which some superficial meaning can be attached? We quote from an American review which, as a whole, is sensible and good these lines from a poem called Autumn Night:

The moon is as complacent as a frog.

She sits in the sky like a blind white stone,

And does not even see Love

As she caresses his face

With her contemptuous light.

She reaches her long white shivering fingers into the bowels of men.

*      *      *      *      *

She is Death enjoying Life,

Innocently,

Lasciviously.

Of that kind of thing, usually done with a little less force in the images, but always meandering, stupid, and utterly unrhythmical, good American journals have lately been full. It has ceased to be amusing; but we don't think that anybody need be alarmed; nobody can like it, and in the end those who, from restlessness or fear, have pretended to will revolt against a diet of wind and sawdust and return to something more palatable.

For the simple truth is that the trick of incomprehensibility is the best trick that has ever been invented for the benefit of writers who, if they can feel or think, do not know how to translate their thoughts and feelings into the language of art. Twenty years ago the swarm of useless young writers discoursed on common themes in common metres imitatively, after the manner of Tennyson or of Swinburne or of Verlaine. If they favoured dignity and nobility they wrote sonnets beginning:

Under the high invulnerable stars,

or plays like Savonarola Brown's; if Nature was their theme we heard of

The blackbird's descant from the bough.

The virtuous wrote of love in the manner of:

Your brows are calm and virginal,

warming to:

Your mouth is red as red, red roses are.

The sham rake-hells festooned their hectic amours with references to purple breasts, absinthe, Messalina, and Semiramis: the banality was plain to see. But Signor Marinetti and his congeners—we had been gently acclimatised to great obscurity by artists like Mallarmé—provided these poets with a priceless gift. Let rhythm go, let sense go: put down in barbarous sequence any incongruous images that come into your head: even, if you like, put down sheer gibberish: if possible, deceive yourself, and you will deceive others. Produce a work so opaque that it cannot be seen through. The innocents will either wildly protest against these dangerous revolutionaries—a much more pleasing rôle to find oneself in than that of harmless mediocrity—or else they will knit their brows with the reflection "if this young man expresses himself in thoughts too deep for me, why what a very, very, very deep young man this deep young man must be." But we have noticed that most of these dealers in chaos soon tire. Those who have something in them (and any young man is liable to be infected by a current fashion) get through, none the worse: those who have not flag and stop.

In our second number we called attention, as many before us have called attention, to the scandalous state of the American copyright laws whereunder British authors have been put to immense inconvenience and loss, and which have resulted in the early books of almost every important British author being, in America, beyond his control. Since we wrote the American Senate has come to a decision which greatly ameliorates the conditions as they affect books published here since the war. It has been clear that during the war, owing to the delays of mails, it has often been impossible for English publishers and authors to secure American copyright even where American publication could easily be arranged for—copies for deposit could not be got across sufficiently quickly, and the time-limit of thirty days from English publication expired. Under the new decision—which is largely due to the efforts of Major G. H. Putnam—protection is secured for all British books of which the American copyright has been lost during the war. The Act has been amended: friendly alien authors have been given American copyright on works of which copyright lapsed during the war; the concession extends to works issued within fifteen months after the war, whatever the end of the war may be defined to be. During that fifteen months authors may take steps to establish their copyright; after that period, as we understand it, British authors and publishers will have a longer period (i.e., four months) than before in which to secure their rights, provided a complete copy of the English edition has been deposited in the Copyright Office not more than sixty days after publication. We suppose, though we await further information, that the fact that a book, presumed non-copyright, has been published in America during the war will not prevent its being copyrighted; but if this be so what will happen to a pirated edition (assuming such to exist) which was legally permissible before the new amendment?

An important step has been made in the development of the literary relations of the two countries. But these are still far from perfect. It may not be possible to make the domestic copyright laws of the two countries the same, but it should not be impossible for each country to extend to the books of the other a simultaneous and automatic copyright on publication. American books should be automatically copyright here when they appear in America; English books should be automatically copyrighted in America when they appear here. There is room for discussion as to the length of term of copyright to be granted to foreigners; but a basis for mutual agreement would not be difficult to find. We trust that Major Putnam will not flag in the good work, and that English authors will co-operate to the best of their ability.

We printed in our last number a letter from Mr. J. G. Fletcher disputing a statement made by our American correspondent that Mr. Nicholas Vachel Lindsay was the only "live" poet now writing in America, and questioning the justice of the praise given to Mr. Lindsay. On the assumption that our readers will be interested, we are publishing in this issue a work by Mr. Lindsay which illustrates his recent manner. It is a poem which presents some difficulties to English readers. It evokes memories of a Presidential campaign long gone past, and some of Mr. Lindsay's political references (not to speak of his presumably mythical animals) will puzzle people; even those English people who vaguely remember who Mark Hanna was will probably not have the ghost of a vision of Altgeld.

A binding case for THE LONDON MERCURY is being prepared, and will, we hope, be ready when the first volume (of six numbers) is complete. It would be a convenience if readers who are preserving their sets and will desire the official binding (which we can promise will not be an offensive one) would let us know in advance by postcard so that we may have some basis for our first order of cases.

For some time after publication we were obliged to refuse orders for our first number. We have recovered a very few copies, and, as we prefer that they should go to persons who are really anxious to obtain them in order to complete sets, we offer them at 7s. 6d. a copy. Applications will be dealt with in the order in which they are received. No. 2 will shortly follow suit.

LITERARY INTELLIGENCE

WE congratulate Mr. Austin Dobson, whose birthday was the eighteenth of last month, on arriving at the full age of eighty. He has lived, for the past twenty years, since his retirement from the public service, so noiselessly that an idle world, always attentive to sensation, has half-forgotten to regard his presence. He has always preferred to stand a little out of the limelight, being by nature unobtrusive, and more conversant with books than with men. Such serene natures miss some of the rewards of their own age, but when they possess the quality of Mr. Austin Dobson posterity gives them their revenge. No one in our time has pursued the profession of literature with a more disinterested fervour than he. Mr. Dobson has taken no part in controversy, he has been mixed up with no sensational "movements"; his whole thought has been fixed on the study of past times and on the perfecting of his own delicate and lapidary art. He was not precocious in his development. When his earliest volume of poems, Vignettes in Rhyme, appeared he had reached his thirty-fourth year. He did not venture upon prose until eleven years later, when he published his memoir of Thomas Bewick. His latest volume, A Bookman's Budget, of 1917, combined both arts in one.

The quality of Mr. Austin Dobson, both in verse and prose, is curiously out of sympathy with the general tendency of literature to-day. In prose—though we admit that his essays have had numerous and distinguished admirers, Mr. Balfour, if we remember right, having once praised them above his poems in the House of Commons—in prose he seems to us to sacrifice freedom of movement to an intensely meticulous accuracy and to a desire to leave no fact unrecorded. But in verse Mr. Austin Dobson is, in his own restricted field, unsurpassed. He carries on, through the second half of the nineteenth century, the tradition of Prior and Anstey and Praed. It may be said that his poems are metrical pastimes, but he lifts them to the dignity of poetry. His happiest pieces are so polished, so delicate, and so felicitous that not a word in them could be altered; they are, of their own kind, perfect, and perfection is not relative but positive. So long as the English language survives there will be readers of The Ballad of Beau Brocade. We wish Mr. Austin Dobson many more years, and we hope that he will yet be encouraged to give us specimens of his graceful penmanship.

The writers of the obituary notices of Sir William Osler were strangely silent as to the love of books which was one of his most marked characteristics, and this although in Who's Who? he had put down "Bibliography" as his only "Recreation," and at the time of his death had been President of the Bibliographical Society for seven years, nearly three times as long as any of his predecessors. In the true spirit of humanism his interest in bibliography was first aroused by the books relating to his own profession, and widened out from this to a fine catholicity. Within a year of his coming to England he delivered an address on Sir Thomas Browne's Religio Medici before the Physical Society of Guy's Hospital (printed in The Library for January, 1906), and he was never tired of singing the praise of Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy as "a great medical treatise (the greatest ever written by a layman), orderly in arrangement, intensely serious in purpose, and weighty beyond belief in authorities." The quotation comes from a paper he read before the Bibliographical Society on The Library of Robert Burton in November, 1909, in which he gave a summarised account of the 580 books of Burton's preserved at the Bodleian and the 429 in the library at Christ Church. Unless we are mistaken, the picking out of these books, and the grouping those at Christ Church round a portrait of Burton, copied from the original in Brasenose College, was due mainly to his initiative. He certainly took a keen interest in both libraries, was an enthusiastic curator of the Bodleian, and a generous supporter of the admirable Bodleian Quarterly, started by Mr. Falconer Madan. A paper he contributed to this on the Bookworm, illustrated by an admirable coloured plate exhibiting it in all its stages, is by far the best study of that elusive "worm" ever printed.

After he became President of the Bibliographical Society he gave another stimulating address on the medical books printed before the close of the year 1480, its object being "to get an idea of the mental attitude of the profession of medicine from the character of the books printed." He had then been working on this subject for some time, and even amid the countless activities into which he threw himself during the war did not wholly neglect it. The description of the books was practically finished some time ago; whether the introduction, in which he aimed at clothing the bibliographical skeleton with flesh and blood, had been written is not yet known. He had over forty medical books of the fifteenth century in his own collection, and was forming a specialist library to illustrate the history of science, and of medicine in particular, on a strikingly original plan. Its completion should have been the occupation of a leisurely old age, but he loved his fellows too well to give himself any leisure, and left this for others to complete.

We welcome from America the first number of the new Dial. The Dial was founded at Chicago in 1880 by Francis F. Browne. Until a few years ago it remained in the Browne family, who produced fortnightly a paper, sober, academic, and informative, somewhat resembling our Athenæum of Victorian days. A few years ago the paper changed hands: its offices were shifted to New York, and it has been at one time primarily an organ of rebellious literary youth, and at another a Radical political journal. The latest remodelling promises stability. The Dial appears as a purely literary and artistic monthly, in shape like one of our own monthly reviews, and typographically superior to most of them. We await its development with interest.

POETRY

Fortunatus Nimium

1

I have lain in the sun,

I have toiled as I might,

I have thought as I would,

And now it is night.

2

My bed full of sleep,

My heart of content

For mirth that I met

The way that I went.

3

I welcome fatigue

While frenzy and care,

Like thin summer clouds,

Go melting in air.

4

To dream as I may

And awake when I will,

With the song of the birds

And the sun on the hill.

5

Or death—were it death,

To what should I wake,

Who loved in my home

All life for its sake?

6

What good have I wrought?

I laugh to have learned

That joy cannot come

Unless it be earned:

7

For a happier lot

Than God giveth me

It never hath been

Nor ever shall be.

ROBERT BRIDGES

To E. G.

Were I to pause and hesitate

For something "picked," "alembicate,"

I might, by chance, no further get

Than mere parade of epithet;

So I'll just wish to You and Yours

Strength to achieve while strength endures;

And, when the power to do is done,

Remembered radiance of the sun!

AUSTIN DOBSON

New Year's Eve, 1919.

The Shadow

Death, would I feared not thee,.

But ever can I see

Thy mutable shadow thrown

Upon the walls of Life's warm, cheerful room.

Companioned or alone,

I feel the presence of that following gloom,

Like one who vaguely knows

Behind his back the shade his body throws

'Tis not thy shadow only, 'tis my own!

I face towards the light

That rises fair and bright

Over wide fields asleep,

But still I know that stealthy darkness there

Close at my heels doth creep,

Ghostly companion, my still haunting care;

And if the light be strong

Before my eyes, through pleasant hours and long,

Then, then, the shadow is most black and deep.

EDWARD SHANKS

By the Weir

A scent of Esparta grass—and again I recall

The hour we spent by the weir of the paper-mill

Watching together the curving thunderous fall

Of frothing amber, bemused by the roar until

My mind was as blank as the speckless sheets that wound

On the hot steel ironing-rollers perpetually turning

In the humming dark rooms of the mill: all sense and discerning

By the stunning and dazzling oblivion of hill-waters drowned.

And my heart was empty of memory and hope and desire

Till, rousing, I looked afresh on your face as you gazed—

Behind you an old gnarled fruit-tree in one still fire

Of innumerable flame in the sun of October blazed,

Scarlet and gold that the first white frost would spill

With eddying flicker and patter of dead leaves falling—

I looked on your face, as an outcast from Eden recalling

A vision of Eve as she dallied, bewildered and still,

By the serpent-encircled tree of knowledge that flamed

With gold and scarlet of good and evil, her eyes

Rapt on the river of life: then bright and untamed

By the labour and sorrow and fear of a world that dies

Your ignorant eyes looked up into mine, and I knew

That never our hearts should be one till your young lips had tasted

The core of the bitter-sweet fruit, and wise and toil-wasted

You should stand at my shoulder an outcast from Eden too.

WILFRID WILSON GIBSON

Bryan, Bryan, Bryan, Bryan!

A RHYME IN THE AMERICAN LANGUAGE

(The campaign of Eighteen Ninety-six, as viewed by a sixteen-year-old)

I

In a nation of one hundred fine mob-hearted, lynching, relenting, repenting millions

There are plenty of sweeping, swinging, stinging, gorgeous things to shout about,

And knock your old blue devils out.

I brag and chant of Bryan, Bryan, Bryan,

Candidate for President who sketched a silver Zion,

The one American poet who could sing outdoors.

He brought in tides of wonder, of unprecedented splendour,

Wild roses from the plains that made hearts tender,

All the funny circus silks

Of politics unfurled,

Bartlett pears of romance that were honey at the cores,

And torchlights down the street, to the end of the world.

There were truths eternal in the gab and tittle-tattle;

There were real heads broken in the fustian and the rattle;

There were real lines drawn:

Not the silver and the gold,

But Nebraska's cry went eastward against the dour and old,

The mean and cold.

It was Eighteen Ninety-six, and I was just sixteen,

And Altgeld ruled in Springfield, Illinois,

When there came from the sunset Nebraska's shout of joy:

In a coat like a deacon, in a black Stetson hat,

He scourged the elephant plutocrats

With barbed wire from the Platte.

The scales dropped from their mighty eyes.

They saw that summer's noon

A tribe of wonders coming

To a marching tune.

Oh, the long horns from Texas,

The jay hawks from Kansas,

The plop-eyed bungaroo and giant giassicus,

The varmint, chipmunk, bugaboo,

The horned toad, prairie-dog and ballyhoo,

From all the new-born States arow,

Bidding the eagles of the West fly on,

Bidding the eagles of the West fly on,

The fawn, prodactyl and thing-a-ma-jig,

The hellangone,

The whangdoodle, batfowl and pig,

The coyote, wild-cat and grizzly in a glow,

In a miracle of health and speed, the whole breed abreast,

They leaped the Mississippi, blue border of the West,

From the Gulf to Canada, two thousand miles long:

Against the towns of Tubal Cain,

Ah—sharp was their song!

Against the ways of Tubal Cain, too cunning for the young,

The long-horn calf, the buffalo and wampus gave tongue.

These creatures were defending things Mark Hanna never dreamed:

The moods of airy childhood that in desert dews gleamed,

The gossamers and whimsies,

The monkeyshines and didoes

Rank and strange

Of the cañons and the range,

The ultimate fantastics

Of the far western slope,

And of prairie schooner children

Born beneath the stars,

Beneath falling snows,

Of the babies born at midnight

In the sod huts of lost hope,

With no physician there

Except a Kansas prayer,

With the Indian raid a-howling through the air.

And all these in their helpless days

By the dour East oppressed,

Mean paternalism

Making their mistakes for them,

Crucifying half the West,

Till the whole Atlantic coast

Seemed a giant spider's nest.

And these children and their sons

At last rode through the cactus,

A cliff of mighty cowboys

On the lope,

With gun and rope.

And all the way to frightened Maine the old East heard them call,

And saw our Bryan by a mile lead the wall

Of men and whirling flowers and beasts,

The bard and the prophet of them all.

Prairie avenger, mountain lion,

Bryan, Bryan, Bryan, Bryan,

Gigantic troubadour, speaking like a siege gun,

Smashing Plymouth Rock with his boulders from the West,

And just a hundred miles behind, tornadoes piled across the sky,

Blotting out sun and moon,

A sign on high.

Headlong, dazed and blinking in the weird green light,

The scalawags made moan,

Afraid to fight.

II

When Bryan came to Springfield, and Altgeld gave him greeting,

Rochester was deserted, Divernon was deserted,

Mechanicsburg, Riverton, Chickenbristle, Cotton Hill,

Empty: for all Sangamon drove to the meeting—

In silver-decked racing cart,

Buggy, buckboard, carryall,

Carriage, phaeton, whatever would haul,

And silver-decked farm-waggons gritted, banged and rolled,

With the new tale of Bryan by the iron tyres told.

The State House loomed afar,

A speck, a hive, a football,

A captive balloon,

And the town was all one spreading wing of bunting, plumes and sunshine,

Every flag in town, and Bryan's picture sold,

When the rigs in many a line

Reached the town at noon,

And joined the wild parade against the power of gold

We roamed, we boys from High School,

With mankind,

While Springfield gleamed,

Silk-lined.

Oh, Tom Dines, and Art Fitzgerald,

And the gangs that they could get!

I can hear them yelling yet

Helping the incantation,

Defying aristocracy,

With every bridle gone,

Bidding the eagles of the West fly on,

Bidding the eagles of the West fly on,

Ridding the world of the low-down mean:

We were bully, wild and woolly,

Never yet carried below the knees.

We saw flowers in the air,

Fair as the Pleiades, bright as Orion,

Hopes of all mankind,

Made rare, resistless, thrice refined.

Oh, we bucks from every Springfield ward!

Colts of democracy—

Yet time-winds out of Chaos from the star-fields of the Lord.

The long parade rolled on. I stood by my best girl.

She was a cool young citizen, with wise and laughing eyes.

With my necktie by my ear, I was stepping on my dear,

But she kept like a pattern, without a shaken curl.

She wore in her hair a brave prairie rose.

Her gold chums cut her, for that was not the pose.

No Gibson Girl would wear it in that fresh way,

But we were fairy Democrats, and this was our day.

The earth rocked like the ocean, the sidewalk was a deck.

The houses for the moment were lost in the wide wreck.

And the bands played strange and stranger music as they trailed along.

Against the ways of Tubal Cain,

Ah, sharp was their song!

The demons in the bricks, the demons in the grass,

The demons in the bank-vaults peered out to see us pass.

And the angels in the trees, the angels in the grass,

The angels in the flags peered out to see us pass.

And the sidewalk was our chariot, and the flowers bloomed higher,

And the street turned to silver and the grass turned to fire,

And then it was but grass, and the town was there again,

A place for women and men.

III

Then we stood where we could see

Every band,

And the speaker's stand.

And Bryan took the platform,

And he was introduced.

And he lifted his hand

And cast a new spell.

Progressive silence fell

In Springfield,

In Illinois,

Around the world.

Then we heard these glacial boulders across the prairie rolled:

"The people have a right to make their own mistakes ...

You shall not crucify mankind

Upon a cross of gold."

And everybody heard him—

In the streets and State House yard.

And everybody heard him

In Springfield,

In Illinois,

Around and around and around the world,

That danced upon its axis

And like a daring broncho whirled.

IV

July, August, suspense.

Wall Street lost to sense.

August, September, October,

More suspense,

And the whole East down like a wind-smashed fence.

Then Hanna to the rescue,

Hanna of Ohio,

Rallying the roller-tops,

Swivel chairs, bulls and bears,

Rallying the bucket-shops,

Threatening drouth and death,

Promising Mannah.

Rallying the trusts against the bawling flannelmouth;

Invading misers' cellars,

Tin-cans, socks,

Melting down the rocks,

Pouring out the long green to a million workers,

Spondulicks by the mountain-load to stop each new tornado,

And beat the cheapskate, blatherskite,

Populistic, anarchistic,

Deacon-desperado.

V

Election night at midnight:

Boy Bryan's defeat.

Defeat of western silver,

Defeat of the wheat.

Victory of letterfiles

And plutocrats in miles

With dollar signs upon their coats,

Diamond watchchains on their vests

And spats on their feet.

Victory of custodians,

Plymouth Rock,

And all that inbred landlord stock.

Victory of the neat.

Defeat of the aspen groves of Colorado valleys,

The bluebells of the Rockies,

And blue bonnets of old Texas,

By the Pittsburg alleys.

Defeat of alfalfa and the Mariposa lily.

Defeat of the Pacific and the long Mississippi.

Defeat of the young by the old and silly.

Defeat of tornadoes by the poison vats supreme.

Defeat of my boyhood, defeat of my dream.

VI

Where is McKinley, that respectable McKinley,

The man without an angle or a tangle,

Who soothed down the city man and soothed down the farmer,

The German, the Irish, the Southerner, the Northerner;

Who climbed every greasy pole, and slipped through every crack;

Who soothed down the gambling hall, the bar-room, the church,

The devil vote, the angel vote, the neutral vote,

The desperately wicked, and their victims on the rack,

The gold vote, the silver vote, the brass vote, the lead vote,

Every vote....

Where is McKinley, Mark Hanna's McKinley,

His slave, his echo, his suit of clothes?

Gone to join the shadows, with the pomps of that time,

And the flame of that summer's prairie rose.

Where is Cleveland whom the Democratic platform

Read from the party in a wonderful hour?

Gone to join the shadows with pitchfork Tillman

And sledge-hammer Altgeld, who wrecked his power

Where is Hanna, bull-dog Hanna,

Low browed Hanna, who said: "Stand pat"?

Gone to his own place with Pierpont Morgan.

Gone somewhere ... with lean rat Platt.

Where is Roosevelt, the young dude cowboy,

Who hated Bryan, then aped his way?

Gone to join the shadows with pious Cromwell

And tall King Saul, till the Judgment Day.

Where is Altgeld, brave as the truth,

Whose name the few still say with tears?

Gone to join the ironies with Old John Brown,

Whose fame rings loud for a thousand years.

Where is that boy, that Heaven-born Bryan,

That Homer Bryan, who sang from the West?

Gone to join the shadows with Altgeld the Eagle,

Where the Kings and the slaves and the troubadours rest.

VACHEL LINDSAY

BLIND THAMYRIS

By T. STURGE MOORE

SINCE my father was a hero and my mother a goddess of the woods, I was sent when twelve years old to the cave of Chiron, that he might instruct me in wisdom and valour. This life, divorced from all female tenderness, appealed to my pride, and only at night were my eyes ever moistened with regret. I was now free to follow a stream until, too weary to advance further, some cradle of scented herbs would lure me to rest and doze. At length twilight brought me an energy, winged with dread of the dusking forests, that carried me right home to the cavern. The sources were always my goal, the more easy descent seawards never tempted my morning moods: and, as he taught me the lyre or the control of my voice, Chiron remarked that a similar bent was evinced by an instinctive preference for those words and cadences that lead the spirit away from the high-roads of thought and feeling. Surely emotions well up in the fastnesses of tranquillity, close under the blue and white of heaven, more virginal than can be experienced in lowland retreats? As time wore on, Chiron, the daily lesson being ended, began to speak to me of a rhapsodist, former pupil and great favourite of his. "Agenor," he began, "like thyself, Thamyris was ever striving to reach the summits before joint and sinew were sufficiently tough. Alas, though he has often brought back with him the rarest strophes and melodies, men have refused to listen to them! They prefer a music that better harmonises with their garish sea-board towns, and he wanders shrouded in an ever deeper gloom." With a sigh he paused, and I waited, expecting to be warned not thus to estrange myself from humanity by persistently climbing among the hills. But he seemed unable so to conclude, and presently bid me run away and practise throwing the spear.

One forenoon when wind, so strong as to seem foreign to the settled brilliance of the weather, was bowing the fir-trees, and now here, now there, their backs arched silverly, flashing like waves on the dark green ridges, while the sound was that of a chorus of Titans rejoicing in violence (so much so that we had to retreat well back within the cave before we could hear ourselves play or sing), Chiron broke off the lesson, still disturbed it may be by the hurly-burly without, though it strained but faintly through the stillness held under that roof of rock. He sat gazing forth into the sunny turbulence, so grandly though jaggedly framed; and I, leaning back against his flank, watched his moved visage worn with much living. Then for the first time he began to recite me actual words of Thamyris, recalling how their public delivery had proved that those who thronged round the other rhapsodists would never collect about him.

Untouched white cloud,

Like a task acclaimed

When the heart is young,

Thou fliest higher

Than the eagle deed

That is praised by men

Unheeded silence,

In the night or at noon,

Thou singest to the hilltops

A song that is richer

Than the tales of war

Which men crowd to hear.

Magnificent joys

Lie about like garments

Amazingly broidered;

A god has discarded them

Before launching upward

In naked loneliness.

But no human hand

Lifts a single tunic;

No man's heart prefigures

The deep satisfaction

Of moving vested

In the pictured raiment

That a god walked the earth in.

Chiron was silent, and I dreamed of finding and putting on the slough of Apollo. I saw myself in a sultry glare climbing boulders with grey lichen-crusted cheeks, and dark moss-bearded cavities down which I peered in hopes of finding a cupful of collected dew. At last I arrived on the crest, and there, at the bottom of a crater of wild tumbled blocks, lay gleaming somewhat silver and violet and blue. I scrambled down; a pattern of scaled serpents was looped inextricably over white samite. I lifted it, and from the inside there slipped with a swish a body-vest of pale vermilion rippled with gold in a device of arrows, each drawn to the head in a sturdy bow: an armoury of the proper size for an host of mice had it been real instead of pictured. I gasped; and Chiron's eyes met mine, so that I blushed all down my neck.

Months later, on my return at dusk from a day's ramble, I learned from our new pupil, the little Achilles, that Chiron had been fetched away by two other centaurs, and expected to be absent all night, perhaps longer. We prepared and ate our supper of chestnuts boiled and then mashed in milk, and were shortly rolled in separate bears' skins to sleep. Achilles, who was but just turned six, was soon off, but I lay hour after hour forecasting coming events with eyes wide open. I cannot now revive those dreamy adventures, and only recollect that Thamyris figured in no few, and how fevered I was by the thought that, being mysteriously like him, much sadness and disappointment lay in wait for me. At last moonlight began to edge into the cave; travelling along the wall it soon lit up a trophy, the skull and huge hooped horns of an ibex; and next the rug made of four chamois hides that Chiron hangs over his flanks and crupper in winter, when round his bust he wraps thick folds of brown knitted wool; not long after it was bathing the ebony lyre inlaid with polished iridescent sea-shell that has both its fluted pillars and their screw-heads enamelled with lines of scarlet. This wonder Jason had brought back from Colchis and sent up by an embassy to Chiron. I rose and, stealing softly to it, looked up, not at the well-loved colours of the lyre, but towards the tranquil effulgence that had woken them out of the darkness, and was surprised to see that there were many swift-travelling clouds in the sky, for while I lay in the shelter the night had seemed quite still. At that moment the moon was covered, and the cave became so dark that I stepped outside and saw the moonlight fast growing again on the lawn lower down, where we throw the spear and wrestling matches take place. I hurried to meet it and, once there, the terror and attraction of the hills at night shook me; for was I not brought forth by the regent of a bosky grove? Though its sacred safety rustled leagues from where I stood, might I not brave these mountain forests, being able so to account for my hardihood? I was carried away, neither walking nor running, but at a sort of shaken trot that seemed dictated by the thudding of my heart. The almost level path wound along our valley high above the torrent, which it would meet and cross some two miles deeper in this fold under Pelion. My limbs moved as it were unbidden; once or twice I stopped and said, "This is a dream," till the indescribable reality of everything drove me on. My teeth were frequently jolted, yet the cold did not seem intense enough to chatter them, and surely I was not abjectly frightened? This notion roused my self-control and calmed me till I slipped along like a peaceful thought, unchallenged yet alert. The stream was crossed by the fallen fir-trunk, and the path returned eastward on the opposite side of the valley till the distant mouth of the cave was passed and the forefront of this new ridge won. Here the view was immense, embracing islands in the sea and snowy Olympus and the unnumbered chains of the mountainous coast. Here I squatted on the short fine turf and folded both arms across my knees as a cushion for my chin. Perhaps I dozed, for my head was heavy when I lifted it to make sure of a sound—the trampling of centaurs a great way off. "They are returning," I said to myself, and laid an ear against the earth, and then peered into the darkness, for the moon lit nothing now except one band of sea far out behind the islands. All but certain by which track they were coming, I plunged headlong downward through the brushwood as though it had been broad day, intending to cut their road on the moor above the cliffs. How many times I floundered into bushes or barked a shin against bough or boulder, those who have done such things may imagine. I at last stumbled out on the heather hundreds of feet beneath, limping but consoled to fancy my troubles ended. Before I had cleared a thousand yards I fell, ricking my ankle, and rose with difficulty, for an agony like death whenever my foot pressed the ground routed the very notion of an inexhaustible endurance latent within me. I fell again on to the thick springy couch of scented ling and soon felt deliciously relieved. Violent activity had chased the last vestige of night-terror, and the wind moaning round me made even that barren place homelike as with the movements of a familiar presence. The slightest jerk to my right foot and immediately my brow was beaded with sweat, for pain like a savage dog held my ankle in its jaws, and would grind them anew if I stirred. Hooves thundered nearer and nearer; the noise so invaded my consciousness that to cry for help seemed as useless as to halloo against tempestuous breakers on a rocky shore, yet simultaneously there returned on me all that Chiron had taught of the diverse tribes of sound—how some are irreconcilable while others easily agree, how the loudest of one family may fail to drown small ones of distinct origin, and in a continuous and familiar uproar their different calibre may startle even as in silence. Fed by these memories hope grew strong, and I cried out, "Father Chiron, Father Chiron, I am here, and must die if you do not come." Then I listened: all was still. At first I feared they had reached the hills and entered the valley so that the sound of their trampling was walled off. Just then it began again more slowly and unexpectedly near, so I shouted, "Father Chiron, do not leave me to the wolves!" Then his voice answered, and tears streamed over my face and sobs so shook me that I could not make out his words, yet between the spasms I gasped, "This way, this way!" And he came and knelt beside me, first on his fore-knees, then settling down on his haunches gradually so as not to scare me by the blundering of his fetlocks. His large gentle hand felt my moist burning brow while I pointed at my helpless ankle; then he lifted it between thumb and finger, and with the index of the other hand began to stroke the swelling thoughtfully. Then lifting his head he shouted, "Rhoetus, find me some sorrel or lettuce, and if you see any straight wands cut me one or two. Catch! Here is my knife!" and he slipped the thong by which it hung over his head. Now I must tell you it was a delicately smithied blade with both edges sharp, and lived, point foremost, in a snug trough cut along the yellow boxwood handle over which a lid of box was spliced, the open end being secured by a wedge of ebony attached by a thong. For use, the blade was first shaken out on the palm, then its heft-end replaced and secured by tapping the wedge with a stone. It was our great pleasure to borrow this knife and scratch lions or eagles upon a horn, or out of soft pine carve straight-robed Athena with casque and spear. I know every cut that defines her attitude, but can never give her features, either terrible or beautiful. But Chiron was repeating to me, "Did not Achilles tell you that I could not be back before morning?" for my mind had suddenly wandered to my foster-mother's farm kitchen in the lowlands forty miles away. "Yes, he told me, but I could not sleep, and at last I wanted to explore the woods by moonlight; after I heard you coming, in running I caught my foot in the twisted trunks of this heather," With a low husky chuckle he said, "Though I am supposed to be really wise, the simplicity of your explanation has surprised me harbouring sinister forebodings." I had no inkling then how he dreaded lest the violence of centaur-herds and the knavery of townsmen, like clashing flints, should cause a conflagration. For ever more pressingly he forebodes the violation of his cavern's peace, the only spot left where men and centaurs foregather kindly. At that time I attributed his words to the ocean of his wisdom, which, like a shore-bred child, I was accustomed to hear murmur, content if now and again the beauty of a thought meant for me stranded like a dainty shell at my feet. Hitherto I had lain like one bed-rid, haunted by the seriousness of that pain, but now, sitting up and taking advantage of the licence accorded to sufferers, I dared to show a curiosity which every endeavour would have suppressed had my right ankle been as sound as the left, and asked, "Where have you been, Father Chiron?" His husky laugh allowed the indulgence I had claimed, and his voice grew strained as he answered, "I was called to the death-bed of my best-beloved son Thamyris." "Is he very sick?" I asked. "Not now, for he moaned me his last epode and ended like the swan." At that I lay back once more and looked across the heather at the moon, unwilling to embarrass his sorrow by staring at it. And after a pause Chiron in a very low voice began to croon:

Falcon daughters of Apollo,

Ye spur on a man to sing,

Rend with pangs sharp as a sword:

Then for his best award

Faint praise and a broken wing.

Is it for larks to follow

The snow-feathered cloud?

They are dusky and hot and fragile

And scarcely contain a proud

Insanely throbbing heart:

Ye are amber-eyed, sleek and agile,

Taloned and savagely smart.

When the fierce blood bursts our pulses,

Darkened like Hades at noon,

There falls from the towering ether

A mangled mass of feather.

An end to the pain that convulses

Life with ambition is boon

Enough for a soul uplifted,

And by each of you severally gifted.

When silence had nursed the memory of this for a space I glanced at Chiron; his wet eyes stared steadily at the moon. He roused himself and began to shout to hasten Rhoetus, and the young centaur soon approached, bounding wildly, a mat of tresses flapping like a black flag about his head. Chiron took the knife, the leaves and the two sallows, and measuring these last against my leg cut two wands from their stouter ends, split them and placed their flat sides against the leaves in which he packed my tender joint. He next cut strands from under his white beard as long as his arm; with one he bound the splints lightly round my calf and with the other secured them beneath my foot. Rising, he helped me up, and warned me not to put any weight on the cage, which lengthened and imprisoned my leg. He then signed to Rhoetus to lift me on to his back, and side by side the two began walking across the heath; the sky was once more almost clear and the moon was setting. The sea, though it could be heard, was hidden by the heathery hillocks which thatched its cliffs, as Olympus and the great ranges were behind hills tawny and russet with beech and alder but hooded in evergreen firs that towered dead black in the moonlight. A whistle sounded, and there was Caudon waiting three hundred paces off. Rhoetus advanced, crying to him, "It is my turn to carry the body now," but his piebald fellow immediately heaved something on to his shoulder and set off at a gallop. "What is it?" I said to Chiron, round whose vast waist my arms clung. "They shame our breed," he replied. "Ghosts of the dead never haunt centaurs, so for them the lifeless body is no more than an empty smock. Men are born with older fears and cradled in whispering awe. Reverence is thus taught them, first by terror, and then by esteem, if they consort with finely-tempered minds. But these rough colts, deprived of the first, scarce heed the second lesson yet. Poor Thamyris, the fair course of thy days was driven about till, willy-nilly, it clashed with the coarse-grained crowd; and must thy body be tossed, fought for, and whirled away in the fury of this boisterous rivalry?" They were fetching wide curves across the heath; sometimes even Caudon's piebald flanks were lost in the darkness, and they became a mere chivy of distancing sounds; then again both toiled on the skyline above the cliffs, like shadows on a wall. Their shouts had at first betokened no more than horse-play, but took now an angrier accent. Chiron smartened his pace, and I felt that his spirit was chafing, and when they next drew within earshot he shouted commands to arrest them of such sternness as they were not sufficiently enslaved by passion to disregard, and they came severally, muttering, heated, and resentful towards us. The old centaur reproached them for thus jolting the body of his friend. "But he feels nothing," argued Caudon. "Well, well, had he been a skin of choice wine, you should have carried him with more care." "Wine can be spoilt with shaking—but a corpse!" grumbled Rhoetus. "Still for all he once was ..." "Why, he was so mad as to put out his own eyes!" grunted Caudon, and Rhoetus continued, "They say he died because he refused to eat in a rage that outlasted his life." "Yet I, who am old enough to be your sire's grandsire, have often wished the hour stayed when his fingers wandered the strings." "Years ago!" they interjected. "Last evening he kissed my hands and taught me words that fly straight to the heart." Neither colt retorted, and the silence seemed so consecrated to the gravity of the wise Chiron's sorrow that I feared to break it, though devoured with curiosity about this unaccountable madness, blindness, and death. We had entered the valley and were climbing at a foot-pace among the trees. Though the moon had set, the sky had not darkened but greyed with the dawn. As the light increased the body absorbed my attention; it hung wrapped in a coarse and torn cloak over Rhoetus's shoulder; for Caudon had ceded it to him soon after they left arguing with Chiron. The arms dangled along his muscular back and the dead hands flopped and turned upon the glossy black hide to which his brown skin gave place below the loins. They went a little in advance of us, and at times I could divine just how the head hung, by some yellow hair that appeared and disappeared behind a rent in the cloak which, swaying, opened and closed like the ill-hinged door of a granary loft that, swinging in the wind, shows the gleam of golden grain to a mid-winter day. My head had dropped in a doze before we reached the place where a path branches down to the bathing pool, and Chiron bade Rhoetus and Caudon carry the body up to the cave, build a fire, and seethe meat, for all would be more than common hungry. But me he carried down to the large pool that spreads out from the foot of a fall in the torrent; and at the outer brim of this basin, where the clear water becomes shallow and escapes in many minor cascades downwards, he chose a bank of sward and laid me gently down where the water would flow over my damaged foot. While I lounged at ease he himself gravely walked down under the pool; the water rose above the horse and only the man remained; still he trod carefully deeper, the white stones being often slippery with green weed; and now his beard and hair were floating like foam about his shoulders, as though a smaller column of invisible water were drilling the quivering surface right out in front of the torrent that thundered into boiling suds at the foot of the dripping rocks. Still his hooves felt their way down, till the billowy outward curves were sweeping right over his head. The white limestone lit up the depths and rendered his figure clearly visible, though it seemed strangely stunted; his chestnut crupper, silvered as it was with age, became violet by contrast with the icy blue water. All around thinned boughs hung out long yellow leaves, and the reflections of some of them flickered like fish about him. Time seemed to have ceased and all hostile conditions to have been suspended in favour of this magnificently weathered creature, that he might become divinely amphibious and death stand disarmed before him. Far above, a level shaft of sunlight from over the mountain shoulder suddenly caught the tree-tops. A naked scaffold of dark trunk, bough and intricately forking branch sustained each thin tower-like tent of brilliant leaves. Thus, their grand swelling shapes hollow instead of dense with foliage, tanned or yellow instead of green, these chestnuts whose flaunting camps reach far up the valleys made a last stand against the disenchanting season of storms. The banks beneath were thick with fallen leaves interspersed with clusters of nuts like hedgehogs. The whole vividly coloured scene swam in the limpid transparent slumber which tuned my breathing, though it had not closed my eyes. I thought, "He will stay under too long and I shall never hear how poor Thamyris went mad," yet it seemed acceptable or at least necessary that I should never hear and that he should remain immersed for ever. No, he lifted his head and parted his hair and rubbed his eyes, and came up as slowly and solemnly out of the pool as he had descended into it. Streaming and refreshed, he cantered round its shallow brim, splashing with his hooves; he shook and wrung from hair and beard streamers of diamond drops, quivering the while the glossy coat of his nether body to free its shaggy skirts, and whisking his tail against his hocks. Pausing beside me, he smiled into my sleepy eyes and said, "How goes the ankle?" I murmured that it was so cold as to have stopped aching, and I could not now feel whether it were there or not. He drew me a little higher up till my bandaged foot was out of the numbing flow. Roused by this I could no longer refrain from asking what had driven poor Thamyris mad; and the answer came, soothing the terror that it stirred in my soul by the grave compassion with which it was pronounced. "He could not endure to watch those whose attention he had in vain tried to capture, grouped about some common rhapsodist who, with shouts, recounted how one man killed another in some freebooting foray. He must have wandered unwanted and uninspired for months before at last he stood near the ships where fishermen had been chipping holes in large flints in order to thread them along the bottom of their great sweep-net. These had often split before they were pierced, and fragments with knife-like edges lay all about. Suddenly dashing down his lyre, he stooped and seized two sharp pieces, and sobbing out that his eyes should never again watch a crowd like that gaping upon the wharf at this bawler, he jabbed at his eyes. Others told me how they heard him, and turned to see blood streaming from his face and beard and from the two red hands that he waved as he staggered, unaccustomed to darkness. They thought some goddess in the shape of a sea-hawk must have struck him with her beak, and vanished as swiftly as she had come through the twilight. Afterward, when his broken lyre was found, they concluded that the Muses had sent her because he, though a mere mortal, sang such songs as might in the halls of Olympus be preferred to their own, for only among the gods, as those fishermen fancied, could he have found suitable audience. They led him to the temple of Apollo; there the priest killed a snake and bound its body across his bleeding orbits, and the wounds healed, but sight did not return. Later on, when he felt how he never knew where he was or who was near—when no one could lead him far towards the stony peaks he loved, for dread always overtook them at the danger of steep places for a blind man whose daimon left him totally unwarned—he refused food and sat all day on the temple steps, and never begged an alms or stooped to gather what was thrown him. At night the hierodules had sometimes heard him mutter as though he prayed for vengeance. They even believed that he had challenged the nine Muses to a trial of skill, offering to yield body and mind to their displeasure if he failed, but should he outsing them, then each of them was to submit her body to bear him a child. For servile minds, Agenor, ascribe the motives familiar to themselves to those whose outstanding actions they must perforce canvass. Thus he endured not only perpetual darkness, but companionless solitude where streams of men were constantly passing; hearing voices but not one conversable. Then when death first warned him, he sent a message to me; this was delivered to Rhoetus and Caudon, who bore it on up the shoulders of Pelion." And gazing round, he continued, "In this spot shall he rest, screened by these chestnuts from the cruel moons of summer; here shall a grave be dug. The distance from the cave is convenient, and bathers may often consent to remain while I rechant one of his lays, till, departing, they breathe a pious wish for the peace of him whose life was full of strife and storms, though he never joined in battle, or trod the planks of a ship. When I stood by his side he said, 'O god-like beast, no other ears ever listened to me with pleasure as thine did. Thou hast been rewarded with extended life, for thy actions and customs are swayed neither by fear nor by greed, but in the eyes of the young and in quiet haunts thou hast sought the wisdom most easily wed to divine melodies. Thou wilt understand and perhaps pity these strophes born of my anguish.' His fevered reveries would seem so to have exalted me that he used an address such as gods expect, and with the same trance-like utterance feebly and slowly delivered the hymn I repeated to you on the heath, but then the end came. Now you had better lie here for to-day lest you should jar that ankle, and I will send Achilles to you with some meat." I wondered over all I had heard, not without dread of a similar fate, till Achilles came and wanted to know what I had seen in the night, whether nymphs or daimons or Artemis herself. As I ate the warm meat or broke the brown crusts between sips of wine, I told him. Then with all the roguish effrontery of his beauty, shaking his long yellow curls, he laughed, "I should have done as you did for all the rest, Agenor, but I should not have sprained my ankle," and he danced off singing, "No, indeed, indeed no!" while I, dropping the drained horn into the empty maple bowl, rolled over and slept.

*      *      *      *      *

When I woke the sun had passed the meridian, and the sound of a spade and the thud of falling clods could be heard, and looking across I saw Caudon working in a grave on a crest of the opposite bank; soon the blade rang on the rock and his action became that of shovelling out the loam. Next, Chiron and Rhoetus arrived, carrying the body between them wound in a long and splendid pall. This had been sent by Thetis as a present with Achilles when he joined us in July. It measured six yards by four, and might have served for a temple curtain or to drape a royal bed. The goddess herself had worked it far out under the sea, aided by the silver-shoed daughters of Doris. Flying over a ground of deep blue were seen harpies with black wings spread and every feather tipped with white, their brown bodies shaped like large eggs; they wore coral necklaces, and had the heads of women with singing mouths and long streaming raven curls. Yet they were armless and had the legs and talons of a bird. Each of the score was exactly like every other, and side by side and one after another they flew across the deep noon sky. So they sweep by close above some ship, with sweet voices advising mariners of a greater glory amid ocean than where sails are often met around the coast. Though well they know that from the vacant unislanded main the venturer has rarely returned. Chiron had no use in his cavern for a cloth so splendid, and he had determined to devote this to the honour of Thamyris. They laid his body, wholly enveloped in it, along the turf beside the grave, while they spread in it the autumn-tinted bracken that Achilles had been cutting with a sickle, and, armful after armful, had made a mountainous heap of. Next they lowered him in the great blue cloth on to that sun-saturated couch. Then Chiron took his lyre and sang:

A gentle spring was that long past

Which brought thee to my cave;

For thought yet more than action brave,

O daring spirit, now thou hast

Gleaned all that feeble mortals give

To those in whom intenser joy has sought to live

Here woodland peace broods ever, here

Shall water alway carol in thine ear.

Caudon and Rhoetus now chanted the usual chorus of "Last Farewell," Achilles and myself piping in as well as their loud voices would let us. The rest of the bracken was then thrown down and on that the dark loam, the turfs were replaced, wine spilled in libation and grain strewn. The rites were ended: the two centaurs shouldered spade and mattock and clattered off. Achilles asked if he might go into the woods with his bow and arrow to shoot something. Chiron nodded consent and came to examine my ankle. While he uncased it and did it up again with fresh leaves, I asked why, if Thamyris so loved the lonely hills and scorned men, he was so angry at seeing them crowd about other rhapsodists. When he had finished with my foot he replied, "One of our friend's hymns is now trotting in my head," then touching his lyre he chanted:

From the west upward

I toiled heavy-hearted;

From the east joyous,

Poising his weight on

An arching instep,

Came man to meet me.

And high in the azure,

Where the rocks ended

We sat down, friends.

He heard there how often

Was said, shown or felt

The thing that rebuked me.

Then laughed and pretended

That what the hand fashioned,

House, sword or dead body,

Alone remained;

Thoughts and intentions

Lost their existence.

His glad voice inveigled

Belief from my candour;

And lo! he was gone.

Poising my weight on

An arching instep

Down I came, gaily

Facing the sunset,

As though in the sea-port

That glittered beneath it

I had not yet smitten

The sonorous lyre.

As though the folk there

Had come from the eastward

That very morning

And found empty houses

And ships abandoned,

Needing only to be cleaned and repainted,

And meant to make them gay as spring flowers,

And were sure in the twilight

To gather about me.

"There, that is his own answer to your question. I do not think he craved just any praise, nor did he much over-prize his own gift; and you see he was not thinking of this coast, but of one facing the other way, so that the poet could arrive from the quarter opposite to the sun and meet him at noon on the peak. As much as to say, 'Not myself, nor this town's people, but any place, any people, any poet.' He worshipped man, and it angered him to see homespun preferred to the skyey fabric the god had helped him weave. He regretted his violence and could not live without those eyes it had cost him." Having drawn these sentences one by one from his sad heart, Chiron lapsed into silence till I asked, "But why did he address the Muses as enemies in his last hymn, if what the folk said was quite false?" "It is strange. Can they have appeared to him smartly fledged in white plumage, with dapper tail and wings and vulture heart? Stately women clothed in daffodil chitons delighted my gaze the only time I ever had a glimpse of them." "When was that?" "I was scarcely older than yourself, and woke in a cave to see them sitting and resting at its mouth, delicately grouped against the dawn. I remember Euterpe's lap full of flowers, and Melpomene, for her hair was stormy, black and unbound, and a deep brown cloak had slipped from her shoulders, but still hung over her elbows; it was only afterwards that I regretted not having noted the features of Urania, but assuredly no single one of them had the eye of a hawk. They rose as I woke, and strolled on. I crept after them, but when I turned the buttress of rock, no glad-robed figure was in sight, though it seemed that choral voices floated in the air; yet soon I found myself listening to silence, so could not be sure." "It must be sad to sing unpraised, however beautiful the words." "Yes, boy, and the ecstasy that sings is counterfaced with a destroying rage; that is perhaps why his darkened soul figured the Muses as birds of prey." "Do you know any more of his rhapsodies?" "Perhaps I can recall another," and he struck some strange bell-like notes and then sang:

Leap, Ibex, leap: the drop

From that mountain turret-top

Is sheer two hundred feet!

Crash head foremost to the rock;

Those massive hoops, thy curved horns, take the shock

And throw thee up! Albeit

Tossed by their supple springs,

Without the help of wings,

Scarcely may eye believe

Thou hast righted in the air!

Rashness thou dost retrieve;

Whence thou wast bounced, even there

Arrivest without let;

Four sturdy hooves of jet

Plant thee on the slab thine eye

Had chosen from on high.

So melodist that haunts

The spirit-firing peaks,

And deep in azure chants,

Must take like dizzy leap

Back to some sea-board town

To find the praise he seeks.

And would he still his fervour keep,

As fine resilience will he need

So featly to light down,

Hoop-horned Goat, as thine,

By chamois herds acclaimed divine!

A god's grace truly will he need

If he be not to suffer, not to bleed—

A shattered heart and brain a-fire,

A trodden mantle and snapt lyre!

And how by headlong rapture whirled and blinded

Should he know where 'tis won or how to find it?

That unpredictable address

Whose magic cleaves the rough quartz stone

And makes its secret crystals known

When the most boorish bless

The most divine

And flash back to their eyes the grace by which they shine!

This history has been written with Chiron's help, who says we have often found more appropriate words than were actually used, yet have not departed from truth as Clio bestows it on those who do her unfeigned reverence.

*      *      *      *      *

I covered this sheepskin years ago in the cave and have kept it ever since; now I must soon bequeath it to the care of others. Achilles and Chiron are both long since dead, and who wants to hear the lays of Thamyris now? I never picked up the slough of any god; though a bit later, when my foot was sufficiently healed for me to limp about, I found behind some bushes, where Caudon or Rhoetus had chucked it, the filthy ragged homespun mantle of Thamyris, for when I spread it out one could see where the blood had run down from his eyes by the dark stains. I folded it and laid it at the foot of his grave and raised a pyramid of stones over it, bringing them toilsomely from the pool each day as my ankle grew stronger, even as in two or three years' time I was adding crooked letter to crooked letter on the inside of this skin that Thamyris might be remembered. And as I wrote I was persuaded, in spite of Chiron's presentiment and that vivid dream of a white chlamys broidered over with blue, violet, and silver serpents, that such "magnificent joys" would never be mine. Which secret conviction, as I grew a beard and it grew grey, has been proved correct. Maeonides, best loved of all rhapsodists, may have found it, though when I heard him chant the war for Troy, he also was dressed in homespun and already blind; but old Agenor has kept his two eyes as safely as this sheepskin.

THE ROMANCE OF RHYME

By G. K. CHESTERTON

THE poet in the comic opera, it will be remembered (I hope), claimed for his æsthetic authority that "Hey diddle diddle will rank as an idyll, if I pronounce it chaste." In face of a satire which still survives the fashion it satirised, it may require some moral courage seriously to pronounce it chaste, or to suggest that the nursery rhyme in question has really some of the qualities of an idyll. Of its chastity, in the vulgar sense, there need be little dispute, despite the scandal of the elopement of the dish with the spoon, which would seem as free from grossness as the loves of the triangles. And though the incident of the cow may have something of the moonstruck ecstasy of Endymion, that also has a silvery coldness about it worthy of the wilder aspects of Diana. The truth more seriously tenable is that this nursery rhyme is a complete and compact model of the nursery short story. The cow jumping over the moon fulfils to perfection the two essentials of such a story for children. It makes an effect that is fantastic out of objects that are familiar; and it makes a picture that is at once incredible and unmistakable. But it is yet more tenable, and here more to the point, that this nursery rhyme is emphatically a rhyme. Both the lilt and the jingle are just right for their purpose, and are worth whole libraries of elaborate literary verse for children. And the best proof of its vitality is that the satirist himself has unconsciously echoed the jingle even in making the joke. The metre of that nineteenth-century satire is the metre of the nursery rhyme. "Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle" and "Hey diddle diddle will rank as an idyll" are obviously both dancing to the same ancient tune; and that by no means the tune the old cow died of, but the more exhilarating air to which she jumped over the moon.

The whole history of the thing called rhyme can be found between those two things: the simple pleasure of rhyming "diddle" to "fiddle," and the more sophisticated pleasure of rhyming "diddle" to "idyll." Now the fatal mistake about poetry, and more than half of the fatal mistake about humanity, consists in forgetting that we should have the first kind of pleasure as well as the second. It might be said that we should have the first pleasure as the basis of the second; or yet more truly, the first pleasure inside the second. The fatal metaphor of progress, which means leaving things behind us, has utterly obscured the real idea of growth, which means leaving things inside us. The heart of the tree remains the same, however many rings are added to it; and a man cannot leave his heart behind by running hard with his legs. In the core of all culture are the things that may be said, in every sense, to be learned by heart. In the innermost part of all poetry is the nursery rhyme, the nonsense that is too happy even to care about being nonsensical. It may lead on to the more elaborate nonsense of the Gilbertian line, or even the far less poetic nonsense of some of the Browningesque rhymes. But the true enjoyment of poetry is always in having the simple pleasure as well as the subtle pleasure. Indeed it is on this primary point that so many of our artistic and other reforms seem to go wrong. What is the matter with the modern world is that it is trying to get simplicity in everything except the soul. Where the soul really has simplicity it can be grateful for anything—even complexity. Many peasants have to be vegetarians, and their ordinary life is really a simple life. But the peasants do not despise a good dinner when they can get it; they wolf it down with enthusiasm, because they have not only the simple life but the simple spirit. And it is so with the modern modes of art which revert, very rightly, to what is "primitive." But their moral mistake is that they try to combine the ruggedness that should belong to simplicity with a superciliousness that should only belong to satiety. The last Futurist draughtsmanship, for instance, evidently has the aim of drawing a tree as it might be drawn by a child of ten. I think the new artists would admit it; nor do I merely sneer at it. I am willing to admit, especially for the sake of argument, that there is a truth of philosophy and psychology in this attempt to attain the clarity even through the crudity of childhood. In this sense I can see what a man is driving at when he draws a tree merely as a stick with smaller sticks standing out of it. He may be trying to trace in black and white or grey a primeval and almost pre-natal illumination; that it is very remarkable that a stick should exist, and still more remarkable that a stick should stick up or stick out. He may be similarly enchanted with his own stick of charcoal or grey chalk; he may be enraptured, as a child is, with the mere fact that it makes a mark on the paper—a highly poetic fact in itself. But the child does not despise the real tree for being different from his drawing of the tree. He does not despise Uncle Humphrey because that talented amateur can really draw a tree. He does not think less of the real sticks because they are live sticks, and can grow and branch and curve in a way uncommon in walking-sticks. Because he has a single eye he can enjoy a double pleasure. This distinction, which seems strangely neglected, may be traced again in the drama and most other domains of art. Reformers insist that the audiences of simpler ages were content with bare boards or rudimentary scenery if they could hear Sophocles or Shakespeare talking a language of the gods. They were very properly contented with plain boards. But they were not discontented with pageants. The people who appreciated Antony's oration as such would have appreciated Aladdin's palace as such. They did not think gilding and spangles substitutes for poetry and philosophy, because they are not. But they did think gilding and spangles great and admirable gifts of God, because they are.

But the application of this distinction here is to the case of rhyme in poetry. And the application of it is that we should never be ashamed of enjoying a thing as a rhyme as well as enjoying it as a poem. And I think the modern poets who try to escape from the rhyming pleasure, in pursuit of a freer poetical pleasure, are making the same fundamentally fallacious attempt to combine simplicity with superiority. Such a poet is like a child who could take no pleasure in a tree because it looked like a tree, or a playgoer who could take no pleasure in the Forest of Arden because it looked like a forest. It is not impossible to find a sort of prig who professes that he could listen to literature in any scenery, but strongly objects to good scenery. And in poetical criticism and creation there has also appeared the prig who insists that any new poem must avoid the sort of melody that makes the beauty of any old song. Poets must put away childish things, including the child's pleasure in the mere sing-song of irrational rhyme. It may be hinted that when poets put away childish things they will put away poetry. But it may be well to say a word in further justification of rhyme as well as poetry, in the child as well as the poet. Now, the neglect of this nursery instinct would be a blunder, even if it were merely an animal instinct or an automatic instinct. If a rhyme were to a man merely what a bark is to a dog, or a crow to a cock, it would be clear that such natural things cannot be merely neglected. It is clear that a canine epic, about Argus instead of Ulysses, would have a beat ultimately consisting of barks. It is clear that a long poem like Chantecler, written by a real cock, would be to the tune of Cock-a-doodle-doo. But in truth the nursery rhyme has a nobler origin; if it be ancestral it is not animal; its principle is a primary one, not only in the body but in the soul.

Milton prefaced Paradise Lost with a ponderous condemnation of rhyme. And perhaps the finest and even the most familiar line in the whole of Paradise Lost is really a glorification of rhyme. "Seasons return, but not to me return," is not only an echo that has all the ring of a rhyme in its form, but it happens to contain nearly all the philosophy of rhyme in its spirit. The wonderful word "return" has, not only in its sound but in its sense, a hint of the whole secret of song. It is not merely that its very form is a fine example of a certain quality in English, somewhat similar to that which Mrs. Meynell admirably analysed in a former issue of this magazine in the case of words like "unforgiven." It is that it describes poetry itself, not only in a mechanical but a moral sense. Song is not only a recurrence, it is a return. It does not merely, like the child in the nursery, take pleasure in seeing the wheels go round. It also wishes to go back as well as round; to go back to the nursery where such pleasures are found. Or to vary the metaphor slightly, it does not merely rejoice in the rotation of a wheel on the road, as if it were a fixed wheel in the air. It is not only the wheel but the waggon that is returning. That labouring caravan is always travelling towards some camping-ground that it has lost and cannot find again. No lover of poetry needs to be told that all poems are full of that noise of returning wheels; and none more than the poems of Milton himself. The whole truth is obvious, not merely in the poem, but even in the two words of the title. All poems might be bound in one book under the title of Paradise Lost. And the only object of writing Paradise Lost is to turn it, if only by a magic and momentary illusion, into Paradise Regained.

It is in this deeper significance of return that we must seek for the peculiar power in the recurrence we call rhyme. It would be easy enough to reply to Milton's strictures on rhyme in the spirit of a sensible if superficial liberality by saying that it takes all sorts to make a world, and especially the world of the poets. It is evident enough that Milton might have been right to dispense with rhyme without being right to despise it. It is obvious that the peculiar dignity of his religious epic would have been weakened if it had been a rhymed epic, beginning:

Of man's first disobedience and the fruit

Of that forbidden tree whose mortal root.

But it is equally obvious that Milton himself would not have tripped on the light fantastic toe with quite so much charm and cheerfulness in the lines:

But come thou Goddess fair and free

In heaven yclept Euphrosyne

if the goddess had been yclept something else, as, for the sake of argument, Syrinx. Milton in his more reasonable moods would have allowed rhyme in theory a place in all poetry, as he allowed it in practice in his own poetry. But he would certainly have said at this time, and possibly at all times, that he allowed it an inferior place, or at least a secondary place. But is its place secondary; and is it in any sense inferior?

The romance of rhyme does not consist merely in the pleasure of a jingle, though this is a pleasure of which no man should be ashamed. Certainly most men take pleasure in it, whether or not they are ashamed of it. We see it in the older fashion of prolonging the chorus of a song with syllables like "rumty tumty" or "tooral looral." We see it in the similar but later fashion of discussing whether a truth is objective or subjective, or whether a reform is constructive or destructive, or whether an argument is deductive or inductive: all bearing witness to a very natural love for those nursery rhyme recurrences which make a sort of song without words, or at least without any kind of intellectual significance. But something much deeper is involved in the love of rhyme as distinct from other poetic forms, something which is perhaps too deep and subtle to be described. The nearest approximation to the truth I can think of is something like this: that while all forms of genuine verse recur, there is in rhyme a sense of return to exactly the same place. All modes of song go forward and backward like the tides of a sea; but in the great sea of Homeric or Virgilian hexameters, the sea that carried the labouring ships of Ulysses and Æneas, the thunder of the breakers is rhythmic, but the margin of the foam is necessarily irregular and vague. In rhyme there is rather a sense of water poured safely into one familiar well, or (to use a nobler metaphor) of ale poured safely into one familiar flagon. The armies of Homer and Virgil advance and retreat over a vast country, and suggest vast and very profound sentiments about it, about whether it is their own country or only a strange country. But when the old nameless ballad boldly rhymes "the bonny ivy tree" to "my ain countree" the vision at once dwindles and sharpens to a very vivid image of a single soldier passing under the ivy that darkens his own door. Rhythm deals with similarity, but rhyme with identity. Now in the one word identity are involved perhaps the deepest and certainly the dearest human things. He who is homesick does not desire houses or even homes. He who is lovesick does not want to see all the women with whom he might have fallen in love. Only he who is sea-sick, perhaps, may be said to have a cosmopolitan craving for all lands or any kind of land. And this is probably why sea-sickness, like cosmopolitanism, has never yet been a high inspiration to song. Songs, especially the most poignant of them, generally refer to some absolute, to some positive place or person for whom no similarity is a substitute. In such a case all approximation is merely asymptotic. The prodigal returns to his father's house and not the house next door, unless he is still an imperfectly sober prodigal; the lover desires his lady and not her twin sister, except in old complications of romance; and even the spiritualist is generally looking for a ghost and not merely for ghosts. I think the intolerable torture of spiritualism must be a doubt about identity. Anyhow, it will generally be found that where this call for the identical has been uttered most ringingly and unmistakably in literature, it has been uttered in rhyme. Another purpose for which this pointed and definite form is very much fitted is the expression of dogma, as distinct from doubt or even opinion. This is why, with all allowance for a decline in the most classical effects of the classical tongue, the rhymed Latin of the mediæval hymns does express what it had to express in a very poignant poetical manner, as compared with the reverent agnosticism so nobly uttered in the rolling unrhymed metres of the ancients. For even if we regard the matter of the mediæval verses as a dream, it was at least a vivid dream, a dream full of faces, a dream of love and of lost things. And something of the same spirit runs in a vaguer way through proverbs and phrases that are not exactly religious, but rather in a rude sense philosophical, but which all move with the burden of returning; things to be felt only in familiar fragments ... on revient toujours ... it's the old story—it's love that makes the world go round; and all roads lead to Rome: we might almost say that all roads lead to Rhyme.

Milton's revolt against rhyme must be read in the light of history. Milton is the Renascence frozen into a Puritan form; the beginning of a period which was in a sense classic, but was in a still more definite sense aristocratic. There the Classicist was the artistic aristocrat because the Calvinist was the spiritual aristocrat. The seventeenth century was intensely individualistic; it had both in the noble and the ignoble sense a respect for persons. It had no respect whatever for popular traditions; and it was in the midst of its purely logical and legal excitement that most of the popular traditions died. The Parliament appeared and the people disappeared. The arts were put under patrons, where they had once been under patron saints. The schools and colleges at once strengthened and narrowed the New Learning, making it something rather peculiar to one country and one class. A few men talked a great deal of good Latin, where all men had once talked a little bad Latin. But they talked even the good Latin so that no Latinist in the world could understand them. They confined all study of the classics to that of the most classical period, and grossly exaggerated the barbarity and barrenness of patriotic Greek or mediæval Latin. It is as if a man said that because the English translation of the Bible is perhaps the best English in the world, therefore Addison and Pater and Newman are not worth reading. We can imagine what men in such a mood would have said of the rude rhymed hexameters of the monks; and it is not unnatural that they should have felt a reaction against rhyme itself. For the history of rhyme is the history of something else, very vast and sometimes invisible, certainly somewhat indefinable, against which they were in aristocratic rebellion.

That thing is difficult to define in impartial modern terms. It might well be called Romance, and that even in a more technical sense, since it corresponds to the rise of the Romance languages as distinct from the Roman language. It might more truly be called Religion, for historically it was the gradual re-emergence of Europe through the Dark Ages, because it still had one religion, though no longer one rule. It was, in short, the creation of Christendom. It may be called Legend, for it is true that the most overpowering presence in it is that of omnipresent and powerful popular legend; so that things that may never have happened, or, as some say, could never have happened, are nevertheless rooted in our racial memory like things that have happened to ourselves. The whole Arthurian Cycle, for instance, seems something more real than reality. If the faces in that darkness of the Dark Ages, Lancelot and Arthur and Merlin and Modred, are indeed faces in a dream, they are like faces in a real dream: a dream in a bed and not a dream in a book. Subconsciously at least, I should be much less surprised if Arthur were to come again than I should be if the Superman were to come at all. Again, the thing might be called Gossip: a noble name, having in it the name of God and one of the most generous and genial of the relations of men. For I suppose there has seldom been a time when such a mass of culture and good traditions of craft and song have been handed down orally, by one universal buzz of conversation, through centuries of ignorance down to centuries of greater knowledge. Education must have been an eternal viva voce examination; but the men passed their examination. At least they went out in such rude sense masters of art as to create the Song of Roland and the round Roman arches that carry the weight of so many Gothic towers. Finally, of course, it can be called ignorance, barbarism, black superstition, a reaction towards obscurantism and old night; and such a view is eminently complete and satisfactory, only that it leaves behind it a sort of weak wonder as to why the very youngest poets do still go on writing poems about the sword of Arthur and the horn of Roland.

All this was but the beginning of a process which has two great points of interest. The first is the way in which the mediæval movement did rebuild the old Roman civilisation; the other was the way in which it did not. A strange interest attaches to the things which had never existed in the pagan culture and did appear in the Christian culture. I think it is true of most of them that they had a quality that can very approximately be described as popular, or perhaps as vulgar, as indeed we still talk of the languages which at that time liberated themselves from Latin as the vulgar tongues. And to many Classicists these things would appear to be vulgar in a more vulgar sense. They were vulgar in the sense of being vivid almost to excess, of making a very direct and unsophisticated appeal to the emotions. The first law of heraldry was to wear the heart upon the sleeve. Such mediævalism was the reverse of mere mysticism, in the sense of mere mystery; it might more truly be described as sensationalism. One of these things, for instance, was a hot and even an impatient love of colour. It learned to paint before it could draw, and could afford the twopence coloured long before it could manage the penny plain. It culminated at last, of course, in the energy and gaiety of the Gothic; but even the richness of Gothic rested on a certain psychological simplicity. We can contrast it with the classic by noting its popular passion for telling a story in stone. We may admit that a Doric portico is a poem, but no one would describe it as an anecdote. The time was to come when much of the imagery of the cathedrals was to be lost; but it would have mattered the less that it was defaced by its enemies if it had not been already neglected by its friends. It would have mattered less if the whole tide of taste among the rich had not turned against the old popular masterpieces. The Puritans defaced them, but the Cavaliers did not truly defend them. The Cavaliers also were aristocrats of the new classical culture, and used the word Gothic in the sense of barbaric. For the benefit of the Teutonists we may note in parenthesis that, if this phrase meant that Gothic was despised, it also meant that Goths were despised. But when the Cavaliers came back, after the Puritan interregnum, they restored not in the style of Pugin but in the style of Wren. The very thing we call the Restoration, which was the restoration of King Charles, was also the restoration of St. Paul's. And it was a very modern restoration.

So far we might say that simple people do not like simple things. This is certainly true if we compare the classic with these highly-coloured things of mediævalism, or all the vivid visions which first began to glow in the night of the Dark Ages. Now, one of these things was the romantic expedient called rhyme. And even in this, if we compare the two, we shall see something of the same paradox by which the simple like complexities and the complex like simplicities. The ignorant liked rich carvings and melodious and often ingenious rhymes. The learned liked bare walls and blank verse. But in the case of rhyme it is peculiarly difficult to define the double and yet very definite truth. It is difficult to define the sense in which rhyme is artificial and the sense in which it is simple. In truth it is simple because it is artificial. It is an artifice of the kind enjoyed by children and other poetic people; it is a toy. As a technical accomplishment it stands at the same distance from the popular experience as the old popular sports. Like swimming, like dancing, like drawing the bow, anybody can do it, but nobody can do it without taking the trouble to do it; and only a few can do it very well. In a hundred ways it was akin to that simple and even humble energy that made all the lost glory of the guilds. Thus their rhyme was useful as well as ornamental. It was not merely a melody but also a mnemonic; just as their towers were not merely trophies but beacons and belfries. In another aspect rhyme is akin to rhetoric, but of a very positive and emphatic sort: the coincidence of sound giving the effect of saying, "It is certainly so." Shakespeare realised this when he rounded off a fierce or romantic scene with a rhymed couplet. I know that some critics do not like this, but I think there is a moment when a drama ought to become a melodrama. Then there is a much older effect of rhyme that can only be called mystical, which may seem the very opposite of the utilitarian, and almost equally remote from the rhetorical. Yet it shares with the former the tough texture of something not easily forgotten, and with the latter the touch of authority which is the aim of all oratory. The thing I mean may be found in the fact that so many of the old proverbial prophecies, from Merlin to Mother Shipton, were handed down in rhyme. It can be found in the very name of Thomas the Rhymer.

But the simplest way of putting this popular quality is in a single word: it is a song. Rhyme corresponds to a melody so simple that it goes straight like an arrow to the heart. It corresponds to a chorus so familiar and obvious that all men can join in it. I am not disturbed by the suggestion that such an arrow of song, when it hits the heart, may entirely miss the head. I am not concerned to deny that the chorus may sometimes be a drunken chorus, in which men have lost their heads to find their tongues. I am not defending but defining; I am trying to find words for a large but elusive distinction between certain things that are certainly poetry and certain other things which are also song. Of course it is only an accident that Horace opens his greatest series of odes by saying that he detests the profane populace and wishes to drive them from his temple of poetry. But it is the sort of accident that is almost an allegory. There is even a sense in which it has a practical side. When all is said, could a whole crowd of men sing the "Descende Cœlo," that noble ode, as a crowd can certainly sing the "Dies Irae," or for that matter "Down among the Dead Men"? Did Horace himself sing the Horatian odes in the sense in which Shakespeare could sing, or could hardly help singing, the Shakespearean songs. I do not know, having no kind of scholarship on these points. But I do not feel that it could have been at all the same thing; and my only purpose is to attempt a rude description of that thing. Rhyme is consonant to the particular kind of song that can be a popular song, whether pathetic or passionate or comic; and Milton is entitled to his true distinction; nobody is likely to sing Paradise Lost as if it were a song of that kind. I have tried to suggest my sympathy with rhyme, in terms true enough to be accepted by the other side as expressing their antipathy for it. I have admitted that rhyme is a toy and even a trick, of the sort that delights children. I have admitted that every rhyme is a nursery rhyme. What I will never admit is that anyone who is too big for the nursery is big enough for the Kingdom of God, though the God were only Apollo.

A good critic should be like God in the great saying of a Scottish mystic. George Macdonald said that God was easy to please and hard to satisfy. That paradox is the poise of all good artistic appreciation. Without the first part of the paradox appreciation perishes, because it loses the power to appreciate. Good criticism, I repeat, combines the subtle pleasure in a thing being done well with the simple pleasure in it being done at all. It combines the pleasure of the scientific engineer in seeing how the wheels work together to a logical end with the pleasure of the baby in seeing the wheels go round. It combines the pleasure of the artistic draughtsman in the fact that his lines of charcoal, light and apparently loose, fall exactly right and in a perfect relation with the pleasure of the child in the fact that the charcoal makes marks of any kind on the paper. And in the same fashion it combines the critic's pleasure in a poem with the child's pleasure in a rhyme. The historical point about this kind of poetry, the rhymed romantic kind, is that it rose out of the Dark Ages with the whole of this huge popular power behind it, the human love of a song, a riddle, a proverb, a pun or a nursery rhyme; the sing-song of innumerable children's games, the chorus of a thousand camp-fires and a thousand taverns. When poetry loses its link with all these people who are easily pleased it loses all its power of giving pleasure. When a poet looks down on a rhyme it is, I will not say as if he looked down on a daisy (which might seem possible to the more literal-minded), but rather as if he looked down on a lark because he had been up in a balloon. It is cutting away the very roots of poetry; it is revolting against nature because it is natural, against sunshine because it is bright, or mountains because they are high, or moonrise because it is mysterious. The freezing process began after the Reformation with a fastidious search for finer yet freer forms; to-day it has ended in formlessness.

But the joke of it is that even when it is formless it is still fastidious. The new anarchic artists are not ready to accept everything. They are not ready to accept anything except anarchy. Unless it observes the very latest conventions of unconventionality, they would rule out anything classic as coldly as any classic ever ruled out anything romantic. But the classic was a form; and there was even a time when it was a new form. The men who invented Sapphics did invent a new metre; the introduction of Elizabethan blank verse was a real revolution in literary form. But vers libre, or nine-tenths of it, is not a new metre any more than sleeping in a ditch is a new school of architecture. It is no more a revolution in literary form than eating meat raw is an innovation in cookery. It is not even original, because it is not creative; the artist does not invent anything, but only abolishes something. But the only point about it that is to my present purpose is expressed in the word "pride." It is not merely proud in the sense of being exultant, but proud in the sense of being disdainful. Such outlaws are more exclusive than aristocrats; and their anarchical arrogance goes far beyond the pride of Milton and the aristocrats of the New Learning. And this final refinement has completed the work which the saner aristocrats began, the work now most evident in the world: the separation of art from the people. I need not insist on the sensational and self-evident character of that separation. I need not recommend the modern poet to attempt to sing his vers libres in a public house. I need not even urge the young Imagist to read out a number of his disconnected Images to a public meeting. The thing is not only admitted but admired. The old artist remained proud in spite of his unpopularity; the new artist is proud because of his unpopularity; perhaps it is his chief ground for pride.

Dwelling as I do in the Dark Ages, or at latest among the mediæval fairy-tales, I am yet moved to remember something I once read in a modern fairy-tale. As it happens, I have already used the name of George Macdonald; and in the best of his books there is a description of how a young miner in the mountains could always drive away the subterranean goblins if he could remember and repeat any kind of rhyme. The impromptu rhymes were often doggerel, as was the dog-Latin of many monkish hexameters or the burden of many rude Border ballads. But I have a notion that they drove away the devils, blue devils of pessimism and black devils of pride. Anyhow Madame Montessori, who has apparently been deploring the educational effects of fairy-tales, would probably see in me a pitiable example of such early perversion, for that image which was one of my first impressions seems likely enough to be one of my last; and when the noise of many new and original musical instruments, with strange shapes and still stranger noises, has passed away like a procession, I shall hear in the succeeding silence only a rustle and scramble among the rocks and a boy singing on the mountain.

PSYCHO-ANALYSIS AND THE NOVEL

By J. D. BERESFORD

I

IF the opinion of the reviewer represents in any degree the opinion of the public, psycho-analysis is becoming at once the craze and the curse of the modern novelist. The chief persons of the story, we gather, are no longer units, recognisable illustrations of acceptable and well-defined types of character, but tend to split horribly into their component parts, revealing the workings of their unconscious minds with a spiritual immodesty worthy of the immortal Sally Beauchamp. Our heroes suffer from "Œdipus complexes" with a unanimity that must appear altogether perverse to a generation reared on the works of Charles Dickens, who consistently regarded all mothers as criminal, negligible, or insane. Our heroines are become either displayed specimens of morbid pathology or increasingly middle-aged. Finally, and as a culminating horror, we occasionally come across a novel written with such a single regard for the subjective emotions that the objective personality appears only now and then as an uncompleted cast momentarily lifted, for examination, from the matrix.

Moreover, these symptoms and their like—I still adapt and condense the current opinions of the outraged reviewer—exhibit an inclination to multiply. We picture the admirer of the world's most successful novelist (Harold Bell Wright) as arching his back and spitting furiously at the first indication of a Freudian thesis. And, to conclude the indictment, it is plain that unless the novel-writing disciples of the Vienna and Zurich schools of psychology can promptly be bled to death—they have, thank God, quite miserable circulations!—their influence may permeate and vitiate that sane and admirable method which has given us an Ethel M. Dell, a Temple Thurston, or a Zane Grey.

This indictment represents, no doubt, an extremist attitude, the opinion of that multitude which must have its heroines pure and its morality undiluted; but it cannot be neglected solely on that account. And when we recognise, as we must, that authentic critics have also shown a bias in the same direction, we have established a case that demands both a literary and a scientific consideration.

Our analysis, however, must begin with certain exclusions. If we are to test the influence of psycho-analysis on the novel as an art-form we must take into account not only the effect, but also the manner of the incidence. For it is manifest that of all theories of the nature of man ever put forward by a reputable scientist, that of Sigmund Freud is the most attractive and adaptable for the purposes of fiction. It was a theory of sex, the all but universal theme of the novel; it emphasised various peculiarities of thought, feeling, and action that no observant, and, a fortiori, no introspective novelist could thereafter overlook; it gave a new mystery to the human mind; adumbrated the suggestion of a freer morality by dwelling upon the physical and spiritual necessity for the liberation of impulse; and, last temptation of the enervated seeker for new themes, provided material for comparatively unworked complications of motive.

Now, these appeals have inevitably influenced the writing of just those experimenters and opportunists whose novels I wish to exclude from our analysis. Their productions can only be indicative of a passing fashion; their value, at best, such as the future historian may find in the record of the epidemic symptoms they have documented. But since novels of this type have a particular significance, both in relation to our present purpose and to all literary criticism of this form of expression, we must in the first place arrive at a clear understanding of the quality that differentiates them from those other works which, whatever their failings, have another representative value.

Taking, then, an extreme and therefore ideal example, I submit that the essential difference is that between pure observation and pure feeling, or variously between an intellectual as opposed to an emotional response to experience. In the case of the experimenters we are considering, such a subject as psycho-analysis is studied from the surface, the facts and general teachings are memorised and then applied, more or less arbitrarily, to the invented or observed characters who figure in the story. Such a method when brilliantly used may produce an impression of truth, may even in rare cases lead to discovery, but in its essence it is mechanical, a mere collection and presentation of material that has not been assimilated, and hence very slightly transmuted by the writer.

The opposed example is that in which the study of, say, psycho-analysis comes to the understanding of the writer as a formula that interprets for him a mode of experience. He has, let us assume, been aware of and puzzled by a habit of thought or feeling which is suddenly and beautifully illuminated for him by the application of this new formula. Nor, in the truly representative instance, does the process halt at the first discovery, but continues to open resolutions of old difficulties hardly recognised as such until they fall within the scope of the new criterion. The danger that besets the young disciple in the first ecstasies of such an adventure is that he will inevitably be tempted to apply his touchstone too generally, to imagine that his formula will explain all life.

In such a case as this the manner of incidence, to which I referred, differs markedly from the first example. Here we get a sense of interpenetration and subsequent assimilation, in the former case rather of obliquity and reflection; the true difference being that one writer finds in psycho-analysis an aid to the understanding of human thought and action, the other merely a useful piece to add to his repertoire. And, finally in this connection, one has true value as evidence of the validity of the theory; the other has not.

Having thus cleared the ground by eliminating more particularly those literary experiments in applied psychology that have had such an irritant action on the nerves of the reviewer, I propose to test the applicability of psycho-analysis to fiction by a brief examination of certain aspects of the work of a writer who had not heard of Freud and never attempted to anticipate his method. Dostoevsky, in fact, from our point of view, may be regarded primarily as a patient rather than as a doctor.

Of his life up to the age of seven years we lack that information which would provide us with the last triumphant detail of proof. It is exceedingly improbable that that detail will ever be forthcoming. But it is a fairly safe inference from the later evidence that at some time in the course of those earlier years he suffered either some shock of terror or stress of misery that initiated the trauma which was later confirmed and emphasised by his experience on the scaffold. This inference is inherently probable, and since it might conceivably be confirmed by research and could not conceivably be disproved, we may assume it as a premise, although it is not absolutely essential pathologically.

For the remainder of his life we see him beyond all shadow of doubt suffering from a neurosis that, even if it were not the cause, was the accompaniment and not the result of his epilepsy. The form taken by this neurosis has been provisionally termed an "inferiority complex." In its milder and practically harmless forms it is perhaps the commonest instance of a morbid inhibition, despite the fact that—pace Dr. Freud—it depends more on the power principle of Adler than on the pleasure-pain principle so tediously insisted upon by the Vienna school. The symptoms in aggravated cases exhibit on the one side an exaggerated humility, and on the other an intolerant use of any adventitious opportunity for the use of power. Two instances of everyday experience taken from a text-book of psycho-analysis are: The driver of a heavy van brutally threatening the temporarily inferior pedestrian by the threat of running him down; and the ordinarily meek woman who takes a delight in exerting temporary superiority of position, it may be in such a trivial act as keeping anyone waiting by a pretence of inattention.

Dostoevsky, however, has himself analysed the condition so perfectly that his study might well find a place in a medical library as the ideal type of this particular neurosis. The supposed autobiographer (his name does not appear) in Notes from Underground[22] is, perhaps, too intelligently aware of his own condition, but it is evident that Dostoevsky's purpose could only be fully served by the form of a personal confession. It is, indeed, a confession that holds no reserves. In the earlier part of the story we see the assumed writer of the notes suffering agonies from the consciousness of his humiliation. This is followed by two attempts to assert himself, both futile. We then see him in a contest with his servant, Apollon, whose condition is a reflex of his own. And, finally, we get the representative instance of a brutal use of temporary superiority of position in his dealings with the unfortunate little prostitute, Liza. Moreover, the title is conclusive. The "underground" is clearly indicated as that of the mind, and if the story had been written within the last ten years the author would have been accused by the reviewers of having steeped himself in the writings of the psycho-analysts. The opening sentences, indeed, would probably have been a little too much for the sensitive, since the sketch begins: "I am a sick man ... I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man. I believe my liver is diseased. However, I know nothing at all about my disease, and do not know for certain what ails me."

[22] The novels of Feodor Dostoevsky. Vol. X. White Nights and Other Stories. Constance Garnett's translations. Heinemann.

This one story would be almost sufficient testimony as to Dostoevsky's own condition, the essential part of it coming, as it does, not from observation, but from the "underground" of the writer's own mind. But if we need further evidence it can be found in almost any of Dostoevsky's novels: the valet in The Brothers Karamazov is a fine example; Prince Myshkin in The Idiot develops the theme in its less self-conscious aspect; there is more than one example in The Possessed. But the truth is that, once started on this scent, the student of Dostoevsky cannot fail to conclude that the type dominates both the characterisation and the atmosphere of all his works.

Yet if our diagnosis rested solely on this evidence the inference would be open to attack by the layman on the grounds that Dostoevsky wrote of the Russian as he knew him; and has not Russia as a country exhibited precisely the symptoms of the neurosis we have been describing? Centuries of suppression and humiliation have been at work to foster and confirm the complex which we now see in its typical expression, although passing, as did that of the French in the last years of the eighteenth century, towards its natural sublimation.

But our evidence goes beyond the examination of Dostoevsky's imaginative writings—in which, by the way, he was continually able, within certain limitations, to sublimate his own complex. Indeed, it was not by his novels but by a study of his letters that I, personally, was led in the first instance to attempt the diagnosis. In the letters we must look chiefly for autobiographical indications rather than for the emergence of the unconscious wisdom that enriches the novels, but would be checked by the realisation of addressing a particular individual.

The first of them that attracted my attention was the adulatory tone of the letters begging for patronage, written just before the release from Siberia. One regrets, in reading them, that genius could so bemean itself. The common excuse for the tone of them is that Dostoevsky was ill and over-tried by his recent experiences, but it is just in such circumstances as these that one looks for the expression of the dominant individuality. In any case I prefer the pathological explanation. Then we come to the consideration of his jealousy of Turgenev, and of the unfortunate meeting of the two men in Switzerland. All Dostoevsky's resentment and his behaviour at the meeting in question are readily explicable by the theory of his neurosis, but the need for impartiality demands that we should ask if a perfectly normal explanation is forthcoming. Personally I have failed to find one that is consistent with an unprejudiced interpretation of Dostoevsky's general character. Apart from his prepossession, he exhibits traits of gentleness, affection, and tolerance that do not appear to me consonant with his treatment of Turgenev. He did not seek to belittle his other contemporaries. But, in this instance, like the hero of Notes from Underground, he could not resist the unconscious desire to try and jostle his superior from the pavement.[23]

[23] Cf. op. cit., pp. 87, et seq.

For our present purpose, however, it is not necessary to prove that Dostoevsky himself was the victim of a particular neurosis—although the argument is slightly strengthened if that hypothesis be admitted—since it is primarily only my intention to show that certain morbid conditions of mind, now clearly indicated and with obvious limitations explained by the psycho-analysts, may be artistically treated in the best fiction. Another instance of this, which may be briefly referred to, is that afforded by the writings of D. H. Lawrence, who in all his novels has demonstrated with the passionate conviction that is a witness to his genius the strange and occasionally dissociated workings of the unconscious mind. In this case we are confronted with just such a sex obsession as delights the faithful disciples of the Vienna school, but the particular type of complex is not of any importance in this connection.

II

The result of our preliminary examination may be summarised as the posing of two deductions: the first, that the deliberate, intellectual use in the pages of a novel of the teachings of psycho-analysis produces an effect upon the reader that may be variously irritating, unconvincing, and negligible, but is rarely, if ever, psychologically valuable; the second, that a writer of genius such as Dostoevsky has, in one sense, forestalled the conclusions of this branch of psychology and used them to the benefit of literature. At first sight these two deductions may appear to disclose an inherent contradiction, namely, that the theories of psycho-analysis can and cannot be used for the purposes of fiction; but this apparent contradiction is instantly resolved by a consideration of the manner of treatment. Briefly we may assume that, according to precedent, a true form of self-expression must bear the impress of spontaneity, and hence that a novelist's learning is comparatively valueless to him until it has been so assimilated and transmuted as to become a personal experience and conviction.

This last proposition, however, opens the second phase of our thesis, presenting as it does the obvious deduction that such a theory as that of psycho-analysis properly comprehended and applied may become a powerful influence in the novel of the future. But to decide that we must consider, first, how far the theory is a new one, and, secondly, in what respects it illuminates the problems of normal psychology.

The answer to the first question can be stated quite briefly. The knowledge of the facts upon which Freud's pathological method was founded are as old as folk-lore. Certain symbols that the modern practitioner recognises as having a peculiar significance in the dreams of his patient are the same symbols that were used not only in Greek and Norse mythologies, but also in the most primitive rites of the savage. What is new is primarily the pathological method by which the unconscious mind may be induced to reveal its dangerous secrets; but from the study of this method there is arising the outline of a new psychology for which we have no true precedent. Glimmerings and faint foreshadowings there may have been, but no sure recognition or understanding; and the answer to our second question involves some inquiry into what this new psychology implies.

Let me begin by saying that psycho-analysis throws very little light on the problem of the survival of the personality, and Dr. Jung, in his address to the Society for Psychical Research last April, refused to admit the probability of any authentic message having been received from departed spirits. We are able, therefore, to confine ourselves strictly to the study of humanity in its normal, that is to say, in its terrestrial, condition, and find our main point of convergence from older psychologies in the intensive observation of that element of our make-up which is now commonly spoken of as "the unconscious."

A scholarly history designed to collate the main facts of man's attitude towards and tentative realisations of his own duality would make uncommonly interesting reading; but outside religion and imaginative literature no real attempt was made to characterise the unconscious mind until Freud began to practise a pathology that relied upon the interpretation of dreams as an essential part of the method of diagnosis. In the past the oneirocritic was solely concerned with the significance of the dream in so far as it foretold the future; the Freudian analysis, before Jung restored the balance of factors, was equally single-minded in relating it to the past. And this change of attitude—so startling in its implications that it almost makes a break in the continuity of thought—tended very quickly to crystallise a host of speculations that had awaited a unifying hypothesis. For this method of interpreting the dream, supported as it was by verifiable results in the patient's nervous, mental, and physical condition, could only signify that we are endowed with a double consciousness, and that under a suitable stimulus the deeper consciousness could be examined and, as I have said, characterised. We are, in short, confronted with the theorem of a dual personality[24] in every human being, in which the second person has peculiar and essential functions, both in connection with our sanity and with our physical well-being. What precisely is the scope of these functions we are not yet in a position to say, but we can formulate with reasonable certainty various characteristic activities, tendencies and modes of expression, common to this second personality, that are of the greatest importance to modern psychology.

[24] In using the term "dual personality" I beg an essential question for the sake of a convenient image; but it must not be assumed that what I describe hereafter as a second personality is recognised as such by psychologists. It is possible that the unconscious bears some such relation to the conscious as desire bears to purpose, instinct to reason, or reflexive to deliberative action. But see also in this connection De l'Inconscient au Conscient, by Dr. Gustave Geley, Paris. 1919.

We must, for example, face the deduction that the unconscious can suffer from a queer and hitherto unrecognised form of ill-health. A sudden fright, for instance, more particularly in childhood, has apparently the effect of breaking the liaison in this one particular relation between the conscious and the unconscious minds. The shock itself, whatever it may be, is not remembered by the conscious mind, and this failure of contact between the unconscious and objective reality seems to produce a condition comparable to nervous worry. Speaking figuratively, one may say that the second personality becomes the victim of a growing obsession, and begins to concentrate its efforts more and more upon signalling its message of distress. And surely the strangest of all the strange facts that have recently been described concerning this amazing partnership of ours is that the second personality cannot communicate with the first except in the language of symbol. The means by which that vital message can be transmitted is, generally, in the first instance by a dream. But this dream does not picture the actual circumstances of the original shock, but seeks to describe it by a method that Dr. Maurice Nicoll has compared to that of the political cartoon. Night after night the message of distress is delivered with diligent ingenuity in a picture language the images of which are frequently taken from casual and unimportant experiences of the dreamer's waking life, such experiences being presented in the form of an allegory which, rightly interpreted, has a bearing on the urgent cause of distress. When this mode of communication fails, more drastic steps are taken and the physical actions of the body may be influenced in the form of a mania. A youth or a young woman shocked by a sudden sexual experience or revelation to the point of conscious forgetfulness of the incident in question may develop a mania for the continued cleansing of the hands—again, be it noted, the message being conveyed by a symbol. Or the effect may be the development of a phobia that in extreme cases may cause the death of the patient.

Now, the points of immediate interest in this amazing process are, firstly, what may be called the anxiety of the unconscious to communicate its distress; and, secondly, the inability to convey its message by any means other than that of symbol. From the former observation it may perhaps be inferred, inter alia, that it is vital to the functions of the unconscious that it should have universal touch with the objective realities of its partner; from the second, that the existence of a trauma causing a breach between the two minds is of such a nature that direct communication becomes impossible along that particular circuit. For, although it is true that the majority of dreams emerge in this form, they also contain now and then plain statements that solve a perplexity; and it is difficult to understand why in cases of such vital urgency, an image of the conditions responsible for the original trauma should not be directly presented, unless there is some nervous dissociation—it may be an actual physical displacement or temporary rearrangement of cell tissue—producing a restricted amnesia in the conscious mind.

Proceeding now with the characterisation of the unconscious, we come to that aspect of it which has above all others tickled and excited the popular imagination. In this aspect the unconscious figures as the crouching beast of desire, the primitive immoral instigator of all the animal passions, a thing of wonderful abilities and capable of amazing physical dexterities, but before all else unethical and uncivilised. But sorry as I am to destroy so romantic and intriguing a creation, I must admit that Dr. Jung's researches do not uphold this view of the unconscious as a universal type. It is, indeed, well established in the mythologies and appears as the serpent, a favourite symbol, in the second chapter of Genesis; but the individual may at once put away the fear, or the hope, that he himself is harbouring so fearful a beast. For, if we may argue from those abnormal instances that furnish the bolder illustrations of tendency, we have excellent grounds for following Jung in the assumption that the unconscious is the complement of the conscious. Is a man brutal, then he is suppressing the urgency to gentleness that wells up—an uncertain and impeded flow, no doubt—from the depths of his being; and we remember the callous murderer exhibiting a tender solicitude for some feeble animal. Is he a miser, he is occasionally tortured by promptings to an absurd generosity. Is he a loose-liver, he suffers from an unappeasable longing after chastity. The saint is tempted by his unconscious being to sin: the sinner to renounce the devil and all his works. In short, the character of the unconscious is as various as the character of man; although in this civilised world of ours, in which the dominant restrictions of society are in the direction of sex and decency, we are naturally inclined towards a generalisation that presents the unconscious as a creature of immodesty and lust....

But it is unnecessary for the purposes of this article that I should elaborate any further the larger inferences of the psycho-analysts with regard to the personal traits, influences, and functions of this astonishing partner of ours. All that I wish to demonstrate is that such a partner almost certainly exists and has an immense influence upon our impulses, our thoughts, and our actions. And the critical question we have to face is whether the agency of the unconscious, recognised now both by the philosophers and the psychologists, can possibly be kept out of the novel. Personally, I believe that neither the distaste of the reviewer nor that more influential factor the distaste of the public will avail to bar the conclusions of psycho-analysis from the fiction of the future. We are coming inevitably to a new test in our judgments upon human action and thought, a test that has been proved to be valid by many thousands of well-authenticated experiments. I am willing to admit that through all the ages genius has anticipated laboratory and clinical methods, and that the basis of the psycho-analytical theory was firmly established in literature before Freud applied it as a pathological method. But once such a theory as this is established—a probability one can hardly escape—how can any serious novelist afford to neglect the illumination it throws upon the subtle problems of human impulse? Is it not already tending to become a touchstone of the author's powers of observation and understanding, helping us to evaluate the intellectual productions of the writer, whether realist or romantic, who relies upon the evidence of his eyes and ears rather than upon his personal emotions and experience?

I am aware that such a postulate as this contradicts in some respects certain implications I have previously made. But it must be remembered that while the novelist's best material undoubtedly comes from his personal contacts, almost infinitely extended by his powers of entering with an emotional sympathy into the experiences of other lives either presented or recounted, he cannot entirely neglect the precedents afforded by learning. Such precedents may only serve him as a test and a formula for correction, but should he overlook them altogether he will be liable to fall into the error of regarding his personal equation as a universal standard and generalise from the atypical.

And, finally, I would submit that we are at this moment passing through a new phase of evolution that must have a characteristic effect on the fiction of the future—if the form of the novel survives the change. We may study the first evidences of this strange partnership of ours in the lower animals. In the wild what we call the unconscious appears to be the single control. It represents the genius of instinct, swift, feral, and unethical. In animals, such as the dog and the horse, age-long companions of man, we can trace the incipient rivalry of what in ourselves we regard as the representative consciousness. The horse and the dog have already learnt the meaning of conscious inhibition. At our command they can deny the spontaneous impulses of their natural desire. In civilised man that ability has been cultivated until he is able to present to the world and himself so complete an entity that we and he regard it as his proper expression. But, meanwhile, we cannot now doubt that his hidden partner has evolved with him. The impulses of the unconscious are no longer simply feral and animal. We are, a trifle unwillingly, coming to the conclusion that it is this other shadowed self that is responsible for all that is best and most permanent in literature. It is being associated with genius on the one hand, and on the other with the highest dexterity in games of skill. And is it not possible that with our growing realisation of this co-operation the "education of the subconscious"—as Varisco, the Italian philosopher, calls it—will proceed ever more rapidly? And to what end, unless it be that in the strange process of our earthly evolution this artificial shell of the conscious will be gradually broken and absorbed to reveal the single and relatively perfect individual that has been so steadily developing underground?

JOHN DONNE

By ROBERT LYND

IZAAK Walton in his short life of Donne has painted a figure of almost seraphic beauty. When Donne was but a boy, he declares, it was said that the age had brought forth another Pico della Mirandola. As a young man in his twenties, he was a prince among lovers, who by his secret marriage with his patron's niece—"for love," says Walton, "is a flattering mischief"—purchased at first only the ruin of his hopes and a term in prison. Finally, we have the later Donne in the pulpit of St. Paul's represented, in a beautiful adaptation of one of his own images, as "always preaching to himself, like an angel from a cloud, though in none; carrying some, as St. Paul was, to Heaven in holy raptures, and enticing others by a sacred art and courtship to amend their lives." The picture is all of noble charm. Walton speaks in one place of "his winning behaviour—which, when it would entice, had a strange kind of elegant irresistible art." There are no harsh phrases even in the references to those irregularities of Donne's youth, by which he had wasted the fortune of £3000—equal, I believe, to more than £30,000 of our money—bequeathed to him by his father, the ironmonger. "Mr. Donne's estate," writes Walton gently, referring to his penury at the time of his marriage, "was the greatest part spent in many and chargeable travels, books, and dear-bought experience." It is true that he quotes Donne's own confession of the irregularities of his early life. But he counts them of no significance. He also utters a sober reproof of Donne's secret marriage as "the remarkable error of his life." But how little he condemned it in his heart is clear when he goes on to tell us that God blessed Donne and his wife "with so mutual and cordial affections, as in the midst of their sufferings made their bread of sorrow taste more pleasantly than the banquets of dull and low-spirited people." It was not for Walton to go in search of small blemishes in him whom he regarded as the wonder of the world—him whose grave mournful friends "strewed ... with an abundance of curious and costly flowers," as Alexander the Great strewed the grave of "the famous Achilles." In that grave there was buried for Walton a whole age magnificent with wit, passion, adventure, piety, and beauty. More than that, the burial of Donne was for him the burial of an inimitable Christian. He mourns over "that body, which once was a Temple of the Holy Ghost, and is now become a small quantity of Christian dust," and, as he mourns, he breaks off with the fervent prophecy, "But I shall see it re-animated." That is his valediction. If Donne is esteemed three hundred years after his death less as a great Christian than as a great pagan, this is because we now look for him in his writings rather than in his biography, in his poetry rather than in his prose, and in his Songs and Sonnets and Elegies rather than in his Divine Poems. We find, in some of these, abundant evidence of the existence of a dark angel at odds with the good angel of Walton's raptures. Donne suffered in his youth all the temptations of Faust. His thirst was not for salvation but for experience—experience of the intellect and experience of sensation. He has left it on record in one of his letters that he was a victim at one period of "the worst voluptuousness, an hydroptic immoderate desire of human learning and languages." Faust in his cell can hardly have been a more insatiate student than Donne. "In the most unsettled days of his youth," Walton tells us, "his bed was not able to detain him beyond the hour of four in the morning; and it was no common business that drew him out of his chamber till past ten; all which time was employed in study; though he took great liberty after it." His thoroughness of study may be judged from the fact that "he left the resultance of 1400 authors, most of them abridged and analysed with his own hand." But we need not go beyond his poems for proof of the wilderness of learning that he had made his own. He was versed in medicine and the law as well as in theology. He subdued astronomy, physiology, and geography to the needs of poetry. Nine Muses were not enough for him, even though they included Urania. He called in to their aid Galen and Copernicus. He did not go to the hills and the springs for his images, but to the laboratory and the library, and in the library the books that he consulted to the greatest effect were the works of men of science and learning, not of the great poets with whom London may almost be said to have been peopled during his lifetime. I do not think his verse or correspondence contains a single reference to Shakespeare, whose contemporary he was, being born only nine years later. The only great Elizabethan poet whom he seems to have regarded with interest and even friendship was Ben Jonson. Jonson's Catholicism may have been a link between them. But, more important than that, Jonson was, like Donne himself, an inflamed pedant. For each of them learning was the necessary robe of genius. Jonson, it is true, was a pedant of the classics, Donne of the speculative sciences; but both of them alike ate to a surfeit of the fruit of the tree of knowledge. It was, I think, because Donne was to so great a degree a pagan of the Renaissance, loving the proud things of the intellect more than the treasures of the humble, that he found it easy to abandon the Catholicism of his family for Protestantism. He undoubtedly became in later life a convinced and passionate Christian of the Protestant faith, but at the time when he first changed his religion he had none of the fanaticism of the pious convert. He wrote in an early satire as a man whom the intellect had liberated from dogma-worship. Nor did he ever lose this rationalist tolerance. "You know," he once wrote to a friend, "I have never imprisoned the word religion.... They" (the churches) "are all virtual beams of one sun." Few converts in those days of the wars of religion wrote with such wise reason of the creeds as did Donne in the lines:

To adore or scorn an image, or protest,

May all be bad; doubt wisely; in strange way

To stand inquiring right, is not to stray;

To sleep or run wrong is. On a huge hill,

Cragged and steep, Truth stands, and he that will

Reach her, about must and about must go;

And what the hill's suddenness resists, win so.

This surely was the heresy of an inquisitive mind, not the mood of a theologian. It betrays a tolerance springing from ardent doubt, not from ardent faith.

It is all in keeping with one's impression of the young Donne as a man setting out bravely in his cockle-shell on the oceans of knowledge and experience. He travels, though he knows not why he travels. He loves, though he knows not why he loves. He must escape from that "hydroptic immoderate" thirst of experience by yielding to it. One fancies that it was in this spirit that he joined the expedition of Essex to Cadiz in 1596 and afterwards sailed to the Azores. Or partly in this spirit, for he himself leads one to think that his love-affairs may have had something to do with it. In the second of those prematurely realistic descriptions of storm and calm relating to the Azores voyage, he writes:

Whether a rotten state, and hope of gain,

Or to disuse me from the queasy pain

Of being belov'd, and loving, or the thirst

Of honour, or fair death, out pusht me first.

In these lines we get a glimpse of the Donne that has attracted most interest in recent years—the Donne who experienced more variously than any other poet of his time "the queasy pain of being beloved and loving." Donne was curious of adventures of many kinds, but in nothing more than in love. As a youth he leaves the impression of having been an Odysseus of love, a man of many wiles and many travels. He was a virile neurotic, comparable in some points to Baudelaire, who was a sensualist of the mind even more than of the body. His sensibilities were different as well as less of a piece, but he had something of Baudelaire's taste for hideous and shocking aspects of lust. One is not surprised to find among his poems that "heroical epistle of Sappho to Philaenis," in which he makes himself the casuist of forbidden things. His studies of sensuality, however, are for the most part normal, even in their grossness. There was in him more of the Yahoo than of the decadent. There was an excremental element in his genius as in the genius of that other gloomy dean, Jonathan Swift. Donne and Swift were alike satirists born under Saturn. They laughed more frequently from disillusion than from happiness. Donne, it must be admitted, turned his disillusion to charming as well as hideous uses. Go and Catch a Falling Star is but one of a series of delightful lyrics in disparagement of women. In several of the Elegies, however, he throws away his lute and comes to the satirist's more prosaic business. He writes frankly as a man in search of bodily experiences:

Whoever loves, if he do not propose

The right true end of love, he's one that goes

To sea for nothing but to make him sick.

In Love's Progress he lets his fancy dwell on the detailed geography of a woman's body, with the sick imagination of a schoolboy, till the beautiful seems almost beastly. In The Anagram and The Comparison he plays the Yahoo at the expense of all women by the similes he uses in insulting two of them. In The Perfume he relates the story of an intrigue with a girl whose father discovered his presence in the house as a result of his using scent. Donne's jest about it is suggestive of his uncontrollable passion for ugliness:

Had it been some bad smell, he would have thought

That his own feet, or breath, that smell had brought.

It may be contended that in The Perfume he was describing an imaginary experience, and indeed we have his own words on record: "I did best when I had least truth for my subjects." But even if we did not accept Mr. Gosse's common-sense explanation of these words, we should feel that the details of the story have a vividness that springs straight from reality. It is difficult to believe that Donne had not actually lived in terror of the gigantic manservant who was set to spy on the lovers.

But the most interesting of all the sensual intrigues of Donne, from the point of view of biography, especially since Mr. Gosse gave it such commanding significance in that Life of John Donne in which he made a living man out of a mummy, is that of which we have the story in Jealousy and His Parting from Her. It is another story of furtive and forbidden love. Its theme is an intrigue carried on under a

Husband's towering eyes,

That flamed with oily sweat of jealousy.

A characteristic touch of grimness is added to the story by making the husband a deformed man. Donne, however, merely laughs at his deformity, as he bids the lady laugh at the jealousy that reduces her to tears:

O give him many thanks, he is courteous,

That in suspecting kindly warneth us.

We must not, as we used, flout openly,

In scoffing riddles, his deformity;

Nor at his board together being set,

With words nor touch, scarce looks adulterate.

And he proposes that, now that the husband seems to have discovered them they shall henceforth carry on their intrigue at some distance from where

He, swol'n and pampered with great fare,

Sits down and snorts, cag'd in his basket chair.

It is an extraordinary story, if it is true. It throws a scarcely less extraordinary light on the nature of Donne's mind, if he invented it. At the same time, I do not think the events it relates played the important part which Mr. Gosse assigns to them in Donne's spiritual biography. It is impossible to read Mr. Gosse's two volumes without getting the impression that "the deplorable but eventful liaison," as he calls it, was the most fruitful occurrence in Donne's life as a poet. He discovers traces of it in one great poem after another—even in the Nocturnal upon St. Lucy's Day, which is commonly supposed to relate to the Countess of Bedford, and in The Funeral, the theme of which Professor Grierson takes to be the mother of George Herbert. I confess that the oftener I read the poetry of Donne the more firmly I become convinced that, far from being primarily the poet of desire gratified and satiated, he is essentially the poet of frustrated love. He is often described by the historians of literature as the poet who finally broke down the tradition of Platonic love. I believe that, so far is this from being the case, he is the supreme example of a Platonic lover among the English poets. He was usually Platonic under protest, but at other times exultantly so. Whether he finally overcame the more consistent Platonism of his mistress by the impassioned logic of The Ecstasy we have no means of knowing. If he did, it would be difficult to resist the conclusion that the lady who wished to continue to be his passionate friend and to ignore the physical side of love was Anne More, whom he afterwards married. If not, we may look for her where we will, whether in Magdalen Herbert (already a young widow who had borne ten children when he first met her) or in the Countess of Bedford or in another. The name is not important, and one is not concerned to know it, especially when one remembers Donne's alarming curse on:

Whoever guesses, thinks, or dreams he knows

Who is my mistress.

One sort of readers will go on speculating, hoping to discover real people in the shadows, as they speculate about Swift's Stella and Vanessa, and his relations to them. It is enough for us to feel, however, that these poems railing at or glorying in Platonic love are no mere goldsmith's compliments, like the rhymed letters to Mrs. Herbert and Lady Bedford. Miracles of this sort are not wrought save by the heart. We do not find in them the underground and sardonic element that appears in so much of Donne's merely amorous work. We no longer picture him as a sort of Vulcan hammering out the poetry of base love, raucous, powerful, mocking. He becomes in them a child of Apollo, as far as his temperament will allow him. He makes music of so grave and stately a beauty that one begins to wonder at all the critics who have found fault with his rhythms—from Ben Jonson, who said that "for not keeping accent, Donne deserved hanging," down to Coleridge, who declared that his "muse on dromedary trots," and described him as "rhyme's sturdy cripple." Coleridge's quatrain on Donne is, without doubt, an unequalled masterpiece of epigrammatic criticism. But Donne rode no dromedary. In his greatest poems he rides Pegasus like a master, even if he does rather weigh the poor beast down by carrying an encyclopædia in his saddle-bags.

Not only does Donne remain a learned man on his Pegasus, however: he also remains a humorist, a serious fantastic. Humour and passion pursue each other through the labyrinth of his being, as we find in those two beautiful poems, The Relic and The Funeral, addressed to the lady who had given him a bracelet of her hair. In the former he foretells what will happen if ever his grave is broken up and his skeleton discovered with

A bracelet of bright hair about the bone.

People will fancy, he declares, that the bracelet is a device of lovers

To make their souls at the last busy day

Meet at the grave and make a little stay.

Bone and bracelet will be worshipped as relics—the relics of a Magdalen and her lover. He conjectures with a quiet smile:

All women shall adore us, and some men.

He warns his worshippers, however, that the facts are far different from what they imagine, and tells the miracle-seekers what in reality were "the miracles we harmless lovers wrought":

First we loved well and faithfully,

Yet knew not what we lov'd, nor why;

Difference of sex no more we knew

Than our guardian angels do;

Coming and going, we

Perchance might kiss, but not between those meals;

Our hands ne'er touch'd the seals,

Which nature, injur'd by late law, sets free:

These miracles we did; but now, alas!

All measure, and all language, I should pass,

Should I tell what a miracle she was.

In The Funeral he returns to the same theme:

Whoever comes to shroud me do not harm

Nor question much

That subtle wreath of hair that crowns my arm;

The mystery, the sign you must not touch,

For 'tis my outward soul.

In this poem, however, he finds less consolation than before in the too miraculous nobleness of their love:

Whate'er she meant by it, bury it with me,

For since I am

Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry,

If into other hands these relics came;

As 'twas humility

To afford to it all that a soul can do,

So, 'tis some bravery,

That, since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.

In The Blossom, he is in a still more earthly mood, and declares that, if his mistress remains obdurate, he will return to London, where he will find a mistress:

As glad to have my body as my mind.

The Primrose is another appeal for a less intellectual love:

Should she

Be more than woman, she would get above

All thought of sex, and think to move

My heart to study her, and not to love.

If we turn back to The Undertaking, however, we find Donne boasting once more of the miraculous purity of a love which it would be useless to communicate to other men, since, there being no other mistress to love in the same kind, they "would love but as before." Hence he will keep the tale a secret:

If, as I have, you also do,

Virtue attir'd in woman see,

And dare love that, and say so too,

And forget the He and She;

And if this love, though placed so,

From profane men you hide,

Which will no faith on this bestow,

Or, if they do, deride:

Then you have done a braver thing

Than all the Worthies did;

And a braver thence will spring,

Which is, to keep that hid.

It seems to me, in view of this remarkable series of poems, that it is useless to look in Donne for a single consistent attitude to love. His poems take us round the entire compass of love as the work of no other English poet—not even, perhaps, Browning's—does. He was by destiny the complete experimentalist in love in English literature. He passed through phase after phase of the love of the body only, phase after phase of the love of the soul only, and ended as the poet of the perfect marriage. In his youth he was a gay—but was he ever really gay?—free-lover, who sang jestingly:

How happy were our sires in ancient times,

Who held plurality of loves no crime!

By the time he writes The Ecstasy the victim of the body has become the protesting victim of the soul. He cries out against a love that is merely an ecstatic friendship:

But O alas, so long, so far,

Our bodies why do we forbear?

He pleads for the recognition of the body, contending that it is not the enemy but the companion of the soul:

Soul into the soul may flow

Though it to body first repair.

The realistic philosophy of love has never been set forth with greater intellectual vehemence:

So must pure lovers' souls descend

T' affections and to faculties,

Which sense may reach and apprehend,

Else a great Prince in prison lies.

To our bodies turn we then, that so

Weak men on love reveal'd may look;

Love's mysteries in souls do grow

But yet the body is the book.

I, for one, find it impossible to believe that all this passionate verse—verse in which we find the quintessence of Donne's genius—was a mere utterance of abstract thoughts into the wind. Donne, as has been pointed out, was more than most writers a poet of personal experience. His greatest poetry was born of struggle and conflict in the obscure depths of the soul as surely as was the religion of St. Paul. I doubt if, in the history of his genius, any event ever happened of equal importance to his meeting with the lady who first set going in his brain that fevered dialogue between the body and the soul. Had he been less of a frustrated lover, less of a martyr, in whom love's

Art did express

A quintessence even from nothingness,

From dull privations and lean emptiness,

much of his greatest poetry, it seems to me, would never have been written.

One cannot, unfortunately, write the history of the progress of Donne's genius save by inference and guessing. His poems were not, with some unimportant exceptions, published in his lifetime. He did not arrange them in chronological or in any sort of order. His poem on the flea that has bitten both him and his inamorata comes after the triumphant Anniversary, and but a page or two before the Nocturnal upon St. Lucy's Day. Hence there is no means of telling how far we are indebted to the Platonism of one woman, how much to his marriage with another, for the enrichment of his genius. Such a poem as The Canonisation can be interpreted either in a Platonic sense or as a poem written to Anne More, who was to bring him both imprisonment and the liberty of love. It is, in either case, written in defence of his love against some who censured him for it:

For God's sake, hold your tongue, and let me love.

In the last verses of the poem Donne proclaims that his love cannot be measured by the standards of the vulgar:

We can die by it, if not live by love,

And if unfit for tombs or hearse

Our legend be, it will be fit for verse;

And, if no piece of chronicle we prove,

We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms;

As well a well-wrought urn becomes

The greatest ashes as half-acre tombs,

And by these hymns all shall approve

Us canonis'd by love:

And thus invoke us: "You whom reverend love

Made one another's hermitage;

You to whom love was peace, that now is rage;

Who did the whole world's soul contract and drove

Into the glasses of your eyes

(So made such mirrors, and such spies,

That they did all to you epitomise),

Countries, towns, courts. Beg from above

A pattern of your love!"

According to Walton, it was to his wife that Donne addressed the beautiful verses beginning:

Sweetest love, I do not go

For weariness of thee;

as well as the series of Valedictions. Of many of the other love-poems, however, we can measure the intensity but not guess the occasion. All that we can say with confidence when we have read them is that, after we have followed one tributary on another leading down to the ultimate Thames of his genius, we know that his progress as a lover was a progress from infidelity to fidelity, from wandering amorousness to deep and enduring passion. The image that is finally stamped on his greatest work is not that of a roving adulterer, but of a monotheist of love. It is true that there is enough Don-Juanism in the poems to have led even Sir Thomas Browne to think of Donne's verse rather as a confession of his sins than as a golden book of love.

To the modern reader, on the contrary, it will seem that there is as much divinity in the best of the love-poems as in the best of the religious ones. Donne's last word as a secular poet may well be regarded as having been uttered in that great poem in celebration of lasting love, The Anniversary, which closes with so majestic a sweep:

Here upon earth we are kings, and none but we

Can be such kings, nor of such subjects be.

Who is so safe as we, where none can do

Treason to us, except one of us two?

True and false fears let us refrain;

Let us love nobly, and live, and add again

Years and years unto years, till we attain

To write three-score: this is the second of our reign

Donne's conversion as a lover was obviously as complete and revolutionary as his conversion in religion.

It is said, indeed, to have led to his conversion to passionate religion. When his marriage with Sir George More's sixteen-year-old daughter brought him at first only imprisonment and poverty, he summed up the sorrows of the situation in the famous line—a line which has some additional interest as suggesting the correct pronunciation of his name:

John Donne; Anne Donne; Undone.

His married life, however, in spite of a succession of miseries due to ill-health, debt, and thwarted ambition, seems to have been happy beyond prophecy; and when at the end of sixteen years his wife died in childbed, after having borne him twelve children, a religious crisis resulted that turned his conventional churchmanship into sanctity. His original change from Catholicism to Protestantism has been already mentioned. Most of the authorities are agreed, however, that this was a conversion in a formal rather than in a spiritual sense. Even when he took Holy Orders in 1615, at the age of forty-two, he appears to have done so less in answer to any impulse to a religious life from within than because, with the downfall of Somerset, all hope of advancement through his legal attainments was brought to an end. Undoubtedly, as far back as 1612, he had thought of entering the Church. But at the same period we find him making use of his legal knowledge in order to help the infamous Countess of Essex to secure the annulment of her first marriage, and at the end of 1613 he is writing an epithalamium for the murderers of Sir Thomas Overbury. It is a curious fact that three great poets—Donne, Ben Jonson, and Campion—appear, though innocently enough, in the story of that sordid crime. Donne's temper at the time is still clearly that of a man of the world. His jest at the expense of Sir Walter Raleigh, then in the Tower, is the jest of an ungenerous worldling. Even after his admission into the Church he reveals himself as ungenerously morose when the Countess of Bedford, in trouble about her own extravagances, can afford him no more than £30 to pay his debts. The truth is, to be forty and a failure is an affliction that might sour even a healthy nature. The effect on a man of Donne's ambitious and melancholy temperament, together with the memory of his dissipated health and his dissipated fortune, and the spectacle of a long family in constant process of increase, must have been disastrous. To such a man poverty and neglected merit are a prison, as they were to Swift. One thinks of each of them as a lion in a cage, ever growing less and less patient of his bars. Shakespeare and Shelley had in them some volatile element that could, one feels, have escaped through the bars and sung above the ground. Donne and Swift were morbid men suffering from claustrophobia. They were pent and imprisoned spirits, hating the walls that seemed to threaten to close in on them and crush them. In his poems and letters Donne is haunted especially by three images—the hospital, the prison, and the grave. Disease, I think, preyed on his mind even more terrifyingly than warped ambition. "Put all the miseries that man is subject to together," he exclaims in one of the passages in that luxuriant anthology that Mr. Logan Pearsall Smith has made from the Sermons[25]; "sickness is more than all.... In poverty I lack but other things; in banishment I lack but other men; but in sickness I lack myself." Walton declares that it was from consumption that Donne suffered; but he had probably the seeds of many diseases. In some of his letters he dwells miserably on the symptoms of his illnesses. At one time, his sickness "hath so much of a cramp that it wrests the sinews, so much of a tetane that it withdraws and pulls the mouth, and so much of the gout ... that it is not like to be cured ... I shall," he adds, "be in this world, like a porter in a great house, but seldomest abroad; I shall have many things to make me weary, and yet not get leave to be gone." Even after his conversion he felt drawn to a morbid insistence on the details of his ill-health. Those amazing records which he wrote while lying ill in bed in October, 1623, give us a realistic study of a sickbed and its circumstances, the gloom of which is hardly even lightened by his odd account of the disappearance of his sense of taste: "My taste is not gone away, but gone up to sit at David's table; my stomach is not gone, but gone upwards toward the Supper of the Lamb." "I am mine own ghost," he cries, "and rather affright my beholders than interest them.... Miserable and inhuman fortune, when I must practise my lying in the grave by lying still."

[25] Donne's Sermons. Selected Passages, with an Essay. By Logan Pearsall Smith. Clarendon Press. 6s. net.

It does not surprise one to learn that a man thus assailed by wretchedness and given to looking in the mirror of his own bodily corruptions was often tempted, by "a sickly inclination," to commit suicide, and that he even wrote, though he did not dare to publish, an apology for suicide on religious grounds, his famous and little-read Biathanatos. The family crest of the Donnes was a sheaf of snakes, and these symbolise well enough the brood of temptations that twisted about in this unfortunate Christian's bosom. Donne, in the days of his salvation, abandoned the family crest for a new one—Christ crucified on an anchor. But he might well have left the snakes writhing about the anchor. He remained a tempted man to the end. One wishes that the Sermons threw more light on his later personal life than they do. But perhaps that is too much to expect of sermons. There is no form of literature less personal except a leading article. The preacher usually regards himself as a mouthpiece rather than a man giving expression to himself. In the circumstances what surprises us is that the Sermons reveal, not so little, but so much of Donne. Indeed, they make us feel far more intimate with Donne than do his private letters, many of which are little more than exercises in composition. As a preacher, no less than as a poet, he is inflamed by the creative heat. He shows the same vehemence of fancy in the presence of the divine and infernal universe—a vehemence that prevents even his most far-sought extravagances from disgusting us as do the lukewarm follies of the Euphuists. Undoubtedly, the modern reader smiles when Donne, explaining that man can be an enemy of God as the mouse can be an enemy to the elephant, goes on to speak of "God who is not only a multiplied elephant, millions of elephants multiplied into one, but a multiplied world, a multiplied all, all that can be conceived by us, infinite many times over; nay (if we may dare to say so) a multiplied God, a God that hath the millions of the heathens' gods in himself alone." But at the same time one finds oneself taking a serious pleasure in the huge sorites of quips and fancies in which he loves to present the divine argument. Nine out of ten readers of the Sermons, I imagine, will be first attracted to them through love of the poems. They need not be surprised if they do not immediately enjoy them. The dust of the pulpit lies on them thickly enough. As one goes on reading them, however, one becomes suddenly aware of their florid and exiled beauty. One sees beyond their local theology to the passion of a great suffering artist. Here are sentences that express the Paradise, the Purgatory, and the Hell of John Donne's soul. A noble imagination is at work—a grave-digging imagination, but also an imagination that is at home among the stars. One can open Mr. Pearsall Smith's anthology almost at random and be sure of lighting on a passage which gives us a characteristic movement in the symphony of horror and hope that was Donne's contribution to the art of prose.

Excerpts of great prose seldom give us that rounded and final beauty that we expect in a work of art; and the reader of Donne's Sermons in their latest form will be wise if he comes to them expecting to find beauty piecemeal and tarnished though in profusion. He will be wise, too, not to expect too many passages of the same intimate kind as that famous confession in regard to prayer which Mr. Pearsall Smith quotes, and which no writer on Donne can afford not to quote:

I throw myself down in my chamber, and I call in, and invite God, and his angels thither, and when they are there, I neglect God and his Angels, for the noise of a fly, for the rattling of a coach, for the whining of a door. I talk on, in the same posture of praying; eyes lifted up; knees bowed down; as though I prayed to God; and, if God, or his Angels should ask me, when I thought last of God in that prayer, I cannot tell. Sometimes I find that I had forgot what I was about, but when I began to forget it, I cannot tell. A memory of yesterday's pleasures, a fear of to-morrow's dangers, a straw under my knee, a noise in mine ear, a light in mine eye, an anything, a nothing, a fancy, a chimera in my brain, troubles me in my prayer.

If Donne had written much prose in this kind, his Sermons would be as famous as the writings of any of the saints since the days of the Apostles.

Even as it is, there is no other Elizabethan man of letters whose personality is an island with a crooked shore, inviting us into a thousand bays and creeks and rivermouths, to the same degree as the personality that expressed itself in the poems, sermons, and life of John Donne. It is a mysterious and at times repellent island. It lies only intermittently in the sun. A fog hangs around its coast, and at the base of its most radiant mountain-tops there is, as a rule, a miasma-infested swamp. There are jewels to be found scattered among its rocks and over its surface, and by miners in the dark. It is richer, indeed, in jewels and precious metals and curious ornaments than in flowers. The shepherd on the hillside seldom tells his tale uninterrupted. Strange rites in honour of ancient infernal deities that delight in death are practised in hidden places, and the echo of these reaches him on the sighs of the wind and makes him shudder even as he looks at his beloved. It is an island with a cemetery smell. The chief figure who haunts it is a living man in a winding-sheet. It is, no doubt, Walton's story of the last days of Donne's life that makes us, as we read even the sermons and the love-poems, so aware of this ghostly apparition. Donne, it will be remembered, almost on the eve of his death, dressed himself in a winding-sheet, "tied with knots at his head and feet," and stood on a wooden urn with his eyes shut, and "with so much of the sheet turned aside as might show his lean, pale, and death-like face," while a painter made a sketch of him for his funeral monument. He then had the picture placed at his bedside, to which he summoned his friends and servants in order to bid them farewell. As he lay awaiting death, he said characteristically, "I were miserable if I might not die," and then repeatedly, in a faint voice, "Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done." At the very end he lost his speech, and "as his soul ascended and his last breath departed from him he closed his eyes, and then disposed his hands and body into such a posture as required not the least alteration by those that came to shroud him." It was a strange chance that preserved his spectral monument almost uninjured when St. Paul's was burned down in the Great Fire, and no other monument in the Cathedral escaped. Among all his fantasies none remains in the imagination more despotically than this last fanciful game of dying. Donne, however, remained in all respects a fantastic to the last, as we may see in that hymn which he wrote eight days before the end, tricked out with queer geography, and so anciently egoistic amid its worship.

Donne was the poet-geographer of himself, his mistresses, and his God. Other poets of his time dived deeper and soared to greater altitudes, but none travelled so far, so curiously, and in such out-of-the-way places, now hurrying like a nervous fugitive, and now in the exultation of the first man in a new found land.

THE NOVELS OF MR. COMPTON MACKENZIE

By JOHN FREEMAN

WISE men have foretold the death of imaginative literature. Spider-like, science will seize the body of this gilded fly, stab it methodically into numbness, and then, feeding upon its vitals, will exhaust and destroy the useless thing. With sedulous precision the scientist will do what the artist, alas, has failed to do more than vaguely and uncertainly: he will re-interpret life, he will rediscover man's relation to a vaster Universe. Ignoring or spurning all attempts at the æsthetic apprehension of the significance of life and time, he will at length announce his own positive formula by which all phenomena and all relations must be valued. It is the scientist who will feel and communicate, with a dry ecstasy wholly his own, the isolation of man amid the meanness or the majesty of the world. That language which we yet speak, stiff with ancestral associations, will be discarded; obscure symbols, their order intelligible perhaps to another scientist but to no one else, will be used to express the secrets of life and riddles of death Thebes never knew. The watcher of the skies will be no Keats: back to his galley-pots will every Keats be driven. In the midst of that web called science the spider will sit with vigilant eyes, holding their cunning in momentary suspense, swelling with vaster and vaster accumulations.

It is not poetry alone that is threatened: imaginative art is not confined to poetry. The strange thing is that when Thomas Hardy has carried an imaginative view of life to a finer expression than that of any artist of his time, and shown how easily prose may wear the strict shackles of scientific precision, that prose itself should find no younger masters ready to use and develop it; as if Hardy's forsaking of prose for verse were no simple forsaking, but rather a subtle betrayal. Unique success is his in combining the imaginative with the scientific, the emotional with the rational, in his novels; his younger contemporaries seem to have failed equally in both directions.

It would be absurd to charge this dereliction to any single novelist or group of novelists. Mr. Conrad, for instance, simply evades the charge by being in his turn unique; Mr. Wells and Mr. Arnold Bennett fail in varying degrees but in both directions, and of their fellows it is hard to think of any who has not similarly failed. Where gifts are eminent the failure is eminent: hence this preface to remarks upon the novels of Mr. Compton Mackenzie. Diligent, observant, experienced, inexhaustible, or at any rate unexhausted, he has made his opportunities and gained a hearing; indeed, as he reminds us in the second volume of Sinister Street, he has won the greater advantage of a hearing refused, the libraries having so ineffably rejected the first volume. Nevertheless, from him that hath not—— What is it, in fact, that has deprived him of the truest fruit of the gifts which he has? I make no attempt to disguise the fact that Mr. Mackenzie appears to be a writer who is not an imaginative artist, yet who might have been an imaginative artist; a novelist who has not concerned himself with life at all save in its external and mechanic motions. He has not confined himself to a single manner: his first book, The Passionate Elopement, was an eighteenth-century story in a style familiarised by less capable and less versatile practitioners. Little indeed was to be expected from an author whose first book contained such writing as:

Presently he saw her join a blue mask and lose herself in the flickering throng. Last time he had remarked particularly that her vis-à-vis wore brown and gold, yet the two figures were alike in movement and gesture, and he could swear the hands were identical. It was the same without a doubt. Charles bit his nails with vexation, and fretted confoundedly.

"My dear boy, my dear Charles, pray do not gnaw your fingers. Narcissus admired himself, 'tis true, but without carrying his devotion to cannibality."

Charles turned to the well-known voice of Mr. Ripple.

"A thousand pardons, dear Beau, I was vexed by a trifle. The masquerade comports itself with tolerable success."

—and the glitter and varnish of an upholstered narrative casually spangled with Meredithean brightness. But Mr. Mackenzie's second novel, Carnival, disappointed expectation by being readable. Like some of its successors, it might be mistaken for realistic; while another, Guy and Pauline, might be termed idyllic by those who love the phrase. He moves and changes; he is a part of all that he has met; and you wonder at length what he is. For myself, I am reminded frequently of an ingenious character seen in provincial music-halls, who to the eyes of a happy audience swiftly and imperceptibly invests and divests himself of many costumes of marvellous hue—one growing plain as another is impetuously flung off, blue gloves giving place to pink, a crimson shirt to an emerald, a shooting-jacket to a dinner-jacket—until I laugh unrestrainably.

Mr. Mackenzie has not sought a fugitive and cloistered virtue; his characters, as Johnson said of Gilbert Walmsley, mingle in the great world without exemption from its follies and its vices. He loves their activities; he sets them going and follows their whirring motion with the ruthless gaiety of a child playing with toys, who stops them, breaks them, and sometimes sets them going again. He understands mechanics and they must move; and when they are run down in one book he winds them up again for another. He hurries hither and thither, clutching at the skirts of perpetual motion like that other pageant master, time. His scene is the capitals of Europe or a railway train between them. He shares with his characters, of whatever age, their brilliant youth. He invents untiringly. He does not vex himself or his readers with description, but if he pauses to paint he paints with unmistakable bright colours. He writes clearly: there is seldom a slovenly sentence, never a memorable one. He has a cruelly accurate ear for slang, and presents vulgarity with fond verisimilitude. Femininity haunts him; his flowers, even, remind him of frills. Something of extreme youth clings to his books—its zestfulness, curiosity, indiscriminateness, and its unregretful volatility. But when, you may ask, remembering at once his gifts and his opportunities, his gifts and the world amid which they are exercised, when will he grow up? When, rather, will he grow down and strike first roots into the dark earth of the mind? When, amid all his brisk preoccupations with men and women, will he touch life?

Leaving generalisation, it is interesting to look at one of the simplest of Mr. Mackenzie's novels, Guy and Pauline, published in 1915, and conspicuously dedicated to the Commander-in-Chief and the General Staff of the Mediterranean Expeditionary Force. It is the story of Guy Hazlewood (wound up again after Sinister Street) and a rector's daughter. Guy, returned from Macedonian Relief Fund work, is charmed by a watery Oxfordshire house called Plashers Mead, and settles there to write poetry. The rectory family are his neighbours, and with the rector's daughters, Margaret, Monica, and Pauline, he quickly obtains a brotherly footing, and then becomes engaged to the youngest. The rector is a shadowy gardener with a singular fondness for answering every question, upon whatever subject and of whatever importance, by a reference to a blossoming or decaying plant; an idiosyncrasy which is supposed to endear him to his family. And it is an "endearing" book. Everybody is unvaryingly sweet; the adjective is as common and as adhesive as mud. The three girls form a group of the kind for which the far more finely observant and delicate art of Miss Viola Meynell (among living novelists) has already obtained and exhausted our sympathy. Ungracious as the comparison must seem to both writers, it is irresistible and fatal. Linked sweetness too long drawn out becomes tiresome, and the indistinct softness of the style makes the book something more than tiresome.

Pauline hurried through a shower to church on Easter morning, and shook mingled tears and raindrops from herself when she saw that Guy was come to Communion. So then that angel had travelled from her bedside last night to hover over Guy and bid him wake early next morning, because it was Easter Day. With never so holy a calm had she knelt in the jewelled shadows of that chancel or returned from the altar to find her pew imparadised. When the people came out of church the sun was shining, and on the trees and on the tombstones a multitude of birds were singing. Never had Pauline felt the spirit of Eastertide uplift her with such a joy, joy for her lover beside her, joy for summer close at hand, joy for all the joy that Easter could bring to the soul.

Elsewhere:

The apple trees were already frilled with a foam of blossom; and on quivering boughs linnets with breasts rose-burnt by the winds of March throbbed out their carol. Chaffinches with flashing prelude of silver wings flourished a burst of song that broke as with too intolerable a triumph: then sought another tree and poured forth the triumphant song again. Thrushes, blackbirds and warblers quired deep-throated melodies against the multitudinous trebles of those undistinguished myriads that with choric pæan saluted May; and on sudden diminuendoes could be heard the rustling canzonets of the goldfinches, rising and falling with reedy cadences.

The story is clogged by Guy's meditations upon "poetical ambition"—he is in the early twenties—and yet, with all these grievous handicaps, it survives with sufficient force to express the poignancy with which an incomplete passion may sink to oblivion. In Pauline Mr. Mackenzie has succeeded in showing with simplicity and truth the quick development of a child to a passionate, then a despairing, and at last a forsaken woman; and in Guy the æsthetic frog swollen to a fraction larger than his nature and then relapsing into insignificance. I am not sure that the best of this novelist's achievement is not seen in the isolation of these characters, the sufficiency of quiet incident, and the sense—faintly yet perceptibly communicated—that the tragedy of separation is implicit in the persons of his story. The atmosphere may seem close, the setting fanciful, scenes, characters, and action diminished and slightly prettified; yet there is genuine movement, rise and decline. The occasion of Guy's last parting from Pauline is worth noting, if only because Guy happens to be but the present name of Mr. Mackenzie's invariable young man from Oxford; let it be remembered, however, that Guy reappears years after in Sylvia and Michael as a larger shadow and dies with the Serbians before Nish.

"Even if temporarily I were interested in another girl, you may be quite sure that she would always be second to you."

"But you might be interested?" Pauline asked breathlessly.

"I must be free if I'm going to be an artist."

"Free?" she echoed slowly.

There remains a negative merit. If the artist, as a hundred critics have asserted and a thousand authors forgotten, is proved by what he omits, it must be counted to Mr. Mackenzie for a virtue that this book of four hundred pages does not contain a single seduction, and that, despite the obvious piquancy of a contrast between Plashers Mead and a London night-club, he has so easily and so blessedly avoided it.

The point is the more proper for remembrance inasmuch as such forbearance is the last straining of the quality of mercy in this author. Mr. Mackenzie commonly prefers cities to country scenes, although a country scene in his earliest novel yielded him his first opportunity of teasing innocent readers with an unsavoury interior. Since he is a cultured writer you might imagine that Hogarth had tutored him; but Hogarth is immensely masculine, and the origin of our novelist's inspiration need be sought no farther back than the 'nineties. Nothing is more surprising, at any rate to men approaching middle-age, than the fitful incandescence of that spark with which the 'nineties were tinily illuminated. The inferior intelligence and the yet more inferior imagination which impelled certain artists—pleased with the phrase decadent—to magnify the ferment of youthful senses, may now seem even more trivial in their fruition than an Olympian judgment would allow. But it is hard to be impartial when a purely remote contemplation is forbidden by the flashing reflections from living writers who are only in a narrow sense contemporary writers. Coventry Patmore, chief poet and almost chief artist in that church of which we hear so much in Mr. Mackenzie's novels, asserted with more force than originality that what is morally bad is necessarily bad art; and he proceeded to say, less tritely, that the delicate indecency of so much modern art was partly due to deficient virility which, in proportion to its strength, is naturally modest. Pleading for plain-speaking, he maintained that indecency (which only a fool could identify with plain-speaking) is an endeavour to irritate sensations and appetites in the absence of natural passion; that which passes with so many for power and ardour being really, in his certain and indignant eyes, impotence and coldness. The distinction between plain-speaking and delicate indecency is to be remembered when Mr. Mackenzie's most ambitious attempts at the English novel, Sinister Street and Sylvia Scarlett, are considered. There may be coarseness of expression, a fondness for trivial bluntness of phrase; but it would be stupid to see in that more than coarseness or bluntness. The theme of Sinister Street, says the author, is the youth of a man who will presumably be a priest; a theme developed in nearly four hundred thousand words by something like the process of "annual elongation" which Johnson observed in a Hebridean road. The book moves upon familiar biographical lines—the lonely children, the local school and lesser public school, Oxford, and the betrayed passion for a prostitute. It is an enormous and minute chronicle—of what? Of the externals of a boy's life, of the customs of school, flirtation with vulgar girls, evasions of school tasks, the ways of a decrepit group surviving from the 'nineties, Catholic ritual, and a little introspection here and there; and then, in the second volume, of the same externals of Oxford life drawn to the same scale. Such a scheme must needs attract the tens who have been to public school and University, and delight the tens of thousands who haven't. Is it taking a mean advantage of time's passage to compare Sinister Street with Serge Aksakoff's Years of Childhood and its successors? Aksakoff treats childhood with a simplicity, a quiet intentness, by the side of which Mr. Mackenzie's enormous reconstruction seems loose and artificial. Sinister Street is vast in size and meagre in content. It is packed with superfluities. Three-fourths of it is inessential to the author's declared intention; it is no more than a guide-book cleverly designed (e.g., the first week at Oxford) to evoke an illusion of Oxford in Pimlico and Shepherd's Bush; and concentrating upon the remaining fourth, you feel that your author has been aware of little more than the physiology of adolescence and the usual facile religious reactions. Boys from seventeen to twenty-three, girls from sixteen to any age, may find in Henry Meats alias Brother Aloysius, in Arthur Wilmot the last of the Decadents, in the Lilys and the Daisys of the streets, in the whole rank multitude of Mr. Mackenzie's "underworld," the irritation of sensation which adolescents naturally seek. Here may curiosity be half-satisfied, half-stimulated. A Guide to Prostitution could add little to the informations of Sinister Street: the dress, the habitation, even the finances of those who have "gone gay," are meticulously recorded. Passed, I am afraid, are the Orient promenade and the underground gilded sty, but their glory is not departed, it is merely transferred, and Sinister Street remains sufficiently lively and up to date to provoke the youngest and make the oldest feel young again. Do you ask why God gives brains for such a use? I cannot even guess. Mr. Mackenzie astonishingly blazons his book with Keats's famous analysis: "The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy; but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, etc."—an astonishing phrase for index to this book; whether used in simplicity or in subtle defiance, this also I cannot guess. Clear enough is it that what passes for imagination is no other than the froth of yesty waves of youth.... It is a book written, if offence may be disavowed and avoided, by a boy for boys. Mr. Mackenzie himself, in his introductory letter, refers to his study of Russian writers (this in explanation of the length of his novels), and in his epilogical letter he apparently regards the book as a work of art. An author's opinion of his own intention is to be respected, for who shall challenge it? It does but afford an additional ground for judgment and surprise.

To consider Sinister Street a mere aberration is an extravagant possibility, but possibility itself is left panting behind Sylvia Scarlett. Here, again, the author is generous of space, and here he has not been content to write a guide-book. He has chosen a woman for his central figure, and she, unlike the male protagonists of the other books, is no coloured cloudy reflection of a reflection. She is no minikin Michael or Guy or Maurice, but a semblable moving figure. Sinister Street is her place of origin, Vanity Fair her scene of action—a world of music-halls where farce passes for fantasy and women's dress for an exciting theme. Farce? Sylvia is not only farcical in herself, but is, like Falstaff, creative—the cause of farce in others; and though Book One opens so admirably with a paragraph showing how well the author can follow a good model, farce ensues and recurs and makes her chronicle an amusing thing.

But it is amusing only so long as coarseness is not strained through a child's mind, coarseness of phrase only or more significant coarseness of invention. I say more significant, for whether that worse coarseness is intended or involuntary must be immaterial, save as indicating the particular code against which the offence is primarily committed, the code of manners or the code of art. There is here no such gentleness in the treatment of childhood as distinguishes the earlier chapters of Carnival.... The point need not be stressed. I dislike the current practice of setting one's wits against the author whose work happens to be the subject of discussion; I don't want to produce an artificial dilemma and pretend that Mr. Mackenzie is inevitably trapped by it. Put it, then, that there are certain obligations of civilised life, and certain obligations of that flower of civilised life which we call art; put it that coarseness of phrase or incident outrages the former, and that an intention to commit that outrage, or an insensibility of having committed it, is equally an offence against the less assertive but not less imperative obligations of art. In a word, the sin is vulgarity, two-edged vulgarity it may be, an offence against both canons or, if you will, both conventions; and the further weight hangs on the charge that it is here committed in the person of a child, and is, therefore, wanton. Shall I add that the immanence of farce just spoken of does in a little degree mitigate the cruelty by generalising the vulgarity? Here is rude, healthy Smollett out-Smolletted, reduced to the uncostly and only half-odious horseplay of a music-hall:

The encouragement put a fine spirit into Danny's blows; he hammered the unfortunate Cohen round and round the room, upsetting table and chairs and washstand until with a stinging blow he knocked him backwards into the slop-pail, in which he sat so heavily that when he tried to rise the slop-pail stuck and gave him the appearance of a large baboon crawling with elevated rump on all fours. Danny kicked off the slop-pail, and invited Cohen to stand up to him; but when he did get on his feet, he ran to the door and reached the stairs just as Mrs. Gonner was wearily ascending to find out what was happening. He tried to stop himself by clutching the knob of the baluster, which broke; the result was that he dragged Mrs. Gonner with him in a glissade which ended behind the counter. The confusion in the shop became general; Mr. Gonner cut his thumb, and the sight of the blood caused a woman who was eating a sausage to choke; another customer took advantage of the row to snatch a side of bacon and try to escape, but another customer with a finer moral sense prevented him; a dog who was sniffing in the entrance saw the bacon on the floor and tried to seize it, but getting his tail trodden upon by somebody, he took fright and bit a small boy, who was waiting to change a shilling into coppers. Meanwhile Sylvia, who expected every minute that Jubie and her pugilistic brother would come back and increase the confusion with possibly unpleasant consequences for herself, took advantage of Danny's being occupied in an argument with Cohen and the two Gonners to put on her hat and escape from the shop. She jumped on the first omnibus and congratulated herself when she looked round and saw a policeman entering the eating-house.

Sylvia herself is capable enough as well as universally attractive. The citation just made is from a passage following the second amorous attack upon her, when Danny Lewis threatens her with a knife, and she parries with the water in her bedroom. An earlier lover had retired from a similar contest with his underlip bitten through. When, some time after the knife-and-water episode, Sylvia meets the Oxford type in Philip Iredale, she is sent by him (being still but sixteen) for a year's schooling and then marries him. Coquetting with the Church is followed by flight—alone, it must be added; and indeed Sylvia's whole recorded life is fugitive, a pilgrimage between this world and some other. Three months later her husband's Oxford composure is shocked by:

"You must divorce me now. I've not been able to earn enough to pay you back more than this [ten pounds] for your bad bargain. I don't think I've given any more pleasure to the men who have paid less for me than you did, if that's any consolation."

Adventures repeat themselves. A huge Russian officer bursts into Sylvia's room one night and is pitched out of the window by a couple of acrobats. The war begins and spreads itself over Europe as a background for her passages and parleyings; and maybe the Commander-in-Chief and the General Staff of the Mediterranean Expeditionary Force have beguiled many a tiresome after-war hour in pursuing Sylvia's wanderings between places familiarised by their late anxieties. Sylvia is differentiated from the other women of these novels, not only by her superior capacity for experiences, but even more by her superior volubility. She is, consciously, mind as well as body, and as the narrative goes on and on she develops a passion for monologue—terrifying in any woman, and rare among women whose occupation Sylvia Scarlett's own name is perhaps meant assonantally to suggest. These monologues, recurrent as the farce and more deadly, might be called shortly the jargon. "I represent the original conception of the Hetaera," she asserts.

"He'll think of me, if he ever thinks of me at all, as one of the great multitude of wronged women. I shall think of him, though as a matter of fact I shall avoid thinking of him, either as what might have been—a false concept, for, of course, what might have been is fundamentally inconceivable—or as what he was—a sentimental fool."

She meditates upon the art of Botticelli, whose appeal she seems to think is only childlike, upon the conflict of nationality with civilisation. She reads Tolstoi and Dostoieffsky, putting Apuleius by, goes to confession, analyses her sensations, details the errancy of her parentage, and seeks to shock the priest who, when Sylvia acutely suggests that God is "almost vulgarly anthropomorphic," can only murmur, "Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings, and not one of them is forgotten before God?" But here is a brief specimen of the almost unbroken monologue to which the priest of the wisest of the churches can make no answer but a profession of the power of the Church:

"I suppose my running away was the direct result of my bringing up, because whenever I had been brought face to face with a difficult situation I ran away. However, this time I was determined from some perverted pride to make myself more utterly myself than I had ever done. It's hard to explain how my mind worked. You must remember I was only nineteen, and already at thirty-one I am as far from understanding all my motives then as if I were trying to understand somebody who was not myself at all. Anyhow, I simply went on the streets. For three months I mortified my flesh by being a harlot. Can you understand that? Can you possibly understand the deliberate infliction of such a discipline, not to humiliate one's pride but to exalt it? Can you understand that I emerged from that three months of incredible horror with a complete personality?..."

Sylvia did not wait for the priest to answer this question, partly because she did not want to be disillusioned by finding so soon that he had not comprehended anything of her emotions or actions, partly because there seemed more important revelations of herself still to be made.

—Farce at least is unpretentious, but this crude jargon, this retroverted intellectualism, is offensive beyond farce, odious beyond "delicate indecency."

It may not be wholly due to perversity if the characteristics of these long biographical novels should overshadow the sharp merits of, say, Carnival. Carnival, even better than Guy and Pauline, may serve as a measure of Mr. Mackenzie's decline from his promise; since although its conclusion is a disharmony, its best chapters are good enough to cause a reader to sigh over the later novels. Was it, indeed, quite a worthless aim to follow in the footsteps of George Gissing? Carnival suggests that a new Gissing might have grown up before our eyes, with a touch of the same veracity, the same mordancy, and a little less than the same humourless and dishumoured regard for what is wry and hapless; but Carnival stands alone, and the exactions of that difficult sincerity have been put by.... Or take, again, Poor Relations, the latest of Mr. Mackenzie's inventions. With its ease and brilliant vivacities, with the comedy of its conception, what a delightful play it would make! But might not the comedy have depended—as comedy must—more surely upon character and less upon incident? The author of Sylvia Scarlett, however, has imposed a too-swift facility upon the author of Poor Relations. If practice makes perfect, then nothing was wanting to the completeness of Poor Relations—but how much is wanting! Admirable are the opening notes, but of the rest too much is a brisk falsetto. There is excess in the situations, excess in the characterisation, excess in the style:

When he looked at the old lady he could not discover anything except a cold egotism in every fold of those flabby cheeks where the powder lay like drifted snow in the ruts of a sunless lane.

It is equally the virtue and the fault of Mr. Mackenzie that he provokes melancholy regrets, even in the middle of frequent chuckles; and when the chuckling has died away the shadow of Sylvia Scarlett falls upon the book, just as with the same unhappy denigration it is flung backwards over the better qualities of the earlier Carnival.

Yet Poor Relations, like Guy and Pauline, is free from the worst flaw of the longer novels, the crude determination to shock, which breaks most starkly through the superficialities of Sylvia Scarlett. That is a breach of the code of art rather than the code of morals, an eruptive épatism which would disfigure a better book, if it could be found there. Can you conceive a more attractive subject, if you are but three-and-twenty, than the philosophic harlot? Or an easier? I do not suppose that it is less interesting to be on the streets than to be in the Ministry of Food; neither occupation can be objectionable as subject of a novel. It would be untrue to say that the subject of a novel is a thing of complete indifference, and that the treatment is everything; for a writer would not do wisely to forfeit the advantage which a subject might offer him. But neither would he do wisely in exploiting a subject only to excite the curiosity or astonish the simplicity of his reader. Merely adventitious at best is the gain. It is to reduce subject and treatment to their lowest terms, and reject the implicit conditions which confront every writer who would explore the imaginative world where there can be no laws save honour, loyalty, and delicacy. The scientific writer is secured against deceiving himself or his readers for long; his assumptions can be verified, his deductions precisely analysed, his whole professions rationally weighed. The imaginative and the quasi-imaginative writer have no such security, nor their readers such protection. Traditional values may be inapplicable; it is hard to discriminate novelty from originality. A book that shocks may be as profoundly conceived as Jude the Obscure, as cheaply fashioned as Sylvia Scarlett. Incident may be prodigal equally in Dostoieffsky and Mr. Compton Mackenzie, but significance of incident may vary infinitely. Mr. Mackenzie's incidents have no significance; they remain incidents. His thoughts are insignificant except in so far as they indicate a modern intellectual disvertebration. His view of character is insignificant except in so far as it betrays an adolescent apprehension. Who is Sylvia? you ask, and your author is silent. What is she? and the answer is dispersed among eight hundred garrulous pages.

Yet, it must be repeated, Mr. Mackenzie has conspicuous gifts, and, as the letters with which Sinister Street opens and closes indicate, he is aware of them, and has not undertaken these enormous fictions without a sense of his task. But he has accepted the easier way. He can invest his scene with an illusion of activity, if not of reality, but he is unable to picture reality, for he does not distinguish; neither does he create a reality, a world for himself, amenable to its own laws, establishing its own consistency. That would be a wonderful but a hard thing. Amid the booths of his Vanity Fair he moves, not soberly and critically as Christian and Faithful moved, but as one swiftly enchanted by externals. He approaches the field of imaginative art, and I cannot say that his powers and pretensions are such as must discourage entry; but for imagination he learns to substitute invention, chooses the superficial, and does not even trouble to secure the consistency of his characters; Michael Fane's mother, for instance, being declined from an irregular great lady in Volume One to a parish imbecile in Volume Two. He might have chosen otherwise. His alertness, his preoccupation with externals, his fullness of incident, his soft fluency of style might have been flogged into subordination; he need not have been very serious to have taken his work seriously. But all that he promises now is, if the tempting derangement of a line by a modern poet be pardonable:

A torment of intolerable tales.

Mr. Mackenzie has divagated. The task of presenting reality is left to the scientific mind, and the task of creating another reality is left to the poetic mind.

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES AND NEWS

Correspondence from readers on all subjects of bibliographical interest is invited. The Editor will, to the best of his ability, answer all queries addressed to him.

GENERAL NOTES

MR. Septimus Rivington's recently published book, The Publishing Family of Rivington (Rivington, 1919; 10s. net), contains a certain amount of interesting information about the eighteenth-century book trade. Charles Rivington started publishing in 1711. His successor, John, succeeded Jacob Tonson (great-nephew of the original Jacob Tonson who published Dryden's works) as managing partner of the institution known as the "Conger," the association of booksellers formed to share the risks and the profits of publishing ventures. In this volume Mr. Rivington has printed a number of Conger documents in his possession. It is interesting to learn the trade value of well-known books of the period. Thus, one-eighth of Archbishop Tillotson's works is bought by Tonson in 1711 for £87 10s. In 1738 a third part of Watts's Hymns is worth £70.

*      *      *      *      *

Mr. Rivington prints several extracts from old catalogues in his possession, which show that a book sale in the eighteenth century was a convivial affair. The catalogue of Thomas Osborne's stock-in-trade, consisting of books, copyrights, and shares in publications, is issued "to a select number of booksellers at the Queen's Head Tavern, in Paternoster Row, on Thursday, the ninth day of February, 1743/4, at Eleven of the Clock in the Forenoon. DINNER will be served on the table exactly at One of the Clock, consisting of Turkies and Chines, Hams and Chickens, Apple-pies, etc., and a Glass of very good Wine."

*      *      *      *      *

Another recent book by a member of one of our great publishing families is Mr. John Murray's brief memoir of his father, John Murray the Third, the inventor of what was in his day an entirely new literary form, the Guide Book. Murray's first guide was issued in 1836. Three years later Karl Baedeker published a Handbüchlein of the same districts. Baedeker, like Shakespeare, disdained to invent his own plots. Murray's eighteen European guides were the Plutarch and Holinshed of the German's stupendous creations.

Those who hope, by taking advantage of the present rate of exchange, to secure German books at an eighth or tenth of their value will be sorry to hear that German publishers are in league to put a stop to such delightful bargains. They are insisting on being paid at the rate of about fivepence to the mark; so that your books will cost you as much as half their real price.

We were surprised, considering the blockade and the general shortage, at the excellent "get-up" of such recent German publications as we have seen. Among them were two illustrated volumes, one on Egyptian and the other on Negro art, published during the war, and produced in the most magnificent style. Almost more surprising were some exquisite little volumes of Czech poetry published at Prague, in which print, paper, and binding were all equally admirable.

A book for which one may search long in vain, but for which it is worth while to take some trouble, is the Memorie di Lorenzo da Ponte da Ceneda, three volumes, New York, 1829. Da Ponte is well known as the librettist of a number of Mozart's operas, and should be better known as the author of some of the most charming of eighteenth-century memoirs. His memoirs and poetical works were republished at Florence in 1871, and a French translation of the memoirs only was executed by M. C. D. de la Chavanne (Paris, Pagnerre, 1860). So far as we are aware, no English translation of this work exists. If this is indeed the case, it is high time that the defect was remedied. The Memorie Inutili of Da Ponte's earlier contemporary, Carlo Gozzi (three volumes, Venice, 1797), were translated by John Addington Symonds, and published in a very sumptuous illustrated edition by Nimmo in 1890.

*      *      *      *      *

Another important book on the Italian eighteenth century, and one which it is not easy to find a copy of in any edition, is the Lettres Historiques et Critiques sur l'Italie of the Président Charles de Brosses (Paris, Ponthieu, An VII., and under the title Le Président de Brosses en Italie, Paris, 1858). De Brosses' letters make the best possible book to take on a voyage to Italy.

*      *      *      *      *

Londoners cannot have failed to notice in the past weeks the presence of numerous posters—we have seen them in every part of the city—bearing the legend: "The Bishops must open Joanna Southcott's Box and save the country from ruin." We hope that this faint echo of a vanished notoriety may arouse among book-lovers an interest in Joanna's numerous literary works. The first of them, The Strange Effects of Faith, was published at Exeter in 1792, and from that time onwards she poured forth a stream of prophecies in prose and verse. In one of the latest of them (the last part of The Book of Wonder, if we remember rightly; but it is some years since we saw the book) is a superb engraving of a cradle subscribed for by Joanna's disciples against the birth of Shiloh. Shiloh, unhappily, was never born, and Joanna Southcott died three months after the presentation of the two-hundred-guinea cot. Enthusiastic bibliographers will find plenty of interest in the study of Southcottian literature; first editions are satisfactorily scarce. As for the box—well, why don't the Bishops open it? Who knows? it might save us from ruin, more effectually perhaps than all the politicians together.

*      *      *      *      *

An important collection of autograph letters and historical documents, the property of the late Charles Fairfax Murray, is to be sold at Messrs. Sotheby's on Thursday and Friday, February 5th and 6th. The first 163 lots are autographs of famous artists, and include four letters of Blake, Michelangelo's specification for the tomb of Julius II., a letter of Benvenuto Cellini, a letter of Albrecht Dürer, illustrated by charming little sketches, letters of Gainsborough, Hogarth, Reynolds, and Constable, a letter of Titian written at the age of eighty-five, and a series of notes by Leonardo on the flight of birds.

Lots 164 to 280 are of historical, literary, and musical interest. One of the most interesting items is the MS. of Baudelaire's La Charogne, with a drawing of a woman by the poet. A beautifully written letter from Lucretia Borgia to Cardinal D'Este is another remarkable piece.

Lots 281-286 are documents which will appeal to collectors of relics of Mary Queen of Scots. The first is a document signed by Bothwell; four are letters of John Lesley, Bishop of Ross; and the last a document signed by William Davison, Queen Elizabeth's agent in Scotland.

ITEMS FROM THE BOOKSELLERS' CATALOGUES

Messrs. Maggs's catalogue (No. 386) of autograph letters and MSS. contains a number of items which will be of interest to musicians. In a letter to Birchall, the English music publisher, dated October, 1831, Beethoven writes the following sentence: "I have duly received the 5 £s, and thought previously you would not encrease the number of englishmen neglecting their word and honor, as I had the misfortune of meeting with two of this sort." He goes on to offer Birchall a Grand Sonata for the Pianoforte for £40, and a Trio for piano, violin, and cello for £50. The letter is priced at £21. There are also four letters of Wagner, a note in the handwriting of Sir Arthur Sullivan (12s. 6d.), a signed autograph piece by Gounod (£3 10s.), letters of Berger, Spontini, Balfe, Hiller and Heller, Verdi, Thalberg, Paganini, Brahms, and Liszt; there is an autograph musical MS. of Mendelssohn dated 1844 (£10 10s.), and another of a Scena composed by Haydn for Signora Banti (£85).

*      *      *      *      *

Other pieces of the greatest interest are advertised in the same catalogue. A beautifully written letter in the hand of Benvenuto Cellini is priced £105. Another letter of slightly earlier date than Cellini's is the almost illegible scrawl of Götz von Berlichingen, the Knight of the Iron Hand (£32). The collection also includes several very important letters of Byron: one to John Murray (October 29th, 1819), in which he speaks of his Memoirs, entrusted to Moore, and afterwards solemnly burnt at Murray's house in Albemarle Street (£105): one to Kinnaird (1822) on the morality of Don Juan.

*      *      *      *      *

Mr. Francis Edwards has also issued a catalogue of autograph letters which contains many items of remarkable interest. Hrothgar, a seventy-eight verse ballad (unpublished), by George Borrow, is a curious by-product of Beowulf scholarship, which ought to be worth the thirty pounds at which it is priced. Among the five autograph letters of Thomas Carlyle we find one addressed to the Bishop of Chester (August 23rd, 1840), in which Carlyle writes: "May I apply to you for a charitable service on behalf of a certain Mr. Mazzini, an Italian neighbour and friend of mine?" Two holograph manuscripts of John Evelyn are offered for £15 and £25 respectively. Ten pounds is the price of a letter from Sir William Hamilton (Naples, 1792) to Horace Walpole, in which Hamilton remarks of his famous wife: "She is ... most grateful to me for having saved her from the precipice into which she had good sense enough to see she must, without me, have inevitably fallen, and she sees that nothing but a constant good conduct can maintain the respect that is now shown her by everybody. It has often been remarked that a reformed rake makes a good husband, why not vice versa?" Why not? The answer is to be found in a letter from Nelson to Lady Hamilton (Yarmouth, 1801; £21). Other Nelson and Hamilton autographs, the Morrison collection, are on sale at Messrs. Suckling's, of Garrick Street.

*      *      *      *      *

Other interesting letters and manuscripts offered by Messrs. Edwards are by Dr. Johnson, Samuel Richardson, Swinburne, Meredith, Landor, Pepys, Lamb, Southey, Thackeray.

*      *      *      *      *

We are glad to notice that a manuscript by a young contemporary can command as big a price as ten guineas. This is the sum asked by Messrs. Davis and Orioli for the autograph MS. of Mr. Robert Nichols's The Faun's Holiday, published in his volume of Ardours and Endurances. To buy it would certainly be a speculation; but we believe there is a good chance of the speculation turning out profitably.

*      *      *      *      *

Early Editions of Fielding: Messrs. Bowes and Bowes, of Cambridge, are asking £25 for the first edition (two volumes in contemporary calf) of The History of the Adventures of Joseph Andrews, and of his Friend, Mr. Abraham Adams. A copy of the second edition, published in the same year as the first, is offered for 31s. 6d. by the Ex-Officers' Book Union, 16 Rathgar Avenue, West Ealing.

*      *      *      *      *

Messrs. Pickering and Chatto are offering a copy of Endymion (Taylor and Hessey, 1818), in the original boards, for £78. Another interesting Keats relic is the original autograph MS. of a portion of Otho the Great, which is offered by Messrs. Maggs Bros. for £60. The MS., entirely in Keats's own writing, is a fragment of the first scene of the play.

*      *      *      *      *

We note that a fine copy of Fulke Greville's Poems (1633), of which we recently had occasion to speak, is for sale at Messrs. Dobell's, the price being six guineas.

*      *      *      *      *

Messrs. Maggs Bros.' new catalogue, Bibliotheca Aeronautica, price 5s., is a fascinating book. It contains the account of some fifteen hundred volumes dealing with the problem of flight from the earliest times to the present day. The first section contains books published prior to the invention of the Montgolfier Balloon in 1783. A fine copy of Francesco de Lana's Prodromo Overo Saggio di Alcune Inventioni appears in this section (£16 16s.). Paltock's famous flying novel, The Life and Adventures of Peter Wilkins, London, 1751, is offered at £15 15s., and the work which Restif de la Bretonne founded on it, La Découverte Australe par un Homme Volant, ou le Dédale Français, at £18 18s. Fine engravings are reproduced from these books.

*      *      *      *      *

In the second section we find a number of Blanchard's narratives, including the account of the first aerial crossing of the Channel; we find Lunardi's Account of the First Aerial Voyage in England, London, 1784 (£7 10s.); several books on the Montgolfier brothers, as well as the works of the great Baron Munchausen, so famed for his aeronautical exploits.

*      *      *      *      *

The third section of the catalogue deals with the evolution of aircraft from 1851 to 1899. An interesting item is the first edition of Rémy de Gourmont's En Ballon, Paris, 1883. A large number of works by Tissandier, author of the Bibliographie Aéronautique, Paris, 1887, naturally appear. We may here note the remarkable fact that by far the greater number of the volumes on flight are in French. British interest in the problem was not aroused till a good deal later, after the first practical difficulties had been solved. A first edition of Jules Verne's Robur le Conquérant, Paris, 1886, is included (15s.). His Six Weeks in a Balloon also deserves a place.

*      *      *      *      *

In the fourth section we come to "Aeroplanes and Dirigibles in the Twentieth Century." The period opens with the intrepid Santos-Dumont and his flights and falls over Paris. His My Airships, London, 1904, is priced at 10s. The handsomest aeronautical work published during this period is perhaps La Conquête de l'Air, by Grand-Carteret and Delteil, a finely illustrated folio, offered at £3 3s.

*      *      *      *      *

A fifth section contains pictures of famous balloon ascents, portraits of aeronauts, caricatures, and the like.

A. L. H.

CORRESPONDENCE

A PROTEST

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—Your dramatic critic writes of my play Sacred and Profane Love, "A writer of Mr. Arnold Bennett's eminence and great sagacity would be the last person to expect us to take this play seriously as a contribution to dramatic literature." Only a certain ingenuousness prevents this remark from being outrageous. Of course I expect the play to be taken seriously. Your writer is perfectly entitled to condemn my play; but he is not entitled on the strength of his opinion to attribute to me an attitude which is not mine, and which, if it were mine, would render me odious in the sight of artists. Why in the name of my alleged great sagacity should I publish a play which I did not expect to be taken seriously? Did your critic perhaps imagine that he was being charitable? One does not expect from the critics of THE LONDON MERCURY the ineptitudes which characterise the dramatic criticism of the stunt daily Press. I mention the matter because I think that an important point of principle is involved, and because this is not the first time that one of your critics has exceeded his province. In your first number there were references to the work of Mr. Frank Swinnerton which amounted to a quite gratuitous imputation against the artistic integrity of the author.—Yours, etc.,

ARNOLD BENNETT.

12B George Street, Hanover Square, W.1, December 19th, 1919.

[We gladly publish Mr. Bennett's disclaimer, but we think he exaggerates the gravity of the supposition he repels. We need scarcely say that our critic had no intention of imputing to Mr. Bennett anything which we supposed would render Mr. Bennett odious. Taking the view that he did of Mr. Bennett's play, our critic thought he was paying a compliment to Mr. Bennett's intelligence. If it is odious to write, occasionally, things which we do not regard as serious contributions to literature, we can only say that a great many artists have made themselves odious. As for Mr. Swinnerton, our reviewer, detecting a falling off, suggested that it might be due to the novelist having got into the habit of turning novels out regularly instead of waiting for the impulse. If a serious reviewer is to be precluded, when he thinks himself justified, from making suggestions like that, he might just as well be muzzled.—EDITOR.]

"THE DUCHESS OF MALFI"

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—Mr. Turner says he can hardly believe that the section of the audience which behaved so abominably at the "Phœnix" performance consisted largely of the theatrical profession. I think he is right. I happen to know that an effort was made by two actors in the audience to get a request for order made from the stage during the first interval.

Nor were these people entirely of the "uneducated" sort—in the conventional sense. One of the worst offenders was a terrible woman sitting next to me, who occasionally interrupted her nervous giggle to remark, "A wonderfully characteristic touch!" or something of the kind. I believe she must have been a don.

May I suggest that at the next performance by the "Phœnix," if similar trouble occurs, the matter should be brought to the notice of the management during the first interval, and that a request should be made from the stage by the latter? Personal requests to individual offenders were made by more than one member of the audience at the performance in question, but without result. It is worth while making a concerted effort to prevent the authentic joy of the theatre, when at last it is offered to us, from being marred by the behaviour of vulgar sentimentalists and neurotics.—Yours, etc.,

VICTOR GOLLANCZ.

Authors' Club, 2 Whitehall Court, S.W.1, January 9th.

TAM HTAB

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—In vain Mr. L. Pearsall Smith held out a juicy carrot. Lest Mr. J. J. Biggs also be disappointed in his hope of a solemn ass, I beg to offer myself in that capacity, and with well-feigned eagerness point out that this page, if held to a mirror, will show that TAM HTAB is no more the reverse of BATH MAT than MOOR EEFFOC of COFFEE ROOM.

As you say, these public inscriptions are responsible for much distress.—Yours, etc.,

A. P.

January 6th.

THE LAMBKIN MSS. AND MR. BELLOC

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—Your valued bibliographer classifies the Remains of the Rev. J. A. Lambkin among the verse attributable to their editor. I feel very strongly the impiety of this error. For, although the influence of that eminent divine is traceable in the Dedicatory Ode prefixed by Mr. Belloc to the Remains of his great mentor, it is nevertheless in the realm of prose that we must look for Lambkin's main contributions to knowledge and literature. True it is that the late Fellow of Burford's justly famed Newdigate Poem is included in the definitive edition—indeed, Mr. Belloc must have felt the impossibility of rejecting its claims to such inclusion—yet, if I may quote a delightful "Lambkinism" which deserves a wider fame, "One swallow does not make a summer"; and, as one who owes a goodly part of the culture discernible (as I trust) in this letter to the author of the Article on the North-West Corner of the Mosaic Pavement at Bignor, I feel I should be untrue to the memory of my late dear tutor if I allowed such glories to be catalogued as if they formed part of the verses of a mere poet. No, sir, Lambkin is "this England's" Seneca, and all who treasure a great cultural inheritance should rally to do justice to its Remains. The late Dr. Pusey, whose character held so much in common with that of his younger disciple, never tired of narrating that wonderful instance of Lambkin's profound yet finely epigrammatic Latinity which is connected with the death of the late Pastor of Bremen, I think. I was present on that occasion, and can testify that, far from any library, Mr. Lambkin, after a short silence lasting perhaps for two minutes, whispered the words Requiescat in Pace—surely the most terse and crisp of potential epitaphs and one almost certain to secure the immediate popularity which it obtained, falling as it did upon the receptive soil afforded by the Oxford Movement from which event in our history the expression dates. As the fact is not generally known, perhaps, sir, you will allow me to state here that the present Sir Ezra Crumpton-Padge of Whortlebury Towers, near Brixton, is now the sole surviving link between the author of Physiology of the Elephant and our own times, the claims to this honour made by M. Lamkinski, President-elect of the Kacheefucan Soviet, having been expressly refuted by that gentleman's father-in-law, M. Georgeovitch Bernardenko Shavkin, the well-known big-game hunter and editor of Agapé.

Curiously enough Mr. Belloc's fine monograph on the "Padge" System of Rhetoric makes no allusion to this interesting example of what we may surely describe, in the truest sense of Lambkin's happiest aphorism, as a "survival of the fittest." Your bibliographer will doubtless wish to note these errata. Meanwhile I trust the importance of the subject may condone in some measure for the length of this letter.—Yours, etc.,

R. N. GREEN-ARMYTAGE [Curator L.L.].

Lambkin Library, Whortleboro', near Weston-S.-Mare, January 10th.

ONED

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—Your reviewer, in his notice of Mr. Dormer Creston's Clown of Paradise, claims to record a neologism which he commends to the notice of the editors of the Oxford Dictionary. Unfortunately they have anticipated him. If he will turn to the Oxford Dictionary, vol. vii, page 123, the top of the second column, he will find eleven examples, the last from a book published as recently as 1839, of this astounding grammatical invention.—Yours, etc.,

GERARD HOPKINS.

Oxford University Press, Amen Corner, E.C.4, December 17th, 1919.

CANDIDE

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—It is interesting to learn from Mr. Lewis H. Grundy's letter in your issue of December that an English translation of Candide, with the name of M. de Voltaire as the author of the original, was published in London as early as 1759.

According to the preface of the edition of the Académie des Bibliophiles of 1869 Candide first appeared at the beginning of March, 1759, the Journal Encyclopédique of the 15th of that month containing an article on the book, which is headed by the following:

"We do not believe that this tale has a German original. It is attributed to M. de V."

This note produced a reply from Voltaire signed "Démad."

Though the reply is dated April 15th, 1759, it did not appear in the Journal Encyclopédique till July 15th, 1762, with the following note:

"This letter has been mislaid for a long time, and when it reached us we made fruitless efforts to discover the existence of M. Démad, Captain in the Brunswick Regiment."

A facsimile of the title-page of the first edition of 1759 is also given in the edition of 1869, and is the same as that quoted in the Bibliographical Notes of your issue of November.

L'Ingénu was also published anonymously in 1767. The title-page runs as follows:

"L Ingénu, Histoire véritable, tirée des manuscrits du Père Quesnel, à Utrecht, 1767."—Yours, etc.,

ERNEST F. GYE.

61 Tregunter Road, S.W.10, December 19th, 1919.

LEARNED SOCIETIES, ETC.

THE SOCIETY FOR THE PROTECTION OF ANCIENT BUILDINGS

IN the recent Housing Supplement issued by the Times the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings has expressed its views on the housing problem in connection with old cottages. There are in this article two main points worth noting. The first is that until a subsidy is made, proportionate to the value of the work of repair, old cottages will not be readapted, but allowed to fall into ruins. The failure to award this subsidy tends to shift the responsibility, in regard to the upkeep of such property, from the owner to the State, for whilst the State encourages and partially finances new building, old cottages, though in theory valued by the Ministry of Health, in practice will hardly receive the attention they deserve. The second point is this: that the Society shows clearly it is no lover of mere decay, or old and mouldering walls, features we are apt to associate with the sketches of an early nineteenth century schoolgirl.

It lends no countenance to the habitual carping at all things new. It is as eager that the architecture of to-day should be as clean and decent—the natural expression of the life of to-day—as it is anxious to preserve, and where possible render habitable, those buildings of the past embodying the spirit of their time.

But since "words will build no walls," if our fine old cottages are to be preserved, it will need something more than mere discussions or eulogiums on their value as relics of the nation's past. By all who are interested more practical help must be given, and it is for this that the Society now makes a special appeal.

THE ROYAL NUMISMATIC SOCIETY

The monthly meeting of the Royal Numismatic Society was held on December 18th, Sir Henry Howorth, Vice-President, presiding. Mr. G. F. Hill read a paper entitled "The Mint of Crosraguel Abbey," written by Dr. George Macdonald, who was unable to be present. Recent excavations at Crosraguel ("Crossregal") Abbey, a Cluniac foundation in Ayrshire, founded in 1244, and endowed by the Scottish kings with extraordinary privileges, resulted in the discovery in a latrine-drain of a large number of small objects, some of a miscellaneous nature, others evidently the remains of a local mint: large quantities of small tags of brass, needles, portions of thin sheets, etc., as well as objects and pieces of copper and lead, together with 197 coins of billon, bronze, or copper and brass. The coins are (a) contemporary imitations of pennies of James III. and IV., and farthings of James IV., including twenty which are a combination of the obverse of one type with the reverse of another; (b) fifty-one pennies bearing a cross on one side and a regal orb on the other, and the inscriptions Jacobus Dei Gra. Rex and Crux pellit omne crimen variously abbreviated; (c) eighty-eight copper or brass farthings, of types not hitherto known, inscribed Moneta Pauperum. The imitations of class (a) are the "black money" known from records. The pennies of class (b) are almost exclusively found in Scotland, though they have hitherto been attributed to one or other James of Aragon. They were clearly minted at Crosraguel, the types having a punning significance. They and the farthings are the only known instance in Great Britain of an Abbey coinage, such as is very frequent on the Continent, e.g., at Cluny. The inscription Moneta pauperum shows that the coins were intended to provide small change for the especial benefit of the poor like the seventeenth century tokens. The mint was probably suppressed by James IV.

At the meeting of the Society on January 20th, Rev. E. A. Sydenham gave the results of his study of the "Coinage of Augustus."

THE LIBRARY ASSOCIATION

The passage through Parliament of a new Public Libraries Bill was effected with the minimum of friction—one might almost say "of interest." But public libraries, accustomed as they have been through fifty years to Legislative stonings, can hardly yet realise that they have in their hands at length the very bread of life. For some, that statement "renews the unspeakable anguish" of dissolution—of the day when they closed their doors to the public from sheer inability to exist. Others may witness to a miracle of healing, rescue when in extremis. Others, again, survey the newly-granted means wherewith to end bravely contracted debts. But the majority become slowly conscious that the burden has fallen from their backs, and that they may go forward with a lighter step to a far brighter future. The removal of the rate limit will effect a revolution in public library practice; but its results cannot become at once apparent. It rests with individual library authorities to make a rate each year—to afford their charges the opportunity, as they now possess the power, of proving to all sections of the public that they are necessities and not luxuries. That some of these Councils will fail is certain—the public library idea is not yet sufficiently commended to minds with the parish pump ideal; and only external pressure and the education of the general public in library values will bring certain painfully parochial legislators into line with their opportunities. In London the situation is diverting; one Metropolitan Borough has awakened rather late to its peril, and like a surprised bather is frantically making for shore; with a desperate consciousness that close behind is the shark-like shadow of the London County Council. Other two Boroughs must be in doubt as to whether their very exiguous libraries, possessed of neither service nor system—neither use nor ornament—will place them out of reach of attack. And, if so, for how long? Other legislation is foreshadowed, and the Library Association (deeply grateful that the long years in the wilderness have ended) intends to bring libraries to all the people as a necessary preliminary to bringing all the people to the libraries.

A correspondent writes of a report in our first issue: "On page 109 you state that our forty-second annual meeting marked 'a definite cleavage between librarians and the Board of Education' with respect to future library policy. Here you innocently place the Association in a false position. The third interim report, the subject of the discussion to which you refer, was that of a committee appointed by the Ministry of Reconstruction, and was addressed to that Ministry. The Minister of Education considerately invited the opinion of the Library Association on that report. The Library Association, whilst approving certain recommendations contained therein, differed from others, and submitted a reasoned statement of its views to the Board of Education, as a reply to Mr. Fisher's request. It is therefore obvious that there is no 'cleavage' between librarians and the Board of Education; and an incorrect statement to that effect would give a wrong and damaging impression of the facts. Moreover, the Library Association is by no means exclusively composed of librarians. A very considerable proportion of those present at the Southport meeting were members of library authorities, many of whom were also members of education committees."

THE SOCIETY OF ANTIQUARIES

Of the three fragments of Christian art described by Mr. Dalton, one is a spandril of morse ivory 3 inches long, carved in high relief with two soaring angels back to back. This fascinating example of the Winchester School of Art dates from about 1000 A.D., and having been found in a garden at St. Cross, is now appropriately housed in the museum a mile away. The other two are products of the Near East: the first a detail from a mosaic pavement in a small church of the sixth century at Umm Jerar, south of Gaza, representing a phœnix on a fire-altar, a rare instance of this motive in early Christian times. The other is a marble slab in the British Museum, apparently part of a screen, from a church at Miafarkin, north-east of Diarbekr, Kurdistan. Dating probably from the twelfth century, it is carved in low relief on both faces, and a central medallion bears a double-headed eagle, which had already started on its eventful career. A gift from Sir John Ramsden has enriched the national collection with a fine example of the penannular brooch, for a long time in the Breadalbane family. It was probably found in Scotland, and falls into its place in the series of Irish or Scotic works of art, the date being towards the end of the eighth century. The material is silver-gilt, with gold filigree and glass settings; and even the back is ornamented with medallions of trumpet spirals.

THE BIBLIOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY

The occasion of the annual meeting of the Society, which was held on January 19th, was saddened by the recent death of Sir William Osler, the President of the Society, who had held that office for seven years. During that time he seldom failed to preside at the Society's meetings, and his courtesy and geniality, no less than his keen interest in bibliography, and especially in the Society's own sphere of work, won him the warm regard of the members. For some years past he had been engaged in the preparation of a monograph on medical works printed in the fifteenth century, which, it is hoped, will be issued by the Bibliographical Society. Sir William's successor in the Presidency is Mr. Falconer Madan, formerly Bodley's Librarian. At the January meeting he read an abridgment of a paper which he had written describing the work of the Daniel Press, which since the death of its founder and owner has passed into the possession of the Bodleian Library.

BOOKS OF THE MONTH

POETRY

FLORA. By PAMELA BIANCO. Verses by WALTER DE LA MARE. Heinemann. 25s. net.

Miss Bianco is twelve years old—at least she was when these drawings were made. There is a sameness about them. Almost all of them contain a rather languishing female face, with something of a primitive Madonna about it and something (if we dare suggest it) of the sophisticated 'nineties. In the coloured and in the more elaborate of the black-and-white pictures the faces are framed in setting of conventional but charming flowers, with, as Tennyson would put it, here and there a rabbit. The drawings are unreservedly amazing for a girl of Miss Bianco's age; if her future progress were to be on a par with her present precocity she would become one of the greatest artists in the world. We cannot assume that; nor, on the other hand, need we rummage in our notebooks for ancient generalisations about the fate of ancient prodigies. Miss Bianco is remarkable now; and she will be what she will be. If we were predicting we should say that she would become a very skilful and charming decorator, a more complicated Kate Greenaway.

She has at least performed one great feat already: she has provided little platforms from which Mr. de la Mare's Pegasus has sprung into the æther. We can imagine nothing which could more finally illustrate how small suggestions may germinate in a poet's mind than the verses which Mr. de la Mare has written to these so slight, so purely decorative pictures. His imagination has been coloured and excited by every smallest hint of a mood; and where, to the passing observant eye, Miss Bianco has left nothing more to be said to the little she has stated herself, anything, a droop of the eyelids, an indicated detail in the background, serves to send Mr. de la Mare off dreaming into remote fairylands. Behind one of Miss Bianco's damsels, slit-eyed and straight-fingered, is a path leading to a small crude building. The wind bloweth where it listeth. On this small thing, missing girl and child and leafy tree, Mr. de la Mare's eye has rested. The outlines have filled in, atmosphere has trembled in, sounds and lights; and the outcome is something of which Miss Bianco never dreamed:

Is it an abbey that I see

Hard by that tapering poplar-tree,

Whereat that path hath end?

'Tis wondrous still

That empty hill,

Yet calls me, friend.

Smooth is the turf, serene the sky,

The timeworn, crumbling roof awry;

Within that turret slim

Hangs there a bell

Whose faint notes knell?

Do colours dim

Burn in that angled window there,

Grass-green, and crimson, azure rare?

Would from that narrow door

One, looking in,

See, gemlike, shine

On walls and floor

Candles whose aureole flames must seem—

So still they burn—to burn in dream?

And do they cry, and say,

"See, stranger; come!

Here is thy home;

No longer stray"?

The poem Suppose, which appeared in our first number, starts on its fantastic flight from a face with eyes of wonderment in it; and from another head—a head crowned, a neck girdled—comes The Comb, perfect in itself without any picture:

My mother sate me at her glass;

This necklet of bright flowers she wove;

Crisscross her gentle hands did pass,

And wound in my hair her love.

Deep in the mirror our glances met,

And grieved, lest from her care I roam,

She kissed me through her tears, and set

On high this spangling comb.

Mirage is lovelier still, and far more slender in its origins; how Mr. de la Mare's imagination can fill out an outline that really is given is shown in his delicious poem of Master Rabbit. There is a charming sketch: a rabbit, and nothing more. But to the poet a whole scene comes up, country scents, green grasshoppers talking:

And wings like amber,

Dispread in light,

As from bush to bush

Linnet took flight.

He sees the rabbit looking out from the shadow-rimmed mouth of his shady cavern at sunset. Rabbit sees him:

Snowy flit of a scut,

He was into his hole;

And—stamp, stamp, stamp,

Through dim labyrinths clear—

The whole world darkened,

A human near.

This is an extra number to Peacock Pie, and the poems as a whole make us once more impatient for a collected volume of Mr. de la Mare's work which will show the bulk and the quality of the performance of one of the most exquisite artists in words who has ever contributed to the unequalled treasury of our English lyrics. Nevertheless it must be admitted that his average level is higher when he is not writing verses to a series of pictures.

SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY ENGLISH VERSE, 1616–1660. Edited by H. J. MASSINGHAM. Macmillan. (Golden Treasury Series.) 3s. 6d. net.

Mr. Massingham collects here four hundred poems written, with few exceptions, in the forty-four years that followed the death of Shakespeare. It may not be correct to describe this period as the most neglected period of English literature. It is true that many of the authors and most of the poems to be found in Mr. Massingham's collection have been ignored by anthologists, and are utterly unknown to the reading public; but we suspect that the periods of Anne and the Georges have been even less thoroughly searched, though they would not yield results so rich as those which have come from the claim that Mr. Massingham has staked out. There were great poets in that period; it left us many poems by Milton, Herrick, Herbert Vaughan, Cowley, Crashaw, Lovelace Suckling, and Carew which are familiar to every reader at all interested in English poetry. Had the obvious best been always selected Mr. Massingham would have found himself crowded out with stock pieces before he began. He has therefore—since he desired mainly to give publicity to the unfamiliar—left Milton and Herrick out altogether and excluded some of the best-known poems of their nearest rivals. This has given him room for everybody, or at least for a hundred and more poets, for Nabbes and Festel, as well as for the poets above mentioned, for Donne, and for such other respectable poets as Brome, Bunyan, Cartwright, Corbet, Davenant, Denham, the Fletchers, Habington, Bishop King, Massinger, Jasper Mayne, Quarles, Randolph, Shirley, T. Stanley, Traherne, Waller, Wither, and Wotton. It is an imposing array; contemplating it one realises that if that age could not vie with the Elizabethan in the number of great works produced, it actually beat it in the number of men it produced who wrote a few, or many, good short poems. And it had, as Mr. Massingham rightly says, a quality of its own. It may be difficult to deduce "tendencies" from this mass of metaphysical, amorous, graceful, jocular, scholarly, tripping verse. But at least the age was no mere afterglow. There are very few poems in this fine selection which could have been mistaken for products of any other generation, and there are few which are mere degenerate imitations of the songs of an earlier race. There was, under Charles and Cromwell, a distinct civilisation with a colour and a mind of its own; less passionate (save, in some quarters, in the matter of religion) than the last; less certain in its music; more self-conscious in all its ways: but genuine and, temperately, ardent, cheerful, chivalrous, genial, often tender. From the one pole of

What a dainty life the milkmaid leads!

to the other of

I saw Eternity the other night,

it covered, in its manner, the whole range of poetic experience and expression, and it did many things perfectly. Herrick and Vaughan were its typical products, and neither, in his sphere, has an equal.

We find no material fault in this most admirable and enjoyable anthology. We may, however, make in passing a few unimportant comments. Mr. Massingham, as we have said, has covered the ground more exhaustively than we had any right to expect; and for most of his important omissions he accounts satisfactorily on the ground that he does not want to reprint poems which everyone already knows. There are, however, a few things which he might have included. The selection would have been more thoroughly represented had it contained more of the controversial element. "I suppose," he says, "that my political temper would urge me to declare for the Parliament in the Civil War. But a bruising disunion of feeling would arise were such a choice forced upon me. Before the Civil War the middle and upper classes in England were highly educated and passionately drawn to music. Turning over these old Song-books, printed fifty years after their Elizabethan prototypes, one feels a horror at the men who violated the temples of song and learning. For the Puritans killed the musical soul of England and paved the way for our doom—the triumph of the business sense." That is as may be: at all events he who regarded Royalism as the devil would have to admit that, not forgetting Milton and Marvell, the devil had most of the best tunes; and there is a lilt about many of the Rump songs that equals anything in English polemic verse. Cleveland, in fancy, might have been more freely drawn on. Politics apart, there are things missing. A selection from Joseph Beaumont is given, but where is that beautiful poem about the "sweet fury" of Mary Magdalen? One poem of the mysterious Anne Collins (it is only, we think, one edition of her works of which a unique copy is supposed to exist; there was a second) is given, but not the best. Orinda is done scant justice; and another woman (not a genius, but as good as some of Mr. Massingham's men) who deserved quotation, however brief, is Anne Bradstreet, the Tenth Muse, the Female Homer and what not, of New England. The admission of Philip Ayres, who was twenty years out of date, is not really justifiable. Granted that he was old-fashioned in style and spirit, the same might be said of some of his Restoration contemporaries. Dr. Walter Pope's celebrated poem, for instance, would not have been out of place in a volume which contains Thomas Jordan and might have contained Martin Parker. A few of Mr. Massingham's copious and highly entertaining notes invite controversy. It is cruel of him, so tender as a rule towards small poets who have patches of goodness, to describe Flatman as a poetaster; it is rash of him to declare that a good Alexandrine must have a noticeable cæsura; and it must surely have been a moment of aberration which led him to detect "a superb freedom of imagination" in the ordinary tropes of Lord Herbert's Elegy:

Doth the sun now his light with yours renew?

Have waves the curling of your hair?

Did you restore unto the sky and air

The red and white and blue?

Have you vouchsafed to flowers since your death

That sweetest breath?

These things, however, matter little.

We note, by the way, that Mr. Massingham, like his predecessors, is unable to contribute anything new to the discussion concerning one of the noblest of the poems that come under his survey. We refer to "Yet if His Majesty our Sovereign Lord," which was discovered by Mr. Bullen in Christ Church Library. Mr. Bullen conjectured Vaughan as author. Mr. Massingham, with all deference, says that Mr. Bullen is wrong. We agree with Mr. Massingham; but we should greatly like this problem to be cleared up.

A MISCELLANY OF POETRY—1919. Edited by WILLIAM KEAN SEYMOUR. Palmer & Hayward. 5s. net.

This miscellany "is issued to the public as a truly catholic anthology of contemporary poetry." We do not quite gather what the author means by this. He has restricted the range of his selection by printing only poems which have not yet appeared "in book form," and he certainly cannot suppose that he has even half of the best living poets in his volume, or even half of the best poets of the younger generation. Mr. Chesterton appears, but not Mr. Belloc; Mr. Binyon, but not A. E. or Mr. Yeats; Mr. Davies, but not Mr. de la Mare; Mr. Sturge Moore, but not Mr. Freeman; Mr. Nichols, but not Mr. Sassoon, Mr. Graves, or Mr. Turner. Possibly the suggestion is that Mr. Seymour has consulted other people's tastes as well as his own; this might explain the presence here of poets who are not known to have written anything of any merit and who certainly contribute nothing of merit to this collection.

However, the good things make the book worth having. Chief among them is a long epistle by Mr. Sturge Moore, which contains pictures as clean-cut and vivid as those which made his Micah so peculiarly rich a poem. Mr. Chesterton's Ballad of St. Barbara has glorious lines, and the spirit is the spirit of The White Horse, but ballads should not be obscure, and this one is. There is no obscurity in Mr. Chesterton's Elegy in a Country Churchyard:

The men that worked for England

They have their graves at home,

And bees and birds of England

About the cross can roam.

But they that fought for England,

Following a fallen star,

Alas, alas, for England

They have their graves afar!

And they that rule in England

In stately conclave met,

Alas, alas, for England,

They have no graves as yet!

The series of lyrics by Mr. Davies are, as usual, delicious, and there is less of rotundity than usual, and more exactness and feeling, in Mr. John Drinkwater's Malediction. Mr. Gibson contributes a series of descriptive war-sonnets, adjectival but interesting; and Mr. Gerald Gould eight sonnets very skilfully written and full of good, if reminiscent, phrases, which are unfortunately not as intelligible as they look. The editor's Fruitage is too much like the more pontifical octosyllabics of Mr. Drinkwater, but his Siesta gives a hot coloured picture vividly. Of the other contributors Mr. Binyon, Miss Macaulay, Mr. Theodore Maynard, and Mr. Charles Williams (whose Poems of Conformity, difficult but sinewy, should be better known than they are) are interestingly represented. To these we may add Mr. F. V. Branford, who has almost made a good poem out of mathematics. It concludes:

For here and hence I sail

Alone beyond the pale,

Where square and circle coincide,

And the parallels collide,

And perfect pyramids flower.

Obscurity is more excusable in this poem than in his others. The discriminating reader who has read this book once will probably mark the poems he wants to read a second time; there are many here by authors who need not be specified which have given us an uncompensated headache. If the editor means to follow the volume up he would be well advised next time in being less "catholic" in this regard; an anthology of contemporary verse has to be almost uniformly good to serve any useful purpose.

NOVELS

INTERIM. By DOROTHY RICHARDSON. Duckworth. 7s. net.

VALMOUTH. By RONALD FIRBANK. Grant Richards. 7s. net.

FULL CIRCLE. By MARY AGNES HAMILTON. Collins. 7s. net.

INVISIBLE TIDES. By BEATRICE SEYMOUR. Chapman & Hall. 7s. net.

Miss Richardson's novel is her fifth volume in the same manner and about the same person; and a sixth volume is announced. She has apparently in effect only one novel to write and only one manner in which to do it. It is a manner distinctively her own, and yet not an isolated phenomenon. This kind of thinking and this kind of writing seem to be abroad at the moment. There are deep and genuine analogies between Miss Richardson's style and the style of Mr. James Joyce; there is a much more superficial resemblance between her work and the fumisterie of Mr. Ronald Firbank. She has influenced (but in this case it was a conscious discipleship) the method of Miss May Sinclair. It would not be difficult to find in her traits which she has in common with the more sincere exponents of Futurist poetry and with the theory an attempt to embody which was made in Futurist paintings. She is, in fact, an individual member of a school which is mostly posing and pretence, and which tends to discredit its very few genuine exponents. But that Miss Richardson is genuine, whether we like reading her books or not, is a question beyond dispute. She writes as she does because she must, because it is the way in which it has been given her to write.

It is her object to translate the memories of sensations into words directly and with as little change as possible. This is a specimen:

Miriam pulled up in front of a large oil-painting over the sofa; its distances—where a meadow stream that was wide in the foreground with a stone bridge and a mill-wheel and a cottage half hidden under huge trees, grew narrow and wound on and on through tiny distant fields until the scene melted in a soft-toned mist—held all her early visits to the Brooms in the Banbury Park days before they had discovered that she did not like sitting with her back to the fire. She listened eagerly to the busy sounds of the Brooms. Someone had bolted the hall-door and was scrooping a chair over the tiles to get up and put out the gas. Dust-sheets were still being flountered in the room behind her. Grace's arm came round her waist.—I'm so glad you've come, sweet, she said in her low, steady, shaken tones.—So am I, said Miriam.—Isn't that a jolly picture.—Yes. It's an awfully good one, you know. It was one of papa's.—What's O'Hara doing in the kitchen?—Taking Grace by the waist, Miriam drew into the passage, trying to prance with her down the hall. The little kitchen was obscured by an enormous clothes-horse draped with airing linen. She's left a miserable fire, said Mrs. Philps from behind the clothes-horse. She hasn't done the saucepans, aunt, scolded Florrie from the scullery.—Never mind, we can't have er down now. It's nearly midnight.

This is the reconstitution of a moment and, for what it is worth, Miss Richardson makes the moment live again. But minds which observe and record in her close, literal fashion are not normal minds; and therefore her impressions of life, coloured as they are by her acute introspectiveness, cannot correspond to life as normal persons see it. The normal person simplifies life, not merely when, if ever, he describes it, but also when he perceives it. The world is not to him the fragmentary incoherent whirl of feelings and events which it is to Miss Richardson. Nevertheless, it is obvious that this is how the world appears to her; and here, again for what it is worth, is her description of it. With such a book, a document rather than a novel, the ordinary attitude of the critic of fiction is naturally unsuitable and inapplicable. He cannot assume the conventional position of judgment from a definite and unalterable standard. He can, in fact, do no more than explain what is the book before him and leave it at that. We attempt to do no more. We do, however, think it worth while to establish the fact, if possible, that Miss Richardson's "novels" are the real expression of a real personality. On some readers they may have absolutely no effect; on some a small or a transitory effect; some, we know, appreciate them enormously. But they are genuine; they are not "stunts." When the series is finished, it may, of course, appear that Miss Richardson has given to the life of Miriam Henderson an artistic shape and moulding, instead of making it merely an endless film. But this does not at present suggest itself. What we have now is the record of a particular mind in various states, a mind which is not normal, but is not possessed to an abnormal degree of either beauty or power. That, we confess, is all we are able to say.

That Miss Richardson's method is native and genuine may be seen by a comparison of it with that of Mr. Ronald Firbank, whose Valmouth is worth noticing here in order to make the point. Here, again, a random specimen is necessary:

Depositing his scrip in the outhouse, the cowherd glanced around:

"Where's Thetis got?" he asked, addressing the small boy, who, brandishing a broken rhubarb leaf, was flitting functionarily about.

"Thetis?... She's," he hopped, "standing in the river."

"What's she standing there for?"

"Nothing."

"... Must I thrash you, Billy Jolly?"

"Oh, don't, David."

"Then answer me quick."

"When the tide flows up from Spadder Bay she pretends it binds her to the sea. Where her sweetheart is. Her b-betrothed.... Away in the glorious tropics."

"'Od! You're a simple one, you are!"

"Me?"

"Aye, you."

"Don't be horrid, David, to me ... you mustn't be. It's bad enough quite without."

"'Od."

Throughout this curious book we have again an attempt at an incoherent and bewildering style, a picture of a world which disintegrates into a thousand pieces as we regard it. It is indeed in some sort that deliquescence of language and thought of which a certain school of French writers once dreamed. But it expresses not a native, if unusual, way of seeing, so much as a perverse, deliberately assumed attitude. Mr. Firbank has clearly talents and ingenuity enough to prevent any nonsense he may write being thrown away as pure nonsense. But it is also clear that his aim is to write nonsense rather than sense and perhaps to put forward under a film of absurdity a certain natural perversity which would not be welcomed if it were more lucidly expressed. He has a certain gift for inconsequence and highly etherealised frivolity; but this may be inextricably connected with his demerits, in which case it would be useless to ask him to change. If he does not, he will remain a curiosity, mildly amusing a few readers, deluding a few into a belief that they have found a super-genius and boring or displeasing the great majority.

These two books taken together suggest an aspect from which it may be profitable to consider Mrs. Hamilton's Full Circle. Neither of them tells a story, in the sense in which the miraculous inventors of the Arabian Nights told stories. Miss Richardson has no "astonishing history" to recount. She rather describes than tells: though her heroine moves chronologically, one has yet the sense rather of movement in space than of movement in time. Mr. Firbank tells some story or other, but it is not possible to discern it under his incessant saltimbanqueries. Mrs. Hamilton tells a definite tale. Certain persons enter into relations, find themselves in a situation, resolve it: there is an introduction, a complication, and a dénouement. It is, however, the story that we miss when we look back on the book. Mrs. Hamilton has observed or imagined certain persons of various characters and, in order to exhibit them, has invented the shocks and clashes between them which carry on her narrative. But, while the persons are clearly observed or imagined, the book suggests that nothing more than invention was used for the bringing forth of the incidents. The writer might easily have been content to describe her characters without showing them in motion. The Quihamptons, Iris Mauldeth and Wilfrid Elstree, are vivid and real, portrayed in the round. We should know them if we met them; and, from their presentation here, we can make such estimates of and guesses about them as we make in ordinary life—they are no less real than that. But in Wilfrid's affair with Bridget Quihampton, in his disappearance and return, in Roger's marriage and destiny, it is impossible not to discern a certain lassitude and want of interest. The incidents are not improbable or ill-drawn; but Mrs. Hamilton cannot have felt very much about them as incidents. Though the people have undoubtedly come to life in her hands, they have not proceeded to do anything of their own initiative; except in one instance, we feel the hand of the author jogging their elbows and ruling their fates. When two of them, when Bridget and Wilfrid, are involved in an emotional situation, the author's interest continues to reveal itself in Bridget and in Wilfrid, not in the situation which the clash of their individualities has produced. A tale need not deal with the marvellous and fantastic, with genies in bottles and young princes transformed into calves, in order to exhibit the special gift of the story-teller. It may concern itself with themes as slight as those of The Spoils of Poynton or What Maisie Knew. But it must at least deal not with isolated personalities but with that which is produced by the fusion, whether in love or hate or some other emotion, of two or more personalities, or by the impact of events on a single personality or more. We do not mean to suggest that Mrs. Hamilton's novel is deficient in this essential: we mean only that on this side of her work there are traces of what appeared to us to be lack of interest, even traces of boredom. In one situation only, in the subtly and mysteriously hinted conflict between Wilfrid Elstree, the brilliant, untrammelled egoist, and Iris Mauldeth, the pretty girl whose commonplace character is as rigid as iron, are these traces absent; and here the novelist's work is done so exceedingly well as to make the deficiencies of the rest especially noticeable.

Mrs. Beatrice Seymour's novel is also distinguished by one remarkable incident. It is, we are informed, a first work, and as such it deserves praise for its smoothness and competence. But in nine parts out of ten it seems to be the attempt of a quite clever writer to sum up in short space what Mr. Bennett did in the three volumes of the Clayhanger series, and what Mr. Compton Mackenzie has not yet finished doing in the four volumes of the Sylvia and Michael series. It describes, that is to say, the separate childhood and youth of a young man and young woman and then their union, which in this case is illicit and which is terminated by the war. Much of it is a great deal too up-to-date to have any depth. Hilary Sargent is a painter, calls Helena Morden "Deirdre" as soon as he sees her, and, one day when they were together on the Downs, "he read to her things she knew and things she didn't from de la Mare, Drinkwater, Gould, Hodgson, and (most appropriately) Hilaire Belloc. And there was Flecker and Brooke and Frances Cornford and Lady Margaret Sackville; and Dora Sigerson whom Helena loved." No wonder that, as the reader easily foresees, they lost the last train home; they had confused their minds with too many styles, and had far too many books to carry. This kind of modernity is too superficial and too easy of achievement: it is presenting the reader with false coin. For the rest the book has the slickness and the clicking regularity which, though they are by no means common in novelists, cannot be of great interest, except to the subscribers to circulating libraries who are wont to ask for a novel which will enable them to support the tedium of the week-end. But in one chapter Mrs. Seymour surprisingly faces and masters a real and a painful situation—that of a shallow girl who, having rejoiced that her husband at the front enables her to be in the fashion, collapses under the news that he has been made hideous by injuries received in the trenches. This is a thing which has undoubtedly happened; it is unspeakably agonising to contemplate; and, so far as we know, no novelist has hitherto attempted it. But there is no reason why it should not be used for purposes of art if the novelist has the requisite skill and tact and, above all, the requisite courage. Mrs. Seymour looks the basilisk in the eyes and reduces it to her service. The conversation between Helena and Pamela Sand—it occupies less than eight pages—in which the whole affair is begun and ended, projects violently out of the book, makes the rest of it look rather emptier than it really is, and testifies unmistakably to the genuine powers which Mrs. Seymour has not elsewhere employed. One scene does not make a novel, much less a novelist; but one such scene as this in a first book persuades us to look hopefully to Mrs. Seymour's future.

THE CHORUS GIRL AND OTHER STORIES. By ANTON TCHEHOV. Chatto & Windus. 3s. net.

In the title-story of this volume the injured wife of Nikolay Petrovitch Kolpakov calls suddenly at the house of Pasha, a chorus-girl, with whom he is accustomed to spend his time, and Kolpakov, who is there, goes into hiding. He has been ruined by his extravagances and is on the point of being arrested for embezzlement. His wife demands the return of the gifts he has lavished on Pasha, in order that the missing sum may be made up and dishonour averted, but Pasha has had no gifts from him. The wife refuses to believe it, repeats her demand, and then, without altering her attitude of contemptuous hatred, implores and entreats. Pasha at last gives her the presents she has received from more generous admirers. She declares these are not enough and asks for more, and Pasha gives her everything she has. When his wife has gone, Kolpakov comes out of his retirement and, expressing his angry remorse that she should have had to kneel to a "low creature," pushes the girl aside and leaves her. Then

Pasha lay down and began wailing aloud. She was already regretting her things which she had given away so impulsively, and her feelings were hurt. She remembered how three years ago a merchant had beaten her for no sort of reason, and she wailed more loudly than ever.

This synopsis suggests, more accurately than any analysis we could attempt in the space at our disposal, why we should welcome the eighth volume of Mrs. Constance Garnett's admirable rendering of the tales of Tchehov into English. An extended study might discover many traits in this author which would be worthy of observation. There is, for example, the peculiar acuteness of his sense of smell. "The air was full of the smell of freshly scrubbed floors." ... "As I mounted the soft carpeted stairs there was, for some reason, a strong smell of india-rubber" ... a house "was half dark and mysterious and smelt of mushrooms"—these are sentences taken at random from two or three stories in the present volume. A minute examination would reveal other characteristics by which a formal criticism could distinguish Tchehov from other writers of the short story. But it is doubtful whether any study could come nearer to defining the nature of his genius than by naming the qualities which are immediately obvious in The Chorus Girl. He has precision, economy, detachment, and, for all his gloom and squalor, charm also. He stoops as it were from an ineffable height, picks up a situation, describes it in the smallest possible number of words, and lets it fall back into the welter of human lives. It is not likely that any English author will imitate him, nor would it be desirable, but his qualities, if they cannot be learnt, can at least be used to correct excesses. And, apart from that, these eight volumes are a monument of narrative and (for with Mrs. Garnett's translation one can say so much) of style.

BELLES-LETTRES AND CRITICISM

THE LONDON VENTURE. By MICHAEL ARLEN. Heinemann. 4s. net.

It is a little hard to know under what classification this book ought to be considered, whether fiction, biography, or belles-lettres. The same difficulty has occasionally arisen with the works of Mr. George Moore. But since the author is alluded to in it by the name which he acknowledges to be his own, we have decided that it cannot be fiction. For a reason which has sometimes occurred to the critics of Mr. George Moore, we beg to be excused from treating it as biography. There remains nothing but belles-lettres.

And Mr. George Moore's name occurs here very appropriately, for not he, not even Mr. Max Beerbohm, has written anything so characteristically Moore-ish as some of these pages. Observe how it is done:

But this letter has seemed strange to me because, perhaps, I shall never again receive a letter whose writer is dead, and who, when writing it, dreamt of all material things but death. Were I Oscar Wilde I might wonder now if Englishwomen who die in America come back to London; for there is much of London in the letter: "I should like to be in London to-day—Bloomsbury London, Mayfair London, Chelsea London, London of the small restaurants and large draughts of wine, London of the intellectual half-lights, drone of flippant phrases and racy epigrams, with a thin fog outside." ...

... Out of the silence of two years at last came a letter from her. I found it when I came in very late one night, and for a long time I stood in my little hall and examined the Eastern stamp and postmark; and the writing on the envelope was so exactly the same as on the last note she had sent me before leaving England that I had to smile at the idea of Shelmerdene, in the rush of her last pursuit of her perfect fate, laying in a sufficient store of her own special nibs to last her for the lifetime she intended to spend abroad; for when I opened the letter I found that, as I had guessed, she would never come back to England, saying, "I am a fugitive branch which has at last found its parent tree.... I have run my perfect fate to earth, Dikran! more perfect than any dream, more lasting than the most perfect dream." ...

Here is the very attitude, here the very cadences of the original; and the adventures are not dissimilar. Now Mr. Moore has acquired his style by long labour, and it is a little amusing to see the flower of it culled by a writer who has neither dug nor watered. But Mr. Arlen will not in so close a discipleship make the best of the talents which the very closeness of his discipleship shows him to possess. An author who can copy so exactly the manner of another ought to be able to evolve a manner of his own; and we look forward to seeing a book in which Mr. Arlen shall have done this.

IN THE GARRET. By CARL VAN VECHTEN. Knopf.

Mr. Van Vechten is an American critic, rather of the type of the ingenious Mr. Huneker. He is quite as fluent, not quite so versatile. No art or aspect of life presents itself to Mr. Huneker as superior to any other; but Mr. Van Vechten has a great deal more to say about music than about anything else. He touches the theatre a great deal, literature a little, and music most of all; and he gulps down greedily all he touches. One name is as good as another to him and he knows a great many names of all sorts. "George Moore," he says, apropos of Mr. Moore's suggestion that Robinson Crusoe ought to be rewritten, "has rewritten many of his own books. Henry James rewrote all of his novels and tales that he cared to preserve for the definitive edition. On the other hand, Ouida believed (and expressed this belief in a paper published in her Critical Studies) that once a book was given to the public it became a part of life, a part of history, and that its author had no right to tamper with it." Mr. Ernest Newman likes the operas of Isaac Albéniz, but Mr. Marliave does not share his enthusiasm. On two opposite pages we discovered the names of the following persons: Mr. Cabell, Mr. Arthur Machen, George Sand, M. Maeterlinck, Mr. Cecil Forsythe, Monet, Leonardo, Homer, Rabelais, Cervantes, Remy de Gourmont, Dickens, Huysmans, and Mr. Havelock Ellis. This is lively enough in all conscience, and Mr. Van Vechten is able to keep it up without flagging and to support it with an equal vivacity of style, as when he remarks that the art of the musician "deals with clang-tints." Modern English criticism is sometimes reproached with being a little too heavy. Here we have a critic so volatile that he bounces like a child's balloon from the name of one great man to another.

AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS. By TONY CYRIAX. Collins. 12s. 6d. net.

The brush rather than the pen is evidently the medium of expression for Mrs. Tony Cyriax. The pictures in her book convey an infinitely better impression of the life of the peasant in an Italian mountain-village than all she says about it in writing, which is rather crude and colourless. But the pictures are delightful, and are sufficiently praised in an appreciative Introduction by Mr. Muirhead Bone.

The best chapters in the book are those dealing with the tending of silkworms in peasant cottages, and the greatly dreaded hailstorm which, despite the prayers of the priest, religious processions, and the ringing of church bells, destroys in an hour the labour of months and brings the villagers to the verge of starvation.

Such a storm as the writer describes will recall vividly to the memory of any one who has stayed in an Italian hillside village the pathetic anxiety of the natives when a thunderstorm is brewing. All around stretch the vineyards, which from dawn till dusk have been the care of people to whose toil the day's work of an English agricultural labourer is child's play. Will the hailstones utterly ruin the vines? If so, the villagers will be faced with semi-starvation, and yet more bread-winners, in despair, must emigrate to America, that refuge for the Italian destitute.

Pathetic, too, is an account of weeks of unceasing toil in connection with the cottage silkworm industry. The cavalleri (as the peasants call the silkworms), remorseless in their greed for mulberry leaves and their demands for the right temperature, will keep a whole family working for them from morning till night.

Here, as given by Mrs. Tony Cyriax, is the result of the labour of one such household:

"The work from start to finish had covered forty days, and Rosina's cocoons had weighed fifty-six kilograms ... so Rosina had earned exactly 224 lire, which is all but £9."

As a record of the hard existence that may be passed in the midst of Nature's graciousness and beauty Among Italian Peasants is not without value.

SUSSEX IN BYGONE DAYS: Reminiscences of Nathaniel Paine Blaker, M.R.C.S. Hove, Combridges. 1919. 5s.

The recorders of Sussex must have a shelf to themselves by this time, and there are many reasons for it. Sussex has not only individual quality, amenity and interest: all counties have them. But it is accessible, and it is the fashion. Not to go back to Dallaway and his likes, the best of the moderns are Mr. Lucas and Mr. Halsham, and the better of them Mr. Lucas, as we think. He has the mellower outlook, a benevolent, postprandial regard. Mr. Halsham is more pedagogical; he regrets much, and seldom approves. He cannot praise a landscape without reminding us how much better it was before old What's-his-name cut down those trees. Taken at some length—indeed, taken in series—he becomes tiresome. Nevertheless, he wrote a novel once, called Kitty Fairhall, which contains more of the essence of the Sussex peasant than Mr. Lucas himself is likely to apprehend.

Mr. Nathaniel Blaker, the latest chronicler, earns a place upon the shelf the rather because it need only be a little one. Our quarrel with him would be that it did not ask a larger. He has lived long and served his county honourably in an honourable profession; but he has not much to say. That is a pity. He has stored his mind, but cannot load his page. He remembers mail-coaches, he remembers the ox-teams, he remembers the days of reaping with the sickle, the foot-high stubbles, the threshing with a flail. To some of us those memories have a savour so sharp that, with the wind, one might catch and transfigure it in words. To Mr. Blaker they are as the primrose was to Mr. Bell, and one feels that he puts them down rather because that is the kind of thing one does put down in books of this sort than because they import a perfume which it is luxury to distil upon the page. Lacking gusto, Mr. Blaker tantalises his reader. The beautiful names which he strews about him—Selmesten, Steyning, Hurstpierpoint, Ringmer, Fulking—flicker like a mirage. He tells us, for example, that Steyning Fair in the old days "was a scene of great excitement and confusion, and probably as much iniquity as could be crowded into so small a space." We dare say so; but we are athirst for the iniquities, and he gives us none to drink of. One wishes to get Mr. Blaker by the fire with a matured cigar, and ply him with questions. Gypsies now. Obviously he knows a great deal about them. He says, "I well recollect, very many years ago, one rainy afternoon, which prevented them working, watching a family of gypsies in a barn. I think the family must have consisted of the father and mother and several children, one daughter nearly grown up, and two or three acquaintances. They all sat or lay about upon the straw, doing absolutely nothing, while one or two girls kept singing a peculiarly plaintive and monotonous but soothing and agreeable tune in a language, I believe, I did not know, for I could not catch a single word." That is the sort of thing Mr. Blaker will do with a pen in his hand—give us the materials of a picture and leave us burning. His "broken hinted sights" do but sting the mind.

Of course he tells us—he can't help it—some interesting things. One of them is "a common saying that Sussex girls had such long legs because they stretched them by pulling them out of the mud." That must have been in the Weald—but we did not know that feature of Sussex girls. Cobbett knew, and so do we, that they are remarkable for their good looks. Mr. Blaker does not say so. We regret his Peter Bell attitude to life. His best chapters are upon the horse and the birch, with both of which he is evidently acquainted. "It used to be considered," he says, "a great joke when a lady's first baby arrived to send her a carefully packed parcel containing a small birch rod, with a label, 'To be used when required.'" That is what we want. And, again, he says that "it was the custom when the cloth was laid for dinner in the middle of the day, for the cane, which was kept over the mantel ... to be placed with the carving-knife and steel on papa's right hand." Excellent. These scraps show what a handsome sack of oddments Mr. Blaker must have. He should have shaken it more liberally over his book.

A PILGRIM IN PALESTINE AFTER ITS DELIVERANCE. By JOHN FINLEY. Chapman & Hall. 10s. net.

Of Mr. Finley's sincerity and enthusiasm there can be no question: of his taste there is a good deal to be said. Many books have been written about the Holy Land; but surely none before which deliberately puts the history and the personages of Palestine into the background of a picture whose foreground is occupied with the events of the recent campaign. Mr. Finley has no hesitation in viewing sacred history sub specie temporis hodierni. For him Allenby's battle at Armageddon is "the beginning of the end of the battle with the Beast." The German is not, however, only Anti-Christ: he is also Judas. Here are Mr. Finley's meditations over the Holy City:

I was an ashamed spectator, standing there at the Gethsemane Gate, feeling that we had been sleeping when we should have been watching, when we should have been preparing for defence against the German Judas who had professed devotion to the teachings of Him who spoke the Sermon on the Mount. Did not the great German Hospice stand most conspicuously on the Mount, that its pilgrims might dip their bread in the very sop of the Master's dish? And do not the towers of the German churches stand out most prominently (and offensively) in the Inner City?

Most of his book is like that: and if you cannot see history in quite the startling black-and-white of Mr. Finley's imagination you had better leave the book unread. Mr. Finley was with the American Red Cross, and he tells one happy story of himself, which it is only fair to quote. He was worshipping in the Russian Church of the Ascension on the Mount of Olives:

A woman of sharp, eager face, as of a zealot, with a grey shawl over her head, seeing me standing near the door, approached me and said, in rather sharp voice, "Quelle croix?" I did not at first understand the import of her inquiry, though I realised that she was putting to me an all-important question: "Quelle croix?—grecque ou latine?" ... My answer was "La Croix Rouge."

If the soil of Palestine be favourable for legends, no doubt a tale will arise of a strange religion whose devotees cross themselves neither in the Western or Eastern manner, but in some strange, "red" mode which Mr. Finley's zealot was probably eager to see.

ADDRESSES IN AMERICA. By JOHN GALSWORTHY. Heinemann. 6s. net.

Generalisation, which used to be a philosophy, is rapidly becoming little more than a hobby. During the war it was a hobby savagely or amiably ridden by those who sought to explain the mentality of the Allies or the Enemy. Gradually individuals learnt that not every Belgian was Belgium, nor every German Germany: but for propaganda purposes we still used great typical figures. It saved thought, and it flattered either our own pride or that of our friends. The propagandists' most delicate task was always to explain Great Britain to the United States of America: and certainly it was a wise thing to send Mr. Galsworthy across the Atlantic. Surely he, if anyone, might be able to justify the ways of the country house to Boston and New York, to Washington and even to Chicago. Here we have his addresses delivered during 1919 in the United States. In his paper on America and Britain he takes the line that by words we are saved:

The tie of language is all-powerful—for language is the food formative of minds. Why a volume could be written on the formation of character by literary humour alone.

It sounds not unconvincing, until one remembers that French is not the language of Alsace; that English is spoken by most of the inhabitants of Ireland; or, to go further back, that the possession of a common language did not prevent Athens and Sparta from indulging in the Peloponnesian War.

We like Mr. Galsworthy better when he leaves his generalisations and tells stories. In the paper "Tallary at Large" he displays that sweet-naturedness, that mellowed irony which never lapses into satire, that humour which is always aware that a sense of pity is invaluable in comedy. Here is the true Galsworthy:

In the fifth year of the war two men sat alone in a railway carriage. One pale, young, and rather worn, had an unlighted cigarette in his mouth. The other elderly, prosperous, and of a ruddy countenance, was smoking a large cigar. The young man, who looked as if his days were strenuous, took his unlighted cigarette from his mouth, gazed at it, searched his pockets, and looked at the elderly man, and said, ... "Could you give me a light, sir?" The elderly man regarded him for a moment, dropped his eyelids, and murmured: "I've no matches." The young man sighed, mumbled the cigarette on his watering lips, then said very suddenly: "Perhaps you'll very kindly give me a light from your cigar, sir." The elderly man moved throughout his body as if something very sacred had been thrilled within him. "I'd rather not," he said, "if you don't mind." A quarter of an hour passed, while the young man's cigarette grew moister, and the elder man's cigar shorter. Then the latter stirred, took it from under his grey moustache, looked critically at it, held it out a little way towards the other with the side which was least burned-down foremost, and said: "Unless you'd like to take it from the edge."

And there are people who are surprised that the returned soldier occasionally commits acts of violence.

THOUGHTS IN MIDDLE LIFE. By G. LOCKER LAMPSON. Humphreys. 3s. 6d. net.

This book is beautifully printed on admirable paper, and is priced very low. Unfortunately Mr. Locker Lampson has reached middle life without learning that most platitudes are better unwritten. "No man is a hero to his own valet, and the same principle may be applied as in part the cause of our invidious comparisons between the men of yesterday and those of to-day." "He alone has a right to be called successful who has led a happy life." Sometimes he will enliven his platitude by a pleasing derangement of metaphors. "Autobiographies are of little value in extending the personality of their authors. We may get an occasional glimpse below the surface, but the waters are generally agitated by all kinds of subsidiary motives, and the eye cannot pierce them." The one sentence which explains the author is to be found in the essay One's Own Company: "No man, then, need ever be bored by himself, although he cannot avoid being bored by others."

DOMUS DOLORIS. By W. COMPTON LEITH. The Bodley Head. 7s. 6d. net.

In the unornamental language, from which even the loftiest intelligence may extract apt expression for itself, this little book may be called a collection of thoughts in hospital from a patient's standpoint, and an impression of the various nurses who attended him. And yet such a description is unjust and utterly beside the point. The publisher's note upon the cover tells us that Mr. Leith has "a rare sense of the value of words and the beauty of phrases," and there is no doubt of it. But the value to literature and humanity of phrases which are but the vehicles of their own intrinsic beauty is to be questioned. The whole essay is precious in the last degree.

"Oblivion flowed up like evening gloom. Life moved with it to the edge of a great deep; it was drawn over; it floated down and down, wound in the arms of sleep."

"A faint awareness stole into being, like the grey of morning; then a sense of movement; but whether it was a coming up and forth, or a declining, there was no power to tell."

This sort of thing, exquisite as it may be sometimes, constantly reminds us, however, and with relief, that Henley, with simplicity and humour, covered the same ground in verse. From time to time an unpretentious passage comes to us with a shock, and we ask ourselves again and again, if, as it seems, the writer has opinions to air, observations about life and death to make, what especial virtue there is in the high-falutin obscurity of his expression. One of the chief and most necessary concealments of art lies in a well-simulated nonchalance to the more obvious kind of purple patch. Here the entire robe is of purple, though certainty of a royal shade. There were voices, Mr. Leith tells us on the first page (and it was not until the fifteenth that we knew where the voices came from), which "kept thought strained after a meaning." A light strain is no doubt good for thought; but in reading this book it is not light: and it is hard to say which strain is the more severe—the student's for meaning or the author's for effect.

A CHILDHOOD IN BRITTANY EIGHTY YEARS AGO. By ANNE DOUGLAS SEDGWICK. Arnold. 10s. 6d. net.

Nowhere in England, nor even in Ireland or Scotland, could the life pictured in this book be paralleled. Feudalism has lingered, but not in delicate or decorative ways: in the Brittany of which Miss Sedgwick tells us, the beauty, the generous abundance, and the sincere brotherliness of life almost overcome one's distaste for the feudal system which formed its basis. The lady whose childhood is shown us was of a noble Breton family; her father seems to have been the only Republican she knew among the company of Royalists; life was still so ordered that the country people, coming to Mass, would bow to the lord and lady of the manor, after paying their respects to the altar. Yet one is left with a sense of fraternity as genuine as that one feels in reading Chaucer, as the story witnesses:

One peasant, I remember, Paul Simur by name, of whom my father was specially fond, was so dirty and unwashed that a sort of mark of dirt had formed upon his features. One day, at a hunting-party, papa called to Paul to come and sit beside him, and the other huntsmen, with singular bad taste, began to make fun of Paul, who sat much abashed, with hanging head. Papa affectionately laid an arm about his neck and defended him, until his friends finally cried out that they wagered he would not kiss him. At this, although he confessed afterwards to the most intense repugnance, he at once kissed Paul heartily. Poor Paul was quite overcome. He came to my father afterwards with tears in his eyes and said, standing before him and gazing at him: "Oh, mon maître, que je t'aime!"

Although the accounts of old Breton customs—the glimpse at the Folgoat pardon, the gently critical analysis of the lives of the gentry, the sidelights on the peasants, their cooking and their cottages—are all full of interest, the book is chiefly to be valued for preserving the fragrance of an order of living which too many of us are apt to think of as one of harsh tyranny alleviated by wanton luxury.

HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY

THE LIFE OF THOMAS COUTTS, BANKER. By ERNEST HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 2 Vols. Lane. 42s. net.

Thomas Coutts, virtual founder of the Bank of his name as it now is, was born in 1735, and, according to the standards of Scotland, well born, having, that is, wise, reputable forbears, relatives with place-names of their own—Stuarts of Allanbank and the like—and a coat-of-arms. "Instead of which," as the old story has it, at the age of twenty-eight he married his mother's nursemaid, and loved and served her faithfully until, after some fifty years' partnership, she wandered out of her mind and then out of his world. By that time his three daughters by her had married, one an Earl of Guilford, one a Marquis of Bute, and one Sir Francis Burdett. By that time also Coutts was one of the most considerable bankers in London, and one of the richest men in England. It might now be thought that his adventures in life were over—but not at all. At seventy years of age he stepped once more into the Pays du Tendre, and took into his protection—which in his case, it really appears, had no secondary meaning—Miss Harriot Mellon, a low comedy actress of abundant charm, humble birth, little education, and excellent disposition. She was then twenty-eight. He fell headlong in love with her and head over heels. He endowed her with stock and other movables to the amount of £500 a year, and when, at the age of eighty, he made her his second wife he settled the whole of that endowment upon herself. At his death, Mr. Coleridge tells us, her private fortune could not have been less than £200,000. Notwithstanding the estrangement and unconcealed disgust of "the ladies," as he always called his daughters, she made him perfectly happy for nine years; and when, at eighty-nine, he died, very reasonably, he left her practically everything he possessed.

That in outline is the life-history of Thomas Coutts as Mr. Ernest Coleridge pleasantly and ably narrates it in two portly volumes. The book offers a view of eighteenth-century manners which is not often, and seldom so well, illustrated. Coutts must have been, and he was, a notable man of affairs; but he was a good deal better than that. He knew, of course, everybody who was anybody. He was the friend and correspondent of Lord Bute, the favourite of Lord Chatham, of William Pitt. He lent, mero motu ejus, £10,000 to Charles Fox without security of any kind. He lent large sums to the Duchess of Devonshire, and forwent the interest until such time as her son was pleased to pay it; for her husband never would. He lectured that great and gay lady upon her follies with perfect freedom and no result. All the royal rips, sons of George III., banked with him, or, in other words, borrowed from him; and they dined with him too. Edward Duke of Kent, the only one of them who was not a rip, made a friend of him as well as a convenience. It is interesting to remark how Coutts deals with these disreputable magnates. He is respectful of their degree in so far as he is shopkeeper and they customers; but outside the bank-parlour he stands on level terms. His children are to commence with their children; his wife's table is as good as their tables. Servant-girl or not, his wife, Mrs. Coutts, is the equal of their wives. There is nothing of Sir Pertinax MacSycophant in his letters, although, as a trader, he continually has his eye upon business, and is never above doing himself a good turn. Mr. Coleridge is to be congratulated upon having presented so engaging a picture of the sound, cautious, and upright Scots merchant, who kept his head and his balance through the convulsions of the American and French wars, and cultivated the domestic virtues in the same social set as Old Q. and the Duchess of Gordon.

But, except for that sappy core of romance which twice betrayed itself in act and once in word, Tom Coutts was a dry stick. While his views of political affairs were sound and uncommonly independent, his expression of them was not interesting. He was by inheritance a Tory, yet he was staunch upon the American war. "The idea," he wrote in 1775 to Lord Stair, "of reducing such a continent to obedience (especially after letting them have so much time to unite) appears to me, so far as I am capable of judging, to be absolutely impossible." So, too, he opposed the war with revolutionary France. "The war made against their growth seems to me to be exactly the way to encourage instead of destroying them. There is no instance of opposition by force of arms subduing opinions! which by such manners have always grown stronger and more inveterate." One might be reading the present Dean of St. Paul's. The same faculty of seeing things as they really were allowed him to have no good opinion of Pitt's Reform proposals of 1784, and gave him as early as 1785 a plan of dealing with Irish disaffection which was in fact adopted in 1800, to our cost. "As to Ireland, I apprehend it is an aristocracy of about thirty nobles, etc., who command two hundred votes in the Lower House, and that these thirty may be bought and a union accomplished more easily than that heap of nonsense called the Irish propositions." They were bought.

Mr. Coleridge prints a recently discovered bundle of his love-letters to Harriot Mellon, from which, if one could feel love-letters to be fair game, it would be tempting, and easy, to make extracts. They are striking by their extraordinary difference from his other familiar correspondence. Coutts becomes emotional, profuse, sentimental, and occasionally ridiculous. Few love-letters, however, will stand the test of examination in cold blood. It can be said of his at least that there is nothing in them which is not intended to honour the recipient. To Coutts his Harriot was a pattern of womanly virtue. It is Mr. Coleridge's opinion, as it is our own, that she deserved it. That she made him happy is obvious; that she returned him a grateful love let this, which was written by herself five years after her wedding-day, bear witness:

"I never lose my spirits." My blessed Tom said these words to me in a dream. After he had kissed me and laid his dear head on my bosom, I felt his tears on my cheek—I was so happy, but so melancholy happy. He looked so well, tranquil and divine.... I see him at this moment, upright, beautiful and composed, as in his long and immaculate life. He looks just as I first saw his dear, blessed face upwards of twenty years ago.

That is both tenderly and prettily said. Tom Coutts, in his marriage as in other things, knew what he was about.

THE TURKS IN EUROPE. By W. E. D. ALLEN. Murray. 10s. 6d. net.

"La Turquie est le pays classique du massacres," it has been truly said.... "Son historie se résume à ceci: pillages, meurtres, vols, concussions—sur toutes les échilles—révoltes, insurrections, répercussions, guerres étrangères, guerres civiles, révolutions, contre-révolutions, séditions, mutineries." All these things are the theme of Mr. Allen's interesting and well-written sketch of the Turkish power, from the rise of Osman in the thirteenth century down to the Treaty of Bukarest in 1913. Mr. Allen does not, however, confine himself to a mere record of horrors. He contrives throughout his book to draw in a few lines the characters of the chief actors in the drama, and, especially in the later chapters, to expose the policies, European and Turkish, which have created and complicated the long nightmare of the Near East. Many of our troubles of the last forty years are attributed by him to the Treaty of Berlin in 1878, the triumph of Lord Beaconsfield's policy. It was a treaty concluded, he says, "in a spirit of shameless bargain, with a sublime disregard of elementary ethics, and in open contempt of the right of civilised peoples to determine their own future. It was essentially a temporary arrangement concluded between rival Imperialist States." A few years later the "grim raw races" in the Balkans were again in a savage ferment, and we could enjoy "the spectacle of the heads of the civilised world, in their palaces in the capitals of Europe, setting those same 'grim raw races' to kill." Mr. Allen in his narrative of this later period does not spare his criticism of the diabolic diplomacy of Berlin and Vienna, of the brilliant cunning of their agents in Turkey—and notably Baron Marschal von Bieberstein.

ST. CATHERINE OF SIENA. By ALFRED W. POLLARD. Sidgwick & Jackson. 3s. net.

In this little volume, one of a series called Messages of the Saints, Mr. Pollard has re-told the ever-fascinating story of St. Catherine, Siena's fourteenth-century saint. "In the present sketch," says the author, "there is nothing original, save possibly its point of view and (I believe) the chapter on St. Catherine's book."

Its point of view is that of an ardent if critical admirer of St. Catherine, and full justice is done to what after all are the qualities which made of her not only the most lovable, but perhaps the most amazing of saintly women. Amor vincit omnia is the motto which springs to the mind as most fit for Catherine of Siena. In an age of cruelty she is love personified. It was love for her fellow-creatures, concern for their immortal welfare, that led her, a poor ignorant "little bit of a woman," to face with the simplicity of a child and the wisdom born of simplicity princes and popes, and force them, not to her own will, but to what she conceived to be the Will of God.

To all who have lived long enough in Siena, Catherine becomes a living personality. So real indeed that it would scarcely be surprising to meet her one evening at dusk in that long steep street—still the street of the tanners—where six hundred years ago she walked with her lantern on her way to the sick and dying during the plague. In Siena one is apt to forget that St. Catherine was a figure in politics and the composer of a book about which the learned dispute. Still, on the day of her festival the townsfolk sing the "Praise of Catherine," to them merely the tanner's daughter who, greatly to the glory of their beautiful little city, somehow became a saint.

Mr. Pollard's chapter on the Libro della Divina Dottrina, the treatise said to have been dictated by St. Catherine while in a trance, is valuable because it summarises typical pronouncements of the mystic upon the various stages of the soul in its pilgrimage towards a spiritual goal.

As a revelation of the subconscious self, if for no other reason, St. Catherine's book has its own intense interest. Those who are already familiar with her story may, by the help of Mr. Pollard's pleasant sketch, refresh their memory of its details, and to those who are not it should, as he hopes, prove a stimulating introduction to the life of a wonderful woman.

VICTORIAN RECOLLECTIONS. By J. H. BRIDGES. Bell. 7s. 6d. net.

Mr. Bridges deliberately adopts the attitude of the laudator temporis acti se puero. The worst of this prose is that, just as it may attract the sympathy of men of his own generation, it inevitably repels slightly those of a younger. Nothing is more tiresome than to listen to judgments on life and manners whose chief point lies in the opening words, "Well, I tell you in 185—we did not," or "we did"—such criticism automatically provokes the retort, "Well, this isn't 185—," whereat your ancient growls, "I would to God it were," and youth and eld stand back to uncomfortable back, with no chance of doing any useful work.

Fortunately Mr. Bridges, although angry at the modern depreciation of things Victorian, is better than his threat. He is not too comparative, and although overfond of censure, his blame has a humorous quality which keeps it inoffensive. At times the humour is unconscious, as in Mr. Bridges' charming suggestion that the beauty of the primrose is more noticed and "more respected" because ardent Tory enthusiasm associated Peter Bell's flower with the late Lord Beaconsfield: but Mr. Bridges' essentially "pawky" quality of mind—we use the word in an amiable sense—crops out not infrequently as, for instance, in his grave statement that he would be "in favour of a law forbidding anyone to own more than 150 newspapers."

Mr. Bridges gives an account of his schooldays under a flogging master, which adds yet another count to the indictment against Victorian methods of education. He does not tell us much that is unfamiliar, either of Eton or Oxford, though many will be glad to have his description of the old-time Don, and the Dean Gaisford's letter to a noble father who enquired after his son's University progress:

"My Lord, Such letters give much trouble to

"Your humble servant,

"THE DEAN OF CHRIST CHURCH."

In the late fifties Mr. Bridges visited Canada and the United States, and he records his conviction that Senator Douglas was Lincoln's "superior as speaker and politician," a verdict which makes one wonder a little what his standards of oratory are, and how a politician, obviously inferior in moral character, who also fails to keep his country's confidence can be called the inferior of one who wins its trust. Mr. Bridges abandoned his plan to settle in the New World, and returned to England and started farming, first in the Eastern counties and subsequently in Shropshire. In the chapters dealing with his life in rural England he sketches some village types for the reader with a genuine feeling for character. Particularly good is the final chapter, "A Survival," with its touching picture of Old Tom, "the last survivor hereabouts of the old-style agricultural labourer." Whatever one's political colour, one cannot help sympathising with Mr. Bridges and Old Tom in their lament at the decay of rural England, and at the growth of conditions which made it possible for "more and more people to wax rich in London and in the big towns, while no one can earn a living in the country." Though the latter ceased to be true during the war, one is yet uncertain how far the prosperity then enjoyed by the farmer will continue as war conditions slowly depart.

THE LIFE OF LIZA LEHMANN. By HERSELF. T. Fisher Unwin. 10s. 6d. net.

Born in London, daughter of a Scotswoman, educated in Italy, married to an Englishman, Liza Lehmann's heart—and she was a woman who always let her heart rule her head—was unconsciously fixed in England. Yet as we turn the pages of her autobiography there is hardly one in which we do not feel conscious that she belonged by unalterable temperament to the land of Die Gartenlaube and Familie Buchholz. Many English singers and audiences in the happy days before the war have felt that for all their devotion to Schumann, the domestic intimacies of Frauenliebe und Leben were too intensely German for an English sense of proportion and sense of humour. Let them read The Life of Liza Lehmann in their own tongue, and they will turn with relief to the reticence and dignity of Chamisso's lyrics. It is evident that she was a woman who never did an act, never cherished a thought, that was not a kind one. She collaborated in an opera with Mr. Laurence Housman; he considered that she had wrecked his play, she thought that he had wrecked her music; but she records the awkward incident without the least trace of ill-will, nay, without the least supposition that he or anyone else in the world could have borne ill-will to her. Liszt, Brahms, Browning, and Verdi were among her acquaintances; but she has little to tell us about them. They counted for far less in her life than Madame Clara Butt, Mr. Kennerley Rumford, Mr. Arthur Boosey, and Mr. Landon Ronald; and even these were unsubstantial shadows compared to her mother, her husband, and her sons. A large proportion of her book is taken up with newspaper criticisms and interviews, mostly American. They gave the authoress no little pleasure, and they will give the reader no little amusement; indeed, as studies of American literary style, they are most instructive. The final chapter, dealing with the death of her elder son, so shortly to be followed by her own, can hardly be touched upon in a review; it seems an intrusion to read it.

THE GLORY OF THE COMING. By IRVIN S. COBB. Hodder & Stoughton. 7s. net.

THE 25TH DIVISION IN FRANCE AND FLANDERS. Harrison. 4s. net.

These two war books, extremely dissimilar, belong to two well-known types. Mr. Cobb is an American journalist, and he gives a lively, journalistic account of the coming and doing of the American armies in France. The other book is a detailed and somewhat bare record of the doings of the 25th Division, by Lieut.-Col. M. Kincaid-Smith. The 25th Division made a great name for itself in the war; this book shows that it was not unearned.

THE PARAVANE ADVENTURE. By L. COPE CORNFORD. Hodder & Stoughton. 7s. 6d. net.

The story of the paravane, the remarkable anti-submarine contrivance invented by Commander Burney and used by the Allied navies and also by merchant ships during the later period of the war, is told by Mr. Cope Cornford in a popular style and with considerable enthusiasm. It is possible that he is over-enthusiastic, for in a prefatory note he tells us that some naval officers and also the Admiralty consider that he exaggerates the effects of the paravane. There is no doubt, however, as the official figures themselves show, that paravanes and "Otters" (as they were called when fitted to merchant vessels) did have an enormous success. The total tonnage of H.M. ships and merchant ships definitely saved by them comes to over a quarter of a million; and the financial saving to the British Empire is estimated at approximately £100,000,000. Mr. Cope Cornford has a good deal of criticism—some open and more, we think, implied—to make against the Admiralty. Exactly how far it is justified we cannot say; but there are certainly a good many people with inside knowledge who assert that the Admiralty were decidedly cold about the paravane, even if they did not actually "crab" it. And the rewards and honours bestowed on the brilliant young officers who devoted themselves to the paravane and Otter services were not particularly generous.

SUBMARINES AND SEA POWER. By CHARLES DOMVILLE-FIFE. Bell. 10s. 6d. net.

Mr. Domville-Fife's purpose is to discuss the importance of the submarine arm in naval warfare of the future. His treatment of the subject is very balanced and his conclusions are cautious. He gives us a great deal of interesting information about the history of submarine craft (beginning as far back as 1578) and of the submarine explosive mine. In dealing with the tactics of submarines and their influence in naval strategy, he speaks as an expert; for not only has he devoted many years to their study, but during the war he was in command of anti-submarine craft and an instructor at H.M. School of Submarine Mining. The economic influence of the submarine on this country, Mr. Domville thinks, is summed up in the words of Lord Selborne in 1915: "After the war the whole question of our agricultural and economic policy of the food production at home will have to be revised in the light of our submarine experience." But what of the League of Nations? Are we not entitled to voice our views of the future of naval warfare in the light of that? Here Mr. Domville-Fife is guarded. He looks forward "steadfastly and even hopefully towards the vivid dawn of a new era." But he is not for abandoning the old motto, Si vis pacem para bellum.

POLITICS AND ECONOMICS

BEFORE THE WAR. By VISCOUNT HALDANE. Cassell. 7s. 6d. net.

THE ECONOMIC CONSEQUENCES OF THE PEACE. By JOHN MAYNARD KEYNES, C.B., Fellow of King's College, Cambridge. Macmillans. 8s. 6d. net.

These two books must rank among the most important documents yet produced which bear upon the antecedents and the consequences of the war in so far as British policy is involved. Lord Haldane was for many years War Minister, and during the critical period of Anglo-German relations he was also a sort of supplementary Foreign Secretary whose influence over the most important department of Foreign Affairs was very great, partly because of the weight his opinion carried with Sir Edward Grey and Mr. Asquith, and partly because of his special knowledge of Germans and Germany. His book has a double subject as it has a double object. He outlines the main elements and the principal stages in our policy versus Germany before the war, and he sketches what was done during his administration to perfect the organisation of our Army. He defends our national policy (there are interesting sidelights thrown by his personal experiences with the Emperor and among the governing classes of Prussia) on the ground that we did the best we could when we combined an earnest effort to prevent war with a resolution to be ready for it; and in his personal apologia he argues, in effect, that in the circumstances (we must not forget that the nation as a whole, and Parliament in particular, viewed military expenditure with a very jealous eye) his régime did the utmost that could have been expected. It is now commonly conceded, even by those who distrusted Lord Haldane's views in foreign affairs, and those who were bitterly against him because of his refusal to adopt universal military service, that he did a great work at the War Office. What he says about the efficiency of his Expeditionary Force ("If the warrior looked slender he was at least as well prepared for the ring as science could make him") must be universally admitted; and with his great work in that department must be coupled the creation of the Territorial Force. On the point of compulsory service Lord Haldane defends himself by saying that in 1912 the General Staff was allowed to investigate "the question whether we could or could not raise a great army." "The outcome was embodied in a report made to me by Lord Nicholson, himself a soldier who had a strong desire for compulsory service and a large army. He reported, as the result of a prolonged and careful investigation, that, alike as regarded officers and as regarded buildings and equipment, the conclusion of the General Staff was that it would be in a high degree unwise to try, during the period of unrest on the Continent, to commence a new military system." We might have become "seriously weaker before we had a chance of becoming stronger," and an enemy might have sprung on us. "I quite agreed, and not the less because it was highly improbable that the country would have looked at anything of the sort." We imagine that the one thing which should (in the light of our subsequent experience) have been done and was not done (though lack of money would have been a severe limitation to the actual accumulation of large stores, whether of rifles or of clothing) was to prepare a scheme whereunder the material for a greatly expanded force would be easily and rapidly obtained immediately an emergency had arisen.

Lord Haldane has many interesting obiter dicta. He insists on the need (never more necessary than now) for politicians to understand the meaning of the words they use, and the nature of the main conceptions which are entertained by the nation, and those which dominate their own minds. He says that his opinion of the German people remains unchanged. "They were very much like our own people, except in one thing. This was that they were trained simply to obey, and to carry out whatever they were told by their rulers. I used, during numerous unofficial tours in Germany, to wander about incognito, and to smoke and drink beer with the peasants whenever I could get the chance. What impressed me was the little part they had in directing their own government, and the little they knew about what it was doing." Lord Haldane dates this habit of mind back to the days of Frederick the Great; but is there not something to be said for the view that it is to be traced back through the period of the religious wars into the baronial Middle Ages?

Lord Haldane's conclusion is that "the question is not one simply of the letter of a treaty, but is one of the spirit in which it is made.... The foundations of a peace that is to be enduring must, therefore, be sought in what is highest and most abiding in human nature." These sentiments are eloquently supported by Mr. Maynard Keynes, who resigned his position at the Peace Conference (where he represented the Treasury) because he felt that the negotiations were not being inspired by that spirit and by those high and abiding ideals. His argument, which is supported by very acute reasoning, is that the economic clauses of the Treaty threaten the ruin of our interlocked economic civilisation; and, with the skill of an artist, he strengthens the gloom of his tale by giving in introductory chapters a tragic setting: a concourse of statesmen, oblivious of the greatness of the issues involved, men of mechanical or cunning minds, men obstinate and narrow, ruthless and cynical, adroit and cunning, intriguing, hoodwinking, whilst their world was rolling towards the precipice. The issues he considers, the arguments he advances, are far too controversial to be entered into here: but it is a book which states one point of view far more powerfully than it has been stated anywhere else and, as such, should be read, if only to be answered. We take it that beyond the public questions which engage the author's mind there must have been a personal one (which is also, however, a public one) which must have caused him much disquiet: the question how far a civil servant, whilst the events under discussion are still in progress, is morally entitled to divulge things he would not have seen save in his official capacity. He may—this we suppose is beyond dispute—resign and conduct argument on the basis of facts known to the public; but should he watch statesmen at private assemblies, judge their characters by what he sees there, and then come out and attempt to blow them sky-high? We suppose that Mr. Keynes, who is no doubt convinced that his estimates are sound and that the whole future of the world may depend upon people realising what he believes to be the truth, would say that there was a conflict of obligations, and that the larger one had overcome the lesser. But we do think that there is room here for investigation and definition by a political philosopher with some practical experience. The problem is not a simple one.

A HANDBOOK OF THE LEAGUE OF NATIONS. By SIR GEOFFREY BUTLER. With an Introduction by Lord Robert Cecil. Longmans. 5s. net.

THE RESPONSIBILITIES OF THE LEAGUE. By EUSTACE PERCY. Hodder & Stoughton. 6s. net.

It would hardly be possible to find two more different books on the same subject than these two. Hence it is extraordinarily instructive to read them together. Sir Geoffrey Butler is an academic international lawyer, a lecturer in International Law and Diplomacy in the University of Cambridge. He is therefore well qualified for the task which he has undertaken, a short and elementary treatise, "which tries to place the League in its historical perspective." He traces the history of international relations and shows that the League is a development of the idea of a Concert of Europe as opposed to the idea of a Balance of Power. He then explains the constitution and machinery of the League as it appears in the Paris Covenant, gives the text of the Covenant, and adds a commentary or explanation of its various clauses. Sir Geoffrey does not possess a light or facile pen, and occasionally his meaning is singularly obscure. The book is academically cautious and unoriginal, but it sticks to its object, which is to explain the kind of international instrument which the victorious statesmen fashioned in Paris. Hence it will be useful to those who do not possess technical knowledge but wish to understand the significance of the clauses, or bare bones, of the Covenant.

Lord Eustace Percy is not concerned with bare bones, but with the flesh and blood which may or may not one day clothe the skeleton which the victorious Powers produced at Paris. No one could call the author or his book cautious; they are always trying to get back to fundamentals. To Lord Eustace the Covenant of the League is a "revolution," and he endeavours to show the revolution in British policy which it implies—the ultimate, fundamental responsibilities which, with the signature of the Covenant, the nation and its statesmen assumed. In order to do this, he not only examines the League and Covenant; he gives a most interesting account of the previous international position and policy of Britain, the United States, and the chief Continental Powers; he analyses and criticises the terms of the Paris peace treaties; he deals with Labour unrest; the epidemic of revolution, Bolshevism. The whole forms a restless, brilliant, and often paradoxical essay on international relations. Its great merit is that the natural reaction to it in the reader is thought. It is true that the author's own political thinking is frequently much less deep than it would appear to be on a cursory examination; but at least if he cannot himself go to any great depths, he always tries to go as deep as he can, and he carries his reader below the obvious surface of political platitudes. His method is to appear at first to go almost to the extreme limits of "progressiveness" and unorthodoxy, and then, by the help of a paradox, to double on his tracks and to show that after all the "progressives" are out of date, and nothing much could have been done other than has been done. Thus he begins by writing about such terms of the Peace as the Saar, the Balkans and Austria, Shantung, the Adriatic, and the economic clauses, in language which we might expect from the extreme Left, and then, when the reader is beginning to feel that he has been robbed of his last illusion, he is headed back from despair with the paradox that "in a sense, the strength of the Treaty lies in its weakest parts—in those provisions which are the least workable in practice."

For some tastes there will be too much of this kind of paradox in this book. Lord Eustace is, perhaps, at his best when he is dealing either with past history or with the immediate subject of his book, the Responsibilities of the League. The League, in his view, is "the one novel contribution made to the settlement by the Conference at Paris"; it creates the conditions and machinery necessary if the family of nations is to realise a "policy of joint responsibilities," and to deal continuously in a spirit of friendly co-operation with "the standing common interests of nations." This thesis is explained, worked out, and illustrated with very great ability. Lord Eustace obviously considers that those who framed the Covenant produced the best international framework and machinery which at the moment it was possible for practical statesmanship to produce. Those who expected or asked for more are, in his opinion, impractical idealists, or, what is worse, they do not see that the whole object of the League is to continue and develop the existing international system of absolutely sovereign States. His treatment of this extremely difficult and important question of sovereignty is the least satisfactory part of his handling of the League. He holds that the doctrine of communal society "applied to the League of Nations clearly rules out first of all any encroachment upon the sovereignty of its members." But sovereignty does not consist solely, as he seems to imply, in "the claim of the State against any of its members," and surely the League might limit or "encroach upon" the sovereignty of its members without necessarily creating a Super-State. It is a pity that Lord Eustace has not dealt more thoroughly with this question, for it is vital to another important opinion held by him, namely, that the League must be the enemy of and bulwark against Bolshevik or Communist Governments.

THE GOVERNMENT OF INDIA. By J. RAMSAY MACDONALD. Swarthmore Press. 10s. 6d. net.

This is not a mere list of criticisms and reminiscences written by a carpet-bagger. Mr. Macdonald was in India as a member of the last Public Services Commission. He has studied numerous official and unofficial books and documents, and has met and heard the views of representatives of all classes and schools of political thought. He has stayed with Provincial Governors, Indian leaders, district officers, and heads of native institutions, such as the Gurukul of Hardwar and the Rabindranath Tagore school at Bholpur.

The result is a book of great interest, written with an insight and moderation which will commend it to many who do not agree with all its conclusions. It was written, Mr. Macdonald tells us, before the Montagu-Chelmsford Report was published; but it is none the worse for this. References and comments on the Report have been added, and every line may be read with profit alike by the extreme reformer, the moderate constitutionalist and the firm conservative.

Mr. Macdonald begins with an account of the rise of Nationalism and a sketch of the history of European penetration and the advance of the East India Company in India. This enables the British reader at once to understand the remainder of the book, and places him in possession of a store of knowledge which may help to foster that interest in India and her problems so lacking in British electors and politicians alike.

The pronouncement of August, 1917, the Montagu-Chelmsford Report, and the passing of the Government of India Act of 1919 are first steps towards the establishment of self-government for India; but the real difficulty to be solved is the representation of the mass of the people. Mr. Macdonald holds that "The democratic forms of the West are not the only forms in which democracy can take shape.... India is not a nation of equal citizens so much as an organisation of co-operating social functions." The question of diversity of race and language will remain even when primary education has become general, and Mr. Macdonald might have made clearer his views of the lines on which genuine popular representation can be secured. He does, indeed, in his account of the 50,000,000 "outcastes" of India give us a dim vision of his hopes that with education will come leaders of ability to represent them; but this does not solve the main problem of ascertaining and giving expression to the will of the people. With the Councils and reformed administration India will be somewhat in the position of England in 1832, and whether she is to develop under British tutelage, or to be left to work out her own salvation under her own bourgeois Government, is a question which statesmen will be called on to decide in the near future.

The chapters on finance and on religion and Nationalism are among the best in the book, while the pithy accounts of the ceaseless toil of a Lieutenant-Governor and of a District Officer should disabuse the minds of those who have been accustomed to regard Indian civilians as comfortable overpaid loafers.

SCIENCE

THEORETICAL AND APPLIED COLLOID CHEMISTRY. By WOLFGANG OSTWALD. John Wiley & Sons and Chapman & Hall. 11s. 6d. net.

THE CHEMISTRY OF COLLOIDS. By RICHARD ZSIGMONDY. John Wiley & Sons and Chapman & Hall. 13s. 6d. net.

Colloid chemistry, for which Dr. Wolfgang Ostwald claims to have established the right "to existence as a separate and independent science," is a study of very recent development, which has come to its own during the past twenty years. In many respects its development offers a close parallel to that of catalysis, a branch of chemistry recently noticed in these columns. In both cases we have a few brilliant, isolated studies, succeeded by a long period during which little attention was paid to the subject; in both cases this century has seen a large body of chemists, especially the younger men, attracted to the investigation, the phenomena in question, and results have been rapidly attained which have proved of great theoretical interest, and have already found wide application in industry. Just as the old idea that there were a few special catalysts has been succeeded by the belief now held that every substance can be made to act as a catalyst in suitable circumstances, so it is now stated freely that, instead of there being a small class of colloids, any substance can be prepared in a colloid state. Incidentally, colloidal preparations are widely used as catalysts.

Colloid chemistry may be said to have arisen some fifty years ago in the researches of Thomas Graham, who showed that a large class of liquids or semi-liquids would not diffuse through animal membranes, as do ordinary solutions of salts. Because many of these substances were sticky he gave to the whole class the name which they now hold, colloid. Since then his conception has been extended, and it is now realised that, strictly speaking, we should talk rather of a substance in a colloidal state than of a colloid, since typically crystalline substances, such as ordinary salt, can be prepared in colloidal solution. The characteristic of such a solution is the fineness of sub-division—the dispersion—of the "dissolved" substance. In a true solution, in the ordinary sense, we have, in general, the substance existing as separate molecules dispersed throughout the solvent. In a mechanical suspension, such as may be prepared from exceedingly fine sand and water, the suspended particles, which take some time to settle, can be easily seen with a microscope, if not with the naked eye. In between these two classes of dispersed systems we have solutions in which the particles, while consisting, in general, of a very large number of molecules, are small enough to pass through filter-paper and escape the ordinary microscope, while at the same time they do not diffuse through membranes and can be seen by special optical arrangements, i.e., the so-called ultramicroscope. Such dispersed systems are colloidal systems, which have only recently been investigated in detail, although Faraday prepared colloidal solutions of metallic gold which still exist. Colloidal chemistry has been picturesquely called "the world of neglected dimensions," which is appropriate enough. Of course the exact degree of dispersion which constitutes a colloidal solution is purely arbitrary, since, as Wolfgang Ostwald—the son of Wilhelm Ostwald—insists in the book before us, solutions are known which show all ranges of sub-division of the dissolved substance, from molecular dimensions to visible particles. Various distinguishing tests have led to solutions in which the diameter of the particles lies anywhere between a millionth and a thousandth of a millimetre being conventionally called colloids.

The scientific, industrial, and medical applications of colloid chemistry increase in number daily—we are already confronted with the word colloidotherapy—and there is a growing demand for books on the subject. The two before us are each by authors who are celebrated for their researches in the subject: Zsigmondy invented the ultramicroscope, which has been responsible for the most important recent advances in the study of colloidal solution, and Wolfgang Ostwald has added clearness to nearly every branch of the subject. Ostwald's book, adequately translated by Dr. Martin Fischer (although, we may remark, the word "enormity" is not generally used as a synonym for hugeness), is based on a series of lectures given by him in America just before the war. Publication has been delayed by the war, and it is interesting to note that in the preface, written in 1915 when Germany was apparently in a good position, the author looks to science to form the first bridge between the peoples then at war, and exclaims, "How should I, for example, cease to admire, to adopt, and to develop the labours of a W. B. Hardy, a W. M. Bayliss, a J. Perrin, a P. P. von Weimarn, and others, just because they belong to a people hostile to my own?" The book gives a most excellent sketch of the whole field, by one who is an enthusiast in his subject, and may be thoroughly recommended as an introduction for those who are beginners, even if their general knowledge of chemistry is slight, while even the expert will find much in it to interest him. As a detail we may mention that Ostwald gives a quick receipt for the preparation of red colloidal gold with ordinary distilled water, while other authors, including Zsigmondy, insist that the preparation is a delicate undertaking, requiring specially distilled water and the greatest care. The wonderful range of phenomena now included in the subject is clearly brought out, and the pictures of Liesegang rings and the ultramicroscopic photograph of a setting cement are beautiful. The treatment of gels, the jelly-like form into which certain colloidal solutions pass, is particularly good, and gives much valuable information not hitherto available in popular form. The last two chapters, or lectures, on scientific applications and technical applications of colloid chemistry are of surpassing interest, as indicating the practical importance which this young science has attained. All life processes take place in a colloid system, and the necessity to physiologists of the study of colloids is forcibly emphasised. Rubber milk, or later, is a colloid, so that all the problems of coagulation of rubber and its subsequent vulcanisation are included in the subject. The setting of cements is a colloidal problem. These, and many other questions, are briefly but clearly discussed. The experiments which accompanied the lectures are described, and are most suggestive.

Professor Zsigmondy's book is more technical, and deals mainly with "hydrosols" and "hydrogels." The author's reputation in this field vouches for the excellence of the treatment of the many expert problems discussed. Naturally the subjects of ultramicroscopy and protective colloids are discussed in detail—the author originated the "gold figure" used to express the protective effect of a colloid. The theoretical discussions are particularly valuable, and physiologists will read with interest the long discussion of protein bodies. There is an appendix on industrial colloid chemistry by the translator, Dr. Ellwood Spear, in which the problems of rubber manufacture, tanning, and other industrial processes are very briefly treated. There is in this section a chapter on smoke abatement, but the methods mentioned scarcely fall within the province of colloid chemistry as generally understood. A final chapter, by Dr. J. F. Norton, deals with the application of colloid chemistry to sanitation.

MODERN SCIENCE AND MATERIALISM. By HUGH ELLIOT. Longmans. Green & Co. 7s. 6d. net.

This book is an exposition of monism, the philosophic theory that asserts the identical nature of mind and matter, as distinct from the dualistic "superstition"—as our author terms it—of matter and spirit. Sir Oliver Lodge, in a recent article, claims that three fundamental things are required to explain our universe: viz., Mind, with its rudiment Life; Matter, with its element the electric charge; and Ether, with its fundamental properties equivalent to elasticity and inertia. Mr. Elliot will have none of this. For him there is no reason to postulate other things than those capable of investigation by physical science—the ether and matter are essentially of the same kind, while all the phenomena of life are, if not at present explained on a physico-chemical basis, yet ultimately explicable in terms of the exact sciences. Life is a name for certain properties of protoplasm, and the chemical reactions of life are more complicated, but not more mysterious, than those of the laboratory. As for "ghosts, gods, souls, et hoc genus omne," our author holds that "these have long been rejected from the belief of most advanced thinkers." He traverses the assertion of Professors Mach and Karl Pearson, that while science can explain "how" things occur it cannot explain "why" (the point under discussion depends, of course, on Mr. Elliot's interpretations of the words), he pours scorn upon Herbert Spencer, Bergson, and all the vitalists. Altogether the book is one of the most pugnacious defences of monism which we have read, and will delight the bitter opponents of all spiritualistic philosophies. At the same time the author maintains that his philosophy is not materialistic, in the ordinary sense, but a form of idealism, and this, of course, is true, in a way, of any form of monism, it being possible either to say that the atom of matter is as full of mystery as life, or that life is as full of mechanism as the atom. It is obviously impossible in the limited space at our disposal to criticise the arguments put forward on a subject so complicated and controversial, but we think that nobody will admit Mr. Elliot to be as unbiassed as he appears to consider himself, judging by his remarks on the bias of the vitalists. His claim for the support of the physiologists reminds us that Dr. J. S. Haldane recently opened a discussion on the question, "Are Physical, Biological and Physiological Categories Irreducible?" by a pronouncement in the affirmative; the physicists also are not all monists. The question is more two-sided than our author will admit. His science is unfortunately by no means beyond reproach: to say that the charge on the electron is "inconceivably immense" is either extraordinary inaccuracy of phrase or extraordinary error, while to state that the electron has weight is to assert something of which we have no experimental evidence. That light is a vibrating motion of the same character as sound is incorrect, and such instances can be multiplied. These things are not of fundamental importance to Mr. Elliot's argument, but they show, to say the least, a deplorable looseness of expression. Nevertheless, the book is worth reading to all interested, either as friends or enemies, in the monistic philosophy, and may lead some of those who talk so freely of souls and mind to be a little more precise as to what they mean by these terms.

ACCOUNTS RENDERED OF WORK DONE AND THINGS SEEN. By J. Y. BUCHANAN. Cambridge University Press. 21s. net.

Selections from the papers of the author have already appeared under the titles of Scientific Papers (Oceanographical) and Comptes Rendus of Observation and Reasoning. This third volume, with an English modification of the title of the latter work, continues the plan of that book. The papers are very varied in character, including chemical studies, accounts of physical determinations, addresses on geography and oceanography, more technical geographical writings, and short articles on topics of general interest, reprinted from Nature, the Times, and other periodicals. Many of the latter recall events of our generation important, but already half forgotten, such as the stranding of the Sultan and the wreck of Santos Dumont 6. An excellent feature of the author's Comptes Rendus was the detailed summary, with page references, provided for every article, and the same plan is followed in this work. The author's work on oceanography is too well known to need commendation—he was chemist and physicist to the Challenger expedition. His "Retrospect," the second article in the book, gives a fascinating summary of the work done on that expedition, and the other papers on oceanographical subjects are of great general interest, and incidentally recall the great services of the Prince of Monaco to that science. His general outlook, which lends such freshness to all his writings, cannot be better expressed than in his own words in a former book: "It was conveyed to me through an old friend and former colleague that this contribution

... had done much to retard the standardisation of research. I took it as a compliment.

To standardise research is to limit its freedom and to impede discovery. Originality and independence are the characteristics of genuine research, and it is stultified by the acceptance of standards and by the recognition of authority."

It throws much light on the recent increase in the expenses of publishing that, whereas the Comptes Rendus was published in 1917 at 7s. 6d., the present volume of similar size and form is published at 21s.

BOOK-PRODUCTION NOTES

By J. H. MASON

THE Studio special number, "Modern Woodcuts and Lithographs, by British and French Artists," with Commentary by M. C. Salaman, is the first collection, with any claim to comprehensiveness, of the artistic work of the present renaissance of the woodcut. The woodcut has a twofold employment: it may be used for pictorial broadsides or for book illustration. It concerns us here as a means—I wonder if I ought not to write the means?—of book illustration. Notwithstanding the great technical advances made in line and half-tone photo-process engraving, there is a tendency to return to the use of the woodcut for certain kinds of catalogue illustrations, and, to a still greater extent, for book illustration and decoration.

The half-tone process involves the use of so-called "art" paper, i.e., a wood pulp or grass pulp paper as a centre, coated over with kaolin or china clay, with a high finish, the glazed polish of which reflects the light very unpleasantly. This objectionable paper, apart from the incongruity of wash drawings or photographs with typography, relegates this method of book illustration to utilitarian ends. The line process is far preferable for book illustration, but in itself it has no pleasant quality, usually very much the reverse, and pen drawings are no more directly suitable for book illustration than pen lettering is for use with type. The woodcut modifies the character of the drawing with a discipline which produces a character more in sympathy with that which type has acquired at the hands of the punch-cutter and type-founder in its passage from writing; and the same discipline modifies the artist's vision as well as the drawing. Material, too, has its own character, and when the user is not too clever this character becomes active in the work, not merely passive. The wood block itself can contribute a valuable quality, and either the knife or the graver is a responsive tool. The corresponding elements in line process work are the zinc plate and etching acid, and they do contribute something of their quality to the work; but it is not an attractive quality.

The rediscovered qualities of the wood block have attracted many artists to its use. They are producing work of great variety of interest, but it is rather in the pictorial direction than as book illustration. The work of Valloton elsewhere, and of Jane Bouquet and Brangwyn, of Sydney Lee and Verpilleux in this Studio special number are examples of this. The work of Lucien Pissaro, of Charles Shannon, and Charles Ricketts shows the right use of the woodcut as decorative illustration, but their work belongs to the early days of this revival. Dürer, Holbein, and the Polyphilus printed by Aldus are the great exemplars for a pre-Bewick Brotherhood of the decorative woodcut. Where work of a freer quality is desirable, Miss Jackson's on page 13 shows the texture that goes with type satisfactorily. Miss Gribble has given the right degree of formal treatment to the pastoral motives she has chosen for tail-pieces, and makes them decorative without letting them lose their interest and so become vapid conventions. Both Miss Jackson and Miss Gribble are pupils of Mr. Noel Rooke, who has done so much for the right use of the woodcut for decorative illustration.

The lithographs suffer much more than the woodcuts by reproduction. To begin with, they are very much reduced in size, and they are printed by a letterpress method (i.e., from a relief surface) instead of from the plain surface for which they were drawn. The loss which they suffer by these changes can only be appreciated by those who know the originals. Both Mr. and Mrs. Hartrick's fine examples suffer through the loss of the rich lithographic black.

BIBLIOGRAPHIES OF MODERN AUTHORS

G. K. CHESTERTON

Verse

GREYBEARDS AT PLAY. Brimley Johnson. 1900.

THE WILD KNIGHT. Grant Richards. 1900. Enlarged Edition. Dent. 1914.

THE BALLAD OF THE WHITE HORSE. Methuen. 1911.

POEMS. Burns & Oates. 1915.

WINE, WATER, AND SONG. Methuen. 1915.

[A reprint of the songs from The Flying Inn.]

Prose

THE DEFENDANT. Brimley Johnson. 1901. Cheap Edition in Dent's Wayfarer's Library, 1914.

TWELVE TYPES. A. L. Humphreys. 1902.

G. F. WATTS. Duckworth. 1902.

ROBERT BROWNING. Macmillan. (English Men of Letters Series.) 1903.

THE PATRIOTIC IDEA. Brimley Johnson. 1904.

THE NAPOLEON OF NOTTING HILL. John Lane. 1904.

THE CLUB OF QUEER TRADES. Harper. 1905. Cheaper Edition. Hodder & Stoughton. 1912.

HERETICS. John Lane. 1905.

CHARLES DICKENS. Methuen. 1906. Popular Edition. 1913.

THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY. Arrowsmith. 1908.

ALL THINGS CONSIDERED. Methuen. 1908.

ORTHODOXY. John Lane. 1908.

TREMENDOUS TRIFLES. Methuen. 1909.

ALARMS AND DISCURSIONS. Methuen. 1910.

FIVE TYPES. A. L. Humphreys. 1910. (Reprinted from Twelve Types. 1905.)

WHAT'S WRONG WITH THE WORLD? Cassell. 1910.

WILLIAM BLAKE. Duckworth. 1910.

GEORGE BERNARD SHAW. John Lane. 1910.

THE BALL AND THE CROSS. Wells Gardner, Darton. 1910.

APPRECIATIONS OF DICKENS. Dent. 1911. (Prefaces from Everyman Series of Dickens reprinted.)

THE INNOCENCE OF FATHER BROWN. Cassell. 1911.

SIMPLICITY AND TOLSTOY. A. L. Humphreys. 1912.

A MISCELLANY OF MEN. Methuen. 1912.

MANALIVE. Nelson. 1912.

MAGIC: A PLAY. Martin Secker. 1913.

THE VICTORIAN AGE IN LITERATURE. Williams & Norgate. 1913. (Home University Library Series.)

THE WISDOM OF FATHER BROWN. Cassell. 1914.

THE FLYING INN. Methuen. 1914.

THE BARBARISM OF BERLIN. Cassell. 1914.

LETTERS TO AN OLD GARIBALDIAN. Methuen. 1914.

THE CRIMES OF ENGLAND. Palmer. 1915.

A SHILLING FOR MY THOUGHTS. Methuen. 1916.

A SHORT HISTORY OF ENGLAND. Chatto & Windus. 1917.

IRISH IMPRESSIONS. Collins. 1919.

[He has also written prefaces to the following:—Carlyle's Past and Present; Extracts from Boswell's Life of Johnson; The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table; Sartor Resartus; The Pilgrim's Progress; Creatures that Once Were Men, by Maxim Gorky; Dickens's Works; Essays, by Matthew Arnold; Literary London; The Book of Job; From Workhouse to Westminster; Ruskin's Poems; The Cottage Homes of England; A Vision of Life; Meadows of Play; Selections from Thackeray; Eyes of Youth (an anthology); Extracts from Samuel Johnson; The Book of Snobs; Famous Paintings Reproduced in Colour; The English Agricultural Labourer; Æsop's Fables; Dickens's Christmas Carol; Bohemia's Claim for Freedom.

He has also illustrated the following books:—Nonsense Rhymes; The Great Enquiry; Emmanuel Burden; Biography for Beginners; The Green Overcoat.]

JOHN FREEMAN

Verse

TWENTY POEMS. Gay & Hancock. 1909.

[Out of print.]

FIFTY POEMS. Herbert & Daniel. 1911. New Edition, Selwyn & Blount. 1916.

STONE TREES AND OTHER POEMS. Selwyn & Blount. 1916.

PRESAGE OF VICTORY AND OTHER POEMS OF THE TIME. Selwyn & Blount. 1916.

MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD. Morland Press. 1918.

[No. 1 of Green Pastures Series. Cover and frontispiece by James Guthrie.]

MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD AND OTHER POEMS. Selwyn & Blount. 1919.

[Includes the twelve poems published in the last-named.]

Prose

THE MODERNS. Robert Scott. 1916.

[Critical Studies of Robert Bridges, H. G. Wells, Bernard Shaw, etc.]

DRAMA

CHILDREN'S PLAYS

THE hold of the Pantomime on the affections of the public is possibly as strong as ever it was, but the character of those entertainments has been slowly changing and with it the character of the audience. Professedly I suppose the Pantomimes are for children, but except that almost any entertainment will amuse children, owing to their extreme curiosity, there is little in the modern Pantomime that seems to have been devised for them. In fact, the Christmas Pantomime has of late years come to have a particularly sophisticated and adult savour, which is to be noticed in the treatment of the old fairy-tales—one or other of which, in name at least, still forms the basis of every Christmas Pantomime, although in a shape that would scarcely be recognised by the compilers of Grimm's Fairy Tales.

This is particularly noticeable in the metamorphosis of the Witch who, fatigued by the possession of mysteriously terrible powers, dwindles into the obscene-faced mother-in-law. The sere old woman who turned the seven white-horsed princesses into low stones, over which the moss crept slowly, has become a gin-inoculated Widow Twankey, who dances like a man and gloats over the highly-successful love-affairs of her son as leading to more and better drink.

Pantomimes have always been less concerned with the imaginative, the more-than-human, than with the extraordinarily actual. Some will remember the artillery bombardment which was introduced one Christmas during the war into a Pantomime at Drury Lane, which was, if I remember rightly, superficially the story of The Sleeping Beauty. It was good fun that bombardment, much better fun than are the majority of these topical excrescences, but one felt that it had been introduced because the principal comedian had got bored with the comparative sober quietness of that land of imagination in which the inhabitants of a fairy-tale progress as if seen in a glass darkly. He had, therefore, deliberately pulled the story out of its semi-supernatural country into the limelight, and was rewarded by instant mirth and vociferous applause from nine-tenths of the audience. Only a few children hesitated, feeling the pangs of a violent up-rooting, a being torn out of a land, through which they had been slowly but with intense delight travelling, into a mass of gesticulating faces ranged in circles watching the elaborate and apparently comic contortions of two small grotesque figures on what was obviously the stage.

I have no doubt at all that the instincts and judgment of children in these matters is far superior to that of the majority of their elders. The steady vulgarisation in the theatre of fairy-tales originally the inventions of adult minds of phantasy and sensibility superior to the general is a record of the debasing influence of the mass of the inhabitants of our large cities, who are dissatisfied with less than an instant reaction to the efforts of those whom they pay to amuse them. They are too restless to submit to sit quietly and by slow degrees receive the heritage of beauty accumulated by the ambages of minds whose devious and amazed wanderings are like the apparently directionless perambulation of bees who are, without pause, gathering honey.

Sinbad the Sailor, Aladdin, Ali Baba—whatever they be, the essence of these Pantomimes is something grosser than any fairy-tale, and, whether borrowed from the brothers Grimm, or Andersen, or any other source, their fragile and mysterious beauty is roughly obliterated to give place to an obvious rough-and-tumble humour and crude topicality of the kind that not one in a million could miss. Of course the somewhat "hearty" atmosphere of Christmas-time is not conducive to fineness of vision. The subtler outlines in which resides the beauty of a fairy-tale, a girl, or a mountain are not to be grasped by eyes slightly dazzled with the inner glow of good feeding—that glow which has more heat than light. It is a time when a joke has to be obvious to be seen, and the propensity to enormous girth perceptible in the most popular characters of Pantomime may have a similar origin; but I speak from a painful experience when I declare that for a Christmas Pantomime nothing can be too crude, too stale, too trivial to be funny, and that the best condition in which to go to the Pantomime would be that in which you could see simultaneously the largest number of Moons.

The Change in the Pantomime

The Pantomime has become a sort of Christmas Revue, and parents in large numbers have ceased taking their children to these entertainments, appealing as they almost exclusively do to the "grown-up." In their place we have had of late years a large number of children's plays, of which Sir James Barrie's Peter Pan is the best known. It is years since I saw Peter Pan, but I was, I remember, greatly taken with it, and went during that season five or six times. Part of the attraction it had for me lay in the charming personality of Peter himself, as played by Miss Pauline Chase, whose postcard portraits I bought in large numbers and gazed on adoringly for long intervals in the seclusion of my own room. But the very fact that the play gave scope to a young actress to embody a figure of such originality and charm as Peter must be accounted as a virtue in the author.

I know there are people who object to fairy-tales. They have lately been greatly cheered by the public confession of Madame Montessori that she belongs to them. Apparently the essence of their and also of her objection to such seemingly innocent and delightful inventions of the human brain is that the most desperate need of children is for a steady inculcation of facts. Having schooled your child in facts—writes in a letter to the Observer the gentleman who knows the Secret of Human Power—in the pleasantest manner possible up to the age of, say, sixteen, then the lessons to be derived from fiction may be gently and cautiously dealt with. The spectacle of an adult dealing "gently and cautiously" with a fairy-tale is one of those which seem to have been invented as a subject for a Max Beerbohm cartoon; but it is curious that anyone should have such a narrow conception of reality as to think that it is compassed in material facts. How one is to present love, honour, bravery, beauty, virtue, daring, adventurousness, and all the other qualities of the human mind except by imaginative creation, when they are purely creations of men's minds, I cannot see. Perhaps these deluded realists imagine that they are abstract nouns. They would have us say: "Here, dear children, are a number of abstract nouns; contemplate them as you would marbles, but remember that they are not marbles or even peanuts but nouns. You cannot play with them, you cannot eat them, and what good they are nobody knows, but everybody is supposed to know their names, as there is no other way of distinguishing them one from another." This same champion of Madame Montessori's Anti-Fairy-Tale Campaign writes further in his letter to the Observer that Shakespeare's plays "were not written specially for children, but as morality incentives distinctly for adults." This is a pitiful notion for any intelligent adult to have, and one that no child with a mind not distorted by unnatural virtue could be expected to understand. It is most expressive of that horrible "seriousness" which seizes some minds like a cramp until the sufferer drowns himself in an ocean of blithering nonsense, refusing all the ropes which the onlookers on terra firma throw him, because their faces are convulsed with laughter. "Morality incentives"—to cling to the shocking expression of Madame Montessori's disciple—are of two kinds. They are either negative or positive. The negative class is the only one that an Anti-Fairy-Tale League could put in its syllabus. It consists of a series of ejaculations: Do not drink! Do not swear! Do not tell lies! etc. Drawn up in an amended form suitable for children, it might read like this:

(1) Do not drink your brother's ginger-beer.

(2) and (3), etc. Do not imitate your parents.

It may appear excellent advice, but virtue—as many religious teachers have suspected and modern science is proving—does not reside in turning oneself into a van-load of inhibitions. Virtue is wholly positive, it is an expression of the spirit. He that imagines virtue is virtuous, and no other. It is a fairy-tale that men are trying to live in the world, and it can only be expressed in art. There is no virtue in a mere exhortation to be virtuous. Nobody takes any notice of exhortations, and quite rightly; but men who have seen a vision will try to capture it. What the creative artist does is to give men a vision of virtue, of beauty (for beauty is virtue), and it is just this vision which the Montessori teachers would have us put behind the backs of children while they glue their eyes to material things.

Not only would this practice be pernicious, it would be impossible to carry out, for, brought to its logical conclusion, the theory would demand the abolition of the teaching of mathematics and of science, as well as of poetry and of drama; or rather it would reduce mathematics to the counting of beads, science to the naming of smells (a return to "stinks" from which the schools are just escaping), poetry to this sort of thing:

Last night in pulling off a sock

I gave my little nose a knock.

To-day in jumping to get up

I fell across my brindle pup.

That is to say, poetry would vanish, and as for drama, the only drama we could have would be by taking a proscenium into the park and putting it up in front of two lovers kissing on a seat; but the moment the lovers saw us the "drama" would cease, and we could not pay them to go on with it for our amusement, for that would be deception, that would be make-believe.

Those of us who are not by infirmity of constitution natural victims to every new fad that is advertised will take pleasure in anticipating a great growth in the supply of and demand for children's plays. They offer great scope for development, and will increasingly appeal to authors who have no desire to write the conventional stage play—a thing without imagination or beauty, a mere artificial contrivance to enable actors to exhibit their charm and skill. There is no possibility of getting literary men of the highest class to write the plays we see succeeding in our London theatres during the greater part of the year. They could not possibly have any interest in work of that kind, and they could not do it well, but the children's play is a much more elastic and adaptable dramatic form. To-day, for instance, even verse is used in successful children's plays, and managers do not demand for this purpose work so conventional and stereotyped as they require ordinarily. This Christmas there were three children's plays produced in the West End: Peter Pan, Once Upon a Time, and Where the Rainbow Ends. Of these only Once Upon a Time was new, and it was rather a series of fairy-tales—connected by the device of an elf telling the stories to a goblin who captured her—than an original work; but it was cleverly done by the author, Miss Wildig, and delightfully produced by Miss Edith Craig. I must confess to having enjoyed Once Upon a Time far more than most of the plays I had seen during the preceding year, but it was a pastiche not a homogeneous invention, and it contained an absurd and very irritating pseudo-patriotic melodrama called The Woman of the Black Mountain, as well as an extremely amusing and rather savage burlesque of certain marriage customs which are not yet quite extinct entitled The Bone of Contention. This latter would make an excellent sketch for a Revue, or possibly Mr. Oscar Asche will introduce it into Chu Chin Chow.

Demand and Supply

It is a great pity that the Pantomime has so degenerated now when it had got rid of much of the knock-about farcical element, of a great deal of the tyranny of the spectacular, and of the "transformation scene," because it is a form that offers great possibilities to the author, and if a genius came along he could do something wonderful with it. Even without a genius or without waiting for him a great deal could be done. If only those responsible for the annual Pantomimes at Drury Lane and the Lyceum would leave the beaten track for once and get into touch with the younger generation of writers and commission them to produce a Pantomime we might get a valuable addition to our dramatic literature. It involves very little commercial risk, and holds the possibility of an immense financial success, apart from other considerations. It may be asked why do not these young men write a Pantomime on their own initiative? But the answer is simple. Our young writers have no time to spend on work which has no prospect of ever being looked at, much less produced; besides, a Pantomime is essentially a thing for collaboration between two or three of them, and they are nearly all as busy as they can be with bread-and-butter journalism and with individual projects in those few spare hours that remain to them. There is, however, little doubt that they could produce a Pantomime which would draw all London for months, just as there is little doubt that the Pantomime and the children's play are the most promising and flexible of the dramatic forms which confront our young writers. The Revue may be thought to offer almost equal opportunities, and to be capable of development out of its present chaotic state, but it is rather more restricted by the fact that it has such a large public. To have the largest public is to have the least hope of commanding the attention of your audience sufficiently for them to appreciate what is not obvious. Besides, the Revue supplies a definite demand which does not change from year to year. It is a demand for pretty girls, pretty dresses, dancing and humour, and if there suddenly appeared among us a greater dramatic genius than any that has ever lived he would not be able to satisfy that demand as well as Mr. C. B. Cochran, Mr. André Charlot, or Sir Alfred Butt do. It is the minority that is not catered for in drama as it is catered for in literature. Where are the thirty-five thousand readers of the Times Literary Supplement in the land of theatres? They are scattered in twos and threes here and there, always dissatisfied and disgruntled. Whether at a Pantomime, at a Revue, at a Comedy, or at a Drama they find the entertainment a hundred per cent. below the standard they demand, and their only pleasure is an occasional Shakespearean production or a children's play. But they could be mobilised and brought together to support solidly and without the fickleness of the large public a theatre that gave them what they wanted. If the experiment were made with children's plays they would be reinforced by the thousands of parents who will not submit their children to the vulgarities of the latter-day Pantomime.

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The next performance of the Phœnix Society will take place on February 8th and 9th, when Dryden's Marriage à la Mode will be given.

*      *      *      *      *

It is rumoured that Mr. Henry Ainley's next production at the St. James's will be Stephen Phillip's Paolo and Francesca, in which Mr. Ainley made his first success.

DRAMATIC LITERATURE

PROBLEMS OF THE ACTOR. By LOUIS CALVERT. Simpkin. 7s.

This is a book which can be thoroughly recommended not only to every amateur but to every professional actor and theatre-lover. It is full of the most uncommon sense, and although Mr. Calvert has decided opinions on voice-training, gesture, team-work, scenery, dressing, music, and producing, he does not lay down the law with the evidence of inexperience, but reasons his position from point to point with a quietness that is far more impressive and convincing. Mr. Calvert has also done more than he probably set out to do. The book is, in the first instance, a guide for the young actor or would-be actor, giving him a good deal of wise advice on the technical side of his craft. But in doing this Mr. Calvert has written a book which should be read by every theatre-goer, since it will increase his appreciation of the theatre enormously by opening his mind to detail of which he was, in all probability, completely unaware, although more or less conscious of its cumulative effect. After reading Mr. Calvert's book he will find himself itching to go immediately to the nearest playhouse and regard the drama being enacted there with what he will feel are new eyes; and since the standard of acting and of drama generally is dependent largely upon the level of intelligence of its audience, Mr. Calvert's book will be as beneficial to the theatre when studied by the ordinary public as when studied by the actor. Finally, this book is an attempt to put the actor again in his proper position as the pillar of the drama. On this point I am in absolute agreement with Mr. Calvert. Plays are conceivable in which the actor may be no more than an instrument in the orchestra. I think they will be written, but I have yet to see them. But in the plays of Shakespeare and the Elizabethans the actor is first in importance, and scenery, dressing, music, and everything else must be used simply as a background and a subsidiary to him. Moreover Mr. Calvert makes a claim—which is also made by the late Mr. H. B. Irving in an introduction—to the consideration of the actor in his highest moments as a creative artist. This claim, in my opinion, Mr. Calvert makes good, and if there are any people to-day who still cherish the old superstition that the actor is merely a sort of clever but shallow showman, then unless they are bigoted beyond the reach of intelligence this book will dispel it once for all.

W. J. TURNER

THE FINE ARTS

War-pictures at Burlington House

ONE would have hesitated to predict success for a set of commissioned war pictures: meaning success in the sense of excellence. In commissioning any painting or piece of sculpture with a dictated subject there is always the danger that the subject will be uncongenial to the artist, that it may have no connection with his own intimate experience. This is one of the disadvantages of portrait painting. The artist is supposed to be capable and desirous of depicting all kinds of characters, not to speak of flattering them. The novelist and dramatist are more fortunate. People are anxious to avoid and also tired of their revelations. But Mr. Horatio Bottomley still expects the Poet Laureate to boom out the appropriate ode.

Besides the general objection there was the further feeling that the war was a sufficient preoccupation in itself, and a disagreeable one of such a kind that deliberately to set out to make contemporaneous art about it would be not only superfluous but almost profane. It would amount to gloating. The war was a foul and dirty job that had to be gone through with, and the experience of concentrating on this was enough. It was not without good reason that immediately following the war the most popular forms of art were the Revue and the Russian Ballet.

Again, one rather grudges the large sums of State money spent on war-pictures when one thinks of the comparatively small expenditure on art in peace-time. And those two rich and influential patrons who started the ball rolling with large contributions, did they before the war, will they now after the war, patronise art extensively and seriously? The motive may have been sound, but it was in all probability very mixed.

But doubt and scepticism tend to be quashed by the result, which must be admitted to be a very considerable success. The field appears to have been so wide that the artists have been able to select the themes which had most significance for them, and there is a direct continuity in their present with their past work. Even pure landscapes have not been ruled out. It is, in fact, far the best modern exhibition that has graced the walls of the Academy for some time, and the memory of it will still be fresh in the spring.

It is not meant, however, that the Exhibition is full of masterpieces. It contains work that is representative of much of the best English art of to-day, but the keynote of that art is talent, accomplishment, and not genius. And this judgment does not exclude such well-known painters as Sargent, Cameron, Muirhead Bone, Francis Dodd, Clausen, Orpen, Lavery.

I shall, no doubt, be accused of iconoclasm, of indulging in easy destructive criticism; and the term Futurist will be hurled at me with such a lot of prejudicial glue on it that, although it is inapplicable, it will inevitably stick. And I shall be asked if I would consign the whole of the past to the rubbish-heap and abolish all tradition, and so on. The answer is, emphatically and vehemently, no! It is precisely because the past looms so imposing and ever watchful that the late twentieth-century English painters are dwarfed. Place a Muirhead Bone beside a Meryon (the comparison is not irrelevant, because there are definite similarities between the two) and the Muirhead Bone will disappear into the Meryon. Two possible exceptions in the present Exhibition are The Great Crater, Athies (280) and Deniecourt Chateau, Estrées(284). Place a Sargent beside a Manet, Courbet or Velazquez and Sargent's horses beside those of Géricault, and the Sargent loses all vitality. Or, again, neither Steer nor Clausen will stand very prolonged comparison with Constable or even Monet. Practically the whole of English late twentieth-century art is derived from Constable and from the French Barbizon and Impressionist schools, and is inferior to it. The latter is the significant point. This may sound too sweeping, and indeed it probably does leave out of account the few gems which a complete collection would reveal. Still, the fact of it being necessary to hunt for these few gems and not rather to eliminate the few failures would confirm the general judgment. We have never had anything like the great constellation of French nineteenth-century art.

In reaction against the tendency of English Impressionism to degenerate into the pleasant but slipshod æstheticism of a Lavery there is the crude Vorticism of Wyndham Lewis and W. P. Roberts. It had once a negative, destructive, rebellious value, but as a permanent constructive effort it surely is a cul-de-sac, a mere mechanical formula. Before any theory comes into play the primary test is whether a picture really moves us, appeals to us. If Vorticist or Futurist art did this, then no amount of argument refuting their abstract theory could condemn the actual art. But, at any rate, so far as I am concerned, this art has no appeal to me in a picture-frame. Indeed, it seems to me to be becoming increasingly stereotyped, and it is amazing that Mr. Wyndham Lewis should honestly believe in it himself. Mr. Wadsworth's Vorticist design for a house, which was recently exhibited by the Arts League of Service, absurdly unpractical though it was, had far larger possibilities in it.

The most interesting work exhibited by the younger painters is that painted in the more traditional manner—that is to say it is not abstractionist. It is possible that on seeing for the first time the pictures of the Nash brothers, Meninsky, Schwabe, Elliott Seabrooke, one might mistake them for "Futurist" efforts. This is, however, not owing to any distortion or abstraction, but to the fact that they have in common with the abstractionists a certain restlessness of design. Even when allied to absolute truth in representation, this trait might at first sight appear novel and revolutionary. It is, or tends to be, expressive of a new outlook.

Paul Nash's large picture, The Menin Road, is a distinct achievement. It grips one's attention. Yet it is overloaded, the incident, the drama of the landscape is piled on too thickly. John Nash's Over the Top, on the other hand, attracts attention because of its very bareness and simplicity. On a small section of a snow-covered front men are stumbling out of a jagged muddy trench into rolling fog cloud. Yet in spite of its success in convincing us that that is exactly how it was, the picture lacks intensity and depth. We are grateful to Mr. Nash, as also to Mr. Sargent, for having spared us the harassing agonies of the typical old-fashioned Academy war-picture. But neither has altogether succeeded in providing the real substitute. What such a picture would be like still remains to be seen. For it has not yet been painted.

The distinctive characteristics of the younger school, its sense of actuality, of lively conflicting movement, its combination of realism with rhythm, are summed up in Stanley Spencer's Travoys Arriving with Wounded at a Dressing Station at Smoll, in Macedonia. In spite of certain possible faults of perspective, this is a thoroughly good picture. But although about a scene in the war, it is not of the war. It contains an inner civilian joyfulness expressed in unhampered, rhythmical activity. Equal praise must be bestowed on Henry Lamb's Irish Troops in the Judaean Hills Surprised by a Turkish Bombardment, which possesses the same sense of concrete (not abstract) dynamic form.

The New English Art Club

There are two large pictures by Stanley Spencer at the New English Art Club Exhibition which confirm the impression that there is an immense promise in his art and already considerable attainment. It has such depth and breadth, such spontaneity and comprehensiveness. Boggle as we may at certain neo-primitive tendencies in his figures, at certain humorous irrelevancies in their occupations, overriding and almost justifying these eccentricities there is the fact that these two pictures do immediately and irresistibly heighten and intensify our consciousness: they give us a "silent and instantaneous flash of collusion with beauty." The picture Swan Upping at Cookham is freer from the static archaistic convention than the pseudo-Biblical composition, The Sacrifice of Zacharias, which is, nevertheless, because of the landscape background, equally fascinating. In the former it is the rigid mask of the woman lifting the cushion out of the punt and the distortion of the shoulders of the dark-faced gentleman that provoke criticism: in the latter nearly all the figures are a little inexplicable, except (and here the realist will demur strongly) the gentleman who is footing it gently towards Zacharias and the Florentine gentleman who is indulging in a graceful and somewhat reminiscent dancing gesture. These two are an inevitable part of that luxuriant and yet refreshing scenery. Pre-Raphaelite will doubtless be the derogatory term applied to Mr. Stanley Spencer, and it is true that he has affinities with that group which started with such promise and then proceeded to develop its vices more fully than its virtues. But Spencer has not got these particular vices, an inordinate love of photographic detail and a languishing sentimentality. His work suggests, rather than actually contains, an infinite wealth of detail, and it is swept with fresh country air precluding any Pre-Raphaelite hothouse languor.

Nor must we fall into the error of demanding realistic character studies from an artist who does not see people from that point of view at all. His outlook is nearer to that of Blake: his people are embodiments of universal emotions, they are penetrated with a sense of religious awe and beauty. Or, rather, this is what they would be if his expression were to reach its full maturity and get rid of its present archaistic obsession. His figures might still be stiff and intense, but we would not notice this because of their profound significance.

HOWARD HANNAY

MUSIC

MR. ARTHUR RUBINSTEIN'S RECITAL

DURING the last few months the Wigmore Hall has been the scene of some very notable recitals given by pianists of the first rank. They had several interesting points in common. Their audiences consisted largely of professional musicians, their programmes were generally of a severe and far from popular type. Yet in spite of the somewhat exclusive character of both programmes and audiences, so well adapted, one might think, to the intimate atmosphere of a small hall, intimacy was exactly the quality that in all cases was entirely absent from the performances. Both with Busoni and Cortôt, and lastly with Mr. Arthur Rubinstein, it was impossible to avoid feeling that one was at much too close quarters. The difference between such players as these and the more intimate type of pianist is moral rather than physical. Some players give the impression that they are playing for themselves alone, and that it is by mere accident that we happen to overhear them; the others seem almost to assume that their audience will not listen to them unless its attention is gripped and consciously dominated by the overmastering compulsion of a powerful personality. If we are soothed and charmed by the intimate players, we may indeed be uplifted and transported by the men of might, but there is at the same time the chance that we may be crushed and exhausted.

Mr. Arthur Rubinstein is certainly to be counted among the great pianists, but not yet among the greatest. He is a player of outstanding ability, but not of outstanding personality. He lacks Cortôt's inspiring animation, and, still more, the monumental intellectuality of Busoni. A conventional programme, or an almost conventional one, was the index of an almost conventional mind. The usual Bach-Somebody, the usual heavy Chopin; no Beethoven (thank goodness!), some modern French and Spanish, a Liszt Rhapsody to end up with. What saved the programme were the Spanish pieces and Liszt's Funérailles. If Mr. Rubinstein had had the courage to offer a programme as individual as those of Busoni he might have given himself a better chance of asserting his own individuality.

To begin with the two extremes: the Bach transcription at the beginning and the Liszt Rhapsody at the end are long out of date. Liszt's arrangements of Bach's organ works may have been very wonderful fifty years ago or more when there were not many organs in England on which the originals could be played, even if there were the organists to play them. To-day they are familiar to all of us. Moreover, the modern big pianists play them too easily. They seek to reproduce, as far as they can, the effect of the organ, and sometimes achieve a very remarkable uniformity of tone, as faultlessly regular as any given row of pipes can produce. But this uniformity of the organ's tone-colour is just the obvious deficiency of that instrument, and the exact reproduction of it on the pianoforte very easily tends to reproduce no more than the relentless accuracy of the mechanical piano-player. Mr. Rubinstein played his Bach-Liszt with intelligence and skill, and even succeeded in suggesting a certain organ-like effect of sonority by means of an ingenious method of pedalling; but in these days we should prefer either a more astounding miracle of transcription or, still better, the direct simplicity of Bach unadorned. Again, if it is still necessary to end a recital with a display of fireworks there are surely more showy things available now than Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsodies; and if we want Liszt for his own musical thoughts, we want something that represents him in a more serious mood. For the Funérailles Mr. Rubinstein deserves sincere gratitude.

Liszt's Hungary is only less difficult to believe in than Chopin's Poland. It is true that Hungary exists, and true that in Hungarian cafés one may still hear the tunes which Liszt embellished, but such underlying truth as the Rhapsodies possess is completely disguised by their tawdry romantic theatricality. As for Poland, "if she had not existed, it would have been necessary to invent her," for Paris of the eighteen-thirties. That Poland, populated entirely by devout and amorous aristocrats, is the musician's Mrs. Harris—no, his Countess Harricka. Certainly the robust vigour of Mr. Rubinstein's playing make short work of the languor and swagger of the Scherzo in B flat minor and the Polonaise in A flat. All pianists are expected to play Chopin; but there are not many works of Chopin that will stand the strain of interpretation in the modern virtuoso's manner. The Barcarole is one of the few which by virtue of its serene and classical beauty has still been able to survive it.

MODERN SPANISH MUSIC

One composer stood out with unexpected prominence from Mr. Rubinstein's programme—Isaac Albeniz. Albeniz is hardly to be counted among the moderns. His training as a composer was mainly German, and he came to a certain extent under English influences as well. Like Chopin, he was primarily a pianist and a composer for the pianoforte. His songs, a few of which have been heard recently in London, are pianoforte pieces with a voice thrown in. He lives almost entirely by virtue of the volume of Spanish pictures entitled Iberia. Mr. Rubinstein has spent a considerable time in Spain, and it is clear that he has succeeded to a wonderful extent in absorbing the musical spirit of the country. There was a depth of poetry and passion about his playing of the Evocation and Triana which he never attained in any other item of his programme. Spanish music has at last begun to come into its own. We can trace its development clearly in the successive stages represented by Albeniz, Granados, Turina, and De Falla. Granados, like Albeniz, writes on a harmonic system that is predominantly German, in that German influences are the foundation of almost all nineteenth-century music. Turina, a pupil of Vincent d'Indy at the Schola Cantorum, has affinities with the French intellectuals. He is the chief Spanish representative of chamber music. De Falla is more definitely one of the moderns. All four are pianists—Turina less obviously so than the other three.

It is easy to see the Spanish element that is common to the whole group. Anyone can recognise the rhythms and turns of phrase that are derived from Spanish national song and dance, the more so as all four have drawn their principal inspiration from popular sources. But it is to us foreigners that the Spanish local colour is most insistently obvious. In listening to the music of any particular school we may approach it in two ways. At first we are conscious of the school as a homogeneous group; we notice similarities and look out for more of them. This may easily lead us into error, for we are tempted thus to regard as essential characteristics things that in reality are only tricks of manner or stereotyped conventions of a particular place or period. If we are to form a reasonable judgment we must be prepared to ignore these and keep our ears open for differences. We must note not so much the local theme that is common to all the group as the diverse treatment of it which each separate composer affects. If there is anything really Spanish about these four composers that is of vital importance, it should be not the mere choice of a Spanish melody or rhythm as the foundation of their music, but the method on which the complete structure is designed and built up.

Here begin the difficulties of understanding even Albeniz and Granados. The Spanish themes appeal directly to the foreign ear, almost too directly; we might even dismiss them as cheap and obvious. It is the treatment of them that is individual. One's first impression of Iberia and the Gozescas is that they are rambling and incoherent—yet it would be strange if a Latin composer should lapse into a Celtic indifference to form and logic. Mr. Rubinstein succeeded in making the Albeniz pieces not only poetical but lyrical. They tempt a pianist at first to play them at top speed; their style of piano-forte-writing suggests the rattling brilliance of the virtuoso. Mr. Rubinstein avoided the error; but it takes a very skilful pianist to do so.

It is not the local colour about Spanish music that we must respect, but its grave seriousness of intention. Spain has always remained artistically somewhat behind other countries, just as England has done; and Spain at the present moment, unlike England, is not anxious to be in a hurry over progress. Hence even De Falla, the most modern of the group, is possibly a little old-fashioned as compared with the modern French and Italian composers. Yet he is modern, in the sense that he is intellectual and anti-sentimental, as compared with Albeniz. This was very evident in his ballet, The Three-cornered Hat, which the Russians performed all too seldom. But his intellectuality and anti-sentimentality are distinguished and serene. He makes no experiments with the purely grotesque, he has no desire to make a complete and irrevocable breach with the art of the past, as some of the French and Italians appear to do. Even in a traditional idiom he has something genuinely new to say.

A SCRIABIN RECITAL

If anyone could have converted me to Scriabin it should have been Mr. Edward Mitchell, who gave a whole afternoon of his works on January 17th at the Westminster Central Hall, ranging from Op. 8 to Op. 72. Mr. Mitchell is a player of extraordinary persuasiveness. He evidently understands Scriabin, and is determined to make his audience understand him. He has a very efficient and vigorous technique, and plays with remarkable accuracy and assurance. No one could listen to his programme without learning a great deal about the composer to whom it was devoted. Yet in spite of a very well-chosen selection of pieces, in spite of considerable variety of touch and style, the concert left only an impression of deadly and morbid monotony. An afternoon of Scriabin recalled at once to memory the effect of a concert of Hugo Wolf's songs, or of Elgar's The Apostles. It was morbid and narcotic, a perpetual command to abrogate reason and abandon one's brain to feeling, to emotion, to a mystical trance. The emotional force of such music is at times undeniable; what it sets out to achieve, the representation of moods and emotions, it achieves overwhelmingly. Scriabin has in the main three moods, a mood of violence and pain, a mood of comatose oppression, and a mood of struggle, the last of which is well illustrated by Vers la flamme. Perhaps this is all that some people require of music. Others demand a sense of dignity and nobility, with a conscious beauty of formal design.

Technically Scriabin can be summed up in a few words. His outlook on music is purely harmonic. Even in his early works he shows a partiality for certain well-known discords which he gradually comes to use so often that the resolution of them becomes superfluous. By this road we lead on to Stravinsky, Casella, and Malipiero. Melodic tone there is none. This melodic poverty is very apparent and easily demonstrable in the early works. Here Scriabin is obviously building, or trying to build, on Chopin. But while comparing Scriabin with Chopin, compare Chopin with Field. Chopin is clearly an advance on Field in every way—he has a much stronger melodic line, and a much deeper sense of harmonic values. But Scriabin is no advance on Chopin, only a retrogression from him. He can only imitate Chopin's emotional climaxes. He appears to be more interesting harmonically, because he keeps Chopin's discords and omits his concords, roughly speaking.

EDWARD J. DENT

SELECT LIST OF PUBLICATIONS

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THE FOUNDATIONS OF MUSIC. By HENRY J. WATT. Cambridge University Press. 18s.

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THE LONDON

MERCURY

Editor—J. C. SQUIRE        Assistant-Editor—EDWARD SHANKS

Vol. I No. 5                          March 1920

EDITORIAL NOTES

AS we write a deputation is to wait upon Mr. Fisher, President of the Board of Education, in order to press the claims of a National Theatre. "Why Mr. Fisher?" it may be asked—a member of the deputation was, in fact, asked the question. The Board of Education cannot establish a National Theatre; the Treasury would scarcely allow Mr. Fisher to make a grant to the National Theatre fund; and whatever the advantages of a National Theatre and the elevating influence which might conceivably be exercised by the drama, few people think of it primarily as educational in the narrow sense of the word. The answer given to the question was: "Because he's the nearest approach we've got to a Minister of Fine Arts."

We suppose that in this special connection the answer was a true one. The President of the Board of Education may be supposed to stand in a closer relation with the drama than other Ministers, though had other arts been under consideration other Ministers would have been thought of. Had domestic architecture been the deputation's concern it would have addressed itself to the Minister of Health, and within a narrow range Sir Alfred Mond at the Office of Works actually performs some of the functions of a Minister of Fine Arts. The fabric of the Houses of Parliament is under his care; his predecessors, Lord Harcourt and Lord Beauchamp, left their marks upon it. It was the Office of Works which commissioned and supervised the later frescoes on staircase and corridor at Westminster, and it is its business to see that alterations are made consonantly with the character of the structure. But this is a very minor thing compared with the vast field in which the Government does at present exercise functions in which æsthetic considerations are largely involved.

Let us, for a moment, ignore the things which might be done—such as the subsidisation of a National Theatre—and think of a few of the things which have been done, or are habitually done. At this moment a Government department is supervising, or preparing to supervise, the erection of hundreds of thousands of houses. These houses will materially affect the architectural landscape. Design, the suitability of materials to local features and traditions, these things are of immense importance; what is done depends upon the competence, the information, the industry, the numerical sufficiency, and the domestic influence within the Department of the Ministry of Health's experts. Many departments build, or arrange for building to their own designs, numerous large public structures, or exercise, or could exercise, a determining pressure upon the design of buildings erected by local authorities. You cannot go many miles along the English coast without finding a barracks, and when you find it you will not like it. We have a complex of public museums which are the particular care of no Minister. We have an immense Government printing business which is directly under the Treasury; it is no powerful person's concern to see that its publications are well produced. Our Mint produces coins, our Post Office produces stamps, our War Office produces medals. The most important medal ever produced by the British Government is the large memorial bronze plaque which is to be given to the next-of-kin of nearly a million fallen. The last, word as to the nature of this, and the process by which it should be made, rested first (we believe) with the Contracts Branch of the War Office, which has been incorporated in the Ministry of Munitions. We have mentioned but a few typical illustrations of the confused, haphazard way in which the State is in operative contact with the Arts; and even then we have not mentioned the most recent and striking instances, the commissioning of a large number of war pictures by a "Minister of Information" who happened to want to see contemporary art well represented in the Imperial War Museum, and the employment of both British plays and British drawings as "propaganda abroad"—the Salome incident may be recalled.

Is there not an overwhelmingly strong case for a Ministry of Fine Arts? We know there are always those who, when the suggestion is made, drop the curtain in their minds at once with contemptuous remarks about "official art." What they ignore is that we are bound to have "official art," that it could not conceivably be worse than it is, and that proper organisation would at least give an occasional intelligent Minister a chance. Design at present is everybody's business and nobody's business. It is not to be expected that even the most æsthetic of War Ministers should much preoccupy himself with the "elevations" of barracks, that the best of Ministers for Education should devote his days to the physical appearance of schools and training colleges, that the First Lord of the Admiralty should mind what his Stores look like, or that even new Government buildings in the middle of London, though they do engage serious attention sometimes, should be anything but bad. The Office of Works itself, which actually builds, is principally concerned with seeing that So-and-so gets so many rooms and So-and-so has his partition pulled down. There is no specialist authority in engraving or metal work. Ministers and officials sometimes consult experts, but it is a matter of chance what sort of experts they will consult. In no capital, not even in Berlin, are there uglier Public Offices than there are in Whitehall, or more pretentious ones. As for the immense amount of War Office building, the Guards Barracks at Chelsea may stand as a type. We commend them as a medicine for anyone who suspects himself of exaggerated national vanity. Our museums are starved. Readers will remember the ridiculous cheeseparing at Bloomsbury early in the war which, combined with the ruthless occupation and closing of museums and galleries, reduced many able and devoted public servants almost to despair. Had these institutions been under the control of a Minister whose prime concern they were, they would have had a higher status in Whitehall and he could have fought for them, as it was no one's interest or business to fight for them.

We believe that in many regards a Minister of Fine Arts would preserve us from the worst infamies, and that a good Minister of Fine Arts would have great opportunities of doing more than that. For certain things he should be directly and solely responsible to Parliament: the art galleries and those museums which are not first and foremost technological. It should rest with his department at least to sanction all designs for public buildings erected by the central authorities, and it might act in consultative capacity to other authorities. His staff should include men capable of originating, obtaining, or vetoing designs for any other department doing work in which design is important. For the Stationery Office, though it be primarily a (not very well run) publishing business, we do not see why that should not be bodily transferred to him. The "format" of most Government publications is disgraceful, both from the point of view of appearance and from that of convenience, and were they better produced they might be better marketed. We are not under the illusion that any Minister of Fine Arts would initiate great revolutions in Art, but he could certainly greatly increase our facilities and add to the comfort of our walks abroad. And, where a subsidy for some definite object such as the National Theatre is wanted, he would be as the mouthpiece of the State and a Minister amongst Ministers far more likely to be able to do something than Mr. Fisher or any other existing Minister. We hope shortly to return to the subject, one of the few at all impinging on politics with which we feel entitled to deal.

Several correspondents have written drawing our attention to the prices paid at the sale of Lord Foley's library and to Truth's comments on them. The facts in brief are these. The Ruxley Lodge library was sold locally; there were few, if any, bidders for the important books, except a number of London booksellers, and the sums fetched were deplorably small. All four Shakespeare Folios (the third imperfect) were there. They fetched £100, £46, £28, and £20 respectively. Two months ago the Britwell copy of the first brought in £2300 at Sotheby's. Thirteen first editions of Shelley fetched £52 the lot, and Keats's Endymion and Lamia volumes produced £7 between them. Some valuable books were lumped in with bundles of miscellaneous books and went for a song; it is likely that, with such cataloguing, many rare and valuable works may have escaped mention except as "and others": our contemporary goes so far as to say that "there is every probability that in this way old books worth hundreds, even thousands, of pounds were disposed of for a few shillings."

It is really deplorable that owners, or their executors and legatees, should suffer thus. Nobody grudges dealers their fair profits, nor does any one deny that a dealer, like anybody else, is entitled to pick up bargains because he knows what the other side doesn't know. But for dealers to combine at an auction in order to prevent a vendor from having more than a tithe of the known market value of his goods is another matter. We make no direct allusion to this particular sale. We did not see the catalogue or the goods, and it is—at any rate for the purposes of argument—conceivable that the best books may have been in very bad condition. Nor do we suggest that there are not dealers in London who keep outside rings and do not take part in "knock-outs." But everybody knows that there are rings in all the important collectors' trades, and that these rings frequently put up at auctions—and the country auction gives them their best chance—the merest simulacrum of competition bidding and retire to share out the loot among themselves. In the new volume of Mr. Wilfrid Blunt's Diary there is an account of the beginnings of the late Sir Hugh Lane's career, given to Mr. Blunt by Sir Hugh's aunt, Lady Gregory:

She apprenticed him to Colnaghi at a hundred a year, where he learnt his business of picture-dealing. He began his fortune, she tells me, by an accident. He happened to hear of a picture which was for sale in some remote country place, and travelled down to look at it, but, having no money to buy, although there was almost no bidding, he was obliged to let it go for a very small price. When the sale was over, the bidders, who were all professional dealers, went to a public house, and he with them, and it then turned out that they had been standing in together not to bid, and they held a private sale of the picture among themselves, dividing the price realised between them, and as Lane was known to belong to Colnaghi's he was included in it, and got £160 as his share.

We have heard, we remember, that the picture was a Hals; at all events this illustrates the sort of thing that happens. Not long before the war there was a considerable disturbance about the operations of an alleged ring at Christie's; there were rumours of knock-outs in which picture-dealers shared out enormous sums. It was widely argued that this sort of operation should be legally defined as fraudulent and legally punished. That nothing came of the agitation, in the light of the fact that every honest man (which includes dealers who have been forced into rings) sympathised with the agitators, suggests that investigation opened up more difficulties than had been suspected.

People are again urging a legal remedy. It appears to us that it would be impossible to enforce a law preventing rings and knock-out auctions. Nobody can compel men to bid against each other if they have an agreement—verbal and private—not to, and though large gatherings for a knock-out might occasionally be detected (but proof of guilt would be difficult), two or three are entitled innocently to gather together and can easily do so for purposes not entirely innocent. An occasional bad sale in London is bound to occur so long as rich private buyers continue their modern practice of not attending sales. We don't think anybody complained about prices when the Huth Library or Lord Vernon's rarities were sold, and we have been to many quite ordinary sales in Chancery Lane or Bond Street at which scarcely anything went for less than the owners had probably paid for it a few years ago. There are usually quite enough outsiders present to keep prices up, and it is only by accident that an agreeable little collection sometimes goes at a sacrifice. Moreover a private buyer, if he bids, is not harried as he is in some minor rooms where other commodities are sold; and some of the biggest dealers, if present, act entirely on their own. Such as the conditions in London are we cannot see much hope of change, unless and until (as we said) there is a return to the days when peers of the realm bid against each other for the jewels of the Roxburgh Library and their friends stood by them betting on the results. But the most calamitous occurrences, those which take place away from London, might easily be avoided if owners or executors would have a little sense. It is hardly conceivable that Lord Foley took really expert advice about his books; it is certain that if he knew anything about the market in old books he would never have had his put up at a local auction. Persons disposing wholesale of valuables, books, pictures, or china, from country houses should never allow them to be sold in the country. At Messrs. Sotheby's or Hodgson's, though a bad patch may now and then be struck, books would never go for the prices fetched at Ruxley Park; and when a really important collection comes up the big American buyers are almost invariably present, and the only comment likely to be made on prices is that there seems no end to their possible inflation.

Last month we stated in this place that we had recovered a few copies of No. 1 of THE LONDON MERCURY. These are now exhausted. We shall have no more copies, and if people send us money for No. 1 we shall only be at the pains of returning it. We would advise those who are anxious to get No. 1 to take steps to secure it privately, by advertisement or through secondhand booksellers. We have still a certain stock of No. 2, and new subscriptions may still begin as from that issue. We repeat our invitation to readers who will be wanting binding cases for Vol. I. to let us know.

LITERARY INTELLIGENCE

THE death, recently reported from Germany, of Dr. Richard Dehmel at the age of fifty-six removes after a long interval the second of the two poets who were admiringly regarded by their contemporaries as rivalling the literary partnership which once existed between Goethe and Schiller. The Freiherr Detlev von Liliencron, who died in 1909, was one of the initiators of a new movement in German literature; and of this movement his much younger friend was often proclaimed the most distinguished ornament. Dehmel was the son of a forest official in the Mark of Brandenburg, and it has been speculated, without obvious results, whether there was not some Slavonic admixture in his blood which was reflected in his work. But there is little in his career which requires further brought explanation than the conditions of its time and place. He was educated at the University of Leipzig, where he took his doctor's degree with a thesis on a point in the business of insurance, and he worked for some years as secretary to an insurance company, a period of his life which he regarded as having profitably taught him discipline and orderliness of mind. He developed late as a poet. He himself said that he wrote nothing worth having till his twenty-sixth year, and many of the pieces in his first volume, Erlösungen, published when he was twenty-eight, were afterwards discarded or altered. His works consist of several collections of poems, which he continually shuffled and regrouped with every new edition (he was inclined to rebuff critics who wished to trace the development of his powers); Die Verwandlungen der Venus, a series of poetical visions of all types of love from the highest to the lowest; Zwei Menschen, a novel in verse, describing the elopement of a librarian with his employer's wife; Der Mitmensch, a modern play in prose, to which he himself attached great importance; an elaborate wordless play called Lucifer; Michel-Michael, a political tract in dramatic form; a collection of short stories; a collection of essays; and a collection of tales and verses for children. Like most of his generation he was subject to many exotic influences, ranging from Verlaine to Przybyszewski and from Shakespeare to Pierre Louys; and his works contain many admirable translations, those from Verlaine being among the best in the German language. His own poetry is pre-eminently didactic and he preaches consistently, in allegory, in direct narrative, and in direct precept, the doctrine of self-control and of the full utilisation of all human faculties. He had passion and vigour, a not always active power of psychological discernment and an occasional perception of beauty. He is justly reproached with a certain brutality and vulgarity and, one might add, with strange lapses of humour. His courage and determination are beyond question; but in his erotic, as well as in his mystical, rhapsodies (which are often combined) there is too frequently a disagreeable element of frigid calculation. His obscurity is sometimes tiresome and unnecessary, and many of his allegories and symbols are incomprehensible without an external key to their meaning. Some of his lyrics, however, are extremely beautiful: there are passages of insight and dramatic force in Zwei Menschen; some of his epigrams and aphorisms are wise and terse; and a strain of earnest sincerity runs through all his preaching. In August, 1914, though his class was not called up, he volunteered for service, and, possibly as a reward for a great deal of patriotic poetry, he received the Iron Cross. He died at Blankenese, near Hamburg, where he had lived for several years before the war.

Those many who knew the late Edward Thomas, who fell in France in 1917, will be glad to hear that a memorial is being prepared of an admirable poet and essayist. It will take the form of a volume, biographical and appreciative, of prose and verse, and the contributors will include, amongst others, Messrs. W. H. Davies, Walter de la Mare, V. Locke Ellis, Edward Garnett, James Guthrie, E. S. P. Haynes, and Edward Rhys. Extracts are given from Thomas's letters to Mr. W. H. Hudson. The book is being printed by Mr. Guthrie, whose beautiful work as draughtsman and painter in Root and Branch has not yet had the full recognition it deserves. It will be a quarto, set in Caslon Old Face type, and bound in dark green cloth, with a device in gold by Mr. Guthrie, who has also designed a frontispiece, title-page, and initial letters. The price is to be ten shillings, and prospective subscribers should apply to the Secretary, Pear Tree Press, Flansham, Bognor.

Lady Burne-Jones, widow of the painter, died early last month. She was the author of one of the most readable and delightful biographies in the language. Her "Life" of her husband was written vivaciously rather than brilliantly, and it revealed in Lady Burne-Jones no notable gift for literary creation. But her two volumes contained no dull page, few slipshod sentences, and a life-like portrait of one of the most lovable of men.

The next number of THE LONDON MERCURY will contain the first of two long contributions by Mr. Edmund Gosse embodying his reminiscences of Henry James and an article by Sir George Henschel on Interpretation in Singing. Either in that or the next number we hope also to publish a first instalment of the last diary of the late W. N. P. Barbellion.

POETRY

The Senses

Lo, as a garden-wandering bee,

The soul seeks out her immortality

From all the growths and blossoms manifold

Which in this life men hold

As things material: plying busy rounds,

From the world's odours, sights, and sounds

To fill her honied stores.

From the perfume acrid-sweet of dead leaves burning

When autumn sunsets into dusk are turning:

From the breath of damp stone floors

And paraffin, pervading the cool porches

And aisles of village churches:

From the tepid, flat, mechanic exhalations

Of desolate tube-stations:

From woody savours stirred when children wrench

Tufts out of deep moss-beds: from the subtle stench

Of bad cigars and household slops, begetting

Delighted memory

Of sunny towns in France and Italy:

From the stronger, tawnier stink of dust and sweat

And camel-dung which haunts the glaring East;

And the heavy, sweet, heart-piercing odours breathed

From pale large lilies and narcissus wreathed

Round some dear head deceased.

Such smells as these, and of the sights,

The gleam on blue May nights

Of the young moon in high ancestral boughs

Among the scant young leaves:

And in the wake of the moving ploughs

The shining earth that, as the straight share cleaves,

Turns flowingly over: and the half-seen sweep

Of the high circles and the looming hollow

Of the dark opera-house, where through the leap

And lapse of the music unseen hundreds follow

The curtain's slow ascent:

And the rosy apple-blossom on the bent

And knotted bough, against the blue of heaven:

And the sudden rainbows riven

By the salt breeze from the billows many-leaping

In the sunny Mediterranean.

And of things heard,

The cooling whisper of summer breezes sweeping

The grey-green barley-fields: and the echoes stirred

By music interwoven in some dim-lighted

Cavernous cathedral: and the eighteen-pounders'

Buoyant drum-beats and hisses and whoops united

In a hurricane-barrage: and the clear laughter and shouting

Of girls in old green gardens playing rounders:

And the ripple of fountains spouting

Over marble nymphs and dolphins drenched and cool

To the sun-splashed fountain-pool,

Where golden in the Tuscan sun

The age-worn palace sleeps.

But deep in all the immortal Spirit leaps

Unquenchably, the Imperishable One

To whom through all this multiplicity

Of scattered universes longingly

The Soul, world-wandering mendicant, upreaches

Imploring hands, and as an alms beseeches

The humble coin which buys that one small treasure

Beyond all worldly measure.

MARTIN ARMSTRONG

The Coming of Green

Here like flame and there like water leaping

Green life breaks out again; in sunlight gleaming,

Small bright emerald flames through grey twigs creeping,

Little freshets of leafage shyly streaming

Among dark tangles. And sunlight grows serener

Daily, and wider extends the leafy awning,

And the green undying lawn beneath grows greener—

Greener and lovelier with lights and shadows dawning

Alternate, many-toned, born of the trooping

Of clouds o'er sun. Assembled Planes are bending

Long festoons high-hung and heavily drooping

From domes of luminous greenness. Willows are sending

Their fountains live and many-shafted swooping

Skyward, and lazily backward coolly showering.

Like tongues of flame, like water showering, dripping,

Green life slides down the branch, from bushes shaking

A verdant dew, or, out on a long curve slipping,

At the far extreme to a shivering soft foam breaking.

A spring in the desert, a fire in the darkness leaping,

Greenness comes transparently roofing and walling

Garden ways with an indolent downward-sweeping,

Or mounded high ... aspiring ... airily falling,

Or leaning fan over fan. A green and golden

Lucent cave enfolds us, cunningly vaulted,

With delicate-screened high chambers to embolden

Birds to flutter and sing or nest exalted

In swaying sanctuaries, and the lime-tree's clustering

Flowers to blow that the leafy ways be fragrant.

A dancing flood, a wild fire strengthening, mustering,

Over the gardens the young green life runs vagrant.

MARTIN ARMSTRONG

The Modern Hippolytus

Not, like poor monks, with fasting and the rod

To mortify the flesh for fear of God:

Not, like Sir Galahad, to run to waste

In sentimental worship of the chaste:

Not, like the Puritan, to hug disgust

And feast on others' sins to quench his lust:

Not, like the saint, with dreams of future bliss,

Lost in a fancied world, this world to miss.

But, like Hippolytus, in pride to make

The body servant for the body's sake;

Spurning the Cytheræan's toils, who craves

With servile heart the passion of her slaves,

Freely to render homage unto Her

Who, being free, desires no worshipper:

To render soul for soul, without pretence,

Not wooing sense through soul, nor soul through sense:

To shun the twilight of the world's mistrust

Where Lust for Love's mistaken, Love for Lust,

And seek Diana's cold and hueless light

That knows no difference save of dark and bright:—

There lay the man's will: but the unborn child

Cried in the darkness, and the old world smiled.

KENWORTH RUSHBY

Nature's Fruitfulness

This summer on our yard-wall there does swing

A groundsel-bush from one seed last year sown.

A burnet moth, sun-wakened in the Spring,

Flew out and laid its hundred eggs thereon.

An hundred seeds each blossom on it gives,

An hundred caterpillars eat its leaves.

Its plumed seeds scattered by the wind now fall

Into our yard on water and on stone.

Here too the caterpillars over blown

Gyrate and starve, for few can climb the wall.

Next year again there will be one of both:

One bush of groundsel and one burnet moth.

FRANCIS BURROWS

Almswomen

At Quincey's moat the squandering village ends,

And there in the almshouse dwell the dearest friends

Of all the village, two old dames that cling

As close as any trueloves in the spring.

Long, long ago they passed three-score-and-ten,

And in this doll's house lived together then;

All things they have in common being so poor,

And their one fear, Death's shadow at the door.

Each sundown makes them mournful, each sunrise

Brings back the brightness in their failing eyes.

How happy go the rich fair-weather days

When on the roadside folk stare in amaze

At such a honeycomb of fruit and flowers

As mellows round their threshold; what long hours

They gloat upon their steepling hollyhocks,

Bee's balsams, feathery southernwood and stocks,

Fiery dragons'-mouths, great mallow leaves

For salves, and lemon plants in bushy sheaves,

Shagged Esau's Hands with five green finger-tips!

Such old sweet names are ever on their lips.

As pleased as little children where these grow

In cobbled pattens and worn gowns they go,

Proud of their wisdom when on gooseberry shoots

They stuck egg-shells to fright from coming fruits

The brisk-billed rascals; waiting still to see

Their neighbour owls saunter from tree to tree

Or in the hushing half-light mouse the lane

Long-winged and lordly.

But when those hours wane

Indoors they ponder, scared by the harsh storm

Whose pelting saracens on the window swarm,

And listen for the mail to clatter past

And church clock's deep bay withering on the blast;

They feed the fire that flings a freakish light

On pictured kings and queens grotesquely bright,

Platters and pitchers, faded calendars

And graceful hour-glass trim with lavenders.

Many a time they kiss and cry, and pray

Both may be summoned in the selfsame day,

And wiseman linnet tinkling in his cage

End too with them the friendship of old age,

And all together leave their treasured room

Some bell-like evening when the May's in bloom.

EDMUND BLUNDEN

1920.

Intimacy

Since I have seen you do those intimate things

That other men but dream of; lull asleep

The sinister dark forest of your hair

And tie those bows that stir on your calm breast

Faintly as leaves that shudder in their sleep:

Since I have seen your stocking swallow up,

A swift black wind, the pale flame of your foot

And deemed your slender limbs so meshed in silk

Sweet mermaid sisters drowned in their dark hair:

I have not troubled overmuch with food

And wine has seemed like water from a well;

Pavements are built of fire, grass of thin flames;

All other girls grow dull as painted flowers,

Or flutter harmlessly like coloured flies

Whose wings are tangled in the net of leaves

Spread by frail trees that grow behind the eyes.

EDGELL RICKWORD

The Soldier Addresses His Body

I shall be mad if you get smashed about,

We've had good times together, you and I;

Although you groused a bit when luck was out

And women passionless, and we went dry.

Yet there are many things we have not done;

Countries not seen, where people do strange things,

Eat fish alive, and mimic in the sun

The solemn gestures of their stone-grey kings.

I've heard of forests that are dim at noon,

Where snakes and creepers wrestle all day long;

Where vivid beasts grow pale with the full moon,

Gibber and cry, and wail a mad old song;

Because at the full moon the hippogriff

With ivory-pointed snout and agate feet,

With his green eye will glare them cold and stiff

For the coward wyvern to come down and eat.

Vodka and kvas, and bitter mountain wines

We have not drunk, nor snatched at bursting grapes

To pelt slim girls among Sicilian vines

Who'd flicker through the leaves, elusive shapes.

Yes, there are many things we have not done,

But it's a sweat to knock them into rhyme.

Let's have a drink, and give the cards a run

And leave dull verse to the dull peaceful time.

EDGELL RICKWORD

Night Rapture

For Florence Lamont

How beautiful it is to wake at night

When over all there reigns the ultimate spell

Of complete silence, darkness absolute,

To feel the world, tilted on axle-tree,

In slow gyration, with no sensible sound,

Unless to ears of unimagined beings,

Resident incorporeal or stretched

In vigilance of ecstasy among

Ethereal paths and the celestial maze,

The rumour of our onward course now brings

A steady rustle as of some strange ship,

Darkling with soundless sail all set and amply filled

By volume of an ever-constant air,

At fullest night, through seas for ever calm,

Swept lovely and unknown for ever on!

How beautiful it is to wake at night,

Embalmed in darkness, watchful, sweet, and still

As is the brain's mood flattered by the swim

Of currents circumvolent in the void,

To lie quite still and to become aware

Of the dim light cast by nocturnal skies

On a dim earth beyond the window-ledge,

So, isolate from the friendly company

Of the huge universe which turns without,

To brood apart in calm and joy awhile

Until the spirit sinks and scarcely knows

Whether self is or if self only is

For ever....

How beautiful to wake at night

Within the room grown strange and still and sweet

And live a century while in the dark

The dripping wheel of silence slowly turns,

To watch the window open on the night,

A dewy silent deep where nothing stirs,

And, lying thus, to feel dilate within

The press, the conflict and the heavy pulse

Of incommunicable sad ecstasy

Growing until the body seems outstretched

In perfect crucifixion on the arms

Of a cross pointing from last void to void

While the heart dies to a mere midway spark!

All happiness thou holdest, happy night,

For such as lie awake and feel dissolved

The peaceful spice of darkness and the cool

Breath hither blown from th' ethereal flowers

That mist thy fields! O happy, happy wounds,

Conditioned by existence in humanity,

That have such powers to heal them!—slow sweet sighs

Torn from the bosom, silent wails, the birth

Of such long-treasured tears as pain his eyes

Who, waking, hears the divine solicitudes

Of midnight with ineffable purport charged.

How beautiful it is to wake at night,

Another night, in darkness yet more still

Save when the myriad leaves on full-fledged boughs,

Filled rather by the perfumes' wandering flood

Than by dispansion of the still sweet air,

Shall from the furthest utter silences

In glimmering secrecy have gathered up

An host of whisperings and scattered sighs

To loose at last a sound as of the plunge

And lapsing seeth of some Pacific wave

Which, risen from the star-thronged outer troughs,

Rolls in to wreath with languorous foam away

The flutter of the golden moths that haunt

The star's one glimmer daggered on wet sands!

So beautiful it is to wake at night

Imagination, loudening with the surf

Of the midsummer wind among the boughs,

Gathers my spirit from the haunts remote

Of faintest silence and the shades of sleep

To bear me on the summit of her wave

Beyond known shores, beyond the mortal edge,

Of thought terrestrial, to hold me poised

Above the frontiers of infinity,

To which in the full reflux of the wave

Come soon I must, bubble of solving foam,

Borne to those other shores—now never mine

Save for an hovering instant, short as this

Which now sustains me, ere I be drawn back,

To learn again and wholly learn I trust

How beautiful it is to wake at night.

ROBERT NICHOLS

The Black Mountains, 1919

Elsie Inglis

Who is it lies here

Betwixt the wind and the water,

Whom all Scotland mourns

As a mother for her daughter?

"I was Elsie Inglis

When I trod the ground;

Now I am lying here

In a long sleep and sound."

What did you do, Elsie Inglis,

To prove your heart's worth?

"I laboured all my life long

To serve women on earth."

And what was it you did

Earned you this requiem?

"When men went out to fight,

I went out with them."

What could a woman do

In such unholy revel?

"Men fought with each other,

And I fought with evil."

When men fought with men

What foe could you hold?

"The foe they left behind them.

Fever, Famine, and Cold."

Which was the bitterest

Of all you saw fight?

"My foe slew blindly,

But men in broad light.

"My foe slew blindly,

The children with the mother:

My foe slew men,

But men slew each other."

MAURICE HEWLETT

Sorrowing for Childhood Departed

Who is there among us who has found the key

Of the treasure that is locked in the hearts of men?

Only the poet lonely in his chamber

Or the man remembering his childhood again.

Hearing gay voices, my heart is hollow,

An empty room with bright colours on the walls;

The speech of my brother is no more than a traffic

That remote and coldly on my dull brain falls.

I am deaf to the song in the speech of my fellows,

I have outwitted my childhood's desires;

And where have I travelled that to the far horizon

Dead in the landscape are earth's bright fires?

Didst thou ever murder, Macbeth, thy sorrow,

Didst thou ever murder thy soul's young joy,

Thou hadst never flinched from the life of another,

Thou hadst but with laughter stol'n from him a toy!

Would that a Spirit had stolen from me

The glittering baubles of my cunning mind,

And left me the sweet forest of my wondering childhood,

Its transparent water in tall trees enshrined.

Then was I happy. Love was my companion;

I was in communion with star and stream;

With bird and with flower I was linked in rapture,

We stared at each other—the valley's dream.

Out of the mountains we were carven,

Birds and flowers, stream, rock and child—

O but I belong there! I am torn from my body,

In that far-away forest it lies exiled!

There falls the water transparently shining,

Hangs there a flower that blooms in my eyes.

Long have I been ready! let me go thither,

And unloosen my limbs to those dream-coloured skies.

O that it were possible! but that land has vanished;

The magic of that valley has crumbled away;

Bright crowds are there only, the mind's cold idola;

And my footprints on the dead ground startle the day.

W. J. TURNER

SERVANTS

By MAX BEERBOHM

IT is unseemly that a man should let any ancestors of his rise from their graves to wait on his guests at table. The Chinese are a polite race, and those of them who have visited England, and gone to dine in great English houses, will not have made this remark aloud to their hosts. I believe it is only their own ancestors that they worship; so that they will not have felt themselves guilty of impiety in not rising from the table and rushing out into the night. Nevertheless, they must have been shocked.

The French Revolution, judged according to the hope it was made in, must be pronounced a failure: it effected no fundamental change in human nature. But it was by no means wholly ineffectual. For example, ladies and gentlemen ceased to powder their hair, because of it; and gentlemen adopted simpler costumes. This was so in England as well as in France. But in England ladies and gentlemen were not so nimble-witted as to be able to conceive the possibility of a world without powder. Powder had been sent down from heaven, and must not vanish from the face of the earth. Said Sir John to his Lady, "'Tis a matter easy to settle. Your maid Deborah and the rest of the wenches shall powder their hair henceforth." Whereat his Lady exclaimed in wrath, "Lud, Sir John! Have you taken leave of your senses? A parcel of Abigails flaunting about the house in powder—oh, preposterous!" Whereat Sir John exclaimed "Zounds!" and hotly demonstrated that since his wife had given up powder there could be no harm in its assumption by her maids. Whereat his Lady screamed and had the vapours and asked how he would like to see his own footmen flaunting about the house in powder. Whereat he (always a reasonable man, despite his hasty temper) went out and told his footmen to wear powder henceforth. And in this they obeyed him. And there arose a Lord of the Treasury, saying, "Let Powder be taxed." And it was so, and the tax was paid, and powder was still worn. And there came the great Reform Bill, and the Steam Engine, and all manner of queer things, but powder did not end, for custom hath many lives. Nor was there an end to those things which the Nobility and the Gentry had long since shed from their own persons—as, laced coats and velvet breeches and silk hose; forasmuch as without these powder could not aptly be. And it came to pass that there was a great War. And there was also a Russian Revolution, greater than the French one. And it may be that everything will be changed, fundamentally and soon. Or it may be merely that Sir John will say to his Lady, "My dear, I have decided that the footmen shall not wear powder, and not wear livery, any more," and that his Lady will say "Oh, all right." Then at length will the Eighteenth Century vanish altogether from the face of the earth.

Some of the shallower historians would have us believe that powder is deleterious to the race of footmen. They point out how plenteously footmen abounded before 1790, and how steadily their numbers have declined ever since. I do not dispute the statistics. One knows from the Table Talk of Samuel Rogers that Mr. Horne Tooke, dining tête-à-tête with the first Lord Lansdowne, had counted so many as thirty footmen in attendance on the meal. That was a high figure—higher than in Rogers' day, and higher far, I doubt not, than in ours. What I refuse to believe is that the wearing of powder has caused among footmen an ever-increasing mortality. Powder was forced on them by their employers because of the French Revolution, but their subsequent fewness is traceable rather to certain ideas forced by that Revolution on their employers. The Nobility had begun to feel that it had better be just a little less noble than heretofore. When the news of the fall of the Bastille was brought to him, the first Lord Lansdowne (I conceive) remained for many hours in his Study, lost in thought, and at length, rising from his chair, went out into the hall and discharged two footmen. This action may have shortened his life, but I believe it to be a fact that when he lay dying, some fifteen years later, he said to his heir, "Discharge two more." Such enlightenment and adaptability were not to be wondered at in so eminent a Whig. As time went on, even in the great Tory houses the number of retainers was gradually cut down. Came the Industrial Age, hailed by all publicists as the Millennium. Looms were now tended, and blast-furnaces stoked, by middle-aged men who in their youth had done nothing but hand salvers, and by young men who might have been doing just that if the Bastille had been less brittle. Noblemen, becoming less and less sure of themselves under the impact of successive Reform Bills, wished to be waited on by less and less numerous gatherings of footmen. And at length, in the course of the great War, any Nobleman not young enough to be away fighting was waited on by an old butler and a parlourmaid or two; and the ceiling did not fall.

Even if the War shall have taught us nothing else, this it will have taught us almost from its very outset: to mistrust all prophets, whether of good or evil. Pray stone me if I predict anything at all. It may be that the War, and that remarkable by-product, the Russian Revolution, and the whole spirit of the age, have so worked on the minds of Noblemen that they will prefer to have not one footman in their service. Or it may be that all those men who might be footmen will prefer to earn their livelihood in other ways of life. It may even be that no more parlourmaids and housemaids, even for very illustrious houses, will presently be forthcoming. I do not profess to foresee. Perhaps things will go on just as before. But remember: things were going on, even then. Suppose that in the social organism generally, and in the attitude of servants particularly, the decades after the War shall bring but a gradual evolution of what was previously afoot. Even on this mild supposition must it seem likely that some of us will live to look back on domestic service, or at least on what we now mean by that term, as a curiosity of past days.

You have to look rather far behind you for the time when "the servant question," as it is called, had not yet begun to arise. To find servants collectively "knowing their place," as the phrase (not is, but) was, you have to look right back to the dawn of Queen Victoria's reign. I am not sure whether even then those Georgian notice-boards still stood in the London parks to announce that "Ladies and Gentlemen are requested, and Servants are commanded" not to do this and that. But the spirit of those boards did still brood over the land: servants received commands, not requests, and were not "obliging" but obedient. As for the tasks set them, I daresay the footmen in the great houses had an easy time: they were there for ornament; but the (comparatively few) maids there, and the maid or two in every home of the rapidly-increasing middle-class, were very much for use, having to do an immense amount of work for a wage which would nowadays seem nominal. And they did it gladly, with no notion that they were giving much for little, or that the likes of them had any natural right to a glimpse of liberty or to a moment's more leisure than was needed to preserve their health for the benefit of their employers, or that they were not in duty bound to be truly thankful for having a roof over their devoted heads. Rare and reprehensible was the maid who, having found one roof, hankered after another. Improvident, too; for only by long and exclusive service could she hope that in her old age she would not be cast out on the parish. She might marry meanwhile? The chances were very much against that. That was an idea misbeseeming her station in life. By the rules of all households, "followers" were fended ruthlessly away. Her state was sheer slavery? Well, she was not technically a chattel. The Law allowed her to escape at any time, after giving a month's notice; and she did not work for no wages at all, remember. This was hard on her owners? Well, in ancient Rome and elsewhere, her employers would have had to pay a large-ish sum of money for her, down, to a merchant. Economically, her employers had no genuine grievance. Her parents had handed her over to them, at a tender age, for nothing. There she was; and if she was a good girl and gave satisfaction, and if she had no gipsy strain, to make her restless for the unknown, there she ended her days, not without honour from the second or third generation of her owners. As in ancient Rome and elsewhere, the system was, in the long run, conducive to much good feeling on either side. "Poor Anne remained very servile in soul all her days; and was altogether occupied, from the age of fifteen to seventy-two, in doing other people's wills, not her own." Thus wrote Ruskin, in Praeterita, of one who had been his nurse, and his father's. Perhaps the passage is somewhat marred by its first word. But Ruskin had queer views on many subjects. Besides, he was very old when, in 1885, he wrote Praeterita. Long before that date, moreover, others than he had begun to have queer views. The halcyon days were over.

Even in the 'sixties there were many dark and cumulous clouds. It was believed, however, that these would pass. Punch, our ever-quick interpreter, made light of them. Absurd that Jemima Jane should imitate the bonnets of her mistress and secretly aspire to play the piano! Punch and his artists, as you will find in his old volumes, were very merry about her, and no doubt his readers believed that his exquisite ridicule would kill, or his sound good sense cure, the malady in her soul. Poor misguided girl!—why was she flying in the face of Nature? Nature had decreed that some should command, others obey; that some should sit imperative all day in airy parlours, and others be executive in basements. I daresay that among the sitters aloft there were many whose indignation had a softer side to it. Under the Christian Emperors, Roman ladies were really very sorry for their slaves. It is unlikely that no English ladies were so in 'sixties. Pity, after all, is in itself a luxury. It is for the "some" a measure of the gulf between themselves and the "others." Those others had now begun to show signs of restiveness; but the gulf was as wide as ever.

Anthony Trollope was not, like Punch, a mere interpreter of what was upmost in the average English mind: he was a beautifully patient and subtle demonstrator of all that was therein. Reading him, I soon forget that I am reading about fictitious characters and careers; quite soon do I feel that I am collating intimate memoirs and diaries. For sheer conviction of truth, give me Trollope. You, too, if you know him, must often have uttered this appeal. Very well. Have you been given Orley Farm? And do you remember how Lady Mason felt after confessing to Sir Peregrine Orme that she had forged the will? "As she slowly made her way across the hall, she felt that all of evil, all of punishment, had now fallen upon her. There are periods in the lives of some of us—I trust but few—when with the silent inner voice of suffering"—and here, in justice to Trollope, I must interrupt him by saying that he seldom writes like this; and I must also, for a reason which will soon be plain, ask you not to skip a word—"we call on the mountains to fall and crush us, and on the earth to gape open and take us in—when with an agony of intensity, we wish our mothers had been barren. In these moments the poorest and most desolate are objects to us of envy, for their sufferings can be as nothing to our own. Lady Mason, as she crept silently across the hall, saw a servant girl pass down towards the entrance to the kitchen, and would have given all, all that she had in the world, to change places with that girl. But no change was possible to her. Neither would the mountains crush her, nor the earth take her in. This was her burden, and she must," etc., etc.

You enjoyed the wondrous bathos? Of course. And yet there wasn't any bathos at all, really. At least, there wasn't any in 1862, when Orley Farm was published. Servants really were "most desolate" in those days, and "their sufferings" were less acute only than those of gentlewomen who had forged wills. This is an exaggerated view? Well, it was the view held by gentlewomen at large, in the 'sixties. Trust Trollope.

Why to a modern gentlewoman would it seem so much more dreadful to be crushed by mountains and swallowed by earthquakes than to be a servant girl passing down towards the entrance to the kitchen? In other words, how is it that servants have so much less unpleasant a time than they were having half-a-century ago? I should like to think this amelioration came through our sense of justice, but I cannot claim that it did. Somehow, our sense of justice never turns in its sleep till long after the sense of injustice in others has been thoroughly aroused, nor is it ever up and doing till those others have begun to make themselves thoroughly disagreeable; and not even then will it be up and doing more than is urgently required of it by our convenience at the moment. For the improvement in their lot, servants must, I am afraid, be allowed to thank themselves rather than their employers. I am not going to trace the stages of that improvement. I will not try to decide in what year servants passed from wistfulness to resentment, or from resentment to exaction. This is not a sociological treatise, it is just an essay; and I claim an essayist's privilege of not groping through the library of the British Museum on the chance of mastering all the details. I confess that I did go there yesterday, thinking I should find in Mr. and Mrs. Sidney Webb's History of Trade Unionism the means of appearing to know much. But I drew blank. It would seem that servants have no trade union. This is strange. One would not have thought so much could be done without organisation. The mere Spirit of the Time, sneaking down the steps of areas, has worked wonders. There has been no servant's campaign, no strategy, nothing but an infinite series of spontaneous and sporadic little risings in isolated households. Wonders have been worked, yes. But servants are not yet satiated with triumph. More and more, on the contrary, do they glide—long before the War they had begun gliding—away into other forms of employment. Not merely are the changed conditions of domestic service not changed enough for them: they seem to despise the thing itself. It was all very well so long as they had not been taught to read and write, but—There, no doubt, is the root of the mischief. Had the governing classes not forced those accomplishments on them in 1872—But there is no use in repining. What's done can't be undone. On the other hand, what must be done can't be left undone. Housework, for example. What concessions by the governing classes, what bribes, will be big enough hereafter to get that done?

Perhaps the governing classes will do it for themselves, eventually, and their ceilings not fall. Or perhaps there will be no more governing classes—merely the State and its swarms of neat little overseers, male and female. I know not whether in this case the sum of human happiness will be greater, but it will certainly—it and the sum of human dullness—be more evenly distributed. I take it that under any scheme of industrial compulsion for the young a certain number of conscripts would be told off for domestic service. To every family in every flat (houses not legal) would be assigned one female member of the community. She would be twenty years old, having just finished her course of general education at a municipal college. Three years would be her term of industrial (sub-sect. domestic) service. Her diet, her costume, her hours of work and leisure, would be standardised, but the lenses of her pince-nez would be in strict accordance to her own eyesight. If her employers found her faulty in work or conduct, and proved to the visiting inspector that she was so, she would be penalised by an additional term of service. If she, on the other hand, made good any complaint against her employers, she would be transferred to another flat, and they be penalised by suspension of their licence to employ. There would always be chances of friction. But these chances would not be so numerous nor so great as they are under that lack of system which survives to-day.

Servants would be persons knowing that for a certain period certain tasks were imposed on them, tasks tantamount to those in which all their coevals were simultaneously engaged. To-day they are persons not knowing, as who should say, where they are, and wishing all the while they were elsewhere—and mostly, as I have said, going elsewhere. Those who remain grow more and more touchy, knowing themselves a mock to the rest; and their qualms, even more uncomfortably than their demands and defects, are always haunting their employers. It seems almost incredible that there was a time when Mrs. Smith said "Sarah, your master wishes——" or Mr. Smith said "Sarah, go up and ask your mistress whether——" I am well aware that the very title of this essay jars. I wish I could find another; but in writing one must be more explicit than one need be by word of mouth. I am well aware that the survival of domestic service in its old form depends more and more on our agreement not to mention it.

Assuredly, a most uncomfortable state of things. Is it, after all, worth saving?—a form so depleted of right human substance, an anomaly so ticklish. Consider, in your friend's house, the cheerful smile of yonder parlourmaid; hark to the housemaid's light brisk tread in the corridor; note well the slight droop of the footman's shoulders as he noiselessly draws near. Such things, as being traditional, may pander to your sense of the great past. Histrionically, too, they are good. But do you really like them? Do they not make your blood run a trifle cold? In the thick of the great past, you would have liked them well enough, no doubt. I myself am old enough to have known two or three servants of the old school—later editions of Ruskin's Anne. With them there was no discomfort, for they had no misgiving. They had never wished (heaven help them!) for more, and in the process of the long years had acquired, for inspiration of others, much—a fine mellowness, the peculiar sort of dignity, even of wisdom, that comes only of staying always in the same place, among the same people, doing the same things perpetually. Theirs was the sap that rises only from deep roots, and where they were you had always the sense of standing under great wide branches. One especially would I recall, who—no, personally I admire the plungingly intimate kind of essayist very much indeed, but I never was of that kind, and it's too late to begin to be so now. For a type of old-world servant I would recall rather some more public worthy, such as that stout old hostler whom, whenever you went up to stay in Hampstead, you would see standing planted outside that stout old hostelry, Jack Straw's Castle. He stands there no more, and the hostelry can never again be to me all that it was of solid comfort. Or perhaps, as he was so entirely an outside figure, I might rather say that Hampstead itself is not what it was. His robust but restful form, topped with that weather-beaten and chin-bearded face, was the hub of the summit of Hampstead. He was as indigenous as the pond there—that famous pond which in hot weather is so much waded through by cart-horses and is at all seasons so much barked around by excitable dogs and cruised on by toy boats. He was as essential as it and the flag-staff and the gorse and the view over the valley away to Highgate. It was always to Highgate that his big blue eyes were looking, and on Highgate that he seemed to be ruminating. Not that I think he wanted to go there. He was Hampstead-born and Hampstead-bred, and very loyal to that village. In the course of his life he had "bin down to London a matter o' three or four times," he would tell me, "an' slep' there once." He knew me to be a native of that city, and (for he was the most respectful of men) did not make any adverse criticism of it. But clearly it had not prepossessed him. Men and—horses rather than cities were what he knew. And his memory was more retentive of horses than of men. But he did—and this was a great thrill for me—did, after some pondering at my behest, remember to have seen in Heath Street, when he was a boy, "a gen'leman with summut long hair, settin' in a small cart, takin' a pictur'." To me Ford Madox Brown's "Work" is of all modern pictur's the most delightful in composition and strongest in conception, the most alive and the most worth-while; and I take great pride in having known some one who saw it in the making. But my friend himself set little store on anything that had befallen him in days before he was "took on as stable-lad at the Castle." His pride was in the Castle, wholly.

Part of his charm, like Hampstead's, was in the surprise one had at finding anything like it so near to London. Even now, if you go to districts near which no great towns are, you will find here and there an inn that has a devoted waiter, a house with a fond butler. As to butlers elsewhere, butlers in general, there is one thing about them that I do not at all understand. It seems to be against nature, yet it is a fact, that in the past forty years they have been growing younger; and slimmer. In my childhood they were old, without exception; and stout. At the close of the last century they had gradually relapsed into middle age, losing weight all the time. And in the years that followed they were passing back behind the prime of life, becoming willowy juveniles. In 1915, it is true, the work of the past decades was undone: butlers were suddenly as old and stout as ever they were, and so they still are. But this, I take it, was only a temporary set-back. Since peace came, butlers have reappeared as they were in 1915, and maybe will soon be losing height and weight too, till they shall have become bright-eyed children, with pattering feet. Or will their childhood be of a less gracious kind than that? I fear so. I have seen, from time to time, butlers who had shed all semblance of grace, butlers whose whole demeanour was a manifesto of contempt for their calling and of devotion to the Spirit of the Age. I have seen a butler in a well-established household strolling around the diners without the slightest droop, and pouring out wine in an off-hand and quite obviously hostile manner. I have seen him, towards the end of the meal, yawning. I remember another whom, positively, I heard humming—a faint sound indeed, but menacing as the roll of tumbrils.

These were exceptional cases, I grant. For the most part, the butlers observed by me have had a manner as correctly smooth and colourless as their very shirt-fronts. Aye, and in two or three of them, modern though they were in date and aspect, I could have sworn there was "a flame of old-world fealty all bright." Were these but the finer comedians? There was one (I will call him Brett) who had an almost dog-like way of watching his master. Was this but a calculated touch in a merely æsthetic whole? Brett was tall and slender, and his movements were those of a greyhound under perfect self-control. Baldness at the temples enhanced the solemnity of his thin smooth face. It is more than twenty years since first I saw him; and for a long period I saw him often, both in town and country. Against the background of either house he was impeccable. Many butlers might be that. Brett's supremacy was in the sense he gave one that he was, after all, human—that he had a heart, in which he had taken the liberty to reserve a corner for any true friend of his master and mistress. I remember well the first time he overstepped sheer formality in relation to myself. It was one morning in the country, when my entertainers and my fellow guests had gone out in pursuit of some sport at which I was no good. I was in the smoking room, reading a book. Suddenly—no, Brett never appeared anywhere suddenly. Brett appeared, paused at precisely the right speaking distance, and said in a low voice, "I thought it might interest you to know, sir, that there's a white-tailed magpie out on the lawn. Very rare, as you know, sir. If you look out of the window you will see the little fellow hopping about on the lawn." I thanked him effusively as I darted to the window, and simulated an intense interest in "the little fellow." I greatly overdid my part. Exit Brett, having done his to perfection.

What worries me is not that I showed so little self-command and so much insincerity, but the doubt whether Brett's flawless technique was the vehicle for an act of true good feeling or was used simply for the pleasure of using it. Similar doubts abide in all my special memories of him. There was an evening when he seemed to lose control over himself—but did he really lose it? There were only four people at dinner: my host, his wife, their nephew (a young man famous for drollery) and myself. Towards the end of dinner the conversation had turned on early marriages. "I," said the young man presently, "shall not marry till I am seventy. I shall then marry some charming girl of seventeen." His aunt threw up her hands, exclaiming, "Oh, Tom, what a perfectly horrible idea! Why, she isn't born yet!" "No," said the young man, "but I have my eye on her mother." At this, Brett, who was holding a light for his master's cigarette, turned away convulsively, with a sudden dip of the head, and vanished from the room. His breakdown touched and pleased all four beholders. But—was it a genuine lapse? Or merely a feint to thrill us?—the feint of an equilibrist so secure that he can pretend to lose his balance?

If I knew why Brett ceased to be butler in that household, I might be in less doubt as to the true inwardness of him. I knew only that he was gone. That was fully ten years ago. Since then I have had one glimpse of him. This was on a summer night in London. I had gone out late to visit some relatives and assure myself that they were safe and sound; for Zeppelins had just passed over London for the first time. Not so much horror as a very deep disgust was the atmosphere in the populous quiet streets and squares. One square was less quiet than others, because somebody was steadily whistling for a taxi. Anon I saw the whistler silhouetted in the light cast out on a wide doorstep from an open door, and I saw that he was Brett. His attitude, as he bent out into the dark night, was perfect in grace, but eloquent of a great tensity—even of agony. Behind him stood a lady in an elaborate evening cloak. Brett's back must have conveyed to her in every curve his surprise, his shame, that she should be kept waiting. His chivalry in her behalf was such as Burke's for Marie Antoinette—little had he dreamed that he should have lived to see such disasters fallen upon her in a nation of gallant men, in a nation of men of honour, and of cavaliers. He had thought ten thousand taxis must have leaped from their stands, etc. The whistle that at first sounded merely mechanical and ear-piercing had become heart-rending and human when I saw from whom it proceeded—a very heart-cry that still haunts me. But was it a heart-cry? Was Brett, is Brett, more than a mere virtuoso?

He is in any case what employers call a treasure, and to any one who wishes to go forth and hunt for him I will supply a chart showing the way to that doorstep on which last I saw him. But I myself, were I ever so able to pay his wages, should never covet him—no, nor anything like him. Perhaps we are not afraid of menservants if we looked out at them from the cradle. None was visible from mine. Only in later years and under external auspices did I come across any of them. And I am as afraid of them as ever. Maidservants frighten me less, but they also—except the two or three ancients aforesaid—have always struck some degree of terror to my soul. The whole notion of domestic service has never not seemed to me unnatural. I take no credit for enlightenment. Not to have the instinct to command implies a lack of the instinct to obey. The two aptitudes are but different facets of one jewel: the sense of order. When I became a schoolboy, I greatly disliked being a monitor's fag. Other fags there were who took pride in the quality of the toast they made for the breakfasts and suppers of their superiors. My own feeling was that I would rather eat it myself, and that if I mightn't eat it myself I would rather it were not very good. Similarly, when I grew to have fags of my own, and by morning and by evening one of them solemnly entered to me bearing a plate on which those three traditional pieces of toast were solemnly propped one against another, I cared not at all whether the toast were good or bad, having no relish for it at best, but could have eaten with gusto toast made by my own hand, not at all understanding why that member should be accounted too august for such employment. Even so in my later life. Loth to obey, loth to command. Convention (for she too frightens me) has made me accept what servants would do for me by rote. But I would liefer have it ill-done than ask even the least mettlesome of them to do it better, and far liefer, if they would only be off and not do it at all, do it for myself. In Italy—dear Italy, where I have lived much—servants do still regard service somewhat in the old way, as a sort of privilege; so that with Italian servants I am comparatively at my ease. But oh, the delight when on the afternoon of some local festa there is no servant at all in the little house! Oh, the reaction, the impulse to sing and dance, and the positive quick obedience to that impulse! Convention alone has forced me to be anywhere a master. Ariel and Caliban, had I been Prospero on that island, would have had nothing to do and nothing to complain of; and Man Friday on that other island would have bored me, had I been Crusoe. When I was a king in Babylon and you were a Christian slave, I promptly freed you.

Anarchistic? Yes; and I have no defence to offer, except the rather lame one that I am a Tory Anarchist. I should like every one to go about doing just as he pleased—short of altering any of the things to which I have grown accustomed. Domestic service is not one of those things, and I should be glad were there no more of it.

W. N. P. BARBELLION[26]

[26] The Journal of a Disappointed Man. Enjoying Life and Other Essays. By W. N. P. Barbellion. Chatto & Windus. 6s. net each.

By EDWARD SHANKS

WHEN The Journal of a Disappointed Man was first published in March, 1919, the suspicious circumstances that it contained an introduction by Mr. H. G. Wells, and purported to be written by a young assistant in the Natural History Museum at South Kensington, immediately produced the impression that it was a fictitious work, composed by Mr. Wells himself. He was known at that time, from other books acknowledged to be his, to be feeling a particular interest in the philosophical problem of human suffering; he had done something of the kind before, and many readers, it may be conjectured, unconsciously found it a relief to suppose that this almost unbearably tragic history had been invented. But the impression could not long survive a careful study of the book. The author's identity was soon guessed at by a few persons who knew him and suspected by some who had heard of him; and presently Mr. Wells wrote to a newspaper to say that the only fictitious details in the Journal were the author's name and the date of his death, there given as December 31st, 1917. This date was in fact incorrect by nearly two years. Bruce Frederick Cummings lived until October 30th, 1919, that is to say for seven months after the publication of his diary.

Thus it comes about that the later part of it, which has not yet been printed, contains many references to his critics, in whose opinions he was deeply and frankly interested. He remarks again and again on the ordinary incompetence of reviewers, the usual complaint of an author, but especially poignant here. He mentions, once in a letter and once in the diary, an imbecile who thought that he was "a social climber"; and he welcomes with joy the first writer who seemed to him to have read the book carefully. But among all these references to his work there is none more illuminating than the last entry he ever made:

Friends and relatives say I have not drawn my true self. But that's because I've taken my clothes off and they can't recognise me stark! The Book is a self-portrait in the nude.

Thus, with this final self-explanation, he ends his work. The last two words stand alone at the top of a left-hand page, and opposite them in the book lies the blotting-paper he used. He had often before said farewell to his Journal. Once it was in a fit of disgust with it and himself, and he took it up again to record the discovery that he was suffering from an incurable disease. Once again, owing to the paralysis of his right hand, writing became too painful for him, and he thought this the hardest and shrewdest stroke of fate to deprive him of his secret consolation. Last, under the date May 25th, 1919, he made an entry of four pages, chiefly supplementing earlier entries, and concluded with the words, large and scrawled, but legible: "This is the end. I am not going to keep a diary any more." Then on June 1st, without explanation, he made a long entry, recalling an experience of early life, and on June 3rd the very last, which I have quoted. He desired that at the end should be written, "The rest is silence," for an inscription on the base of his "self-erected monument." Genuine self-portraits in the nude occur very rarely in the history of literature. This is a picture of a man of genius superbly drawn by himself. It is an astonishing book about an astonishing man.

Barbellion was born on September 7th, 1889, and was the third son of a reporter employed by a newspaper in a Devonshire town. He was able to remember the first time a bird's nest was ever shown to him; but a passion for natural history became very early the most important part of his life. He was articled as a boy to his father's unattractive and uncongenial profession. He nevertheless continued to pursue his passion with an extraordinary energy and strength of will, and was determined to secure somehow or other an entrance into the desired career. He was otherwise and exactingly occupied and he was entirely self-taught; and in 1910, just when by great good fortune he had been offered, and had accepted, a post in the Plymouth Marine Laboratory, his father's health broke down altogether, compelling him to renounce this dazzling but ill-paid opportunity. But in the following year he won in open competition an appointment in the Natural History Museum, which justified the abandonment of journalism.

In 1909 there first appears in the diary the definite indication of a theme which was soon to rival natural history in importance and at last most horribly to overwhelm it.

Feeling ill—like a sloppy tadpole. My will is paralysed. I visit the Doctor regularly to be stethoscoped, ramble about the streets, idly scan magazines in the Library and occasionally rink—with palpitation of the heart as a consequence. In view of the shortness, bitterness and uncertainty of life, all scientific labour for me seems futile.

After this the subject of his health is rarely absent for many pages together. The deaths of his father and mother deepened the preoccupation, and Barbellion's symptoms and dreads were almost infinite in their variety. He suffered from intermittent action of the heart, from nervous weakness, and from dyspepsia; he feared now paralysis, now blindness, now consumption. The thought of death was constantly with him, but until the end he could not be sure in what form it would come. Sometimes he longed for it to finish his sufferings, sometimes he hoped it would linger enough to allow him to complete the work he had in hand.

Meanwhile, amid the unescapable and agonising reflections which this condition induced, another side of his nature was being developed. In 1910 there is an entry which again is like the first tentative introduction of a musical theme in a symphony:

I hope to goodness she doesn't think I want to marry her. In the Park, in the dark, kissing her, I was testing and experimenting with a new experience.

He was not, of course, by any means so callous and inhuman as this brief note might make him appear; but he was immensely curious about himself and about other people, and immensely greedy for new sensations. He dabbled a good deal in love-making, and his dabbling was prompted partly by the natural pressure of the senses, partly by curiosity. At last he fell in love, could not make up his mind whether he wanted to marry, made it up and was rejected, felt relieved, then unhappy, renewed his suit and was accepted. In September, 1915, he was married. A few weeks before, during a holiday at Coniston, boisterously prosecuted with his usual reckless disregard of his weak health, he had fallen and jarred his spine, and this had brought on a partial paralysis which filled him with the gloomiest thoughts and seemed to suggest the cancellation of all his plans. But his doctor made light of the matter and the marriage took place.

In the following November, having formally presented himself for recruitment, he was led by curiosity to read the sealed certificate written by his own doctor, not supposing that its being sealed had any particular significance. Thus he discovered, while sitting in a railway-carriage, that eighteen months before he had shown the first symptoms of a terrible and incurable disease and that this had been concealed from him, though it had been communicated to his relatives. He found later that it had been known to his wife before their marriage and also that his fall at Coniston had reawakened activity among the bacteria and hastened the end. In 1916 his daughter was born, and in July of the following year his rapidly failing strength compelled him, after ineffectual periods of sick leave, to resign his appointment at the Museum. His health varied; he grew worse and recovered a little, but never recovered what he had lost. He prepared his diary for publication, but the publishers who had accepted it became afraid of it when it was partly set up in type and asked to be relieved of the undertaking. Another publisher was found. The book appeared, and its reception did something to soften the miseries of his last months.

How profound and unremitting were these miseries, and how he bore them, is shown in the last section of the diary. His disease was painful and the end certain. He had a wife, who was often fatigued and ill, and a child, and he had next to no money. The strain of witnessing his sufferings, as well as the necessity of earning her living, made it imperative that his wife should spend long periods of time away from him. In 1919 there was an idea that a certain prolonged and troublesome treatment might possibly, though only possibly, effect an improvement. But he did not care to be experimented with then. He was already dead, he said, it was too late, he could not bear the burden of a fresh hope. He continued to be tortured by the long-drawn-out agony of his dissolution, by the defeat of all his ambitions, and by the black prospects of his wife and child. But the success of his book brings a curiously sweeter and gentler note into the diary, a note most poignant to the reader who could understand his refusing to be grateful for anything.

I am still miserable [he writes], especially on E.'s account—that dear, brave woman. But I have suffered a change. My whole soul is sweetened by the love of those near and dear to me, and by the sympathy of those reading my book.

Grants were made to him out of various funds, and, just before his death, a committee of distinguished literary men was formed to see that his wife and child did not want. This in particular touched him to gratitude, and he died proud and happy in the thought that those who should have been dependent on him had so many good friends to serve them instead. A few hours before the end he said to his brother, "You will soon be able to blow the trumpets and bang the brasses"; but his eyes were full of a pathetic desire to have it denied.

It is not difficult to understand the complaint made by his friends and relatives that he had drawn a misleading portrait of himself, any more than it is difficult to understand his own protest that he had drawn himself with the clothes off. Both points of view are exceedingly natural, and perhaps it is possible for a disinterested observer to see in the diary the whole truth which could not be immediately obvious either to himself or to those who were closely connected with him. We need not involve ourselves very deeply in the theories of psycho-analysis to make the point that a man who keeps a journal will use it very largely to put down what he can say nowhere else, and to express that side of him which cannot be expressed in the ordinary world. Why else indeed should he keep a journal? It is thus that arise apparent contradictions between the outward appearance and the confession. On one occasion Barbellion says:

I have no personal courage and all this pride boils up behind a timid exterior. I quail often before stupid but overbearing persons who consequently never realise my contempt of them.... Of course, to intimate friends (only about three persons in the wide, wide world), I can always give free vent to my feelings and I do so in privacy with that violence in which a weak character usually finds some compensation for his intolerable self-imposed reserve and restraint in public. I can never marvel enough at the ineradicable turpitude of my existence, at my double-facedness, and the remarkable contrast between the face I turn to the outside world and the face my friends know. It's like leading a double existence or artificially constructing a puppet to dangle before the crowd while I fulminate behind the scenes. If only I had the moral courage to play my part in life—to take the stage and be myself, to enjoy the delightful sensation of making my presence felt, instead of this vapourish mumming—then this Journal would be quite unnecessary.

No man who is a hero to himself stands a very good chance of seeming a hero to other people. But in this passage Barbellion not only shows the difference between his appearance and his self-portraiture, but also directs attention to one of the factors which make his diary so extraordinary a document. He was aware of the contrast between what he allowed the world to see and the rest of his nature; but this contrast remained profoundly mysterious to himself. He understood himself enough to be able to describe himself, but not so thoroughly that the knowledge could remove all curiosity; and, in fact, while he knew much of his own character that no one else knew, there was left something over of which he was ignorant.

He once said:

I am apparently a triple personality: (1) The respectable youth. (2) The foul-mouthed commentator and critic. (3) The real but unknown I. Curious that these three should live together amiably in the same tenement.

One might also say that the reader of the diary discovers another triple personality: (1) Barbellion as he must have seemed to others. (2) Barbellion as he thought he seemed to others. (3) The real Barbellion, not fully known even to himself, yet, between his appearance and his confessions, for ever unconsciously betraying himself. In actual fact, he was, it is agreed by all who knew him, a man of enormous, almost dæmonic force of character. I have already alluded to the reckless vigour with which he drove his failing body through all manner of tasks and difficulties, and this trait in him gives a fair idea of his spirit. From boyhood onward he was weakened by continual ill-health. The diary is full of medical observations and forebodings, but no one, not even his family, realised how constantly the fear of sickness and death attended him. He never mentioned his health save in a tone of cheerful cynicism: he never pampered himself or allowed himself to be pampered. In spite of his palpitating heart, he exposed himself to fatigues and performed feats of endurance which a sound man might well have avoided. He worked furiously and unceasingly. He kept his balance and his courage under staggering blows of ill-fortune. Never was there so impossible an ambition as that of this sickly youth in a provincial town, already chained to the dreary work of a reporter, who desired, without any help, without even any decent opportunities for self-instruction, to obtain a scientific appointment. Yet he overcame these obstacles and his ambition was fulfilled. And when this was taken from him, when nothing was left but a few painful months of life and his Journal, when it was infinite labour even to trace a few words on the page, he continued the self-portrait which had become his last ambition as long as he could hold a pen at all. The straggling, irregularly-formed letters which sprawl across the paper are the last witnesses of his invincible courage.

And to others this timid and cowardly young man seemed strong, masterful, difficult to manage, frightening, sometimes savage and bitter in conversation, but always magnetic and fascinating. "I know," he says, "I am not prepossessing in appearance—my nose is crooked and my skin is blotched." In reality his height, his distinction of bearing and fine hair produced an immediate effect of good looks—which, with the emaciation of his final days, changed into an austere and painful beauty. He had particularly beautiful hands, and his photographs certainly represent him as being not only noticeable but also attractive. The disparity between what he says of himself and what others thought of him involves no real contradiction. He is writing of the hidden and secret personality whom no one else knew, and the fact that no one else could know this personality, save by his own deliberate act of revelation, is another proof of his strength. He is describing the other side of the moon.

His ambition was the one part of his secret life which was too great and too violent for even him to hide altogether. He might doubt his own qualities, but he could not conceal from himself or from others what he desired to be and to do. His ambitions were, he thought, very soon and very easily defeated, but the title he gave to his book, a catchpenny title, as he owned, and something wanting in sincerity, confessed to a graver defeat than he actually sustained. His achievements were not great in bulk. His scientific triumph was the triumph of reaching a self-proposed aim in spite of almost impossible obstacles; but it was worth less in itself than as a witness to character. He might have become one of the greatest of English biologists; but promise is only promise, and this, besides, is promise of a kind with which we are not concerned here. "In time," he once said, "I should have revolutionised the study of Systematic Zoology." But he was not allowed time, and his scientific observations will be amplified, superseded, heaped under at last by an accumulation of the work of his successors. In literature his position is very different.

When his book was being prepared for publication and while he was still ignorant what reception it would have he remarked without hesitation that he "liked to look at himself posthumously as a writer"; and it appears from the introduction to Enjoying Life that his friends had long before expected him to turn his whole attention to literature. Even here his work is comprised in small space. It consists of three things: the published Journal of a Disappointed Man, containing extracts from his diaries between 1903 and 1917, the posthumous volume, Enjoying Life and Other Literary Remains, containing, together with a number of essays and articles, long passages omitted for the sake of space from the previous book, and the still unpublished diary from the beginning of 1918 onwards. Even from this certain deductions must be made. The scientific articles in the second volume were only just worth reprinting; and the essays on journal-writers and the two short stories, though they are promising, are yet no more than the experiments of a man who was considering giving himself formally to the profession of literature. But when all these deductions are made there is a residue which is unique in value.

In the introduction to the first volume Mr. Wells very comprehensively lays stress on the circumstances of Barbellion's fate. He represents the diarist as saying, "You shall have at least one specimen carefully displayed and labelled. Here is a recorded unhappiness. When you talk about life and the rewards of life and the justice of life and its penalties, what you say must square with this." This is, of course, an aspect of the matter which no reader could manage to overlook, even if he desired (as he might conceivably desire) to do so. It would be a pity, however, if we were to consider it to the exclusion of every other aspect. Barbellion was not essentially a specimen who by good luck had the ability to display and label himself. If his circumstances had been quite other than they were, he would still have been a remarkable man and would almost certainly have done remarkable work. His disease and death ought to play the same part in our conception of him that they do in our conception of Keats, with whom, besides, he had certain affinities which he half-consciously recognised. We do not know what part disease played in creating or forcing or conditioning Keats's genius; we only know that it infuses a poignancy and a colour into our picture of his life. He does not appear to us as the diseased poet, but as a poet who, as it happened, was stricken with disease. So with Barbellion: he had a personality and a gift for describing his experiences; and, since it fell out that his experiences were tragic, therefore the story he tells is a tragedy. But the tragedy is not interesting only as such. It is interesting because the principal figure in it is Barbellion.

The comparison with Keats is natural, is suggestive, and can be supported by a number of particulars, both accidental and essential. "Since the fateful November 27th," says Barbellion, "my life has become entirely posthumous. I live now in the grave and am busy furnishing it with posthumous joys." Keats writes in his last letter, from Rome, "I have an habitual feeling of my real life having passed, and that I am leading a posthumous existence." But there is a closer similarity between them than the superficial parallel suggested by their use of the same word. Barbellion himself made the comparison more than once, and once in a very significant context.

You can search all history [he exclaims] for an ambition more powerful than mine and not find it. No, not Napoleon, nor Wilhelm II., nor Keats.

And this uncontrollable ambition in both of them was one manifestation of the innermost ruling characteristic which they had in common, the passion for life in all its shapes and forms, for all the sensations life can bring, which inspires Barbellion's Journal as surely as it inspires Keats's poetry and letters.

The title of Barbellion's second book was not, as it might seem, intended in irony. He enjoyed life to a terrifying degree and could abandon himself to the ecstasy which it produced in him.

As you say [he writes in a letter, referring to a review of the Journal] the rest of the notice distinguishing Marie Bashkirtseff from me by her zest for life is an astonishing and ludicrous misreading. Why, even since I became bedridden, as you will see one day, my zest for life took a devil of a lot of killing—like a sectioned worm with all the parts still wriggling....

In the last part of the diary his assertion is amply proved. Here the zest for life, in a man who could no longer indulge it save in memory, is sublimated to a piercing but sweet lyrical cry, which is one of the most moving utterances in literature. Before, when he was in possession of all his faculties, when the shadow of illness could sometimes be forgotten, it is a rapturous and boisterous expression of infinite energy, high spirits and gusto. Almost any paragraph in the essay called Enjoying Life would serve to demonstrate this:

"Dans littérature," said M. Taine, "j'aime tout." I would shake his hand for saying that, and add: "In life, Monsieur, as well." All things attract me equally. I cannot concentrate. I am ready to do anything, go anywhere, think anything, read anything. Wherever I hitch my waggon I am confident of an adventurous ride. Somebody says, "Come and hear some Wagner." I am ready to go. Another, "I say, they are going to ring the bull"—and who wants to complete his masterpiece or count his money when they are going to ring the bull? I will go with you to Norway, Switzerland, Jericho, Timbuctoo. Talk to me about the Rosicrucians or the stomach of a flea and I will listen to you. Tell me that the Chelsea Power Station is as beautiful as the Parthenon at Athens and I'll believe you. Everything is beautiful, even the ugly—why did Whistler paint the squalor of the London streets, or Brangwyn the gloom of a steam-crane? To subscribe to any one particular profession, mode of life, doctrine, philosophy, opinion, or enthusiasm, is to cut oneself off from all the rest—I subscribe to all. With the whole world before you, beware lest the machinery of education seizes hold of the equipotential of your youth and grinds you out the finished product! You were a human being to start with—now, you are only a soldier, sailor, tinker, tailor. Leonardo da Vinci, racked with frustrate passion after the universal, is reported to have declared that only to do one thing and only to know one thing was a disgrace, no less.

Crying for the Moon, the essay which follows, also extracted from the Journal, is the obverse of the same coin:

I am passing through the world swiftly and have only time to live my own life. I am cut off by my own limitations and environment from knowing much or understanding much. I know nothing of literature and the drama; I have but little ear for music. I do not understand art. All these things are closed to me. I am passing swiftly along the course of my life with many others whom I shall never meet. How many dear friends and kindred spirits remain undiscovered among that number? There is no time for anything. Everything and everyone is swept along in the hustling current. Oh! to sun ourselves awhile in the water meadows before dropping over the falls! The real tragedies in this world are not the things which happen to us, but the things which don't happen.

There are critics who would trace the source of such outbursts as these and of the joy in life that constantly appears in Keats to the effects of bacterial disease. We cannot contradict the conclusion, which may have a certain truth. We can only point out that the same cause does not always produce the same effect, and we must therefore deduce a particular genius in those in whom this spirit manifests itself. Barbellion was, from one point of view, a case of pathology, but he was not, any more than was Keats, nothing but that. He had a fine temperament which he expressed very finely.

There is a temptation when one is considering the Journal, to which Barbellion's work must eventually be reduced, to consider it as so much raw material and to speculate how, if he had lived, he would have used the many talents he displays in it. He began it as a record of a naturalist's observations, and it developed only very gradually into a self-portrait and a repository for all his reflections and impressions. He was still, when his last illness overtook him, a professional scientist, scribbling in his diary at night for a hobby. But he was thinking of going over to literature; and one cannot help asking whether, if he had done so, he would not have turned his genius to some more formal and less miscellaneous method of expression. It is easy to discern in him any number of capacities. He might have become a critic—a statement which can be proved by a few examples taken at random:

I thoroughly enjoy Hardy's poetry for its masterfulness, for his sheer muscular compulsion over the words and sentences. In his rough-hewn lines he yokes the recalcitrant words together and drives them along mercilessly with something that looks like simple brute strength.... All this pleases me the more for I know to my cost what stubborn, sullen, hephæstian beasts words and clauses can sometimes be. It is nice to see them punished. Hardy's poetry is Michael Angelo rather than Greek, Browning not Tennyson.

It amuses me to discover the evident relish with which the author of The Daffodil Fields emphasises the blood and the flowers in the attack on Achi Baba. It's all blood and beautiful flowers mixed up together to Masefield's great excitement.... Still, to call Gallipoli "bloody hell" is, after all, only a pedantically exact description. You understand, tho', a very remarkable book—a work of genius.

... James Joyce's Portrait of the Artist—one of those books which the mob will take fifty years to discover but once discovered will again neglect.

He might have been a psychological or a satirical novelist, a metaphysician, a casual essayist. He might have been a poet of nature. His diaries are studded with the most exquisite descriptions of landscapes and living things, which grow only more vivid and moving as the end approaches and they become transcripts from memory instead of recent impressions. The last long entry in the Journal is one of them, and it is so good and so characteristic that it insists on being quoted:

Rupert Brooke said the brightest thing in the world was a leaf with the sun shining on it. God pity his ignorance! The brightest thing in the world is a Ctenophor in a glass jar standing in the sun. This is a bit of a secret, for no one knows about it save only the naturalist. I had a new sponge the other day and it smelt of the sea till I had soaked it. But what a vista that smell opened up!—rock pools, gobies, Blennies, anemones (crassicon, dahlia—oh! I forget). And at the end of my little excursion into memory I came upon the morning when I put some sanded opaque bits of jelly, lying on the rim of the sea, into a glass collecting jar and to my amazement and delight they turned into Ctenophors—alive, swimming, and iridescent! You must imagine a tiny soap bubble about the size of a filbert with four series of plates or combs arranged regularly on the soap-bubble, from its North or to its South Pole, and flashing spasmodically in unison as they beat on the water.

But I think that this way of looking on Barbellion's work, excusable as it might be, would nevertheless be mistaken. Every author writes the book that it is given to him to write, and Barbellion's book was the Journal. If, as seems very likely, he had developed altogether into a writer, he might still not have abandoned this form which had become by a gradual process peculiarly his own. Goethe said that all his works were the fragments of a great confession, and this is true, in a greater or lesser degree, of most authors. Barbellion would have differed from the rest only in that his works would have been ostensibly and formally, as well as actually, his confessions.

And this view is supported by the fact that up to the last he was improving the flexible and accommodating method of literary expression which his diary had become. The last eighteen months of it seem to me to show an advance on the third part of the published Journal almost as striking as the advance of that third part on the first. The form fitted very closely to Barbellion's many-sided and individual temperament; and, as time went on and he understood better what he was doing, he made it fit more closely still. It was a frame into which he could put with perfect ease all that his roving perceptions picked up in life: an impression of a landscape or an animal, a conversation overheard in the street, a suddenly flashing truth about himself or some other person, a general reflection upon humanity. As a journal-writer he is not, of course, alone; but, being a strongly-marked personality, he is unique even among journal-writers. His intense interest in his own consciousness does not, as it did with Amiel, blind him to the actual outside world; he has more humour, more gusto in concrete detail than Marie Bashkirtseff, a vein of sheer poetry that we do not find in Pepys. This is not intended to rank him above the writers with whom he loved to compare himself, but rather to emphasise his individuality among them.

We find ourselves at last wondering not how he would have employed the gifts he displays in the Journal, but to what pitch of excellence he might have brought the Journal itself. The last entries are admirably full of matter and admirably worded. The passage I have quoted on the Ctenophors is of almost perfect lyrical beauty—not a random jotting, but an impression seized and made permanent with all the proportion and balance of a sonnet by Hérédia. Over against it there might be quoted passages on the old village nurse who attended him for months, closely and humorously observed and set down without the waste of a syllable. Or there are pages of reflections like this:

The Icons.

Every man has his own icon.

Secreted in the closet of each man's breast is an icon, the image of himself, concealed from view with elaborate care, treated invariably with great respect, by means of which the Ego, being self-conscious, sees itself in relation to the rest of mankind, measures itself therewith, and in accordance with which it acts and moves and subsists. In the self-righteous man's bosom, it is a molten image of a little potentate who can do no wrong. In the egotist's, an ideal loved and worshipped by almost all men, addressed with solemnity and reverence, and cast in an immutable brazen form. Only the truth-seeker preserves his image in clay, covered in damp rags—a working hypothesis.

A man towards his icon is like the tenderness and secretiveness of a little bird towards its nest, which does not know you have discovered its heart's treasure. For everyone knows the lineaments of your image and talks about them to everyone else save you, and no one dare refer to his own—it is bad form—so that in spite of the gossip and criticism that swirls around each one's personality, a man remains sound-tight and insulated.

The human comedy begins at the thought of the ludicrous unlikeness, in many cases, of the treasured image to the real person—as much verisimilitude about it as, say, about a bust by Gaudier-Brzeska.

Heavens! what a toy shop it will be at the Last Day! When all our little effigies are taken from their cupboards, undraped, and ranged along beside us, nude and shivering. In that Day how few will be able to say that they ever cried

"God be merciful to me a sinner," or "a fool," or "a humbug."

The human tragedy begins as soon as one feels how often a man's life is ruined by simple reason of this disparity between the image and the real—the image (or the man's mistaken idea of himself)—like an ignis fatuus leading him through devious paths into the morass of failure, or worse—of sheer, laughing-stock silliness. The moral is:

γνῶθι σεαυτόν {gnôthi seauton}

(My dear chap, quoting Greek at your time of life.)

The mellowness and sweetness of these lines are worth noting as characteristic of a transformation which is obviously taking place through all the last pages of the diary. This transformation adds something in the nature of a rounding and a completion to the whole work, which might otherwise have been merely an interrupted record. It enlarges too our conception of the author's character and capacities and fills in, most graciously, our picture of him.

Barbellion was accustomed to accuse himself of being an egotist; but, on his own definition, he was a truth-seeker. His portrait of himself was not immutable. It grew clearer as he understood himself better and it changed as he changed. It was not complete when he died because his own development was not complete. But he carried it as far as he could and made of it a singular picture. His Journal is a book of an enduring sort, not merely because it is an accurate and candid self-portrait, but also because of the inherent attractions of its subject. Barbellion was a poet, a humorist, an observer, a philosopher, as well as a truthful, passionate, and extraordinarily courageous man. In drawing a picture of the last he also made a picture of the world as it seemed to the first four and thus captured in it poetry, humour, observation, and philosophy. The subject is still too fresh, and, by the vividness of its presentment, too painful, for any attempt at a final valuation to be made. A few months ago Barbellion was still alive, suffering and hoping; and, with the best will in the world, no critic can avoid being influenced by this fact. But his book is a fair topic for prophecy; and it is not very rash to predict that, as it loses the sharpness and painfulness of a record of fact, so its qualities as a work of literature will come more into prominence and we shall realise that Barbellion was not only a genius untimely overwhelmed by an evil fate, but a genius who, before he was overwhelmed, had opportunity to do some at least of his appointed work. Then, whatever may be the theoretical views we hold on the connection between disease and genius, we shall be able to think less of Barbellion as a "case" and more of him as a writer. We shall, perhaps, not think that we have a complete portrait of him in his Journal any more than we have a complete portrait of Keats in the Odes or even in the Letters. The greatest of artists cannot entirely disclose himself in his work. Barbellion did so no more than others. But he was an artist, and, between what he wrote of himself and what was otherwise revealed, it is possible to form a picture of an extraordinary personality.

A LITTLE CLASSIC OF THE FUTURE[27]

[27] Bibliographical Note: Principal Works by Edith Œ. Somerville and Martin Ross: An Irish Cousin, 1889; Naboth's Vineyard, 1891; Through Connemara in a Governess Cart, 1893; The Real Charlotte, 1895; The Silver Fox, 1897; Some Experiences of an Irish R.M., 1899; All on the Irish Shore, 1903; Some Irish Yesterdays, 1906; Further Experiences of an Irish R.M., 1908; Dan Russell the Fox, 1911; In Mr. Knox's Country, 1915; Irish Memories, 1917; Mount Music, 1919. All published by Longmans.

By ORLO WILLIAMS

THE evanescence of laughter is most pathetic. Its bubbles vanish from the sparkling wine that held it so soon after it has been uncorked, leaving a sadly flat beverage to the critical palates of future generations. Wit, being a subtler and less easily disintegrated essence, does not so quickly pass away, but the buoyant bubbles of laughter, except in some rare vintages, survive but a moment the uncorking of their bottle. We may smile at the things that aroused the laughter of our ancestors, bringing our intellect and our imagination to the tasting, but it is seldom that we experience spontaneously the "sudden glory" of bursting sides when we read the words which aroused it. It is almost painful to look through the files of Punch of some sixty years ago, for it arouses that agonised shame with which one witnesses the failure of an inferior joke injudiciously introduced into superior society. One blushes for its pitiful exposure. Nor is it any consolation to reflect that the laughter of our own day will, for the most part, seem like the cracking of most unsubstantial thorns under ghostly pots to those who come after us. Very little of the literature of the past which truly survives is really provocative of hilarity. The Falstaffian passages of Shakespeare at once leap up as if to deny this statement; but, in the first place, Shakespeare brewed one of those rarer vintages whose beaded bubbles wink ever at the brim, and, in the second place, dramatic literature can always be revived by the fresh infusion of a living actor's personality. It is the purely written word of humour which will not give that sudden jerk to our emotions which it gave on its first outpouring. We say that we can appreciate Rabelais and the comic tales of the Canterbury Pilgrims; we profess to revel in Tristram Shandy, and to find the Pickwick Papers delicious, and we are not wrong; but it is a soberer enjoyment than that which these works of art gave to their first audiences. We pick them up, certainly, when we wish to be entertained, but seldom when we wish to laugh. There was a tutor at Oxford—there may be one still—who was invariably annoyed when any of his pupils attributed a historical phenomenon to "the spirit of the age," averring that there was no such thing. But surely he was wrong in coupling this convenient spirit with the ghosts of Stephen Sly and old John Naps of Greece, for the peculiar changes undergone by laughter are there to prove its existence. Laughter is compounded of the spirit of the age: it is excited by peculiar and irrecoverable felicities and conjunctions of temperament and environment, all of which are ingredients in that very real but intangible spirit. We can guess at this spirit, but we cannot recapture it, any more than we can recapture the light effervescence of its laughter.

Further, laughter is not a lofty emotion. The beasts, they say, have it not, but those who are little better than beasts laugh heartily. We ourselves are not so proud of our laughter that we wish it to echo through the ages, as we would have our high thoughts ring and our tears, perhaps, drip. The heady wine that moves it is often an unworthy vintage, more like the champagne which Murger's Schaunard christened coco épileptique than the true Hippocrene. So it has been in the past. The shelves of libraries are full of these flat draughts from which all the liveliness that alone gave them savour has departed. Yet in all ages there have been nobler bins of these light literary wines which, for all that they no longer catch at the throat, have a more lasting quality and never entirely lose their gratefulness to the tongue of the taster. They may not have sparkled in their prime more brightly than their now neglected contemporaries, but they live for certain finer essences in their composition, wit, style, finish, colour, bouquet, or something even subtler than these, that indefinable taste which distinguishes all that has been grown on a rich literary soil, warmed by the sun of beauty and matured by a vintner who has carefully and lovingly learned his trade. Such, after exciting the laughter of the present in their youth, may in their ripeness, and even in their decline, earn the humour of posterity. They may possibly be numbered among the classics, that is to say, among the productions of any age which deserve to live as models for the future or as peculiarly happy expressions of a bygone time. The test of a classic is what men and women of any age will always call its modernity, which means that it possesses some of those timeless qualities of greatness or artistic excellence which permeate the spirit of any age. Skill in construction and delineation, accuracy of vision, fine rhythm, perfect choice of language, happy adaptation of form to matter, sense of beauty, all these, like beauty itself, do not die. The work which holds them, even though thinly commingled, will outlive the evaporation of its bubbles, and may by their preservative effect become, if not a great, at least a little classic.

To have done, then, with the bush which no good wine needs, I would like to taste again, in the company of the reader, what, if I may prophesy in hope rather than in certainty, may become in English literature a little classic of the future. The bush would not have been so thick had it not been, on the face of it, unusual so to greet a work that has moved so many thousands of us to hearty and inextinguishable laughter. I mean the work of Miss Edith Somerville and her mourned-for second self in letters who wrote under the name of Martin Ross. Few humorists who write merely to catch the passing fancy of the day can have been more successful or more popular: in the merely temporary quality of effervescence they can compete with any of their contemporaries. The sportsman who hates art and loathes poetry has the Irish R.M. and its fellows in well-thumbed copies on his bookshelves; the man who only reads for laughter and never for improvement praises these authors as highly as the most discriminating, and those who would faint at the suspicion of becoming in any way involved in classic literature will joyfully immerse themselves in "Somerville and Ross," like thirsty bibbers quaffing a curious vintage for its exhilaration rather than its quality. Appreciation has poured in upon them from all sides, from those who know and delight in the comic sides of Irish life, when treated observantly and not fantastically, from those to whom hunting and horseflesh are almost the be-all and end-all of existence, from those who treat their brains to a good story as to a stimulative drug, as well as from those who bring more discrimination to their appraisement. The devotees will often claim that they alone can scent the subtler flavour from these hilarious pages. The Irishman, unless he be of the kind that despises all light-heartedness in writing of his country, will assert that none but he can get the exquisite appreciation of comparing the work of art with the reality which inspired it: the hunting fraternity will find it hard to suppose that one who knows not what it is to be

Oft listening how the hounds and horn

Clearly rouse the slumbering morn

From the side of some hoar hill,

Through the high wood echoing shrill,

can possibly enjoy the skill shown by these authors in describing the joy of horses and the thrill of hunting. Nevertheless, the books of Miss Somerville and Martin Ross are heartily enjoyed by a host of readers who are neither Irish nor hunting people, for the simple reason that they are prompted to an explosion of laughter whenever they take up one of these stories. The bulk of these readers would wish to go no further in their appreciation: they embrace the givers of present laughter with so full a measure of enjoyment that it would seem to them unnecessary to probe any further into the chemistry of such excellence, nor perhaps would they deem it possible that any higher praise than their freely-expressed enjoyment could be looked for by any authors. Yet to my mind it is possible. While including in one's general testimony all that can be said by the most extravagant of these admirers, the taster who is considering the cellar of English literature which is being laid down for posterity may discern qualities not so apparent to the quaffer for immediate exhilaration. It is hard to conceive it, but the bubbles may vanish: if they do, the question is, what will be left? My point is that the work of Miss Somerville and Martin Ross has the qualities of a wine that will keep.

It cannot be a great wine, for the vineyard is too restricted. The high winds of emotion have not swept over its soil, nor has the soft rain of tenderness moistened it. It will always be bright and rather dry like Vouvray, gay but with a little bite in it: posterity may even call it "curious." But they will recognise that it holds the authentic flavours that distinguish infallibly the finer products of English literary bins. The authors have chosen a small field, but they direct on it an accuracy of vision which is remarkable, and, seeing that they were two, a unity of vision which is a miracle. In the expression of this vision they display an unfailing sureness of touch and a precision which is perfect in its admirable economy. They handle our language with a deftness and flexibility which is a rarity in itself, and their style, though always original, is nourished by a recollection of great models both in prose and poetry. Theirs is a literary equipment of the first class, solidly framed, well clothed, attractive in appearance, and ornamented with taste. They touch nothing that they do not embellish: events by their unflagging narrative power, which goes as unfalteringly as one of their choicest hunters, character by their sympathetic insight, scenery by their love of natural beauty, dialogue by their dramatic sense. It is not all Ireland that they draw, let that be admitted; they prefer to laugh, letting others weep. Yet, if the whole heart of Ireland does not beat within their pages, a part of it is there, pulsing with true Irish blood and throbbing with truly Irish emotions. Their aspect is no more that of Mr. James Joyce or Mr. Synge or Mr. Yeats than it is that of Mr. George Moore or Mr. Devlin, but, if they are justly praised for their merits, that praise cannot be diminished because they looked on Ireland with laughing eyes through a West Carberry window. Their books are literature no less certainly than Castle Rackrent is literature, and for very similar reasons.

Well, let us taste. It is a bright dry wine, I have said. It is not, perhaps, the quality which the authors would ascribe to what they consider their best work, The Real Charlotte—an estimate in which Mr. Stephen Gwynn agrees with them. This is a fine sombre story of a middle-aged woman's jealousy, for Charlotte is a kind of Irish Cousine Bette. But, if the subject is comparable to that of Balzac's novel, the treatment is certainly not so, and that is my reason for not regarding this as the work by which their achievement can best be judged. It is the work in which they have aimed highest, and the measure of their success is not small, but the theme of Charlotte's jealousy and the havoc in other lives which it caused needed for its convincing development all the powers of a great tragic artist. It is with no want of recognition of the authors' artistic aims or want of sympathy with their regret at abandoning them for others less lofty that this is said: but the work of an artist can best be judged from that part of it which most nearly reaches perfection. Miss Somerville and Martin Ross most nearly reached perfection in their lighter stories of Irish life, and it says much for their acumen that they saw the line on which their talent could naturally reach its maturity, courageously turning their backs on higher and more tragic paths likely to tax them beyond their capabilities. At the same time, it would be unjust not to point out that even in their best work comedy does not exclude the more poignant feelings. It would be the greatest mistake to regard these two writers as nothing more than jesters. Their humour is the true humour which runs hand-in-hand with pity, and the sympathy mingled with their laughter robs it of any taste of bitterness. There is a chapter in Some Irish Yesterdays which shows how their hearts were touched.[28] It treats of marriage and love, death and birth among the peasantry in the south-west of Ireland with a delicacy of feeling which is beyond praise, and shows that the writers did not observe with the aloofness of an explorer among savages, but that for them seeing and describing alike were deeply-felt emotional experiences. The chapter opens with a memory of a wedding in the little Roman Catholic chapel of the village, a simple ceremony, after which the bridegroom hauled his wife up beside him on to a shaggy horse and started for home at a lumbering gallop. Then, in a brilliant transition by way of Tom Cashen's reflections on marriage and a glimpse of his married life, we are introduced at Tom Cashen's funeral to the bride of twenty-five years ago, "a middle-aged stranger in a frilled cap and blue cloak, with handsome eyes full of friendliness," with her ill-health, her profusion of children, and "himself" whose "nose glowed portentously above a rusty grey beard and beneath a hat-brim of a bibulous tint." Then listen to the passage which follows:

[28] In Irish Memories Miss Somerville says that this chapter is the reprint of an article by Martin Ross—a fact which throws some light on the respective contributions of the two collaborators. I should like to mention another passage in which these writers touch the pathetic with distinction. It is that chapter in Dan Russell the Fox in which, while tending a poisoned hound, the Irish mother tries vainly to persuade her younger son to propose to the infatuated young lady. He rejects her suggestion as an outrage on the lady, and sets his face towards America. As the saved hound licks her hand, "It's no good now, poor puppy," she says.

The sunny Shrove Tuesday in early March lived again as she spoke, the glare of the sunshine upon the bare country brimming with imminent life, the scent of the furze, already muffling its spikes in bloom, the daffodils hanging their lamps in shady places. How strangely, how bleakly different was the life history summarised in the melancholy October evening! Instead of the broad-backed horse, galloping on roads that were white in the sun and haze of the strong March day, with the large frieze-clad waist to meet her arms about, and the laughter and shouting of the pursuers coming to her ear, there would be a long and miry tramping in the darkness, behind her spouse, with talk of guano and geese and pigs' food, and a perfect foreknowledge of how he would complete, at the always convenient shebeen, the glorious fabric of intoxication, of which the foundation had been well and truly laid at the funeral.

From the funeral we pass again to the cottage in which "the Triplets" are holding their reception, the three day-old babes cradled in the stuffy room, hazy with the smoke of the turf fire, the crowd in the doorway, the old woman rocking the cradle:

Obscure corners harboured obscure masses, that might be family raiment, or beds, or old women; somewhere among them the jubilant cry of a hen proclaimed the feat of laying an egg, in muffled tones that suggested a lurking-place under a bed. Between the cradle and the fire sat an old man in a prehistoric tall hat, motionless in the stupor of his great age; at his feet a boy wrangled with a woolly puppy that rolled its eyes till the blue whites showed, in a delicious glance of humour, as it tugged at the red flannel shirt of its playmate.

Such a passage in a Russian novelist would warrant ecstasies on the part of our illuminati: let us no less highly praise our own art when it is possible. The chapter concludes with some lights on the commercial methods of matrimony practised by the peasant class: the writers do not defend them, but call attention to the surprising bloom that is apt to spring from them. "From them springs, like a flower from a dust heap, the unsullied, uneventful home-life of Western Ireland." "There is here no material, of the accepted sort, for a playwright; no unsatisfied yearnings and shattered ideals, nothing but remarkable common sense, and a profound awe for the sacrament of Marriage. Marriage, humorous, commercial, and quite unlovely, is the first act; the second is mere preoccupation with an accomplished destiny; the last is usually twilight and much faithfulness." The dialogue is a masterpiece throughout, epigram, heart-piercing pathos, with humour, heavenly and inveterate, lubricating all. Of an elderly couple, married by a happy thought some thirty years before, it was said, as the authors' record, "their hearts were within in each other." This chapter, through which breathes all the soft beauty and humour of the soil, is a sufficient answer to those who would tax these writers with a uniform attitude of rather heartless derision or with following—what a blind criticism!—in the benighted footsteps of those who have given us the dreary horror of the traditional stage Irishman.

Then, again, there is another spirit that breathes delicately through these stories, tempering their outlines as the mists of the Atlantic those of the craggy western hillside. It is the spirit of natural beauty, which, to the hearts of Miss Somerville, herself an accomplished draughtsman, and Martin Ross, makes ever the sharpest appeal. They make the reader plainly feel that if the unconventional dignity and penetrating wit of the Irish folk clutches powerfully at their feelings, the inexhaustible beauty of its surroundings pierces to their very marrow. Quotation after quotation might be given to show their remarkable gift of rendering the scenery which has so moved their imaginations. I can only choose a few, embarrassed at the richness of the field of choice. The last chapter of Some Irish Yesterdays opens with an example which it is hard to surpass:

The road to Connemara lies white across the memory—white and very quiet. In that far west of Galway, the silence dwells pure upon the spacious country, away to where the Twelve Pins make a gallant line against the northern sky. It comes in the heathery wind, it borrows peace from the white cottage gables on the hillside, it is accented by the creeping approach of a turf cart, rocking behind its thin grey pony. Little else stirs save the ducks that sail on a wayside pool to the push of their yellow propellers; away from the road, on a narrow oasis of arable soil, a couple of women are digging potatoes; their persistent voices are borne on the breeze that blows warm over the blossoming boglands and pink heather.

Scarcely to be analysed is that fragrance of Irish air; the pureness of bleak mountains is in it, the twang of turf smoke is in it, and there is something more, inseparable from Ireland's green and grey landscapes, wrought in with her bowed and patient cottages, her ragged wails, and eager rivers, and intelligible only to the spirit.

Here is another landscape, the Irish R. M.'s view of his own demesne:

Certainly the view from the roof was worth coming up to look at. It was rough heathery country on one side, with a string of little blue lakes running like a turquoise necklet round the base of a firry hill, and patches of pale green pasture were set amidst the rocks and heather. A silvery flash behind the undulations of the hills told where the Atlantic lay in immense plains of sunlight.

What, again, could be a more delightful overture to the lifelike description of the regatta on Lough Lonen than the short paragraph which conveys in a few touches all the beauty of the scene?

A mountain towered steeply up from the lake's edge, dark with the sad green of beech-trees in September; fir woods followed the curve of the shore, and leaned far over the answering darkness of the water; and above the trees rose the toppling steepnesses of the hill, painted with the purple glow of heather. The lake was about a mile long, and, tumbling from its farther end, a fierce and narrow river fled away west to the sea, some four or five miles off.

In these descriptions there is no striving for elaborate effect: the authors simply place the scene before our eyes with that aptness of language which is like the unerring needle of a master etcher. To travel on the wings of Miss Somerville and Martin Ross gives one constant thrills of amazement at their hawk-like swoops after a telling phrase: they catch an apt simile on the wing with an arresting suddenness which adds moments of breathlessness to the already exhilarating flight of their rapid narrative. Instances can be picked out from any of the stories like plums from a pudding.

In the depths of the wood Dr. Hickey might be heard uttering those singular little yelps of encouragement that to the irreverent suggest a milkman in his dotage....

It was a gleaming morning in mid-May, when everything was young and tense, and thin and fit to run for its life, like a Derby horse....

I followed Dr. Hickey by way of the window, and so did Miss M'Evoy; we pooled our forces, and drew her mamma after us through the opening of two foot by three steadily, as the great god Pan drew pith from the reed....

Old McRory had a shadowy and imperceptible quality that is not unusual in small fathers of large families; it always struck me that he understood very thoroughly the privileges of the neglected, and pursued an unnoticed, peaceful and observant path of his own in the background. I watched him creep away in his furtive, stupefied manner, like a partly-chloroformed ferret....

Miss McRory's reins were clutched in a looped confusion, that summoned from some corner of my brain a memory of the Sultan's cipher on the Order of the Medjidie.

Like smuts streaming out of a chimney the followers of the hunt belched from the lane and spread themselves over the pale green slopes....

Though the temptation is almost irresistible, I refrain here from displaying this incisive power applied to character, notably to Irish character. The success of our authors in this respect is so notorious that further testimony is superfluous. If we have any appreciation of their art at all, the Major and the gentle Philippa, his wife, Flurry and Sally Knox, old Mrs. Knox looking as if she had robbed a scarecrow, with her white woolly dog with sore eyes and a bark like a tin trumpet, against the inimitable background of her ramshackle mansion of Aussolas, scene of many wit-combats between her and Flurry, Miss Bobbie Bennett, the McRory family, John Kane, Mrs. Knox's henchman, and Michael the huntsman, all are as vivid to us as our dearest friends. It is worth pointing out, however, that an almost diabolical power of delineation is not the only compelling quality in these portraits. There is in their introduction of their characters that natural dramatic instinct which they have so humorously observed in their Irish neighbours. I need only instance the ingenuity by which Mrs. Knox is first heard "off," easily vanquishing in speech that doughty antagonist, an Irish countrywoman: or the introduction of John Kane in "the Aussolas Martin Cat," in two inimitable pages, which are followed by another perfect passage of comic drama, the entry into the old demesne of Aussolas of vulgar Mr. Tebbutts, the would-be tenant:

Away near the house the peacock uttered his defiant screech, a note of exclamation that seemed entirely appropriate to Aussolas; the turkey-cock in the yard accepted the challenge with effusion, and from further away the voice of Mrs. Knox's Kerry bull, equally instant in taking offence, ascended the gamut of wrath from growl to yell. Blended with these voices was another—a man's voice, in loud harangue, advancing down the long beech walk to the kitchen garden. As it approached the wood-pigeons bolted in panic, with distracted clappings of wings, from the tall firs by the garden wall in which they were wont to sit arranging plans of campaign with regard to the fruit. We sat in silence. The latch of the garden gate clicked, and the voice said in stentorian tones:

"My father 'e kept a splendid table."

Every gathering of their countrymen—the meet, the run, the horse show, the races, the regatta, the auction—have an intensity of motion and character which is achieved not by the tiresome enumerative methods of some modern realists, but by the skilful selection of the practised artist, and by a clever condensation of observations—their only form of exaggeration—gathered over a wide range of times and places.

Finally—the word starts up all too soon—let us praise the powerful sweep of their narrative, for it is this rapidity and staying power which sets the crown on their achievement. When they are out with the hunt, whatever be the quarry, they are as "crabbed leppers" as ever moved the picturesque admiration of an Irish hunt following. They are off at the first cry of the hounds and nothing stops them, they drop over the slaty fences, change feet on the banks, thread the rocky paths of steep ascents and career down the craggy hills, like Flurry Knox's mounts to the discomfiture of staider Saxon hunters. With them, moreover, there is never a check; they gallop hot on the scent from first to last, and run the story to a triumphant death in an ecstasy of unquenchable laughter. Their climaxes are marvellous, led up to as they are by a brilliant and sustained crescendo. Think of the mêlée at the end of "High Tea at McKeown's," or of the "Dane's Breechin'," with its exquisite interlude of the search for the "pin" in the village post-office; think of the finale to "Philippa's Foxhunt," with the Irish clergy and Mrs. Knox pulling the small boy out of the drain; or of Lady Knox's ominous arrival at the end of "Oh, Love! Oh, Fire!" and the escape of Sally in Mrs. Knox's pony-chaise, or of the combined catastrophe that fell upon the Major's household in "A Royal Command." For pure art in narrative construction these finales are unexampled in English literature of to-day, all the more because they are free from all buffoonery. Here is one that starts a movement con brio:

A shout from the top of the hill interrupted the amenities of the check. Flurry was out of the wood blowing shattering blasts upon his horn, and the hounds rushed to him, knowing the "gone away" note that was never blown in vain. The brown mare came out through the trees and the undergrowth like a woodcock down the wind, and jumped across a stream on to a more than questionable bank; the hounds splashed and struggled after him, and as they landed the first ecstatic whimpers broke forth. In a moment it was full cry, discordant, beautiful, and soul-stirring, as the pack spread and sped, and settled into line.

It is only one of many such. Let me send the reader to his shelf to take down In Mr. Knox's Country, and read "Put Down Two and Carry One," with its account of the events which led to Miss McRory's riding pillion behind the Major into the scandalised sight of Lady Knox, or to expire once more over the mingling of Mrs. McRory's golden butterfly with Philippa's hat-trimming at the harvest festival ("The Bosom of the McRorys"). I am compelled to quote, for its rendering of the purely ludicrous, from the incident of Playboy's nocturnal rescue in "The Conspiracy of Silence" (Further Experiences of an I.R.M.). Major Yeates, as deputy master in Flurry Knox's absence, has taken the hounds over to hunt with Mr. Flynn, who, after a run full of incident, has connived at the secretion of Playboy, a fine hound of the old Irish breed, in a bedroom at the top of the house. The Major is warned of this by the youngest boy, whose gratitude he has earned by giving him a mount that day. The pair thereupon grope their way upstairs to raid the bedroom in its owner's absence:

A dim skylight told that the roof was very near my head; I extended a groping hand for the wall, and without any warning found my fingers closing improbably, awfully, upon a warm human face.

[It was the servant, Maggie Kane, bringing up a drumstick of a goose to pacify the hound. They open the door of the room, and Playboy is revealed tied to the leg of a low wooden bedstead.] He was standing up, his eyes gleamed green as emeralds, he looked as big as a calf. He obviously regarded himself as the guardian of Eugene's bower, and I failed to see any recognition of me in his aspect, in point of fact he appeared to be on the verge of an outburst of suspicion that would waken the house once and for all. We held a council of war in whispers that perceptibly increased his distrust; I think it was Maggie Kane who suggested that Master Eddy should proffer him the bone while I unfastened the rope. The strategy succeeded, almost too well, in fact. Following the alluring drumstick, Playboy burst into the passage, towing me after him on the rope. Still preceded by the light-footed Master Eddy, he took me down the attic stairs at a speed which was the next thing to a headlong fall, while Maggie Kane held the candle at the top. As we stormed past old Flynn's door I was aware that the snoring had ceased, but "the pace was too good to inquire." We scrimmaged down the second flight into the darkness of the hall, fetching up somewhere near the clock, which, as if to give the alarm, uttered three loud and poignant cuckoos. I think Playboy must have sprung at it, in the belief that it was the voice of the drumstick; I only know that my arm was nearly wrenched from its socket, and that the clock fell with a crash from the table to the floor, where, by some malevolence of its machinery, it continued to cuckoo with a jocund and implacable persistence. Something that was not Playboy bumped against me. The cuckoo's note became mysteriously muffled, and a door, revealing a fire-lit kitchen, was shoved open. We struggled through it, bound into a sheaf by Playboy's rope, and in our midst the cuckoo clock, stifled but indomitable, continued its protest from under Maggie Kane's shawl.

And now, if I may close with a recollection of what is, perhaps, the most brilliant of all these brilliant narratives, I will call to the reader's mind the story of "The Pug-nosed Fox," from the same volume. Every gift of language, delineation, vigorous intensity, dramatic gradation, and swiftness of progress over a series of crises to a perfect culmination has been lavished by the authors on this story. From the misguided efforts of the photographer to take a picture of the hounds on a sweltering August day, all through the untimely chase of the old fox to the discovery of Tomsy Flood sewn up in a feather mattress in the loft of the McRorys' stable, and the raid of the hounds upon the wedding breakfast at the moment of the entry of the guests, there is not a moment in which to draw breath. It is life itself, with all the added quickness to its revolutions and intensity to its vision that art can give. With this memory I must leave this little classic to its future, but so that art, rather than criticism, shall have the last word, a typical passage, showing the authors' ease of transition from beauty to comedy, shall close this grateful appreciation:

At the top of the hill we took another pull. This afforded us a fine view of the Atlantic, also of the surrounding country and all that was therein, with, however, the single exception of the hounds. There was nothing to be heard save the summery rattle of the reaping-machine, the strong and steady rasp of a corn-crake, and the growl of a big steamer from a band of fog that was advancing, ghost-like, along the blue floor of the sea. Two fields away a man in a straw hat was slowly combing down the flanks of a haycock with a wooden rake, while a black-and-white cur slept in the young after-grass beside him. We broke into their sylvan tranquillity with a heated demand whether the hounds had passed that way. Shrill glamour from the dog was at first the only reply; its owner took off his hat, wiped his forehead with his sleeve, and stared at us.

"I'm as deaf as a beetle this three weeks," he said, continuing to look us up and down in a way that made me realise, if possible, more than before, the absurdity of looking like a Christmas card in the heat of a summer's day.

"Did ye see the HOUNDS?" shouted Michael, shoving the chestnut up beside him.

"It's the neurology I got," continued the haymaker, "an' the pain does be whistlin' out through me ear till I could mostly run into the say from it."

"It's a pity ye wouldn't," said Michael, whirling Moses round.

FORGOTTEN SATIRISTS

By ALDOUS HUXLEY

ALL readers of the literary Press must often have noticed that the most ardently contested and the most prolonged controversies, among all those that fill correspondence columns with the rumour of inkpot wars, turn almost invariably upon subjects remote from actuality and of a nature profoundly trivial. Questions of philology and spelling, questions of dates and names and little odd facts—it is on such circumscribed arenas that month-long combats clash and sway and would go on clashing and swaying for ever if it were not for the editor's tyrannically-imposed peace. To the practical man, intent on the immediate, as well as to the philosopher in his abstract world of ideas, this preoccupation with facts that are irrelevant both to the money-maker and the seeker after truth seems at first sight quite incomprehensible. But the explanation is simple. We have leisure and we hate being bored. We must find something that will keep our mind busy without exhausting it. We might, to be sure, occupy ourselves by studying the Einstein theory; but the effort, the agony of trying to think abstractly! No, decidedly the Einstein theory is too much of a good thing. So we fall back on stamp collecting or on what is more absorbing even than stamp collecting—on the inexhaustible past. We turn to history, not for any ambitious Wellsian ideas about humanity, but for the anecdotes, the innumerable bits of Notes and Queryish information which a little patience and curiosity can pick up like shells on a dry beach. How pleasant it is and how restful, after an effort of abstract reasoning (if one has been unwise enough to make that effort), to turn to Disraeli's Curiosities of Literature or to the Literary Recreations of Sir Edward Cook! We are amused, absorbed, instructed, and all without the least expense of spirit. What song the sirens sang, what were Mr. Gladstone's favourite Latin quotations—these things we learn and a thousand more, pleasantly, effortlessly, without tears.

This, then, is my excuse and justification for directing attention to an incident so remote as the Popish Plot, to men so obscure as Settle and Pordage and Flecknoe—their very names are absurd, Dickensian. These long-dead days of controversy fairly bristle with curiosities of literature. We catch glimpses of odd fantastic men performing odd fantastic actions. We see, thrown up by the storm of political passion, strange traits of human psychology that float on the surface like grotesque fishes of the depths dislodged by a submarine earthquake. And so, as we cannot all be Newtons or Empedocleses, let us content ourselves with small things, finding the occupation and amusement we desire in the anecdotes and old wives' tales of history, so pleasant, so futile, so absorbingly human.

Our purpose is to do justice—a little more than justice, it may be—to a few of the minor characters in the drama of the Popish Plot. But with the best will in the world it is impossible not to mention the hero of the piece; Dryden is the Prince of Denmark of the Plot, and without at least a casual reference to his part the play has no sense at all.

Our curtain, then, goes up on the Autumn of 1681; for, in the approved style, we plunge in medias res. The Earl of Shaftesbury is in the Tower on a charge of High Treason. A Bill of Indictment is to be presented against him. It was in anticipation of this event and with the deliberate intention of turning public opinion against Shaftesbury that, on November 17th, Dryden published Absalom and Achitophel.

This was not by any means the first time that Shaftesbury had been attacked. For the past two years the Tory pamphleteers had made him the target of their most envenomed shafts. One at least of these anonymous satires, A Modest Vindication of the Earl of Shaftesbury in a Letter to a Friend concerning his being elected King of Poland, is worthy to be rescued from oblivion. Like almost every pamphleteer of the time, the author of this Modest Vindication seizes on the story that Shaftesbury had offered himself as a candidate for the throne vacated by the death of John Sobieski. The pamphlet opens with an admirable ironic eulogy of the Earl for "his unshaken obedience to every government he has been concerned in or lived under; his steady adherence to every religion that had but hopes to be established." We are now shown the Polish Diet debating on the choice of a king, who shall be capable not only of ruling Poland, but also of conquering and converting the Turk. "Upon these considerations you may imagine the eyes of the whole Diet were turned upon little England, and there upon whom so soon as the little lord of Shaftesbury?" The new king, Anthony I., draws up a list of the attendants whom he proposes to take with him. There is, of course, "Prince Prettyman Perkinoski (Monmouth), to cure the plica or King's evil of this country, in case our own majesty should fail of that virtue"; and finally, at the end of the list, "Jean Drydenurtzitz ... our Poet Laureate, for writing panegyrics upon Oliver Cromwell and libels against his present master, King Charles II."; and to be his deputy no less than Tom Shadworiski" (Shadwell). This tract, it must be remembered, was written after the production of The Spanish Friar and before the publication of Absalom and Achitophel. The author of the "Protestant Play" might still be thought to be a Whig.

The pamphlet ends up with the account of a vision wherein the king-elect sees first the figure of the Whore of Babylon, which changes into that of a murdered Justice of the Peace (Sir Edmund Bury Godfrey), "strangled by a crew of ruffians, who afterwards ran him through with his own sword, that it might be thought he hanged himself." This gives place to a troop of pilgrims armed with black bills (these pilgrims were one of the happiest products of Oates's rich imagination); and they in turn are followed by the hideous vision of the Doctor of Salamanca, Oates himself. All this so deeply impresses King Anthony that he gives up his imperial ambitions, preferring the task of confounding the Pope at home to that of converting the Turks in Poland.

To this same Polish legend and to a certain physical peculiarity, which was the delight of the Tory satirists, Shaftesbury owed one of his most popular nicknames, "Tapski." The "ski" was Polish, but the "Tap" was English and had a real existence. Shaftesbury suffered from an internal abscess, which had to be kept drained by a silver tube let into his side. For the Tories this tap represented all that was most loathsome, most repulsive, most Whiggish. They exulted in descriptions of it. When Shaftesbury wanted to make himself look important, so one pamphleteer assures us, he had only to turn off the tap in order to swell up to a prodigious size. Shaftesbury's Tap and that mysterious Black Box, reputed to contain the certificate of a marriage between Charles II. and Lucy Waters, were the two symbolic objects on which public imagination most greedily seized.

Dryden's satire was issued anonymously. But its authorship was evidently an open secret, for within three weeks of its publication a reply, called Towser the Second, in which Dryden is named as the author, made its appearance. The writer of this piece was the Whig journalist, Henry Care, "whose breeding," says Anthony Wood, "was in the nature of a petty Fogger, a little despicable Wretch, afterwards much reflected upon for a poor snivelling Fellow in the Observators published by Rog: L'Estrange." This person had been the writer of a newspaper entitled The Weekly Paquets of News from Rome, an anti-Catholic journal started in the height of the excitement caused by Titus Oates's evidence. He had been tried in 1680 for libelling Justice Scroggs. His later history is the sadly common tale of the poor Grub Street hack: at the accession of James II. "for bread and Money sake, and nothing else," he passed over to the side in power and turned his pen against the Protestants. Towser the Second is as little and despicable as its author. Towser-Dryden, brother to the original bad dog, Towser-L'Estrange, suffering from a worm "that of the Jebusites smells very strong," runs mad, snarls and snaps at all he meets, treats the whole world, the King included, "à la mode de Billingsgate."

Care's poem is only less stupid than the ponderous Some Reflections upon a late poem, by a Person of Honour, which appeared a few days later. The Person of Honour was Dryden's old enemy, the Duke of Buckingham. Goaded to exasperation by the onslaught made upon him in Absalom and Achitophel, Buckingham set out to overwhelm Dryden under mountains of moral indignation. He succeeded only in proving conclusively that his own share in The Rehearsal, in its own way a masterpiece, must have been extremely small.

Early in 1682 The Reflections were followed by Samuel Pordage's Azaria and Hushai. Twenty years before Pordage had proved himself the possessor of a certain ingenuity by his feat of turning the philosophy of Jacob Boehme into English-rhymed couplets. There are even a few passable passages in the Mundorum Explicatio. But in this satire of his later years he seems to have lost such cunning as he may once have possessed. The sole merit of the piece is a certain dull restraint of language, an avoidance of the drosser scurrilities. He is very temperate, for instance, in what he says of Dryden:

The falling glory of the Jewish stage.

Sweet was the Muse that did his wit inspire,

Had he not let his hackney Muse for hire.

Zimri, we know, he had no cause to praise,

Because he dubb'd him with the name of Bayes,

Because he durst with his proud wit engage,

And brought his follies on the public stage.

But the next Whig satire to appear has real merits. Settle's Absalom Senior is the one good thing produced by the Whigs in their battle with Dryden. Dryden himself had grudgingly to admit that Settle was something of a poet.

Doeg, though without knowing how or why,

Made still a blundering kind of melody;

Spurred boldly on and dashed through thick and thin,

Through sense and nonsense, never out nor in;

Free from all meaning, whether good or bad

And in a word, heroically mad.

He was too warm on picking-work to dwell,

But fagoted his notions as they fell,

And if they rhymed and rattled, all was well.

This is not altogether just. The verse of Absalom Senior does more than rhyme and rattle; it has a music of its own, and there are passages that are curiously Elizabethan in their conception and execution. Take, for example, this character of the Duke of York, the Absalom Senior of the poem:

The mercy and the clemency divine,

Those sacred sparks, which in mild David shine,

Were all put out and left a starless night.

A long farewell to all that's good and brave!

Not cataracts more headstrong; as the grave

Inexorable; sullen and untuned

As Pride deposed; not Lucifer unthroned

More unforgiving.

It is hardly credible that this should have been written in 1682. It reads like the work of some minor poet in the "giant age before the flood," a contemporary of the grave Lord Brooke. Here again is something no poet of the Restoration has any business to write, a simile in which Settle compares the papist plotter to the alchemist:

Who though he see his bursting limbecks crack,

And at one blast, one fatal minute's wrack,

The forward hope of sweating years expire,

With sad, yet painful, hand new-lights the fire.

Pale, lean and wan, does health, wealth, all consume;

And for the great elixir yet to come

Toils and hopes on.

The poem opens with a history of the ceaseless Catholic efforts, ever since the time of Henry VIII., to recapture England for the old faith. This serves as a preface to the main body of the piece, which deals with the Popish Plot. There is the usual portrait gallery, imitated from Absalom and Achitophel, of the most important figures on either side. This spirited description of Lauderdale is worth quoting:

Let not that hideous bulk of honour 'scape,

Nadab that sets the gazing crowds agape;

The old kirk-founder, whose hoarse croak could sing

The Saints, the Cause, no Bishop and no King.

By the triumphant Saul he was employed

A huge fang-tusk to gore poor David's side,

Like a proboscis in the tyrant's jaw

To rend and root through government and law.

Settle mentions Dryden in connection with Amiel, the Duke of Buckingham. It is pleasant to note that, like Pordage, he pays tribute, albeit a somewhat equivocal one, to Dryden's poetical genius:

But Amiel had, alas, the fate to hear

An angry poet play his chronicler;

A poet rais'd above oblivion's shade,

By his recorded verse immortal made.

No muse could more heroic deeds rehearse;

H' had with an equal, all-applauding verse

Great David's sceptre and Saul's javelin praised.

A pyramic to his saint Interest he rais'd.

The rest of the remarks about Dryden are not so edifying; they refer to that subject, so fruitful of raillery, the poet's marriage with Lady Howard, whom Settle, repeating scandal, describes as

Laura, in faithful constancy confined

To Ethiop's envoy and to all mankind.

The poem ends with a long list of eulogies addressed to the chiefs of the Country Party, dull as such eulogies always are and are always bound to be. For, while we listen to abuse and defamation of almost any kind with pleasure, we are apt to find the recital of a man's virtues extremely tedious; a fact well known to newspaper proprietors, for whom moral indignation—or mud slinging, for the terms are usually synonymous—is spiritual meat and drink, as well as material bread-and-butter.

The publication of Absalom Senior was the high-water mark of Settle's life. In 1673, at the age of twenty-five, he had all the appearances of a great man: he was the author of The Empress of Morocco. But he was very definitely one of those who have had greatness thrust upon them. The success of his fantastic tragedy, gravely judged by the most advanced undergraduate opinion of the day to be superior to anything Dryden had written, was wholly due to the prodigies of log-rolling performed by that shifty and malicious patron of the arts, Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. Rochester, who had for a time bestowed his favours upon Dryden, suddenly threw him over and exalted Elkanah Settle in his place. He had The Empress of Morocco specially produced at Court before its appearance on the public stage, and himself contributed a Prologue. The "boom" was so well organised that the public for a time actually took Elkanah seriously. The Empress and her infamous gallant, Grimalhaz, stamped about the stage giving rhymed utterance to sentiments of an unheard of turpitude.

G  RIMALHAZ: Have you considered, madam, what you've done?

E     MPRESS: Poisoned my husband, sir, and if you need

Examples to instruct you in the deed,

I'll make my actions plainer understood,

Copying his death on all the royal blood.

Loud and prolonged applause, bursting out again with redoubled fury when the Empress hisses into the ear of this new Macbeth:

and your next step t'a throne

Must be, dear sir, the murder of my son.

The applause died away and with it the cat-calls of Settle's three envious rivals, Dryden, Crowne, and Shadwell. Then came Absalom Senior, and for its author the deserved laureateship of Whiggery. But a year later things took an awkward turn for the Country Party; Settle recanted and wrote a history of the Popish Plot, in which he gave Oates his full due as a scoundrel. When James II. came to the throne he wrote a fawning Coronation Ode in the hope of placating one whom he had himself so short a time before called "inexorable as the grave." He even went so far as to publish a panegyric of Judge Jefferies. Inch by inch he was sinking deeper into the slough of Grub Street. With the Revolution he gave up politics (they seemed altogether too unsafe) and applied for the post of City Laureate. Lord Mayor's Shows were now immortalised to the extent of "living in Settle's numbers one day more." Grown old and very miserable, he was reduced to writing puppet plays, better works of art—who knows?—than the proud Empress of his youth; and we find him at last "hissing in his own dragon" at Bartholomew Fair. He was seventy-six when he died in 1724, having survived long enough to be the target of Pope's barbed malice.

Absalom Senior closes the first act of the drama. The second opens with Dryden's Medal. This personal attack on Shaftesbury roused more fury among the Whigs than even Absalom and Achitophel. In a single day Edmund Hickeringill wrote and sent to press a long retort called The Mushroom. "... And if any man think or say that it is a wonder if this book and verses were composed and writ in one day, and sent to the press, since it would employ the pen of a ready writer to copy this book in a day—it may be so. But it is a truth, as certain as the sun in the firmament, and which, if need be, the bookseller, printer, and other worthy citizens that are privy to it can avouch for an infallible truth—Deo soli gloria—when a divine hand assists, one of despicable, dull and inconsiderate parts may do wonders, which God usually performs by most weak and unlikely instruments." Hickeringill is a charming character; but he hardly comes within the scope of our article. He is not so much a man of letters as a mental case.

Pordage once again stepped forward and dealt a perfectly ineffective blow. He was followed by a new and more truculent champion, Shadwell. Shadwell laid about him with a will. Of Dryden's poetical powers he says condescendingly: "He has an easiness in rhyme and a knack of versifying and can make a slight thing seem pretty and clinquant." On the other hand, he is wholly lacking in originality, and even in his satires has done nothing but "turn the Observator into rhyme." When he is not writing in rhyme, "in which he has a kind of excellence," he is completely insipid. He has no sense of comedy.

Thou never mak'st, but art a standing Jest.

So much for Dryden's literary reputation; now for his character. At this point Shadwell throws the moral indignation about so freely that we are forced to hold our noses and to avert our eyes.

Left scathless by the clumsy grossness of Shadwell's attack, Dryden retorted murderously with MacFlecknoe.

But enough of Shadwell. He has his meed of fame and recognition. His body lies in Westminster Abbey and his plays have been resurrected in the "Mermaid" Edition. Who was Flecknoe? What manner of man was that grandiose figure who

In Prose and Verse was own'd without dispute

Through all the realms of Non-sense, absolute?

There must be many who, like myself, have cherished a sneaking hope that this is an ungenerous judgment, that Flecknoe is not so bad after all. Might one not even discover him, edit him, unearth buried beauties? Alas, one has but to read a few of his many works to realise that Dryden was only speaking the modest truth!

We catch our first glimpse of him at some date about the year 1645, when Andrew Marvell, on his travels in Rome, climbed up three pair of stairs and

found at last a chamber, as 'twas said,

But seemed a coffin set on the stair's head,

the lodgment of Richard Flecknoe, Irishman, priest, poet, and musician. A strange figure:

as thin

He stands, as if he only fed had been

With consecrated wafers, and the Host

Hath sure more flesh and blood than he can boast;

This basso-relievo of a man—

Who, as a camel tall, yet easily can

The needle's eye thread through without any stitch.

No sooner is Marvell within the basso-relievo's clutches than

Straight, without further information

In hideous verse, he, in a dismal tone,

Begins to exorcise, as if I were

Possessed;

and so it goes on

Till the tyrant, weary to persecute,

Left off and tried to allure me with his lute.

Desperate measures have now to be taken; Marvell asks the man to dinner and for a little time, at least, secures a respite. But not for long; the poet,

Satisfied with eating, but not tame,

Turns to recite; though judges most severe,

After the assizes' dinner, mild appear

And on full stomach do condemn but few,

Yet he more strict my sentence doth renew,

And draws out of the black box of his breast

Ten quire of paper, in which he was dressed.

It is a sad example of that all too frequent inconsistency between a man's art and life that the best poem Flecknoe ever wrote should be To Silence:

Still-born Silence, thou that art

Floodgate of the deeper heart,

Offspring of a heavenly kind,

Frost oth' mouth and thaw oth' mind.

There is a certain absurd charm about this reckless mixture of conceits, a charm which would have melted Marvell's heart, if he had heard the piece, as it later melted Lamb's. For what is almost the first and the last time, Flecknoe's poetic method, which is the method of Marvell himself and of all the seventeenth-century metaphysicals reduced to the absurd, actually comes off. Only once again was he ever to produce anything faintly resembling poetry, and that is in this stanza about the ant:

That small republique too, at home,

Where thou'rt perhaps some magistrate—

Little think'st thou, when thou dost come,

There's greater in the world than that.

But this is exceptional; his average poetic level is exemplified by such lines as:

Now to the woodlands, now to th' champains, where

With subtile nets and pitfalls slyly made

She innocently silly fowls betrayed,

While the more lofty inhabitants oth' skies

Sh' allured to ground with brightness of her eyes,

or by that astonishing couplet on Phœbus, which runs:

From 's harnessing of 's horses in the East,

Unto 's unharnessing of them in the West.

From Rome Flecknoe carried his juvenile verses to Constantinople, to Portugal, to Brazil, to Flanders. But no amount of travel could cure him of his fatal habit of writing. Re-established in England after the Restoration, he turned an unlimited leisure to the worst account. He was the author of four plays, only one of which was put upon the stage, and that was duly damned. He contented himself by printing the others with a list of the actors he would have liked to see in the different parts, if he had been able to get them performed—a touching piece of naïveté which does much to endear him to us.

Of his prose works the most ambitious is a little collection of Enigmaticall Characters, of which perhaps the choicest is this on the Drunkard. The Drunkard's wit "is rather the hog's-head than his own, savouring more of Heidelberg than of Helican and he being rather a drunken than a good companion."

Flecknoe dies, like the lady on whose decease he wrote an ode, "died as having nothing else to do," in the year 1678.

Such was Flecknoe. Shadwell's claim to being ranked as Flecknoe's son is amply substantiated by his own protest that in MacFlecknoe "he had been represented as an Irishman, though Mr. Dryden knew very well that he had not set eyes on the country till he was three and twenty and had remained in it then only for four months."

Dryden followed up MacFlecknoe with the character of Og in the Second Part of Absalom and Achitophel. Shadwell was unable to reply; he could only faintly complain.

With Part the Second of Absalom and Achitophel the drama of the Popish Plot comes to an end. The curtain falls on this last orgy of murder. All the minor characters are now dead—for Doeg and Mephibosheth lie bleeding by the side of the monstrous Og—and only the hero remains alive. Turning with a bow to the audience, he delivers the epilogue, in which he explains, with the best of good humour, exactly why it is that he, Dryden, is still alive and all the rest lie punctured about him.

"How easy it is," so runs the epilogue, "how easy it is to call rogue and villain, and that wittily! But how hard to make a man appear a fool, a blockhead, or a knave, without using any of these opprobrious terms! There is still a vast difference between the slovenly butchering of a man and the fineness of a stroke that separates the head from the body and leaves it standing in its place. A man may be capable, as Jack Ketch's wife said of his servant, of a plain piece of work, a bare hanging; but to make a malefactor die sweetly was only belonging to her husband. I wish I could apply it to myself, if the reader would be kind enough to think it belongs to me."

ARCHITECTURE AS FORM IN CIVILISATION

By PROFESSOR W. R. LETHABY

TOWNS and Civilisation are two words for nearly one thing; the City is the manifestation of the spirit and its population is the larger body it builds for its soul. To build cities and live in them properly is the great business of large associations of men. The outward and the made must always be exact pictures of the mind and the makers. Not only is this so at any given stage, but it is so all the more in a going concern, for the outward is always reacting again on the inward, so that the concrete becomes a mould for the spiritual. Man builds towns so that the towns shall build his sons. As the old Greek said, "The city teaches the man."

William Morris says somewhere that the religions of antiquity were the worshipping of cities. It may seem strange this idea of city worship, but it explains much in the history of art, and we need something of similar sort even now: this and other worships besides and beyond. Before the recognition of the universal and the national we require a much deepened sense of the civic. Here comes before the Beyond. Almost the greatest question of the time is the one of finding wells for the refreshment of our vitality—the inducing of national spirit, town spirit, and home spirit. Such spirit is a very subtle essence, and yet it dwells in houses and cities are its reservoirs. In the Army it has always been recognised that the foundation of the whole vast violent business is spirit. The children of war are wiser than the children of peace. As an example take this scrap from the experience of a new soldier: "The private is taught from the beginning that the first duty of a soldier is obedience, the second cleanliness, and the third may be gathered from this short dialogue between a drill sergeant and a squad of recruits:

"What is the third duty of a soldier?" asks the sergeant. "Honesty, sobriety, and self-respect," we reply. "And what is self-respect?" "Keeping your buttons bright."

We know that Jerusalem was a sacred city, and so was Athens too in its way. So indeed were all the cities of antiquity, each in its proper status. In the later classical age every one had its impersonation of sculptured image—the Tyche of the City. Fragments of a figure of Silchester were found in the Basilica of the old British town; an image which stood for the genius of the place. London and York were also sacred in those Roman days, and the figure on our pennies is a similar Roman imagination for the whole country, Britannia. A fine inscription from Ephesus in the Central Hall of the British Museum is a delightful example of the forms and ceremonies observed by the proud cities of antiquity—the ritual prescribed for their worship in fact. This marble slab, about 7 feet by 3½ feet, bears in large clear lettering the copy of a letter addressed by Antoninus Pius to the Magistrates and People of Ephesus c. A.D. 140. The emperor approved that the people of Pergamon had written letters to Ephesus correctly addressed with the prescribed titles (First and Greatest Metropolis of Asia, or the like). He thinks that the People of Smyrna had accidentally omitted this from a decree about joint sacrifice, but they will behave correctly in future provided that the Ephesians use the approved titles in writing to Smyrna (pre-eminent in beauty or the like). This is indeed politeness on a high plane.

One of the ways in which civic spirit, pride, and love must be refounded is in the sense of historical continuity. Such a sense of regional reverence is being cultivated in France on a definitely psychological basis, and those alert Americans have already begun to work the ground of their antiquities. A publication of a local historical society, issued as far back as 1900, contains an account of what they in America call "An Old Ipswich House." It begins with some words which I must quote: "The extraordinary production and large circulation of the historical novel is but one of the consequences of the remarkable growth of patriotic societies in this country in the last few years. One of the most admirable results of the movement is the widespread interest in the establishment of local historical societies in the old towns of New England. [Older towns of Old England, please note and copy.] These societies have a very fascinating work before them in the collection of local records, the preservation of old buildings, in the marking of historic sites. This soil is fertile and delving therein bears rich fruit of interest, love for the community, heightened civic feeling, encouragement of local improvement, and a care for the future of the town. In not a few places the local society has taken some old house for its headquarters, adorning it with attractive historical collections. Such a collection is that of the Bostonian Society, to which the city long ago gave the use of the Old State House." What might our English towns still do in this way! Or is it to be that for authentic touch with antiquity we shall soon have to go to America? In passing may I commend this idea to those who have the destruction of the old Dean's House at Wolverhampton in their mind or at least their power?

Germany has long consciously cultivated this field for spirit production, and I remember an official tract on the psychological value of Ancient Monuments in promoting national consciousness. It is in Denmark, however, that an effort to promote national spirit has been most systematically based on a common knowledge of national traditions, arts, and music, and spread by means of their admirable "Folk Schools."

Monumental history is a stirring, vital thing: it can be touched. In every town every child-citizen should know the story and antiquities of that place. This has always been the way until now. "What mean these stones?" the children say, and we answer, "I don't know." The history that can be seen is a strong and stimulating soul-food, entirely different from vague and wearying written history.

The historical starting-post is only one of many ways of approach to fine forms of civilisation; we must not wait on the order of our going, but go at once and from every point at once. Much is being thought and said about Housing and Town Planning; they are both of the greatest possible importance, but they are not all. We need at least a third to go with them—that is a general cleaning, tidying, and smartening movement, an effort to improve all our public and social arts, from music to cooking and games. We must control and tax advertisements to some order, bring pressure on the railway companies to sweep the microbes out of their stations, and we must whitewash our own backyards. The danger is to think of housing and planning as technical matters for experts. It may almost be feared that current talk of town planning and garden cities may harden with a jargon-like political formulæ. Our arts and customs are indexes and pictures of our inner life. Fine bridges, clean, smiling streets, liberal public buildings are not merely shapes and nothing more. They are essential to our sense of order, brightness, and efficiency, to our pride, confidence, and content. A sore protesting slapped-in-the-face feeling cannot be good for the temper and digestion. A civilised life cannot be lived in undisciplined towns.

*      *      *      *      *

More and more we become the victims of our words and live frightened by names. Such a name is Architecture. In its mystery vague and vain pretensions may be shrouded, in its shadows hide many minor superstitions about correct design, the right style, true proportions. High priests arise who are supposed to know subtle doctrines and can point the way to æsthetic safety. And yet all the time there are the streets, Edgware Road and Euston Road, Oxford Street and Holborn; there again are our cities, Leeds and Liverpool, Bristol and Plymouth. Surely these potent and indeed blatant facts might raise doubts as to the dogmas. The mystification about "architecture" has isolated the intimate building art from the common interest and understanding of ordinary men. To talk with a believing architect on his theories is almost as hopeless as to chaff a cardinal. All the ancient arts of men are subject to the diseases of pedantry and punditry—music, painting, poetry all suffer from isolation.

Architecture is human skill and feeling shown in the great necessary activity of building. It must be a living, progressive structural art, always readjusting itself to changing conditions of time and place. If it is true it must ever be new. This, however, not with a willed novelty, which is as bad as or worse than trivial antiquarianism, but by response to force majeure. The vivid interest and awe with which men look on a ship or an engine, an old cottage or a haystack, come from the sense of their reality. They were shaped so by a higher power than whim, by a higher aim than snobbery. So must it again be with our buildings: they must be founded fast on the rock of necessity.

Wordy claims are often made for "Architecture" that it is a "Fine Art," and chief of all the arts. These two claims are indeed incompatible and contradictory. Any mastership in architecture depends on its universality and its service. It is only chief in the sense that he who serves is the greatest. But the "Fine Arts" are by definition free from conditions of human need, and architecture was specially ruled out from among them by Aristotle. Even so, this idea of fine art unconditioned and free for delight was a heresy of the Hellenistic decline. To Plato and the great masters even the "musical" arts were to be not only healthy but health-giving; they were to be foods for the soul and not æsthetic raptures and intoxications.

On the other side of the account it may be objected that bare utility and convenience are not enough to form a base for a noble architecture. Of course they are not if "bare utility" is interpreted in a mean and skimping and profiteering way. All work of man bears the stamp of the spirit with which it was done, but this stamp is not necessarily "ornament." The unadorned indeed can never stand as low as that which is falsely adorned in borrowed, brazen bedizenments. High utility and liberal convenience for noble life are enough for architecture. We confuse ourselves with these unreal and destructive oppositions between the serviceable and the æsthetic, between science and art. Consider any of the great forms of life activity—seamanship, farming, housekeeping—can anyone say where utility ends and style, order, clearness, precision begin? Up to a point, and indeed a long way on, "style" is a utility. We have to begin again and look on architecture as an art of service from the communal point of view. The faces of buildings which are turned outwards towards the world are obviously of interest to the public, and all citizens have a property in them. The spectator is in fact part owner. No man builds to himself alone. Let the proprietor do as he likes inside his building, for we need not call on him. Bad plays need not be seen, books need not be read, but nothing but blindness or the numbing of our faculty of observation can protect us from buildings in the street. It is to be feared that we are learning to protect ourselves by the habit of not observing, that is by sacrificing a faculty. General interest and intelligent appreciation of public arts are a necessity of civilisation. Civic alertness, honest pride, or firm protest are not matters of taste for a few; they are essential activities of the urban mind. In cities buildings take the place of fields, trees, and hedgerows. Buildings are an artificial form of nature. We have a right to consideration and some politeness in buildings. We claim protection from having our faces slapped when we venture into the street. Our cities do not wholly belong to profit-lords, railway companies, and advertisers.

Architecture, however "properly understood," not only concerns the man in the street, it comes home to all householders and households. While our eyes have been strained on the vacuity of correct style, the weightier matters of construction and efficiency have necessarily been neglected. We need grates which will warm, floors which may readily be cleaned, and ceilings which do not crack. These and such as these are the terms of the modern architectural problem, and in satisfying them we should find the proper "style" for to-day. Architecture is a current speech, it is not an art of classical quotation. As it is it is as much burdened by its tags of rhetoric as Chinese literature. It has become a dead language. The house of the future will be designed as a ship is designed, as an organism which has to function properly in all its parts. Does this not concern everyone, not only as economy and comfort, but in the mind? Our houses must be made to fit us like garments and to be larger projections of ourselves. A whole row of ambiguous words, such as design, ornament, style, proportion, have come between us and the immediately given data of architecture. Design is not abstract power exercised by a genius, it is simply the arranging how work shall be well done. The more necessary the work and the more obvious, simple, and sound is the foresight the better the design. It is not a question of captivating paper patterns, it is a question of buildings which will work. Architecture is a pragmatical art. To design in the Classic, Gothic, or Renaissance styles is as absurd as to sculpture in the manner of Praxiteles, paint "like" Holbein, or write sham Shakespeare. We do not really need a waxwork art by Wardour Street professionals. We require an active art of building which will take its "style" for granted, as does naval architecture. Modern building must shake itself free from its own withered and cast-off skins.

It is commonly supposed, and architects themselves in older days believed it, that an architect's business was to be an expert in style. Why he should be so was never explained, except, perhaps, by Philibert de l'Orme. According to this authority the Temple of Jerusalem was built in the Classical style, and this work was designed in heaven; therefore this was the only true or revealed style. An excellent argument; modern practitioners have kept up a "battle of the styles" without any such basis for their logic, or rather their eloquence. But what is or was a style? It is a museum name for a phase of past art. As a means of classifying what is dead and done the style labels are quite useful. It has, however, to be kept in mind that these styles, while they lived and moved, were processes which began, continued, and passed into something else. They were only phases like those of the changing moon. That which now professes to be designed in a style, or, as the still more disgusting slang runs, to be "period work," has not the essence of life. It is, therefore, not actually of the style which it simulates but is only in the "style" of the style.

Indeed, the essence of all the old arts was in their vitality, their response to the natural conditions and the psychology of their times. The better we seem to reproduce their dead images the more we are unlike their soul-selves. There is little more reason for an architect to pretend to work in a style than there is for a chemist. Architects are properly arrangers and directors of certain classes of structures. I would like to say that they were building engineers, were it not that our engineers have failed so shamefully in hiring themselves out for any form of exploitation and in showing no care for orderliness and decency. All the past of architecture, as of engineering and shipbuilding, belongs to us, of course, as race experience, but only as far as the same is true in all fields of science and literature.

The "Orders" of architecture are names for particular forms of ancient Greek temple building. Style-names apply to all past fashions of buildings, Orders only to three—Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian. The names are useful as history, but that is all. Now that these Orders have become shop advertisements, even the would-be correct may be more ready to give them up.

Style in a modern and universal sense is equivalent rather to "stylish" than to a style; it interpenetrates the whole texture of a work; it is clearness, effectiveness, mastery, often it is simplification. We have to conceive of it in the building art as we do in literature or athletics. "The style is the man"—yes, and it is also the thing itself. It is an informing spirit, the spirit of form, it is not a varnish. We have become so accustomed to architecture looking "dressy" that we have forgotten the logic of clothes and bury buildings good enough in themselves under outgrown rags. It has been a true instinct which calls sham architectural features "dressings."

Another word which the architecturally superstitious whisper with great awe is proportion. In dealing with such a limited field as the "Orders," old scholars examined existing examples by measuring them very carefully to find out their proportions; but, if we had them, Greek chairs and tables might be measured in exactly the same way. No general rule of the Greeks has ever been found out by these measurings, and if it had it would prove nothing for us. Proportion, of course, rests properly on function, material, and size. There maybe a perfect proportion, for instance, for a certain class of ships, but that will only be discovered experimentally, and not by measuring Greek galleys.

*      *      *      *      *

I wish I could find some leverage of argument to bring a sense of citizen responsibility for form in life into the minds and hearts of all, but right and reason are hardy enough. We may, perhaps, hope more in a sense of international rivalry in the works and evidences of life. Civilisation is an Olympic contest in the arts and sciences, a sort of international Eisteddfod. It is admitted that we must have literature and we must have music: we must also have building skill, and we have to aim at inducing a flowing tide in all the things of civilisation. Of words and arguments I am rather hopeless. One thing only I would ask of every benevolent reader: that he would take notice of what he sees in the streets. Do not pass by in a contemplative dream, or suppose that it is an architectural mystery, but look and judge. Is it tidy, is it civilised, are these fit works for a proud nation? Look at Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly Circus, and that terrible junction of Tottenham Court Road with Oxford Street. Play a new game of seeing London. We need a movement in the common mind, a longing to mitigate the vulgarity and anarchy of our streets, and the smothering of the frontages with vile advertisements, a desire to clean the streets better, to gather up littered paper, to renew blistered plaster. Some order must be brought into the arrangement of the untidy festoons of telegraph and telephone wires hitched up to chimneys and parapets. These are the architectural works which are needed as a beginning and a basis. The idea of beauty, daily-bread beauty, not style pretences, must be brought back into our life. Every town should set up an advisory committee on its betterment. We must try to bring back the idea of town personality and town worship; we must set up ceremonies and even rituals to bring out a spirit of pride and emulation. If we can only stir up general interest all will yet go well or at least better. By exalting our towns we should make a platform for ourselves. As it is what can great money fortunes buy beyond swine comfort and titles? Man is more than a stomach moving about on legs. A mistake of modern education has been to train for appreciation of the past rather than for present production. Such merely critical learning comes at last to be actually sterilising. As production fails, so even appreciation decays. Full understanding depends on the power to do. Therefore, leaving the things of the past, press forward to produce, to be, to live. Remember Lot's wife. There is much talk of patriotism, but patriotism requires a ground on which to subsist; it must be based on love of home, love of city, and love of country. Let nothing deceive us, civilisation produces form, and where noble form is attained there is civilisation. Life is a process, a flow of being, and where there is this vital activity music, drama, and the arts are necessarily thrown off. Living art comes on a tide of creative intelligence.

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES AND NEWS

Correspondence from readers on all subjects of bibliographical interest is invited. The Editor will, to the best of his ability, answer all queries addressed to him.

GENERAL NOTES

WE have just received the catalogue of the library of the late Dr. Daniel, Provost of Worcester, which was bought in its entirety by Mr. Chaundy, of Oxford. Dr. Daniel, who died in the autumn of last year, was born in 1836. From boyhood onwards his favourite hobby seems to have been printing. "As early as 1846 a small hand press at Frome Vicarage, in Somerset, painfully produced a little letter, and in 1852 at least three numbers of the Busy Bee, printed and published by H. and W. E. Daniel, at their office, Trinity Parsonage, Frome." In 1856 two more substantial volumes (Sonnets, by C. J. C., and The Seven Epistles to the Churches, in Greek) were issued from Frome.

*      *      *      *      *

So much for origins. The Daniel Press known to fame only came into existence in 1874, when the little hand press from Frome was set up in Worcester. The first book printed by the Daniel Press, at Oxford, was Notes from a Catalogue of Pamphlets in Worcester College Library, 1874, of which five-and-twenty copies were issued. A copy of this pamphlet is priced at 45s. in Mr. Chaundy's catalogue. A New Sermon of the Newest Fashion, printed from a MS. found in the College Library, appeared in 1877. In this volume Dr. Daniel first made use of the fount of type which had been cast for Dr. Fell, Dean of Christ Church, and which had lain forgotten in the Clarendon Press for a century and a half. Henceforth Dr. Daniel was to make use of the Fell type in all his publications.

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The most treasured book of these earlier years is the Garland of Rachel (1881), which consists of poems offered to Miss Rachel Daniel on her first birthday by, among others, Andrew Lang, Austen Dobson, Robert Bridges, John Addington Symonds, Edmund Gosse, W. E. Henley, T. Humphry Ward, and Margaret L. Woods. Only thirty-six copies were printed, one of which is priced in Mr. Chaundy's catalogue at £40.

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In 1882 the old press was replaced by a much more scientific machine, and among the first books to be printed on the new press was Prometheus the Firegiver (1883), by Robert Bridges. A number of the Poet Laureate's poems were to be issued from the Daniel Press. Of the Poems of 1884 one hundred and fifty copies were printed (£3 10s. in Mr. Chaundy's catalogue). The Feast of Bacchus (one hundred and five copies) and The Growth of Love, published anonymously in an edition of only twenty-two copies, appeared in 1889. The year 1903 witnessed the publication of two more pieces from Mr. Bridges' pen, namely, Now in Wintry Delights and Peace, an Ode written on Conclusion of the Three Years' War.

In 1884 Dr. Daniel made use for the first time of a number of fine seventeenth-century woodcut ornaments. His printer's mark was a piece of contemporary work, designed by Alfred Parsons, representing Daniel in the lions' den, with the motto, Misit Angelum Suum.

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Noteworthy volumes which issued from the Daniel Press in the nineties were Our Memories, Shades of Old Oxford (1893), a collection of Oxford reminiscences by various hands; The Child in the House (1894), by Walter Pater, published only a month or two before his death; Poems of Laurence Binyon (1895); Keble's Easter Day, of which only twelve copies were printed by Miss Rachel Daniel (1897). Eight years before Miss Daniel had printed The Lamb, by W. Blake, in duodecimo (1889).

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Besides those already mentioned, Dr. Daniel issued a number of reprints of old books. Sixe Idillia, translated from Theocritus by E. D. (possibly Dyer), was reprinted from the unique copy (1588) in the Bodleian Library. Love's Graduate, a comedy, by John Webster, being Mr. Gosse's distillation of what was Websterian in the Webster-Rowley comedy of 1661, appeared in 1885. The Muses Garden of Delights, a reprint of a unique Elizabethan volume, edited with an introduction by William Barclay Squire, was printed by Dr. Daniel in 1901. Another edition, printed by the Clarendon Press, was published in the same year.

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We have mentioned only a few of the Daniel books. A complete bibliography of the publications of the Press during its first thirty years of activity may be found in an article by Mr. Madan, at that time Sub-Librarian of the Bodleian, contributed to the Times Literary Supplement of February 20th, 1903. As we have already had occasion to mention in these columns, the Daniel Press is now in the Bodleian, together with specimens of the books produced on it.

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Contemporary private presses are fairly numerous. The two which produce what are, from a literary point of view at any rate, the most interesting books are the Hogarth Press and the Ovid Press. From the Ovid Press Mr. John Rodker has just issued a very handsome edition of the poems of Mr. T. S. Eliot. Poems by Mr. Eliot have also been published by the Hogarth Press, together with works in verse and prose by Virginia and Leonard Woolf, Katherine Mansfield, and J. Middleton Murry.

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Our French allies seem to be making a serious effort to break with that tradition of bad printing which has for so long oppressed their literature. Several new publishing houses have come into existence with the avowed purpose of producing books that shall be handsome objects in themselves. The directors of the Nouvelle Revue Française have set a higher standard in their publications than most of their rivals. But even in their editions the most horrible atrocities, such as the omission of a whole sheet of sixteen pages in the middle of a book, occasionally happen. But the books produced by La Sirène, by La Belle Edition, and the Société Littéraire de France are worthy of all praise.

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The selection of rare and valuable books from the Arbury Hall Library which, as announced in the January number of THE LONDON MERCURY, was to have been offered for sale by auction at Sotheby's on behalf of the owner, Sir Francis Newdigate-Newdegate, K.C.M.G., has instead been sold privately. Neither the name of the purchaser nor the destination of the books has yet been made public. Since the collection contains editions of Elizabethan books of the utmost rarity, and indeed some that are apparently unique, it is to be hoped that it will not pass beyond the reach of students of literature.

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Collectors of Swinburniana will be interested in A Catalogue of the Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne in the Library of Mr. Edmund Gosse, London, privately printed at the Chiswick Press, 1919. Only fifty copies of this catalogue have been issued, of which a few can still be obtained from Mr. James Bain, bookseller, 14 King William Street, Strand.

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Many items of the greatest rarity are included in Mr. Gosse's collection. Among them we would note one of the fifteen copies of The Devil's Due (1875), preserved by accident when the issue was destroyed; Laus Veneris, Moxon, 1866, one of a few trial copies issued before the poem was included in Poems and Ballads; the essay on William Blake, Hotten, 1868, with the original title-page, afterwards cancelled, ornamented by the vignette of Zamiel from the Book of Job; The Jubilee, The Question, Gathered Songs, all three published by Ottley in 1887, in editions of only twenty-five copies each. Among the Swinburne MSS. in the possession of Mr. Gosse are the holograph of Pan and Thalassia, and the holograph of the first draft of Anactoria.

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The new Public Libraries Bill, which received the Royal Assent in the last days of 1919, should do much to assist the development of what is already an important educative force. We look forward in time to a national library system, with a central clearing house of books and a free interchange between the individual libraries. It is surely only in this way that the multifarious needs of an increasingly alert and well-educated society can adequately be met.

*      *      *      *      *

Tuesday, March 23rd, is the date fixed for the sale of the second portion of Mr. Henry Yates Thompson's collection of illuminated manuscripts. Thirty-four lots are to be sold—twenty-six MSS. and eight fifteenth-century books, printed on vellum and more or less illuminated, "which mark the transition from writing to printing ... and are an indispensable addition to any complete collection of medieval illumination."

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The first fourteen lots are English manuscripts. A twelfth-century book, Hegesippus de excidio Judeorum, is remarkable for its contemporary binding, one of the very few of such bindings which have come down to us. Lot XL. is a fourteenth-century Psalter, which appears to have belonged to John of Gaunt, and subsequently to Henry VI. A similar Psalter, evidently by the same hand, though of a rather later date, exists in the library of Exeter College. These two Psalters are, in Mr. Yates Thompson's opinion, the high-water mark of English illumination, being perhaps second only to the St. Omer Psalter.

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The eight printed books range in date from 1466 to 1498, and include a copy of the excessively rare Institutiones of Justinian, printed at Mainz by P. Schöffer, 1468. The twelve MSS. which conclude the sale are of French and Italian origin and have all belonged to famous owners. Among them is an early fifteenth-century MS. of Boccaccio's Des Cleres et nobles femmes, illustrated by miniatures of that Parisian school of illuminators who "almost renounced the use of gold for backgrounds and made use of bright and rich colours in broad masses." The book belonged to the Admiral de Coëtivy, who was killed at the siege of Cherbourg in 1450. Mr. Yates Thompson quotes an extract from one of the Admiral's letters, which proves him to have been an ardent lover of his books. "Envelopez bien mes livres," he writes to his servants, giving directions for the packing and dispatching of his library, "et les faites enfoncer en pippes (casks) en et par manière que s'ilz cheoient en l'eaue, qu'ilz ne se puissent mouller ne gaster en aucune manière."

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ITEMS FROM THE BOOKSELLERS' CATALOGUES

An extremely elegant little catalogue of old editions of Greek and Latin authors has been sent to us from the "Aedes Dunsteri, Cantabrigiæ, Novang," or in other words the Dunster House Bookshop, Cambridge, Mass. No word in the vulgar tongue is allowed to pollute these classical pages, where everything, with the exception of the dollar sign in the prices, is the choicest Latin.

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We have already had occasion to speak of the Daniel and other private Presses. We are reminded by Messrs. Maggs Brothers' catalogue, No. 385, of the magnificent examples of typography and binding which have issued from the Doves Press and Bindery. A copy of Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained, two volumes, 1902–1905, printed at the Doves Press and bound by Mr. Cobden Sanderson in tooled morocco, is priced at £120. None of the fifteen Doves Press books mentioned in this catalogue is priced at less than £8 8s. Collectors will remember the "boom" in Kelmscott books.

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Good prices were fetched at Messrs. Hodgson's sale on January 28th for first editions of Stevenson. An Inland Voyage (1878) was sold for £22; Travels with a Donkey (1879) and Virginibus Puerisque (1881) went for £16 10s. each. First editions of the Ebb Tide (1894) and The Wrong Box (1889) may be bought for 12s. 6d. at Messrs. Davis & Orioli.

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Messrs. Sotheran's catalogue of the library of the late Sir Edward Poynter, P.R.A., has just reached us. Out of the many items of the greatest interest which this catalogue contains we can mention only a few, notably a fine set of Piranesi etchings, a collection of 250 caricatures by such masters as Hogarth, Bunbury, Gilray, and Rowlandson (£75), a copy of Blake's Illustrations to the Book of Job, presented by Mrs. Opie to the French sculptor, David, with the inscription, "This work, remarkable both for its genius and extravagance, is the gift of Amelia Opie to her friend David, whose own genius will make him prize the former, while his excellent taste makes it impossible for him to imitate the latter." A complete set of the Kelmscott publications, seventy volumes in all, is priced in this catalogue at £900. The main bulk of the collection consists of books on the fine arts, and a certain number of original drawings are included.

A. L. H.

CORRESPONDENCE

AMERICAN COPYRIGHT

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—In the second number of THE LONDON MERCURY I note a reference in an Editorial Note to the status of the copyright relations between America and Great Britain.

You emphasize the unsatisfactory status of the American copyright law. It is the case, as you point out, that the provision inserted in the original International Act which went into effect in 1891, and in the amended Act which became law in 1909, makes it a condition that any book, whether by an American or an English author, must, in order to secure copyright protection in the United States, be published in an edition "wholly manufactured" within this country. It has also been the law up to within the past fortnight that the American edition must be brought into the market within a term of not less than sixty days from the date of publication in Great Britain.

This Act, as amended in 1912 and again in December, 1919, represents the largest measure of copyright protection that it has thus far been found practicable to secure for transatlantic authors. The fight to secure any measure of recognition for the property rights of foreign authors had continued from 1837 (when my father organised the first Copyright League) to 1891, when a provision for international copyright first found place in the American statute. I succeeded my father as the Secretary and executive of the International Copyright League.

As a representative of this League (which at that time comprised authors as well as publishers) I took to Washington in 1886 the draft of a Bill which, if enacted, would have enabled the United States to become a member of the Convention of Berne. After four years of effort with two successive Congresses, I was obliged to report to the Copyright League that there was no possibility of securing favourable attention for any international copyright measure that did not make provision for American manufacture.

The Book Manufacturing Union, comprising typesetters, printers, binders, etc., had made clear to Congress that they would block the enactment of any measure that did not include the manufacturing requirement. In this position they were supported by the other unions which had no direct interest in, and in fact no knowledge of, the matter at issue. The unions have, wisely, probably for their own interests, held increasingly to the policy of giving a general support to a claim made by any one union or group.

Our League took the position that it was wiser to secure such measure of recognition for literary property as was then practicable rather than to leave without protection the books of transatlantic authors, and the authors and publishers of Great Britain were in full accord with this decision.

We are obliged to report that the unions have to-day a stronger influence over Congress, and as a rule over the executive, than they had in 1890. There is no possibility of securing the cancellation of the manufacturing requirement unless, or until, the book manufacturing unions can be persuaded to give their assent. There has been an increasing effort to this end, and we hope yet to be able to make clear to the book manufacturing trade that the American printers and binders are now quite strong enough to secure their full share of the work done, and that they do not need this special restriction in their favour.

We have just succeeded in securing the enactment of an amendment, a copy of which is enclosed.

This amendment has two purposes:

First:—The extension of the ad interim term of copyright from sixty to 120 days.

An English author now has four months' time within which to complete the arrangements for his American edition, and there is no reason why any book having value for American readers should not secure the full protection of American copyright.

Second:—The Bill has the further purpose of giving protection to the books of transatlantic authors which, under the special conditions of the years of war and the dislocation of transatlantic mails, had failed to fulfil the requirements of the copyright law. These books, as far as they may not already have been appropriated, are now placed in a position to meet these requirements and to secure copyright for the full term. It is, however, a condition of this special protection that the British authorities shall give reciprocal protection to books by American authors which, under the same war conditions, have failed to meet the requirements of the English statute and have, therefore, forfeited the protection of the British Copyright Act.

The American authors have here a fair ground for complaint against Great Britain.

The British Act of 1912 provides that copyright protection will be accorded only to a book which has been brought into bona-fide publication, and the Courts take the ground that this means placing "adequate supplies" of the book in the market within the term specified, fourteen days. This term is, you will note, very much smaller than the sixty-day term granted in the earlier American Act, or the 120 days which are now available.

In 1916 books were included under the heading of luxuries, the importation of which into Great Britain was prohibited by the embargo Act. Great Britain had, therefore, granted copyright with one hand and with the other, under this embargo Act, had made it impossible for American authors to meet the requirements of the Copyright Act. The copyright arrangement between the United States and Great Britain that went into effect in 1891, and that was confirmed by the Act of 1912, carried with it the obligations of a treaty, and the embargo Act constituted, therefore, as far as copyright was concerned, a violation of the treaty obligation.

I found, in bringing this matter in 1918 to the attention of the Comptroller-General, that this consideration had not occurred to the British authorities at the time of the embargo Act.

I pointed out to the Comptroller-General that as a result of this embargo provision property rights had been lost not only for American authors, but for a certain group of British authors who, not being able under the manufacturing difficulties of the war period to secure prompt publication of their books in Great Britain, had made first publication in the United States. In so doing they had forfeited their British copyright, although it had been their impression that they would be able when the war had come to an end to secure protection for British editions. The Comptroller-General agreed that the condition was unsatisfactory, and agreed further that if the United States would do what was now practicable to protect the publications of the war period a similar protection of books of American authors would be arranged for by the British authorities.

A fortnight back, on the day on which the President signed the Bill, I cabled the report to the Comptroller-General that books by British authors issued during the war period would be protected in America as soon as the British authorities were prepared to grant reciprocal protection. I hope to hear that prompt measures have been taken to such effect. Lord Askwith has, I may mention, interested himself in the matter and will, I understand, take prompt action to initiate the necessary legislation.

I can but think that those who are critical of the present status of the American copyright law should understand that the unsatisfactory provisions in the law do not represent the opinion of the American people, but the disproportioned influence of the manufacturing unions. It would be in order also to give some measure of appreciation to the American publishers and authors who have for many years been doing what was in their power to secure adequate recognition for literary property on both sides of the Atlantic.—Yours, etc.,

GEO. HAVEN PUTNAM.

The American Publishers' Copyright League,

Office of the Secretary, 2 West 45th Street, New York, January 3rd.

[Major Putnam's news, which we briefly recorded in our Editorial Notes last month, is excellent hearing. In congratulating him on his work in connection with copyright we must also mention the Authors' League of America and our own Authors' Society, with their respective indefatigable secretaries, Mr. Eric Schuler and Mr. G. Herbert Thring.—EDITOR.]

MR. STURGE MOORE AND FLAUBERT

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—In the review of Mr. W. K. Seymour's Miscellany of Poetry—1919 (LONDON MERCURY, February) the best thing in the book is said to be "a long epistle by Mr. Sturge Moore, which contains pictures as clean-cut and vivid as those which made his Micah so peculiarly rich a poem." This is, of course, a very just remark, but it is a curious thing about Micah that the particular piece of imagery which struck one reader at any rate can be paralleled almost verbatim from Salammbo. I intend no discourtesy to Mr. Sturge Moore when I say that I consider the parallel should have been acknowledged in the text. He has written much about Flaubert and much also about the virtues of joint authorship, and I think nothing but praise for what is apparently a verse translation in Micah would have resulted from the acknowledgment. As the matter stands it seems that an explanation of some sort is wanting, and I suggest that when Micah is published in a collection of Mr. Moore's poetry the point should surely not be overlooked.

The following are the lines referred to:

Salammbo:

"Le toit de la haute maison s'appuie sur de minces colonnettes, rapprochées comme les bâtons d'une claire-voie, et par ces intervalles le maître, étendu sur un long siége, aperçoit toutes ces plaines autour de lui, avec les chasseurs entre les blés, le pressoir où l'on vendange, les bœufs qui battent la paille."

Mr. Sturge Moore:

"The roof of that tall house lightly was raised

On slender colonnettes set nigh as close

As palings. Micah through these intervals

Had oft at leisure from his couch surveyed

The plain stretched round him; slingers in the corn

The wine-press whither they bring in his grapes.

Unmuzzled and well fed, slow oxen trod

The terrace threshing-floor."

Yours, etc.,

H. W. CRUNDELL.

PROSE AND MORTALITY

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—There is a good example of the recurrence of that "one music and one speech" so richly instanced in your article "Prose and Mortality" (January's LONDON MERCURY) in Keats's letter to Brown written on board the Maria Crowther off the Isle of Wight—good because, though the music is not full nor the harmony flawless, it is yet heard unmistakably in a familiar letter, where it rises from the midst of an invalid's colloquial writing. Here it is:

"Land and sea, weakness and decline, are great separators, but Death is the great divorcer for ever. When the pang of this thought has passed through my mind I may say the bitterness of death is passed."—Yours, etc.,

S. P. J.

Llangollen, February 8th.

[This is a perfect example, as it comes not from a set composition but from a familiar letter.—EDITOR.]

TAMHTAB

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—There is an example of the "Moor Eeffocist" language which is not open to "A. P.'s" very just objection.

When I was very young and had a vivid imagination I was taken into a Chinese Restaurant, where I saw TUO YAW writ large on a glass door. For a long time I thought I knew at least two words of Chinese.—Yours, etc.,

DONALD J. WARDLEY.

25 Elgin Crescent, W.11, February 7th.

THE SONG OF THE MANDRAKE

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—Will you allow me to point out a curious slip in Mr. Walter de la Mare's most wonderful little story, The Creatures, in the current (January) number?

On page 281, eight lines from the bottom, he gives a list of birds—"Gull, mandrake, plover, wagtail, finch, robin." Does Mr. de la Mare really mean his readers to understand that the mandrake is a bird? If so, surely the root must cry aloud as it is dragged from the ground to be hurled into a different Natural Order.—Yours, etc.,

W. WALMESLEY WHITE.

Ellergarth, Budleigh Salterton, January 28th.

THE VERB TO DO

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—Will no one protest against and endeavour to check the ugly and quite unnecessary modernism of "as it does"? I give an example of a sentence, adequate and harmonious as written, which would be spoiled were the favourite journalese "as it does" inserted after the word "embracing."

"The glorious view from this spot, embracing the valley of Ville d'Avray, the slopes opposite, the great city in the distance, was a delight to Balzac."—Martin, Stones of Paris, II., 69.—Yours, etc.,

R. OWEN.

Belmount Hall, Outgate, Ambleside, January 12th.

JOHN DONNE

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—Mr. Robert Lynd in his very readable essay on Donne in your last number has inadvertently fallen into the old error of saying that Donne was in 1612 "making use of his legal knowledge in order to help the infamous Countess of Essex to secure the annulment of her first marriage." It is true that Donne wrote an Epithalamium for the Countess's second marriage, and that is mortifying enough without any further charge. But Professor Grierson pointed out some time since that it was Dr. Daniel Donne (or Dun) who drew up the paper referred to (Grierson's Donne, ii. 94). If further evidence were needed, it might be supplied from MS. Rawlinson 1386 in the Bodleian. On page 201 is the autograph Daniel Dun, and someone, probably Rawlinson, has added "Sr. Daniel Dr of Civil Lawes concern'd in Somerset's Divorce."

Mr. Lynd very rightly insists that John Donne is "the supreme example of a Platonic lover among the English poets." But he implies that the impassioned logic of The Ecstasy is not quite consistent with Platonism. What is Platonism? It is customary to develop a system of philosophy of love from a few famous pages of the Symposium, ignoring the rest, and this more or less hypothetical or mythical Platonism has caused many people to forget Plato's real teaching. A careful study of the Symposium will, I think, show Donne to be much more truly in the genuine Platonic tradition than were some of the poetical Platonists who preceded him. Mr. Lynd is quite right on this point, and I think he might have put it even more strongly.—Yours, etc.,

BEN CROCKER CLOUGH.

Oxford, February 13th.

DOGS

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—Your reviewer in his notice of that interesting book Seventeenth Century Life in the Country Parish, referring to the "dog-whipper," says, "But why did the dogs of those days show such a church-going disposition?" I would remind him that the dog-whipper's office was not created in the seventeenth century, but in those remoter times when no gentleman appeared anywhere in public without his hawk on his wrist and his hound at his heel. In Barclay's Shippe of Fools (1509) he writes:

One time the hawkes bells jangleth hye

*      *      *      *      *

And now the houndes barking strikes the skye

*      *      *      *      *

They make of the Church for their hawkes a mewe,

And canell for their dogges, which they shall after rewe.

It was the custom to supply a pew (or pen) for the dogs of the Lord of the Manor—the hall-dogs' "pew"—and as people worshipped (in their hats) with the church doors standing open, I suppose the hounds of the lesser gentry and inimitative yeomen would run in and fight and distract attention.

Though in the seventeenth century the hawk had ceased to be an integral part of a gentleman's equipage, the dogs had inherited the tradition of taking their masters to church, maybe. And as the worshipper, even in the seventeenth century, went from Divine service to a bull or bear-baiting, he would like to have his dogs on the spot. And no doubt all the curs of the village would want to follow them into church and ask the news of high life.—Yours, etc.,

G. I. WHITHAM.

Lyneham Cottage, Chudleigh, S. Devon, February 13th.

LEARNED SOCIETIES, ETC.

THE SOCIETY OF ANTIQUARIES

INTEREST in the Near East is maintained, and a useful lead was given in 1913 by the Cyprus Government, who entrusted Professor Myres, assisted by the Keeper of the Cyprus Museum and Mr. L. H. D. Buxton, with a good round sum to conduct excavations in the island. The results were described at length and illustrated on the screen, the most notable discovery being a ruined sanctuary containing a collection of stone statues with many of the painted surfaces in brilliant preservation, ranging in date from the seventh century B.C. to Greco-Roman times. Elsewhere many antiquities of the Bronze Age were brought to light, but at present there are few, if any, traces of a Stone Age in the island. The first stratified series of Cypriote pottery was provided by a complete section of the Bamboula Hill at Larnaca, and the situation is full of promise.

A marble statuette, now in the Ashmolean Museum, was the text of Professor Langdon's discourse, and gave scope for surmise as well as scholarship. It was found by the 14th Sikh Regiment when entrenching before the battle of Istabalat, eight miles below Samara on the Tigris. The object originally carried on the head has disappeared, but the standing figure still holds a "boomerang" or sceptre, and the dress was made in imitation of the fleece, a fashion to which Aristophanes is supposed to refer in the Wasps, perhaps three thousand years later. Various prehistoric specimens from England exhibited to the Society have an interest of their own, but cannot compete with relics from the cradle of civilisation, and at present the watch-word is Ex oriente lux.

THE EGYPT EXPLORATION FUND

The third of a series of lectures arranged by the Egypt Exploration Fund (to which we referred in our December number) was given at the rooms of the Royal Society at Burlington House on January 23rd, by Professor T. Eric Peet. The subject of the lecture was "El Amarna, the City of Egypt's Heretic King." The lecturer said that from the evidence of the mummy generally supposed to be his, Amenhotep IV. appears to have been little more than a boy when his father died. Nevertheless, as early as the fourth year of his reign, he introduced the worship of the Aton, the Disk of the Sun, and did his utmost to establish it as the State religion, and to suppress the worship of Amon and all other Egyptian gods. The new religion was purely monotheistic in character, for the Aton was regarded as the creator, not of Egypt only, but of the world. The new deity was represented in the art of the period by a picture of the disk of the sun, from which emanated numerous rays, each terminating in human hands, some of which are holding out the sign of life to the worshippers. The king changed his own name from Amenhotep ("Amon is content") to Akhenaton ("The Disk is pleased"), and he shifted his capital from Thebes to El Amarna.

Excavations at El Amarna have brought to light remains of a temple dedicated to the Aton, and a palace erected for the use of the king, with beautifully painted floor, fragments of which show a freedom of drawing and lack of convention which distinguish this period from most other Egyptian art. The remains of many private houses have also been discovered, and from these it is comparatively easy to gather the size, design, and general construction of the houses of the nobles of that time. Most of them seem to have been built on the same plan, and comprise a central hall, with small apartments surrounding and leading from it. Some of these smaller rooms were used as workrooms, and in one house excavated a number of plaster casts were found, obviously taken from living models, proving that the Egyptians of this period were experts in this work. There were also many finished and unfinished statues of the Royal family, some of which were in very natural positions, quite unlike the usual Egyptian statues of other sites.

The tombs of the officials of the Court were discovered in the cliffs behind the town, their walls being covered with sculptured scenes depicting the everyday life of the capital.

At the close of the lecture the Chairman, Colonel H. G. Lyons, F.R.S., pointed out the extreme importance of systematic and scientific excavations in Egypt and other countries, and the gains which might accrue to science.

THE GEOLOGISTS' ASSOCIATION

At the meeting held at University College, Gower Street, W.C.1, on Friday, December 5th, 1919, the following lecture was delivered: "Geological Work on the Western Front," by W. B. R. King, B.A., F.G.S. A short description was given of the geology of that part of Belgium and France over which military operations were conducted by the British Armies between 1915 and the summer of 1918. It was mainly confined to the lithological divisions and did not deal with the palæontological side of the subject. The main physical features were taken, showing how they are connected with the geological structure. The effect of the geology and geological structure on certain questions of military operations was dealt with, notably with regard to water supply and military mining and dug-out construction. Particular attention was paid to the problem of obtaining water from boreholes in the Landenien (Thanet) sands, the causes and effect of the seasonal variation of water-level in the chalk, and the problem of the military mines near Messines, Givenchy-les-la-Bassée, and Souchez. The lecture ended with a description of certain maps which were prepared for the armies in France, and notes on several other problems which had to be dealt with by the geologists attached to General Headquarters.

On Friday, January 2nd, 1920, Dr. A. E. Trueman, F.G.S., read a paper on "The Liassic Rocks of the Cardiff District." The author said that the greater part of South Glamorganshire, from Cardiff westwards to beyond Bridgend, consists of lower Liassic rocks (Hettangian and Lower Sinemurian), which are well seen in some 20 miles of magnificent cliff sections. Only meagre descriptions of these rocks have been hitherto published. A detailed study has been undertaken, first because nowhere else in this country are such continuous sections of these rocks available, and, secondly, because the normal deposits consisting of limestones and shales seen near Cardiff, when traced westwards, pass into a littoral facies of massive limestones and conglomerates. In the present communication an account of the normal Liassic rocks of the Cardiff district is given, as this will form a basis for the correlation of the modified deposits further west. The lecture was illustrated by lantern-slides and specimens.

THE MODERN HUMANITIES RESEARCH ASSOCIATION

The January number of the Bulletin of the Modern Humanities Research Association contains a summary of the Presidential Address delivered in October, 1919, by M. Gustave Lanson, the famous French scholar and critic. The Association, which, though founded only in June, 1918, numbers nearly 500 members, is now penetrating to some of the remoter quarters of the globe; among the last candidates to be elected were some from Czecho-Slovakia, the Malay States, New Zealand, and Western Canada, and most of these were at once put into touch with members at home belonging to subject groups representing their particular interests. The Hon. Secretary (Mr. E. Allison Peers, 24 Beaufort Road, Kingston-on-Thames) writes in the Bulletin of proposals submitted to the Association that it should produce a comprehensive Bibliographical Annual, a task which a body with so wide a membership seems peculiarly fitted to attempt.

The Modern Humanities Research Association is fulfilling another obligation which rests upon all who speak the English language in its efforts to bridge the Atlantic and unite those on both sides who are engaged in higher studies in Modern Languages and Literatures. Its membership is growing in the United States so rapidly that an American Secretary (Professor M. Blakemore Evans, of the Ohio State University) has been appointed. At its most recent London meeting, on January 6th, too, Professor Carleton Brown, of Minnesota, was among the speakers on "Conditions of Postgraduate Study." Such interchange of help and information as the Association brings about between England and America can have none but good effects.

Among the Vice-Presidents of the Association, prominent names are those of Sir Sidney Lee (its first President), Dr. Walter Leaf, Sir A. W. Ward, M. Jusserand, Signor Farinelli, Professor Jespersen, Professor Oliver Emerson, and Sr. Menéndez Pidal.

THE ROYAL NUMISMATIC SOCIETY

At the January meeting of the Royal Numismatic Society the Rev. E. A. Sydenham read a paper on the "Coinages of Augustus." He began by giving a chronological summary of the various series and groups of coins under Augustus. There were seven species of mints: (a) the Senatorial Mint of Rome; (b) Military Mints; (c) Mints in Senatorial Provinces; (d) Mints in Imperial Provinces; (e) Autonomous Mints (issuing bronze only); (f) the "Imperatorial Mint"; (g) the Imperial Mint. After brief notes on the Senatorial Mint (43-36 B.C.), the military coinage of Octavius in Gaul and Italy (41-39 B.C.), incidentally attributing the S.C. coins to camp mints of Northern Italy, Mr. Sydenham proceeded to discuss the Asiatic coinages (28-15 B.C.) and the Imperatorial Mint (21-15 B.C.). Besides coins generally attributed to Asiatic mints the reader proposed to give the undated silver and gold with CAESAR DIVI F to Asia rather than Rome, and criticised Laffranchi's attribution of certain coins to Phrygia and Gabrici's to Athens. The CA bronze coins he attributed to Asia reading the CA as Commune Asiæ. The coins attributed to the "Imperatorial" Mint are very distinctive in style and were probably issued under direct control of Augustus. These coins had been attributed by Grueber to Rome and by Laffranchi to Spain. Mr. Sydenham gave cogent arguments against these views and added reasons for considering them a distinct Imperatorial issue. A theory on which a good deal of the argument turns is that in 28 B.C. Augustus made a formal surrender of his triumviral office and the extraordinary powers pertaining to it. Included in the powers was probably the right of coinage. The surrender of this right was merely an act of policy which Augustus did not regard as permanently binding. But he held to it to this extent that for five or six years he issued no coins of any sort on his own authority, and even down to the end of his reign he issued no coins in Rome. After an experimental coinage through P. Carisius in Spain (24-22 B.C.) he inaugurated his "Imperatorial" Mint, but confined its operations to the provinces. Finally he fixed the Imperial Mint at Lugdunum (14 B.C.).

THE SOCIETY OF GENEALOGISTS OF LONDON

The Society of Genealogists of London is collecting lists of books, articles, deeds, MSS., and documents generally in reference to specific families and places. It has many such lists and references to documents, as well as collections of documents themselves, and wishes to add to them to facilitate research. Readers kindly supplying such lists, long or short, are assured that they are filed at once by the Society in such a manner that they are immediately available for reference. An excellent example of the form such lists might take is provided in Mr. Walter Rye's Norfolk Topography. Communications should be addressed to 5 Bloomsbury Square, W.C.1.

BOOKS OF THE MONTH

POETRY

MANSOUL, OR THE RIDDLE OF THE WORLD. By CHARLES M. DOUGHTY. Selwyn & Blount. 7s. 6d. net.

We imagine that there is no difference of opinion, amongst those who have read it, about Mr. Doughty's prose book, now a generation old, Wanderings in Arabia Deserta. It was one of the great prose works of the nineteenth century, a book which (the geographers assure us) was astonishingly accurate as a record of exploration, and which repeatedly soared into passages of description and meditation unsurpassed for muscularity and grandeur. Even that book, however, was the work of a man odd in temperament and outlook and possessing peculiar ideas as to the use of the English language. In the volumes of poetry which he has been producing so rapidly in his old age his eccentricities have been projected very much farther. We should not be surprised to hear that he had never read (barring perhaps Shakespeare and Milton) any poet later than Spenser; we are certain that he habitually reads no one later than Spenser, and the poet with whom a comparison most frequently leaps to the mind is someone earlier still, namely, Langland. There are those, a very few, who swallow Mr. Doughty whole, who enjoy his archaisms, real and "pseudo," who think The Dawn in Britain the greatest poetical work of our time, and will hear nothing against even the topical passages of his poem about the German war. There are more who find him frankly unreadable in bulk, but are willing to turn over his pages for the sake of the occasionally lovely passages of description that they find on them; whilst the average intelligent reader would probably run from any page of any of his poetical works, so stony is the way that the disciple must tread and so vigorous the discipline to which he must subject himself.

For ourselves, we read Mr. Doughty through as in duty bound, and we perceive even in his knottiest and even in his naïvest passages the workings of a powerful and original mind, the observations of an eye which looks at history and the material world as though they had never been looked at before, the strivings of a heart that has always been acutely aware of the world behind the seen. Nevertheless, not even this compensates us fully for a cumbrousness of style, a malformation of shape, and a guttural obscurity of speech hard to equal in all the annals of literature; and we are, we fear, to be most sympathetic to that second class of readers who look to Mr. Doughty only for occasional flowers and remember, out of all they have read of his, only stray images, as of a shepherd on a hill or swallows circling over the fresh meadows in the dawn of the world. Mansoul is all of a piece with the others; we almost think that in a few months it will, in our own memories, have amalgamated with the others. It opens in the familiar mode, the "grand manner," but just a little awry:

As chanced I sate on terrace of an house,

In summer season, after sickness past;

And fell, surprised my sense, into deep trance;

Wherein meseemed, much musing in my thought,

I cogitations heard, of many hearts;

That came and went, in MANTOWN'S market-place

Whereon I looked. And in my spirit I asked;

What were indeed right paths of a man's feet;

That lacking light, wont stumble in world's murk.

There can be heard the grave voice, there seen the something like majesty of port, there noticed a little of Mr. Doughty's obscurity and some of his, we daresay even unconscious, fads such as the avoidance of particles and the refusal to use the apostrophe 's. Thus it continues for two hundred pages of contortion and clouds with flashes of sunshine coming through them. At one moment we are wondering why on earth Mr. Doughty should call Tigris and Euphrates "Digla" and "Frat" if he has to translate these terms in a footnote; at another we are giving up an unusually dark passage in despair; at another we are wondering whether perhaps his best things do not actually gain something from the mannerisms that normally make our heads ache. The narrative is very hard to follow. The singer, accompanied by Mansoul and one Minimus, peregrinates through the under world, surveys past civilisations, and converses with (amongst others) Nebo, Zoroaster, Socrates, and St. Stephen. The Kaiser (we conceive) is, in anticipation, interviewed:

One crowned, cast lately down unto this place

a Warmonger and a coxcomb whose "werewolfs face" is now blotted by "a loathly leprosy"; and there is a pagan to the soul of all things at the end, the Muse of Britain and Colin (presumed Spenser) being intermittently in mind throughout. Yet at any time Mr. Doughty is liable to break, without the least awareness of writing a purple patch, into a packed passage full of feeling and sweet to the memory. Take one such:

I stayed, where pleasant grassy holms depart;

Those streaming waters, bordered all along;

With daphne and willow herb, sweep sedge, laughing robin;

With woodbind garlanded and sweet eglantine,

And azure-hewed in creeky shallows still

Forget-me-nots lift our frail thoughts to heaven.

Broods o'er those thymy eyots drowsy hum;

Bourdon of glistering bees, in mails of gold.

Labouring from sweet to sweet, in the long hours

Of sunny heat; they sound their shrill small clarions.

And hurl by booming doors, gross bee-fly kin;

(Broadgirded, diverse hewed, in their long pelts;)

That solitary, whiles there light endureth,

In summer skies, each becking clover-tuft haunt.

We do not think that Mr. Doughty should be ignored by anyone who wishes to be familiar with all the good work done in poetry in our time. But, in recommending him, we warn readers that they should approach him almost as they would approach Piers Plowman itself; Chaucer is distinctly more easy and modern.

IMAGES OF WAR. By RICHARD ALDINGTON. Allen & Unwin. 3s. 6d. net.

WORMS AND EPITAPHS. By H. W. GARROD. Blackwell. 3s. 6d. net.

The first of these small books seems to have been written on active service, the second on return to Oxford after active service. That Mr. Richard Aldington's verse should have a larger content than before is natural; his pre-war verse, to the non-Imagist eye, consisted largely of sweet nothings starred with Greek names. We have here emotional experiences of a less tenuous kind; the poet is coming nearer a comprehension of Keats' remark that poets should express what all men feel. This in Trench Idyll, Time's Changes, Reverie, and other poems he does; and sometimes he conveys the emotion through the medium of a careful picture, as clear in its way as one of Mr. Kennington's drawings. Here is Picket:

Dusk and deep silence ...

Three soldiers huddled on a bench

Over a red-hot brazier,

And a fourth who stands apart

Watching the cold rainy dawn.

Then the familiar sound of birds—

Clear cock-crow, caw of rooks,

Frail pipe of linnet, the "ting! ting!" of chaffinches,

And over all the lark

Outpiercing even the robin....

Wearily the sentry moves

Muttering the one word: "Peace."

Here there is more of a rhythm than usual. But the defect of Mr. Aldington and his Imagist friends is that, although they are quite right, though not original, in emphasising the need for concrete language, they do for the most part lack that rhythm that makes poetry what it is and rememberable. It is not that they write in free verse. Rhyme is no necessary part of verse, and nobody in the world ever contended that all the lines of a poem should be of standard lengths. But a poem in free verse—it is this which chiefly distinguishes Whitman's good from his bad poems—should have a continuous rhythm other than that of prose, and will have it if it is written by a man who is strongly moved and has the gift of musical expression. Mr. Aldington may have that gift, but if so he represses it.

Mr. Garrod's volume bears a picture of a graveyard: therein the tombstones of Messrs. Lloyd George and Balfour, Lords Haldane, Northcliffe and Birkenhead, and Sir Edward Carson. This looks sweeping, but on reference to his epigrammatic epitaphs, one finds that he admires the Old "Gang" and deplores the New. His verses are neat but slight. The best are those on Rupert Brooke, on the new invaders of Oxford who vainly attempt to emulate the dead, and on Reconstruction:

O soon you'll build the world again

With other and with better men;

And I and plenty more will sit,

And sit, and see you doing it.

In a large West-end hotel

Rich non-combatants will dwell;

Well-paid hands will ply the art

Of binding up the broken heart,

A special sub-department deal

With the wounds that never heal,

Deputy-Controllers pour

Government oil on every sore,

And a civilian Soldier's Friend

Furnish us forms world-without-end

God! does a man like me want tape?

I've wounds, man, here, that gape, that gape.

We note that Lord Derby is described as vir teres atque rotundus.

SELECTED POEMS. By LADY MARGARET SACKVILLE. Constable. 6s. net.

VERSES. By VIOLA MEYNELL. Secker. 2s. 6d. net.

Mr. Wilfrid Blunt, in a lively introduction to the first of these volumes—in the course of which he suggests, provocatively, that blank verse is merely "a dignified kind of prose, pompous in recitation and for common reading dull"—says that "Lady Margaret Sackville is the best, in my opinion, of our English poetesses, at least of the younger generation." It is a good thing that he added the qualification, for, apart from the fact that Mrs. Woods has written poems better than anything that Lady Margaret has yet done, there is Mrs. Meynell, whose too exiguous volume of verse competes for quality with the best work of her generation. If there are scarcely any more exceptions to make we feel that the deduction is that women are at present doing very little in poetry, though there are vast numbers of them who write it. In the Victorian age when Christina Rossetti and Mrs. Browning, both of whom did immortal work, were writing together there was a general impression that these were the first fruits of women's emancipation and that future ages would see women becoming more and more prominent in poetry. But the wind bloweth where it listeth, and the fact that, at a time when an unusually large number of young men are writing sincerely and strongly, not one young poetess should have won prominence has now led to a general opinion that the peculiar qualities of passion and thought that make poets are, and will always be, more normal in men than in women. Lady Margaret Sackville has a reasonable technical equipment: a fair vocabulary, facility with metre. She never says quite stupid things, she sometimes says pretty things, and at times (as in her war poems) she reveals a certain depth of feeling. But usually she is first and foremost derivative; sometimes from Swinburne direct, more often generally derivative. You feel that she is giving a thin version of something else, even when you cannot say exactly what; and her poems, whether dramatic poems about Dionysus and Pan, or dreams, streams, Springs and things, are just saved from being ordinary verse by the fact that she has a brain and a heart which infuse the bare minimum of reality into them. The only things to be said in her favour is that she is young and that her latest verses are her best.

Something of what we lack in Lady Margaret is present, if intermittently, in the small, charmingly-produced book by Miss Viola Meynell. Her work is uneven, and her handling sometimes awkward, but she has, sometimes, force; she sees vividly, thinks strongly, feels strongly, imagines strongly. The point of view of the whale that swallowed strongly was a remarkable thing to try to adopt, but her poem on this subject, despite a weak ending, contains verses with more bite in them than any in Lady Margaret's book; if she has read Donne she has not read him to her hurt. The Maid in the Rice Fields is charming, and Poppy-seeds sent from the East is more than that:

Travelled here in winter sleep

The young wild Eastern poppies keep

Their eyelids closed. They nothing know

Where is this land they lie in now.

The opening is delightful, and the theme is developed with craft and passion.

DUCKS AND OTHER VERSES. By F. W. HARVEY. Sidgwick & Jackson. 3s. net.

Mr. Harvey's first book, A Gloucestershire Lad, appeared when he was in France; his second when he was a prisoner in Germany; this is his third. The sequence has been too rapid to show much development; both his merits and his faults are what they were. He is only occasionally a good workman, and he has not yet succeeded in getting himself naturally and forcibly into his work. This is explicable. He loves his country; he wants to celebrate the old traditional simplicities of a healthy country life and (as propagandist) to restore what we have lost of them; he stands, he says, for Romance, Laughter, and the capacity for innocent Wonder. There is no pretence about this, but when a man feels that he must defend the natural there is comprehensibly an air of awkwardness and self-consciousness about him. The drinking-songs (Mr. Harvey also praises ale) of modern singers are examples: the roysterers always have an eye on the neighbouring teetotaller who they know is watching them and whose opposed philosophy they wish to unseat in the affections of their fellows. Mr. Harvey is best when he is forgetting the general principles for which he stands and simply enjoying himself; and the superiority of his more whimsical verses suggests that his bent, like that of Mr. Graves (with whom he has much else in common), lies more in that direction than towards large utterance or solemnity. The title of his book suggests that he realises this: the poem from which it is taken is certainly his most successful. It is really a close study of ducks made with infinite relish of their quaintness:

From troubles of the world

I turn to ducks,

Beautiful comical things,

Sleeping or curled,

Their heads beneath white wings

By water cool.

Or finding curious things

To eat in various mucks

Beneath the pool,

Tail uppermost, or waddling

Sailor-like on the shores

Of ponds, or paddling.

He sketches the main outlines of a duck's varied life by barn, stable, and stack:

They wander at their will,

But if you go too near

They look at you through black

Small topaz-tinted eyes

And wish you ill.

On the whole, he thinks the duck was the best of God's jokes:

And he's probably laughing still at the sound that came out of his bill.

Of the more serious poems some are a trifle stale; the glorification of one's county, with place-names rhymed, might be given a rest. Requiescat is a moving poem, and the tenuity and familiarity of the idea does not prevent Song from lingering in the memory more than anything else in the volume:

Sweetness of birdsong shall fall upon my heart,

Shall fall upon my heart;

Nor will I strive to mimic

The beauty that I find,

But lie in a dream and open wide my heart

And let the song of the birds sink down into my mind.

This song is all of a piece, a musical sigh.

NOVELS

THE CLINTONS AND OTHERS. By ARCHIBALD MARSHALL. Collins. 7s. net.

PETER JACKSON, CIGAR MERCHANT. By GILBERT FRANKAU. Hutchinson. 7s. 6d. net.

PRELUDE. By BEVERLEY NICHOLS. Chatto & Windus. 7s. net.

LIMBO. By ALDOUS HUXLEY. Chatto & Windus. 5s. net.

Mr. Archibald Marshall is, we dare to say, one of the good writers most neglected by contemporary critics. He has brought nothing new to the development of the novel. If a general description were necessary, he might be most briefly and accurately classified as a descendant of Anthony Trollope. But his talent in his own generation is unique; and no person who enjoys or studies the fiction of this age can afford to neglect it. In some ways his latest volume is the climax of his performance and displays at their height his peculiar method and gifts. It consists of six stories. One, perhaps the least interesting, describes how John Clinton, a prosperous city merchant in the time of the Regency, rescued the family estates from his elder brother, the prodigal Beau Clinton. The second deals with a scientific peer, innocent and absorbed, who very nearly married a woman scientist, of origin much lower than his own, who was attracted to him only by his wealth and position. The hero of the third is a speculative builder. The fifth narrates the misfortunes of a patient and gentle clerk. The sixth is a story of old Squire Clinton's reactions to the war and of how he was reconciled to the different reactions of those about him. The fourth, which we have removed from its place, tells how Ann Sinclair, a day-pupil at Miss Sutor's school, was sent to Coventry by her companions because she was unjustly suspected of having damaged in malice Mary Polegate's illuminated chart of the kings of Juda and Israel. This is the longest story in the book, occupying over one hundred pages. The principal characters are all school-girls of various ages, and no extraneous interests are introduced. It seems almost impossible with this material to hold a reader's keen attention for twenty odd thousand words, and yet this is what Mr. Marshall has done. All the persons are vividly alive and convincing; and there is a whole range of them, each individualised and given a real personality. The story is an especially good example of what Mr. Marshall can do and how he does it. His narrative is extraordinarily quiet and unemphasised, and shows by its restraint the author's complete confidence in the interest of his subject and in the adequacy of his method. In all these tales events more or less moving take place or are referred to; but the teller never raises his voice or gesticulates. He has no tricks. His characters reveal themselves in speech or action; but if they do not he has no modern prejudices against telling the reader what are their motives and what is going on in their minds. His explanations are so quiet and so straightforward that they immediately carry conviction. When old Squire Clinton was passing through Paris with his daughter to see her husband, wounded and interned in Switzerland, he was displeased that his other daughter should take them to lunch in a restaurant:

He would not have objected to exactly the same meal served in her apartment. He would have eaten and drunk whatever had been set before him, and enjoyed it in spite of his always strongly expressed preference for English food and English cooking. The wine he might have noticed and commented on, because he knew about wines, and because you pleased your host by approving of his taste in them. But this ordering of your meal in public, in consultation with your guests, with a maître d'hôtel standing at your elbow and booking your orders, not without advice of his own, struck him as very like taking part in a mistress's consultation with her servants—almost an indecency. The restaurant habit was, in fact, entirely unknown to him. In his expansive youth it had been unheard of. The nearest he had ever come to it had been in giving luncheons or dinners at one of his clubs—meals as elaborate as this and as carefully arranged, but arranged beforehand, so that the guests should get the right flavour of hospitality, and accept the good things set before them as they would have accepted them at his own table. Neither Joan nor Nancy divined that half his displeasure, which he could not hide, was at being obliged, under Inverell's hospitable pressure, to express his preference for this or that luxury, with the price of it staring him in the face on the menu, when indulgence in any sort of luxury was so far from his mood.

So delicate and exact and truthful is this delineation of a small tract in the old man's character that it would be almost possible to reconstruct the whole without any other guide, as is done in the case of louder roaring monsters than Mr. Marshall's creations.

Mr. Gilbert Frankau's Peter Jackson, Cigar Merchant, presents a curious contrast to the method of Mr. Marshall. Mr. Marshall's virtues are so quiet and unobtrusive that it is possible to overlook them altogether. Mr. Frankau's defects are so vociferous that they tend to obscure his real merits. He paints in violent colours. He paints his sentimental passages with a yard broom. His style, as Mr. Arnold Bennett once observed of somebody else, is such that even in Carmelite Street the sub-editors would yearn to correct it. He has almost entirely eliminated the conjunction from his own version of the English language: the "ands" and "buts" omitted from this book would, if they were restored, increase its length by a hundred pages or so. Their absence gives the reader the impression that Mr. Frankau is in an enormous hurry and is very short of breath. All these defects are closely woven into the texture of one of the most strident novels ever written; and it is quite impossible to escape from them. Nevertheless this tale of a business man who became a gunner is one of the most lively and credible pictures of the war which we have yet had. It matters little in the end that, whether he is describing the purchase of a cigarette-factory or a love-scene or the battle of the Somme, the author scores exclusively for brass and big drums. This method certainly eliminates the love-scene, but it is not inappropriate to the other subjects; and in his accounts both of war and of business Mr. Frankau produces a huge, crowded chaotic picture which stuns and bewilders the reader, but at the same time convinces him that he is seeing at least one aspect of the truth. Mr. Frankau's high level of verisimilitude and interest in such passages as the description of the Battle of Loos depends to a very great extent on his peculiar power of packing much detail into a small space; and it is to this perhaps that we owe the somewhat regrettable lack of "the smaller parts of speech."

Mr. Beverley Nichols's book is another of the triumphs of precocity—a novel describing the Public School system by a writer with very recent experience of it. And, like other novels on this subject, it is a novel with a thesis. Mr. Nichols is far from disapproving of the system. He sets out, on the other hand, to show that it is capable of receiving and making comfortable the most eccentric of boys if he will only make the least effort of adjustment to his environment that can be reasonably expected of a human being in any circumstances. His hero, Paul Trevelyan, has in an extreme form all the characteristics of the heroes of such books. He has been coddled, he has unusual tastes, he cares nothing for games. But, very refreshingly, Mr. Nichols treats with a firm hand both his characteristics and his sufferings. Paul undergoes just such discomforts as are required to rid him of effeminacy and priggishness, and mould him into a boy capable of taking a place in human society with satisfaction to himself and his companions. The thesis of the book appears to be that the Public School system does not necessarily deprive those who come under it of their individuality, does not necessarily crush or torture those who depart from the normal, does act as a civilising agent on those who are in need of it. As a piece of evidence, the book is interesting and useful. As a novel it is less remarkable than Mr. Waugh's Loom of Youth. That book was not only a contribution to a dispute; it was also a work of fiction astonishingly well put together for its author's years and experience. Its characters and many of its incidents were extremely well observed and drawn. Mr. Nichols fails as a writer of fiction. His characters are vague and unconvincing: they have no fundamental individuality. The construction of his novel is extremely loose and uneven; and the passages of reflection are introduced with a very clumsy hand. Whether he will succeed in correcting these faults it is impossible to predict; but he clearly has gifts which ought to come to something. Precocity in the things he lacks is not always a certain indication of success in maturity.

Mr. Huxley, alone among these writers, betrays traces of exotic influence. The last story in his book, The Death of Lully, might have come from the Contes Cruels, perhaps, in one way, has come thence. Others of the collection show less definite resemblances to French models and are less evenly and carefully composed; but there are in most of them traces of an alien exactitude and an alien wit. Mr. Huxley, as we know already from his verse, can write brilliantly. His defect here, as there, lies in a deficiency of feeling caused by an excess of self-consciousness. This self-consciousness does not make him awkward or effusive. He is far too clever to betray it thus rudely. As in the behaviour of some persons, it manifests itself in his work by an iron rigidity of attitude, an immovable equability of tone. When he invents characters he does not so much describe their actions or let them act as criticise them; he is led to adopt the pose of the satirist more consistently than perhaps he intends. Reaction follows fast on action; and the springs of his writing are laid bare in an extraordinarily ingenious dialogue, called Happy Families, where he exposes the triple personalities, inciting, betraying, checking one another, of a young man and a young woman sitting out together at a dance. This piece, which seems to have unnecessarily puzzled a number of Mr. Huxley's critics, means nothing if it does not express his opinion that in every human being there is a stratum of the animal which is to be distrusted and restrained. But, here and elsewhere, one wonders whether his watchfulness over this stratum has not led him into exaggerating its extent and distrusting things which, to a less suspicious eye, do not look in the least like it. And in another story, so fast are his reactions, we find him mocking the shuddering and ascetic revulsion from the purely animal in man. This is the behaviour not merely of the critic dominant over the artist, but of the critic who leads towards Nihilism by discrediting all human impulses, instead of arranging them in order. Mr. Huxley has, however, too much of the poet for this to be fundamental in him, too much appreciation of bright and vivid things and bright and vivid phrases. And it would be gravely unjust to convey the impression that it spoils his book. The Farcical History of Richard Greenow is an admirable invention, full of possibilities for bitter comedy, most, if not all, of which have been worked out; Cynthia is a good joke, though its title betrays the climax a little too early; and The Bookshop is more human in feeling than its companions. But the important point to notice is that, whatever may be the perversities or the affectations of his thought, Mr. Huxley always writes well, with a style that is never shabby or shoddy, never flamboyant or flat.

BELLES-LETTRES AND CRITICISM

THE MEASURES OF THE POETS. By M. A. BAYFIELD, M.A. Cambridge University Press. 5s. net.

A STUDY OF SHAKESPEARE'S VERSIFICATION. By M. A. BAYFIELD, M.A. Cambridge University Press. 16s. net.

LESSONS IN VERSE-CRAFT. By S. GERTRUDE FORD. Daniel. 3s. 6d. net.

Mr. Bayfield's Measures of the Poets is meant to be revolutionary. He finds existing systems of prosody neither complete nor sound, and would sweep them away in order to install his own trochaic scheme. Practically every work of a predecessor is ignored, and the author himself regrets that Lanier's Science of English Verse, published forty years ago, did not come to his notice until the present book was written. He does not mention Professor Saintsbury's History or Manual of English Prosody, nor (among other writings, by recent or living metrists) the essays of Patmore and Mr. Robert Bridges. A great deal of contention is thus avoided, but the probabilities of conversion are also reduced. He asserts that the normal foot of English verse is trochaic, and that the iambus cannot form a metrical foot, because the stressed syllable does not come first; while Professor Saintsbury declares that the iambic is the staple foot of English verse and is common to almost all prosodies.

How, then, let us ask the challenger, is the application of the trochaic system justified? In Mr. Bayfield's scheme the plain norm of the "full blank" verse line is an eleven-syllable arrangement of which the first is a "short," followed by five trochees; and the following line (quoted in his second book, which takes up the subject anew) is given as specimen:

I ⁝ come to | bury | Cæsar, | not to | praise him.‖

But the full line does not happen to be the common form, owing to its feminine ending, and so he admits that the prevailing type is the "checked" form:

To ⁝ sleep; per | chance to | dream: ay | there's the | rub.∧‖

The anacrusis or up-beat, marked off by ⁝, is an integral part of the new system; in reality it is the device by which the author changes iambic to trochaic movement. Here, indeed, is the crucial point of the dispute between iambic and trochaic. Under the first, this up-beat or take-off is neither very frequent nor very rare; under the second, it is common. Mr. Bayfield's idiosyncratic use of it is illustrated by himself thus:

My ⁝ heart | aches, and a | drowsy numbness pains,

and—

Or emptied some dull | opiate | to the drains,

and by—

But ⁝ being too | happy in thine happiness;

the reader being left to discover for himself the reason for the difference of prosodic interpretation. If the ear should be satisfied with this difference (and Mr. Bayfield admits that the ear is judge and jury), what might its verdict be as to the validity of a double up-beat, leaving only semi-syllables for the rest of the line?

And thy ⁝ mouth | shúddering | like a | shót | bírd.‖

Here let it be remarked that his system acknowledges monosyllabic feet, but he is not well informed in denying them a place in the iambic system. He complains of "ragtime scansions," in referring to the fact that the iambic system admits trochees whenever it would break down by refusing them, and seems to deplore a resulting loss of "continuity of rhythm." Yet he himself does not scruple to write of one of his own illustrations: "A striking contrast in rhythm may be noted here. That of the first line and a half ... is markedly trochaic; the other line and a half fall into an equally marked iambic rhythm." He has not, in fact, escaped from the difficulties and inconsistencies which beset the prosodist. He does little more than prove that the music of the poets cannot be defeated or disguised by either system. He gives this as containing a quinquesyllabic foot:

Well, ∧ | Juliet, I will | lie with thee to-night,

and dubiously suggests "hire" as a disyllable in:

And ⁝ hire | post-horses; | I will hence to-night.

He is aware that an alternative scansion may in some cases be correct, but does not sufficiently realise that any prosodic system is but an artificiality, formed to explain, and not dictate, the infinitely variable rhythms of poetry. His own particular system, for all its ingenuities, appears more artificial and arbitrary than the iambic. It is interesting to note that his examples are largely drawn from Shakespeare, Tennyson, Swinburne, and Shelley, all fruitful ground; while Milton and Coleridge, Campion and Keats are much less used or left alone altogether. Might not these fascinating and delusive excursions into the mysteries of rhythm be extended to certain living poets—at least to Mr. Hardy and Mr. Bridges?

Shakespeare's Versification is a larger book, in which Mr. Bayfield inquires into the validity of the early texts. His purpose is:

First to give an intelligible and consistent account of the structure and characteristic features of his dramatic verse, the essential principles of which appear to have been wholly misconceived hitherto, and secondly to show that there are many thousands of lines of it that are given in modern texts not as their author intended them to be delivered, but clipped and trimmed to a featureless uniformity that he would have abhorred.

He finds in Antony and Cleopatra the ideal of verse at which Shakespeare was always aiming, and denounces the depravity of the text as it stands—in this as in many other of the plays. The book has a cumulative, even a dramatic interest, for setting out to prove one thing, Mr. Bayfield frankly ends by proving another. With immense care and patience he has examined and compared Quartos and First Folio, and noted quite innumerable places at which the contraction and condensation of words and lines have distorted or ruined the rhythm; and he contends that if the verse is to be presented as the author meant it to be delivered, these must be expanded into their full forms. He begins by considering Shakespeare's use of the "resolved" foot—that is, a foot of more than two syllables—and discovers a constant tendency to reduce these "resolutions" by abbreviation; the result being, for example, that violent becomes vi'lent, desolate des'late, Demetrius Demetr'us, etc. He contends that from the outset Shakespeare employed resolved rhythms more freely than his contemporaries, and gradually increased the proportion with his later plays; and it is, of course, perfectly true that the growing liberation of style which in Shakespeare expresses a psychological development, is equally noticeable in later poets.

Now in comparing the Quartos with the First Folio Mr. Bayfield finds that of all the differences the most conspicuous is the elimination of resolutions, the tendency shown by the Quartos in this direction being aggravated in the Folio. The position is made clear in a Table relating to fourteen Quarto plays, which shows, e.g., that in Othello the Folio eliminates eighty-six resolutions found in the Quarto, and the latter eliminates fourteen which the Folio displays; while a third figure, 84, "enumerates cases where, guided by the whole investigations and the revelations afforded by the first two columns [figures], I believe that a resolution should be restored." His deduction is that the Folio is a metrical reactionary; if it is unsound to prefer its revision to the Quartos, it is equally unsound to rely upon the Folio for the plays not included in the Quartos. He strengthens his argument by showing that the prose (of Julius Cæsar, for instance), which has no metrical obligations, is far more immune from illicit contractions, although prose, being nearer to ordinary speech, might be expected to show very free colloquial abbreviations. We are not prepared to follow Mr. Bayfield blindly; his trochaic passions, hitched to his resolution to "resolve," do not compel unquestioning obedience; we are not convinced by a line like, "From ⁝ Syria to Lydia and to Ionia," when the received text reads:

From Syria

To Lydia and to Ionia, whilst——

and his resort to "Cross Accent" for the scansion of such lines as

Her dowry shall weigh equal with a queen

is yet farther from persuading us, and seems, like so many of his arguments and instances, to be the mere expression of his hatred of the iambic. Nevertheless, his abundant recital of divergencies from the Quartos' resolved lines—to consider only that which is a matter of simple enumeration—can be taken quite apart from the soundness or unsoundness of his metrical prepossessions; and what we have called the cumulative interest of this treatise is most plainly felt in the development of this theme as play after play is examined.

It is in the chapter called "Conclusions" that the interest suddenly becomes dramatic. Mr. Bayfield has been arguing that Shakespeare is not printed as he should be printed—that is, with "the clear and uncramped enunciation of trisyllabic and quadrisyllabic feet"—and that the mangling of these was done for and by the players in order to reduce the verse to the common disyllabic type which alone they could comfortably manage. But now he derives a "flood of light" from the 1616 Jonson folio, the proofs of which are presumed to have been corrected by Jonson himself. From the printing of Sejanus he finds that Jonson's resolutions are abridged even where the line makes their full enunciation essential to the rhythm. Space will not permit the tracing of the new argument here, but Mr. Bayfield at length concludes that what he has supposed in the first three hundred pages of his book to be attributable to the perversities of the Press, are after all merely recognised contractions which were never meant to suggest the clipped pronunciations given to them. His charge, in fact, is no longer levelled against the early texts from which his affluence of instances is drawn, but against the interpretation of them; the very apostrophe (with division) being in reality but a signal calling attention to the resolution which generations of editors, readers, and players have supposed it was meant to abolish. The dramatic interest is complete.

Mr. Bayfield claims for his books the authority justly due from forty-five years' application of prosodic principles to English verse. We can but conclude with wishing Shakespeare's Versification a fuller index and a wide study, and suggest to the author that those who are concerned with verse as writers and not as teachers have not always failed to give the full syllabic value to the common abbreviations of the text.

Miss Ford's book is a "practical" treatise and might have been a valuable one. The first sentence tells us that many of her examples of verse-forms are from her own pen, while Mr. Bayfield has at any rate been content with Shakespeare. Why should she write four stanzas in imitation of Love in the Valley? She thinks it too well known to make quotation advisable, yet gives us the commonest things of Wordsworth and Shelley and Coleridge. She misprints Shakespeare and Wordsworth shamefully, thinks that Professor Saintsbury is dead, and, sparing only four pages for "the lyric," devotes twenty-seven to such forms as roundel, ballade, etc. Her book, we think, has been spoiled by haste; yet she has such enthusiasm and brightness as tempt us to regret that haste and to hope for better work.

ROUSSEAU AND ROMANTICISM. By IRVING BABBITT. Houghton Mifflin Company. 17s. net.

Metaphysicians have been forced by the impossibility of obtaining from observed nature either confirmation or disproof of their theories to develop a technique the principal aim of which is coherence. So admirable indeed has this technique become in its logic and complexity that it has been adopted by many workers in other fields, on the whole with disastrous results. In this book Professor Babbitt applies it to literature, although he appears quite able to follow more empirical methods. His reading has been extensive, and his judgments are precise. Unfortunately he is not much interested in or amused by books save as the symptoms of moral and metaphysical observations. He eats nothing out of them. He only covers them with his cobwebs.

Like most metaphysicians, Professor Babbitt thinks in twos. The trick is familiar. Define A. Call not-A B. One is very bad, one very good, and the history of life, or of whatever else is under discussion, is the history of their conflict. For this professor, A is an emotional and naturalistic romanticism, and is very bad indeed. Rousseau is its high prophet, the great war its issue, and "smart young radicals" its dupes. We are invited back to ancient Greece, where A is absent, and B, that is to say classicism, has neither artifice nor formality, back to Socrates, back to Aristotle, back apparently to anyone who is a philosopher and not a poet.

Now there is an essential fallacy in grouping writers like politicians, in ringing a division bell for ever in their ears and furthermore doing their voting for them. This talk of schools and of influences and of disciples is extremely prevalent among the academic critics in America. It may safely be said that they have illuminated nothing thereby. Writers may use the language of their times and their friends, but it is as a vestment and not as a foundation. Of course, the romantic revolution, like the spluttering rebellions of our own day, may have induced some subordinates to produce manifestos and call them works of art. Some young men may be so excited by the eccentricity of their form as to forget the necessity of any content. But such works do not usually occupy the critic for long, and valuable appreciation of literature will not be content with a quasi-botanical classification.

What are we to do, for example, with Charles Lamb? Is he a classicist or a romanticist? Professor Babbitt has no qualms in affixing the latter label. Lamb is as romantic as Wordsworth is, he says, but about towns instead of about the country, and as a proof he refers the reader to a letter in which Lamb, writing to Wordsworth, says: "In London I have formed as many and intense local attachments as any of you mountaineers can have done with dead nature. The lighted shops of the Strand ... the old bookstalls, parsons cheapening books, coffee houses, steams of soup from kitchens, the pantomimes," and so on. Little can be gained for the appreciation of Elia or of the "Lake School" by saying classic or romantic about this, and if this is indeed a child of Rousseau, we may be certain that he would have dropped it with the rest at the door of the foundling hospital.

Probably, however, the professor does not want to foster appreciation. His incursion into literature is a border foray, and he is off at once with his plunder to his ethical highlands. We remain to count our losses. Milton, who "on the whole is highly serious," is not much injured. But Keats is unwise. Browning is only half-educated. Wordsworth, until he began the Ecclesiastical Sonnets, was betrayed by his "penchant for paradox." Shelley was an emotional sophist, with a nympholeptic imagination, who fell into sheer unreality. These judgments contain truth, but a very little of truth. To write thus is too plainly to adopt the methods of a political opponent. Professor Babbitt warns us that if he had attempted rounded estimates these would have been more favourable, but that as it is he is severe because he is laying down principles, principles of discipline and authority as against the unrestrained individualism of the modern.

One wonders, too, whether this massive series—the present volume is the fourth—will contribute much more to ethics than to literature; whether an intensive study of the West European literature of 1790 to 1850 will indeed, as Professor Babbitt may expect, dissuade readers from surrendering to the emotions; whether the indecorum of Rousseau does threaten civilisation with breakdown; and whether the imitation of Sophocles and Dante would morally improve the character.

It is, in short, not very obvious why this book was written, nor who will take pleasure in reading it, except for the enjoyment of a first-class mind, even when it works in a vacuum.

SPRINGTIME AND OTHER ESSAYS. By Sir FRANCIS DARWIN. Murray. 7s. 6d. net.

This is an amiable book of gossipy essays, mostly in the key popular at University Extension meetings. Some of them are reviews and rely a little too much on extracts for any one familiar with the books noticed to derive much excitement from them. The title-essay, however, together with that on a Procession of Flowers, and the paper entitled Recollections are both worth attention. The essay on his boyhood and youth shows that Sir Francis has an eye for character, and no little gift for expressing himself neatly about his friends and acquaintances. Here is an admirable vignette of Parslow, the butler:

He had what may be called a baronial nature: he idealised everything about our modest household, and would draw a glass of beer for a postman with the air of a seneschal bestowing a cup of malvoisie on a troubadour. He would not, I think, have disgraced Charles Lamb's friend Captain Burney, who welcomed his guests in the grand manner to the simplest of feasts. It was good to see him on Christmas Day; with how great an air would he enter the breakfast-room and address us: "Ladies and gentlemen, I wish you a happy Christmas," etc. I am afraid he got but a sheepish response from us.

It has something of the air of those charming pictures of Christmas in the country which Randolph Caldecott used to contribute to the Graphic Special Numbers. Sir Francis's paper on Names of Characters in Fiction does not seem to us an adequate treatment of a really fascinating subject. He just touches the fringe of it, but he appears to us over-lenient to the bad old habit of naming characters after their vices, virtues, or idiosyncrasies. That is tolerable in purely allegorical work, such as Bunyan's, but becomes very tiresome in Thackeray—whom Sir Francis rates far too highly—and frequently absurd both in him and minor authors. Women novelists have here shown more sense; you do not meet such terrible monstrosities as Mantrap, Lollypop, Fitzoof, Portansherry, or Nockemorf in the novels of Jane Austen, Charlotte Brontë, or Mrs. Gaskell. A character's name is not perfect if one can imagine it different, and most of the "typical" names are mere labels which have no real, organic connection with their wearers, as have the names of Flaubert's characters, of Balzac's, or of Henry James's.

DICKENS, READE, AND COLLINS, SENSATION NOVELISTS: A STUDY IN THE CONDITION AND THEORIES OF NOVEL WRITING IN VICTORIAN ENGLAND. By WALTER C. PHILLIPS, Ph.D. New York: Columbia University Press. 8s. 6d. net.

Mr. Phillips is rather a pathologist of fiction than a critic. His thesis here, broadly speaking, is that Dickens, and after him Wilkie Collins and Charles Reade, were drawn into melodramatic invention by the demands of the public and the conditions of publication of their day. His diagnosis is indisputable, though his premises are not. It is not to be denied that Dickens wrote melodrama. He liked that kind of thing, and so did his public. Where Mr. Phillips goes astray is in assuming that Dickens was a tradesman who supplied a craving public. The truth is otherwise. Dickens gained his public with the Pickwick Papers, and after that could do what he pleased. It is quite another thing to say that he was of like mind with his public, and took in melodrama through the pores. It had been in the air for fifty years. But Mr. Phillips sees little else in Dickens, and thereby does his subject and himself injustice. For one false note which that great man struck, the trained ear will detect two dozen true. If some of his monsters—Quilp in particular—are pantomime monsters, and some of his angels pantomime angels, others of them, monstrous or not, have been added to the inhabitants of English-speaking lands, and still walk in our midst. No writer has ever increased the population to the same extent. Mrs. Gamp may be more than woman, or less; she may be a living proverb. It does not matter, since she lives. Dickens, in fact, was a genius. He did what he chose, or what he must, sometimes superlatively well, sometimes incredibly ill. We bolt the bad for the sake of the good. There is no concealment possible of the fact that he had unfortunate and occasionally unwholesome tastes. The worst of them was his pleasure in cruelty. Quilp and his wife, Jonas Chuzzlewit and his, Creakle and his boys, Squeers and his: there is a gloating over such relations which, to our mind, is the worst blot upon Dickens's fame. But Mr. Phillips, absorbed in the commercial aspect of literature, counting the words in the huge novels of that day, calculating circulation, and examining into profits, has not had time for such points. He had been better employed there than in amassing statistics for "The Novelist as Wage-earner." Too much attention has been paid already to the finance of the business. Money-getting did not affect Dickens in the first flights of his genius, when his direction for good and all was determined. It may have stimulated Wilkie Collins and Charles Reade—a very different pair of men. Mr. Phillips is in the right when he hits them off as "virtuosos." "Not even Stevenson," he shrewdly says, "was more exclusively and hopelessly a writer of story-books" than Charles Reade.

HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY

A GALLOPER AT YPRES. By Lieut.-Col. P. R. BUTLER, D.S.O. Unwin. 15s. net.

A KUT PRISONER. By H. C. W. BISHOP. Lane. 6s. 6d. net.

THE ROMANCE OF THE BATTLE LINE IN FRANCE. By J. E. C. BODLEY. Constable. 7s. 6d. net.

Here are three new additions to the colossal pile of "war books"—two of them the personal records of soldiers, the third a more pretentious effort by a civilian. Colonel Butler went out in 1914 with the Seventh Division to Belgium, was engaged in the first battle of Ypres, came home wounded, returned to Flanders, went thence to the Somme (in the days before the Somme became hell), and leaves us finally at Marseilles on his way to "some other theatre of war." The book contains nothing very remarkable, but it is agreeably written, and should give pleasure to the author's friends and to others who care to be reminded again of "Somewhere in France," where they have marched and fought and billeted.

Mr. Bishop's is a modestly told and mildly exciting story of an escape from the Turks. He was an Indian Army subaltern captured at Kut, and interned at Kastamuni. Thence with two companions he got away to the Black Sea coast, was recaptured and rescued again. The rescuers were a handful of diverting brigands, with whose help Mr. Bishop eventually crossed the Black Sea and made his way home viâ Russia. There is no attempt to generalise either about military matters or prison life. We gather, however, that Mr. Bishop and his friends were not on the whole badly treated by the Turks. And there was a time, in 1916, when they lived well—eggs at halfpenny a piece, good white flour at sixpence a pound, and fruit practically gratis! O blessed Kastamuni!

Mr. Bodley is more sophisticated. In the first half of his book he takes us over the battlefields of France, and discourses of the captains and the kings, the priests and politicians of past centuries who fought and played and intrigued there, of the glories and beauties of the old towns and villages of the Somme and the Marne, of Rheims and Verdun and a hundred other places. But he completely changes the angle of his attack in the second half of his volume, which he calls, "An additional chapter on the results of the late war as affecting our national life and imperial interests." His main theme appears to be the necessity or desirability of continuing hostility to Germany. The Germans, he thinks, are still a fundamentally evil race whose worst faults we imitate and whose few virtues we eschew. These virtues are their commercial enterprise, their zest for town-planning and housing, and the comparatively small amount of money they waste in paying lawyers. Lawyers, it appears, are Mr. Bodley's bête noire; he regards them, and especially the political barristers and the overpaid judges and law officers, as the curse of our unhappy country. But what chiefly raises his ire are the abominations which we are said to have copied from Prussia of bureaucracy and the system of "honours"—peerages, baronetcies, knighthoods, Orders of Merit, Orders of the British Empire, poured out in bucketfuls on a motley crowd of corrupt or undistinguished individuals. This is, of course, an indictment which any writer is entitled to make, though some may think that Mr. Bodley occasionally lets himself be carried rather far by his indignation. But the connection with the faults of Germany seems a little far-fetched. There are times, too, in the course of his special pleading when he verges on the ridiculous. Is it not absurd, for example, to say that "the formidable machinery of state socialism" (meaning chiefly Old Age Pensions and National Insurance) is "incompatible with representative government"? And who wants a long argument to prove that Queen Victoria was not responsible for the plague of Germanism which Mr. Bodley thinks has infected English society? The whole of this "additional chapter" is a melancholy illustration of the effect of the war in causing an educated Englishman to lose his sense of proportion.

RECORDS. By Admiral of the Fleet LORD FISHER. Hodder & Stoughton. £1 1s. net.

The plain man who walks in the trim garden of literature must feel, in coming upon Lord Fisher in print, as we imagine the shade of Bach might feel confronted by a jazz band, or an elementary drawing mistress before a canvas of Mr. Wyndham Lewis. Lord Fisher has for many months been "the talk of the town"; the respectable reviewer feels that only in the talk of the town can the appropriate comments be found. Records begins thus: "Of all the curious fables I've ever come across, I quite think the idea that my mother was a Cingalese Princess of exalted rank is the oddest! One can't see the foundation of it!" And it ends with a letter from a fellow-Admiral suggesting that Lord Fisher, like Jesus Christ, is an Enigma. Between those two passages there is a roaring torrent of anecdote, of quotations and exclamation marks and capital letters, of criticism (often highly "indiscreet"), of apologia, of confident prediction, of everything that is diverting and irritating and arresting and astoundingly human—a torrent that sweeps the reader off his feet and leaves him gasping and incredulous. The book is a monument of magnificent egoism. One can only use its author's own word of a sermon by Dean Inge and say it is "splendiferous." We are told, in parenthesis, that he got into the Navy by writing out the Lord's Prayer, doing a Rule of Three sum, and drinking a glass of sherry. We are told that he looks like a Christmas-tree when he wears his decorations. We have stories of how, in his shirt-sleeves and with a boot in each hand, he entertained King Edward VII. in his bedroom, and of a comic postcard sent to him by Queen Alexandra. There is one chapter devoted to his views on the Bible, and another containing a reprint of four speeches which he made: one at the Royal Academy Banquet, a second at the Mansion House, the other two (and these would both go on a postcard) in the House of Lords. There are numerous photographs of him standing on his quarter-deck with Kings and Tsars, and gentlemen grotesquely clad in top hats and frock coats; there is a long appendix containing a list of Lord Fisher's "Great Naval Reforms." His style beggars description. He throws epithets such as "lovely" about like a high-spirited schoolgirl. He tells us, with the candour of a schoolboy, that Sir William Harcourt was "a genial ruffian" and Sir Michael Hicks-Beach "a perfect beast." The whole book is ablaze with these bright flowers. And let us not be misunderstood: we say nothing in disparagement of them. Would that more biographies were written so!

But Lord Fisher, we suspect, has suffered, and will suffer, from the defects—or should one say the excess?—of his qualities. It is harder for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for an Englishman—and above all an official Englishman—to take a man seriously who writes and talks and thinks like this. Hinc illæ lacrimæ! as our author might say (for he loves his tags). And yet there is serious stuff in this book—discussions of the conduct of the war, of naval tactics and education, of submarines and oil-engines and guns, and "Admiralty limpets." He has quarrelled on all these matters—and on a thousand more, no doubt—with many of his colleagues. It is not for us to take sides in such Homeric contests. Even now he is trailing his coat again before the respectable public with a hectic chapter entitled "Democracy." "Democracy," he says, "means 'equal opportunity for all.'" A real Democracy in England would not have permitted secret treaties nor flouted the Russian Revolution, nor "kept true Labour leaders waiting on the doormat." "Hereditary titles," he cries, "are ludicrously out of date ... and the sooner we sweep away all the gimcracks and gewgaws of snobbery the better." And, in short, this old warrior of seventy-nine, a Peer of the Realm, dressed like a Christmas-tree in his decorations, the intimate of Kings and Emperors, declares himself a Republican, and wants to "sack the lot"! Words fail us; we can only lay the book down and pant for the next!

HENRY FOX, FIRST LORD HOLLAND, HIS FAMILY AND RELATIONS. By the EARL OF ILCHESTER. In two volumes. Murray. 32s. net.

The deeplier we study eighteenth-century political history the more satisfied we become that there were but two figures in it with the gleam of statesmanship upon them, and but one with the light of genius. Sir Robert Walpole deserves his son's boast: He did "maintain this country in the enjoyment of the twenty happiest years that England ever enjoyed." Writing when he did, and so far as it goes, that is true. If his methods draw us to a cynical conclusion, the material to his hand—a German King, a discredited opposition, and a horde of rapacious place-hunters to keep fed—must be remembered and allowed for. Pitt was a much more scrupulous man, and a much more gifted man, but he was less successful for those very reasons. He had the honest man's scorn of iniquity, and he had less hold of himself. Sir Robert could keep his temper; Pitt never could. He knew the Duke of Newcastle to be a liar and an old fool, and as good as told him so. "Fewer words, if you please, my lord, for your words have long lost all weight with me." There is not much accommodation about that. Sir Robert suffered fools gladly: he could work with them better. Pitt was fastidious, and would not soil his fingers with the only things they wanted of him. As for all the rest they were a venal crew, timid as rats and greedy as dogs. A month or two ago there came under review in these pages the life of one of them, George Bubb Dodington—remarkable only because, a thorough-paced rogue, he turned himself inside out for the admiration of posterity. Here, at much greater length, done with conspicuous judgment and ability, is the life, in two volumes, of another, Henry Fox, the founder of Holland House and its line of peers.

If a word were needed to explain the rise of the brothers Stephen and Henry Fox, the sons of a creature (whom Horace Walpole called "a footman") of Charles II.'s, it would be the word which explains the whole of eighteenth-century statecraft, the word Patronage. From the King, fountain of honours, this sacred river ran to the Peers, disposers of places, and from them broadened out into a pool where swam the borough-mongers and jobbers, owners of the House of Commons. As for the electorate, wherever there was one, "the business of the people is to choose Us," said young Charles Fox, while he was yet under the influence of his father; and although the capital letter is ours, and not upon record, we may be sure that it was not wanting in delivery. It is indeed but an echo of Henry Fox himself.

Our elections, thank God! do not depend upon the giddy mob. They are generally governed by men of fortune and understanding, and of such our ministers, for this twenty years past, have been so happy as to have a majority in their favour. Therefore, when we talk of people with regard to elections, we ought to think only of those of the better sort, without comprehending the mob or mere dregs of the people.

Such was the nursery-ground of the hero of Lord Ilchester's volumes, from which that hero's son was able to lift himself.

By sitting still and stolidly manipulating his boroughs Stephen Fox served himself better than his more able brother. He did not become so rich, though he never lacked. He had money, he married money, and became an earl. He suffered none of the mortifications and humiliations of the active politician, who made himself the most unpopular man in England, and, after serving his King at the expense of his country, was thrown out and thrown over. To be sure he was Paymaster for eight years, during which time a sum of £46,000,000 passed through his hands to his immeasurable profit; but to do justice to Fox, his riches weighed as nothing beside his sense of the ingratitude of the Rigbys and others of the sort whom he had loved and tried to serve. Though he did not begin so well off as his elder brother, he cannot be said to have been badly off. At twenty-one he dropped into a sinecure office of £450 a year and a capital sum which brought his whole income to something like £900. His first political acquaintance of note was Lord Hervey, and his next, from whom, to his credit, he never swerved, was Sir Robert Walpole. "Fox really loved that man," was said of him, and truly said; and when Sir Robert fell and he was handed over to Henry Pelham he was found faithful again. In all this he differed widely from Bubb Dodington, having a heart as well as a stomach, and if not principles, at least passions. Dodington was merely a merchant of himself, but Fox suffered his feelings to act and react, often to his temporal detriment. As Lord Ilchester shows, he was not wise in his attachments, nor always temperate in his actions. He alienated Scottish sympathies by his vehemence after the Porteous riot; he made an enemy of Lord Chancellor Hardwicke by his opposition to the Clandestine Marriages Act—an opposition which may have been grounded upon the fact that his own marriage had been of that order; he became the friend and ally of the Duke of Cumberland, and obnoxious on that account to Leicester House and the heir-apparent. When George III. succeeded, and Lord Bute became the all-powerful minister, he attached himself there, just in time to lose the friendship of the Duke and to share in the hatred and distrust which the whole nation turned upon the administration. In these mischances his heart rather than his head played him false. Yet, for all his pains, neither of his masters liked him. George II. owned that Fox had never told him a lie, and added that he was the only man who had not. But he never trusted him in spite of that. George III., having after much hesitation given him a barony, steadily refused to advance him higher, though no man had worked harder in his service or, it must be added, more discreditably. It was Henry Fox who set to work, by methods which can only be called flagrant, to form a party in Parliament to be known as "the King's friends." That he did not succeed was not his fault.

Fox directly attacked two separate members of the House of Commons, and with so little decorum on the part of either buyer or seller that a shop was publicly opened at the Pay Office, whither members flocked, and received the wages of their venality in bank bills, even to so low a sum as two hundred pounds for their votes on the treaty. Twenty-five thousand pounds, as Martin, Secretary of the Treasury, afterwards owned, were issued in one morning; and in a single fortnight a vast majority was purchased to approve the peace.

It is perhaps going far to say that nothing more disgraceful was ever done in Parliament, but it is not too much to affirm that no greater act of treachery was ever attempted against the theory of popular representation by a member of the supposed popular House. But he had his barony, and received it three years later than Bubb Dodington obtained his.

It is not Lord Ilchester's fault that much of the intrigue he elucidates is rueful reading. The wonder is that he has found the spirit with which to achieve it. When one's native country, its neighbour states and colonial dependencies, when King, Lords, Commons, Army, Navy, and Church are all seen to have been counters in a great game of grab; when patriotism is as much an unknown quantity as even a rudimentary civic sense, and the only certainty is that of one's own and one's rivals' common dishonesty, it is no wonder that the accidents of his book count for more than the substance. What we get of Charles Fox makes amends for Henry. Everything that Lord Ilchester has to tell us of Charles is good. We have him first as a baby. "He is weakly, but likely to live. His skin hangs all shrivell'd about him, his eyes stare, he has a black head of hair, and 'tis incredible how like a monkey he look'd before he was dress'd." Then he is at a preparatory school, in 1757, where it seems that Charles has more emulation than any boy almost ever had; next at Eton, where he and his brother Stephen entertained their father at a dinner "bespoke from the Christopher: ... boil'd mutton and broth, three large fowls, and a leg of mutton roasted." It was at Eton in 1758, when he was nine years old, that he thus announced his philosophy of life. The father is writing to the mother:

That odd dog Charles said, with a smile, he wish'd his life was at an end. I asked the reason. "Why," says he, "it is a troublesome affair, and one wishes one had this thing or that thing, and then one is not the happier; and then one wishes for another thing, and one's very sorry if one can't get it, and it does not make one happier if one does."

We can follow him to Oxford, and wish we had room for his letter to his father explaining with elaborate pains how he came to knock the bottom out of £150, or for another which announces the loss of eighty guineas at cards, and registers the first of a series of vows that it shall never happen again. All this will be found in Volume II., together with some account of the stormy opening of his parliamentary career—at nineteen; but there or thereabouts we regretfully leave him, the best thing by far that Henry Fox ever made.

If it were asked what this man had done in his days to deserve two biographies on the scale of Mr. Riker's and Lord Ilchester's, the answer would be long in coming. Henry Fox was a man of good but moderate abilities, a bad speaker, a fair debater, one of the few, at any rate, who ever stood up to William Pitt the first. He conducted his War Secretaryship with diligence, his Paymastership with what must be called legal honesty. He robbed his country, but no more than any other Paymaster had done. He enriched himself by trading with the huge balances left on his hands, sometimes lending of them to the country which found them at twenty per cent! Every Paymaster except Pitt, who would have none of it, had done as much, and most of them did worse. But one searches Lord Ilchester's pages in vain for anything definitely done by Fox, except, to be sure, the infamous attempt to betray the constitution by making the third estate of the realm a creature of the first. Even that he did not succeed in doing. It was Lord North who reaped for King George what Fox had sown. And that is about all that one can say, and very much what Lord Ilchester himself says of Henry Fox. What should be added to that is that the book is admirable both for lucidity of style and arrangement, for gallantry of attack, and gaiety in action.

RECOLLECTIONS OF LADY GEORGIANA PEEL. Compiled by her Daughter, ETHEL PEEL. London: Lane. 1920. 16s. net.

Lady Georgiana was born in 1836 and is daughter of Lord John Russell. She should have memorable things to tell, and perhaps she has. But Providence, which has given her length of days and illustrious descent, has not conferred the garnering eye or the gift of tongues. It is a pity, for she has seen so much: Holland House and Pembroke Lodge, Bowood in the days of its greatness, Sir Robert Peel and Lord Palmerston, the Duke and Disraeli, Rogers, Tom Moore and his wife, Tennyson, Dickens, Thackeray, the whole Victorian galaxy. She has danced with the Prince Consort, and found him rather cross; she has heard Tom Moore sing, and seen him weep at his own music; she has helped entertain Garibaldi, and dined with Macaulay. She was not, however, impressed by that pundit, found his monologue a bore, and agreed with Sydney Smith when he said, "very gravely, towards the end of dinner, 'Macaulay, when I'm dead, you'll be sorry you never heard me talk.'" That is something; and here is another thing equally good. When Lord John was about to take John Bright down to stay at Woburn, "a candid friend" wrote to the Duke of Bedford, "Hope you'll count your spoons." Here, once more, is a glimpse into the manners of that stately place, about 1840:

Many were the happy Christmases we spent at Woburn. I remember, to our huge delight, we were allowed to help throw mutton chops out of the dining-room window for whoever cared to pick them up. I think that custom died out. When I was a child each guest was provided with a piece of paper in which to wrap up an eatable for people waiting outside.

God bless the Squire and his relations,

And keep us in our proper stations!

No doubt that was as good a way of doing it as any. But such flowers grow rarely in Lady Georgiana's garden, which is indeed something of a hortus siccus where names and dates have to stand for more than they will bear. "I remember Mr. Kingslake coming down to Pembroke Lodge sometimes; I don't think he had then begun his History. He was always very agreeable." So much for Eothen. "In connection with William Warburton, I remember Mr. Matthew Arnold, for he was a great friend of my brother-in-law's, and a comrade in the inspection of schools." And so much for him. Of Dickens we get something more. "In the evening, I remember, he was conspicuous, owing to wearing a pink shirt front embroidered with white." Disraeli, too, expatiated in shirts. "Though he talked incessantly, I remember best his shirt front, which was made of white book-muslin over a very bright rose-coloured foundation, which shone through it." The temptation to stick pins into it must have been severe.

With these grains the reader must be satisfied, and with such powers of evolution as he possesses may extract, no doubt, some more. Here is one of Lady Holland, too good to be passed over. She proposed leaving to Lord John Russell, and did in fact leave him, an estate in Kennington—where the Oval now is. Lord John would only accept it for life, urging the claims of the son and daughter of the house. "I hate my son; I don't like my daughter," said the great lady, and settled it.

POLITICS AND ECONOMICS

THE HISTORY OF TRADE UNIONISM. (Revised Edition, Extended to 1920.) By SIDNEY and BEATRICE WEBB. Longmans. 21s.

Twenty-five years ago Trade Unionism was vaguely apprehended in the polite world as a growing force in industry, useful to the working-class and even legitimate if kept within proper bounds. Wise employers recognised its value and treated with it; the unenlightened fought against it or accepted it with a bad grace. Many even of its friends and allies, the Socialists—and not a few of these were themselves Trade Unionists—rated it very low, as being, in fact, a mere "palliative of the Capitalist system." To-day it is safe to assert that there is no institution in the country which bulks larger in the public eye than the Trade Union movement. In numbers, wealth, solidarity, and power it has developed out of all recognition. Its leaders sit and bargain on equal terms with Ministers of the Crown, take their places on public committees and Royal Commissions as of right, even threaten, amid the angry protests of adversaries who were once their masters, to destroy the foundations of the established social order. The aims and activities of the Trade Unions vie with the "crime wave" for first place in the columns of the newspapers; they are discussed in trains and clubs and drawing-rooms. And, in short, the organisation, which but a few years since was regarded as a more or less private affair of workmen and their employers, now appears as the biggest problem that the State has to face—as something that may even, as many will have it, supersede the State itself.

It is hardly necessary, in these circumstances, to dilate on the importance of a new edition, containing an account of the developments during the last thirty years, of Mr. and Mrs. Sidney Webb's History of Trade Unionism. When the book appeared in 1894 it was welcomed not only by intelligent minds in the working-class, but by all students of social history, abroad as well as in this country, as a remarkable piece of work; it took its place, and has kept its place, as a classic. Yet it had a far smaller public than it deserved; by 1911 under 10,000 copies had been sold. Of this new volume no less than 19,000 copies in a special edition have been bought by Trade Unionists before publication—a notable sign of the times. We have called this edition a new volume—and that it certainly is, for not only have Mr. and Mrs. Webb revised the work throughout and at some points slightly amplified it, but they have added three chapters, covering actually some two hundred and fifty pages.

The increase of Trade Union membership has been, as everyone knows, enormous. In 1892, after more than two centuries of growth, the number of Trade Unionists in the United Kingdom was not much over a million and a half. At the outbreak of the war it was under four millions; at the present moment it is above six millions—perhaps nearer seven than six—and includes "probably as many as 60 per cent. of all the adult manual working wage-earners." But what is of peculiar interest to note is the increase in certain industries and among certain sections of the community. The organisation of "unskilled labour" has in the last few years been prodigious, and so also has that of women of all sorts from the "braincombers in the learned professions" to domestic servants and the chief "hands" in the sweated trades. The female membership of Trade Unions, which in the year before the war was in round figures 361,000, has risen now to over three-quarters of a million, and it is still rising. Very remarkable also is the increasing organisation of the "black-coated proletariat"—civil servants, clerks, managers, supervisors, technicians, and the rest. This, as Mr. and Mrs. Webb rightly insist, is an important indication of the lines on which industry is likely to be shaped in the future. But with this vast growth of numbers, and a corresponding growth of amalgamation and federation, there has been singularly little change in the central machinery of the movement. The weakest point, indeed, is at the top. The Trades Union Congress, as Mr. and Mrs. Webb put it, "remains, as we have described it in its early years, rather a parade of the Trade Union forces than a genuine Parliament of Labour." Its executive body, the Parliamentary Committee, does not provide that "general staff" which the movement badly needs, and Mr. and Mrs. Webb's criticism both of this and of the whole question of what may be called the Trade Unions' "civil service" is very much to the front.

The history of Trade Unionism in this century, however, is by no means exhausted by the records of its membership and organisation. Side by side with this it has won an enhanced status, and not the least interesting of the three new chapters is devoted to an account of this achievement. Mr. and Mrs. Webb give us an elaborate criticism of the famous Taff Vale judgment; they discuss the Osborne case and the Trade Union Act of 1913, the relations of the Unions and the Government during and after the war. And last, but not least, they describe the "revolution in thought," the influence of Syndicalist and of Guild Socialist theories in shaping the demand for "self-government in industry" and in determining the attitude of the workman to strikes and Parliamentary action.

The final chapter deals with the political side—the rise of the Labour Party, from its stormy birth just over twenty years ago, to the new era which opened for it at the election of 1918. Mr. and Mrs. Webb have much friendly criticism to offer on the subject of the present political organisation of the Labour movement. It suffers, they observe, not merely from a lack of "Party loyalty" on the part of Trade Unionists, but also from a confusion of central machinery. It suffers too (some say these are its chief shortcomings) from a failure to develop a staff of trained political officers and from a scarcity of trained Parliamentary representatives. But these weaknesses, we suppose, are on the way to be remedied, if the Party as a whole, as well as its leaders, is alive to them.

The reader is not to look in this history, as its authors remark, for any argued judgment on the validity of Trade Union assumptions or ultimate ideals. Nevertheless, what little they have to say on this hand is of profound interest. "The object and purpose of the workers, organised vocationally in Trade Unions and Professional Associations, and politically in the Labour Party," they warn us, "is no mere increase of wages or reduction of hours. It comprises nothing less than a reconstruction of Society, by the elimination, from the nation's industries and services, of the Capitalist profit-maker, and the consequent shrinking up of the class of functionless persons who live merely by owning." What form in that reconstructed Society is the organisation of industry to take? Mr. and Mrs. Webb expect to see "the supreme authority in each industry or service vested, not in the workers as such, but in the community as a whole.... The management of industry ... will not be the sole sphere of either producers or consumers, but is clearly destined to be distributed between them—the actual direction and decision being shared between the representatives of the Trade Union or Professional Society on the one hand and those of the community in Co-operative Society, Municipality, or National Government on the other." They do not see eye to eye in every detail with the Guild Socialist. But still less do they see eye to eye with that fabulous monster who stalks through the writings and speeches both of Revolutionaries and Conservatives—the bureaucratic Fabian Webb, harbinger of the Servile State! There may be some, we suppose, who will find a less "detached" outlook in this volume than in the original edition. If there is a difference of outlook, it is natural enough, for Mr. and Mrs. Webb are more "inside" the Labour movement now than they were in 1894, and their judgments and criticisms must inevitably show a subtle difference of tone. But this is not to accuse them of undue partiality. No man can write an "impartial" history that is worth reading of his own time and his own friends. And we need not regret that Mr. and Mrs. Webb, in their detailed descriptions, for example, of the great railway strike or the miners' dispute of last year, put the workmen's case confidently and strongly since they see it as their own case also and that of the nation. The appearance of these three new chapters, we do not hesitate to say, constitutes an event in the world of politics and of letters. The History of Trade Unionism will remain, as it has been, a work which every student of industry and every man of affairs must read and re-read and inwardly digest.

MY SECOND COUNTRY (FRANCE). By ROBERT DELL. Lane. 7s. 6d.

This study of the people and institutions and spirit of France is in a class apart from the volumes of "impressions" of foreign lands with which "week-enders" and passing travellers are prone to favour us. "France," says Mr. Dell, "has been my home for more than twelve years, but it was already my second country long before I went to live there. Indeed I cannot remember a time when France had not a large place in my affections." It is with an intimate knowledge, therefore, as well as with a profound sympathy that he discusses the many phases of French life. But his book is by no means a mere panegyric. He is throughout candid and critical—often bitterly critical. He exposes ruthlessly the undemocratic character of the "Democratic Administration," the impotence of Parliament, the demoralising influence of small property, the evils of the petit bourgeois spirit, the avarice and egotism of the grande bourgeoisie. How far his view of all these things is a just one will be a matter of controversy. Some may say he is violently prejudiced; no one, after reading this book, could deny that many of his judgments are biased. In the final chapters there is really no pretence of impartiality; he argues his case and "maintains his propositions," like Doctor Pancrace in the play, Pugnis et calcibus, unguibus et rostro. Mr. Dell is a Socialist, but not an "Etatiste"; he is a "libertine" and a revolutionary, with an equal dislike of bureaucracy and the bourgeoisie. And his feelings in this matter are so strong that we may venture to doubt his predictions as to how the Revolution will come. For the rest, Mr. Dell is a determined Rationalist. "La France de Voltaire et de Montesquieu," he says with M. Anatole France, "celle-là est la grande, la vraie France." For "religious" France he has no use—neither for "irreligious" orthodoxy, nor political Catholicism, nor Modernism. Bergsonism, too, he holds to be a baneful influence, as reactionary as the Church which eschews it. But the old superstitions and the new philosophies, he believes, are losing their hold; "the spirit of the true France is coming into its own again, and the young intellect of France is returning to the rationalism of Voltaire." In all this, and much else, he may be wrong, but he has given us a book that is at any rate profoundly interesting.

RUSSIA IN RULE AND MISRULE. By Brigadier C. R. BALLARD, C.B., C.M.G., with a Foreword by General SIR WILLIAM ROBERTSON. Murray. 6s. net.

This is a curious and nondescript book. Beginning as a history of Russia from the earliest times, it ends rather as the impressions of a soldier who, attached to the Eastern front during the war, saw something of the Russian revolution. It is a soldier's book, breezy, untrammelled by literary and historical conventions, and distinguished by a direct simplicity which disarms criticism. The General gives an interesting account of what happened subsequently to the revolution; but his account often gives only one out of many views of the facts. Thus his chapter on the Kornilov incident is, as he states, merely a summary of Kerenski's book, and cannot therefore be accepted without considerable reserves. On pages 214-216 he gives ten outstanding facts about the Bolshevik régime "which can be proved over and over again if proof be required." We should like to see the General's proof of the first sentence in his tenth "fact," namely, that "there are no elections of any kind...." The General has also succeeded in adding a new complication to the already complicated problem of the spelling of Russian names. The gentleman whose name we have seen spelt variously by other writers Cheidze, Chheidze, and Tshcheidze appears in his book as Cheidsi.

THE PEACE IN THE MAKING. By H. WILSON HARRIS. Swarthmore Press. 6s. net.

It would be unfair to compare Mr. Harris's book with Mr. Keynes's, though it covers something of the same ground. Mr. Keynes is analytic and, in the end, constructive, and his subject is the rebuilding of a ruined Europe. Mr. Harris is historical and reminiscent. Like a good journalist—and it is unnecessary to say how good a journalist he is—he tells us how they made the peace rather than what kind of a peace they made and should have made. It is true that in telling us the story of peace-making at Paris he does tell us also what kind of peace they made. In fact his book has a distinct value as a clear summary of the terms eventually hammered out by the three Great Powers and accepted by Germany. But the angle of Mr. Harris's approach to his subject is that of the journalistic historian. The result is a very readable and interesting book. Putting ourselves into Mr. Harris's skilful hands, we are enabled to see, through the various journalistic spectroscopes, something of what took place behind the shuttered and curtained council chamber of the Big Four, which in effect was a Big Three.

LEAGUES OF NATIONS. By ELIZABETH YORK. Swarthmore Press. 8s. 6d. net.

This is a useful book for those who wish to study the long and slow development of the idea of a League of Nations. The author begins with the idea of a League in ancient Greece and traces it through Dante, the "Grand Design," Grotius, Penn, Saint Pierre, Rousseau, Kant, and Bentham to Alexander I. of Russia and the Holy Alliance. The value of the book is considerably enhanced by its careful documentation, and by the fact that it gives us a translation of the text of many of the schemes and "covenants" which are not easily obtainable by the ordinary reader.

THE NEW OUTLOOK. By LORD ROBERT CECIL, M.P. Allen & Unwin. 1s. net.

This brochure has a double claim to interest all who concern themselves with politics. In the first place it is a remarkable revelation of the advancing spirit of democracy, of the new social conscience and widening outlook of our time. For here we have a Cecil, the type of the grand seigneurial family of high Tory traditions, calmly—or rather enthusiastically—offering us a political programme that a few years ago would have been greeted as wildly Jacobin. In the second place the views of Lord Robert derive a peculiar importance from the position which he occupies to-day in the public estimation. His high personal character, his idealism, and his ability single him out among the members of his Party—if indeed he can be said in the present political confusion to be of a Party. He gives us here half-a-dozen short essays dealing with the League of Nations, the industrial problem, finance, the reform of Parliament, and the Irish question. His practical proposals under each of these heads will not commend themselves to everyone in all their details, but none will fail to admire the generous and constructive spirit which underlies them. Those who are pessimistic about foreign affairs may well wish that we had more men of this stamp to put Europe on its feet again. Those who are exercised about the situation at home will look anxiously for the next step of this aristocrat among the democrats.

EMPIRE AND COMMERCE IN AFRICA. By L. WOOLF. Labour Research Department and Allen & Unwin. 20s. net.

Mr. Woolf's object in this work is to answer the question: "What has been the result and what the lessons of the application of the power and machinery of the European State to Africa?" He examines very carefully and critically the history of the organisation of the British, French, and German Colonies in North and East Africa, as well as the Belgian Congo. The results both for Europe and for the natives he finds on the whole to be evil. The future, if we are to continue the old policy of economic imperialism, offers no better prospect. There is hope in the League of Nations, but for the mandatory system, as proposed, Mr. Woolf has no enthusiasm. To make the League effective and beneficent its forms and duties must be restated and clearly defined. The book is one which ought to be read by all who are interested not merely in African affairs but in the Colonial policies of the European Powers.

ANTHROPOLOGY

ARCHAIC ENGLAND. By HAROLD BAYLEY. London: Chapman & Hall. 1919. Medium 8vo. pp. 894. 25s. net.

The publishers' announcement informs us that "Mr. Harold Bayley by his graduated studies in Elizabethan Literature, Symbolism, and the Renaissance has established his position as an original and interesting thinker." Again, on its paper wrapper the present work is styled, "this profound and far-reaching contribution to English Archæology." If a pill were to be puffed in this way the inference might be drawn that the interested party did not belong to the medical profession. By parity of reasoning one conjectured before opening the book that Mr. Bayley was not versed in the gentle tradition of the archæological fraternity. But to read the introduction almost disarms the critic. Mr. Bayley cannot, he confesses, afford to emulate the Oxford tutor, described in a novel of Mr. Stephen McKenna, who set himself to write a history of the Third French Republic, and thirty years later had satisfactorily concluded his introductory chapter on the origin of Kingship. He complains that his literary hobbies have necessarily to be indulged more or less furtively in restaurants and railway-trains. Nevertheless he tries "to keep on as good terms as may be with the exacting Muses of History, Mythology, Archæology, Philosophy, Religion, Romance, Symbolism, Numismatics, Folklore, and Etymology." Thus circumstances have forced him to become a literary "hustler"; and, since self-advertisement is germane to the hustling temper, and moreover in this case is quite undisguised and naïve, it may almost be forgiven.

Not that Mr. Bayley wants to be forgiven. It would seem that the hustling and the hard-hitting tendencies are naturally akin. For the philologists have attacked him on account of another book. Consequently, in this book he pulverises the philologists one and all; there is nothing left of them. Nor do the anthropologists come off any better. Even sex does not protect them. Miss Jane Harrison, for instance, was rash enough to say that gods evolve from choral dances and similar ceremonies, herein but following the common opinion that in the development of religion ritual is prior to dogma. Mr. Bayley will have none of it. "The theory here assumed," he exclaims, "grossly defies the elementary laws of logic, for every act of ritual must essentially have been preceded by a thought: Act is the outcome and offspring of Thought: Idea was never the idiot-child of Act. The assumption that the first idea of God evolved from the personation of the Sun God in a mystery play or harvest dance is not really or fundamentally a mental tracking of that God right home, but rather an inane confession that the idea of God cannot be traced further backward than the ritual of ancient festivals." How can a reviewer proceed to deal with Mr. Bayley's views without trepidation? Fænum habet in cornu.

"To me," says Mr. Bayley, "the divinities of antiquity are not mere dolls to be patted superciliously on the head and then remitted to the dustbin. Our own ideals of to-day are but the idols or dolls of to-morrow, and even a golliwog if it has comforted a child is entitled to sympathetic treatment." It would have certainly been more sympathetic if Miss Harrison had called Apollo or Dionysus a gollywog, and let it go at that. Mr. Bayley goes on to moralise—and the passage illustrates at once his discursive manner and the methods of the symbolistic philology—as follows: "The words doll, idol, ideal, and idyll, which are all one and the same, are probably due to the island of Idea, which was one of the ancient names of Crete. Not only was Crete known as Idæa, but was also entitled Doliche, which may be spelled to-day Idyllic.... We shall also see as we proceed that the mystic philosophy known to history as the Gnosis was in all probability the philosophy taught in prehistoric times at Gnossus, the far-famed capital of Crete. From Gnossus, whence the Greeks drew all their laws and sciences, came probably the Greek word gnossis, meaning knowledge." Why "probably"?

But to proceed to Mr. Bayley's main contention. He would have us take less pride in any connection we may have had with the Anglo-Saxons—were they not Huns?—and, contrariwise, think more of our far more worthy ancestors the ancient Britons. Theirs was a wisdom ultimately derived from the culture-lands of the East. Are not the identities between Welsh and Hebrew "close and pressing." Is it not the fact that "entire sentences of archaic Hebraisms are similarly to be found in the now obsolete Cornish language." Unfortunately the Phœnicians have left no literature. The Greeks have, however, and we are thus able to connect Achill in Ireland with Achilles, and so on. Similarly philology proves the truth of the tale that Brutus with his Trojans landed at Totnes and thence marched to Troynovant or New Troy, now known as London. Not that the Trojans on their arrival found it any easier than it is now to obtain decent lodgings in London. For tre (which is obviously Troy) means in Cornish dwelling, and in French trou means hole. So the earliest Troys "were maybe caves," though they ultimately became towers or tors; witness the number of the same in the West of England. It is likewise obvious that Troy, Tyre, and Etruria are from the same root. So it follows that "the men of Tarshish, Tyre, Troy, or Etruria, towed, trekked, travelled, tramped, traded, and trafficked far and wide." Indeed, it might almost seem that the language in which these culture-heroes were wont to express themselves consisted entirely in the word Troy and its derivatives. But no. Britain was called Albion, and "Albion suggests Albania." Moreover, "by the present-day Turk the Albanians are termed Arnaouts. Whether this name has any connection with argonauts is immaterial." So it evidently is, seeing that "many shiploads of young argonauts from one or another Troy reached the coast of Cornwall." But the proof of this is the fact that so many of the Cornish names begin with tre. So even the Albanians called themselves Troy for short.

There are nearly nine hundred pages composed in this vein, and if the reader wants more he can find it there. Mr. Bayley will not bore him; he wields a facile pen. Again, he has read all manner of books, good bad and indifferent, and may provide useful material for anyone whose critical faculty is sufficiently alert. But Troy and the rest of it—can this punning philology be seriously meant? Mr. Bayley would connect our word pun "with the Hebrew pun, meaning dubious." No doubt pundit comes from the same root; and, if so, Mr. Bayley is welcome to the title.

SCIENCE

IONS, ELECTRONS, AND IONISING RADIATIONS. By J. A. CROWTHER. Arnold. 12s. 6d. net.

In spite of the subject of his book, Dr. Crowther's index is free from the names of Wien, Lenard, Elster and Geitel, and Stark, to mention a few omissions which are somewhat surprising. It is true that subsequent reading shows that one of these names is casually mentioned, but the pages on positive rays, for instance, are happily free from all reference to the hated Hun and his works—and, in consequence, are somewhat misleading. In the first flush we attributed these omissions to Dr. Crowther's intense patriotism, but further investigation, and a rough classification of other peculiarities, has convinced us that the misfortune of these men lies not in being German, but in not having worked at Cambridge. If the book before us had as a sub-title, "Being the Work of Cambridge Physicists," a source of misunderstanding would be removed. It consists of an account of the work of the Cavendish school, enriched by free borrowings from Sir J. J. Thomson's famous Conduction of Electricity through Gases, with occasional references to the work of "outsiders," not usually acknowledged by name. The chapter on Photo-electricity will illustrate to those familiar with the subject the peculiarities to which we allude. We doubt if many physicists will be disposed to admit the author's claim that the book furnishes "a reasonably complete account of the present state of the subject."

ENGINES OF THE HUMAN BODY. By ARTHUR KEITH, F.R.S. Williams & Norgate. 12s. 6d. net.

It is a commonplace to talk of the machinery of the body, but it is not widely realised how close are the analogies which can be drawn between every detail of our physical structure and some feature or process of modern mechanical engineering. Professor Keith, realising how very much more most of us know of the working of an engine which comparatively few of us possess, an internal combustion engine, than of the working of the engines which we all possess in our muscles, has written a most informing and entertaining book, in which the mechanism and functions of our bones, muscles, heart, lungs, joints, brain, and other structures are considered in terms of their engineering analogies. It is hard to imagine a clearer or more charming exposition of elementary physiology. The book is based on a course of Christmas Lectures given at the Royal Institution, lectures primarily intended, as every one knows, for children. While there is little in the book which cannot be understood by any intelligent boy—that we do not add "or girl" is due to no reactionary denial of the full equality of the sexes, but to a belief that, at present, girls take less interest in, and so are less conversant with, the working of motor-car engines than boys—few grown-ups, even medical men, will read it without lively interest or without learning much. There is hardly any function or structure in our bodies for which Professor Keith does not find a counterpart in iron or steel—the internal texture of a bone is likened to Fairbairn's crane, a diagram of a force pump compared part by part with the diagram of the left ventricular pump of the heart. The varying length of heel found in different races is considered from the point of view of its mechanical usefulness in different circumstances, the superiority of the ape type of arm to the human type for the tasks which confront an ape is made clear in a few words. A short historical sketch of what Harvey was taught concerning the blood, contrasted with the wonderful new knowledge which he himself discovered, and the road by which he arrived at it, affords an admirable example of scientific method. These are citations at random; the whole book is full of commendable things. The bearings of recent research, such as the work of Haldane on Respiration, Cannon on Adrenalin, Starling on Hormones, are skilfully indicated in simple language. We congratulate Professor Keith on the production of a book of popular science which in clearness, depth of knowledge, and charm of style challenges comparison with the books which his great predecessor, Faraday, founded on his "Christmas Lectures."

PROBLEMS OF COSMOGONY AND STELLAR DYNAMICS. By J. H. JEANS. Cambridge University Press. 21s. net.

We welcome the appearance of this book, which is the essay to which the Adams Prize was adjudged in the year 1917. With the exception of Poincaré's well-known Leçons sur les Hypothéses Cosmogoniques there is, we think, no other book of recent date dealing authoritatively with the attractive subject of cosmogony, and in certain respects Mr. Jeans's book is a considerable advance on Poincaré's. The treatment is more systematic, and the author's own extensive contributions to the subject add to its value.

The introductory chapter gives a survey of the scientific problem of the origin of the universe, and points out the various uniformities which we have to explain. It also includes a brief historical sketch of the various theories of cosmogony put forward, from the famous nebular hypothesis of Kant and Laplace up to modern times. This chapter and the concluding chapter, on the Origin and Evolution of the Solar System, are accessible to the non-mathematical reader, and enable him to put himself in touch with the latest observations and speculations on these fascinating themes. The remainder of the book is highly mathematical, yet the author has presented his analysis so skilfully that a moderate knowledge of the calculus and dynamical principles suffice for the following of all the deductions. The general dynamics and criteria of stability and instability are first developed, and then the classical configurations of equilibrium of a rotating homogeneous mass—Maclaurin's spheroids and Jacobi's ellipsoids—are handled. Further systematic investigation leads up to the study of the oft-attacked, formidable problem of pear-shaped figures of equilibrium, which occupied the attention of Poincaré, G. Darwin, and Liapounoff. So far there has been question of stable configurations of equilibrium: the author now passes to the dynamical problems presented when there is no stable equilibrium, remarking that "a statical problem may or may not admit of solution, but a dynamical problem must always have a solution." Poincaré's "cataclysm" is for him merely a passage from a statical to a dynamical investigation. Soon, after summarising the results for a mass of fluid which is incompressible and homogeneous, he proceeds to consider the case when neither of these conditions pertain. Here we are presented chiefly with the important advances made by Mr. Jeans himself. The evolution of rotating nebulæ and of star clusters, of double and of multiple stars (particular attention being given to the process of fission and the subsequent motion), come up in turn for consideration, and from these gigantic voyages through space we return, at the end of the book, to our relatively minute solar system and its evolution. The book is illustrated with beautiful reproductions of photographs of nebulæ, taken at the Mount Wilson Observatory, and is in every way worthy of its author and its Press.

ARCHIVES OF RADIOLOGY AND ELECTROTHERAPY FOR DECEMBER. Heinemann.

The December number of the Archives of Radiology and Electrotherapy contains an interesting article on the work of the British Association of Radiology and Physiotherapy. One of the first fruits of its activities is that, at its instigation, the University of Cambridge has decided to institute a Diploma in Medical Radiology and Electrology. A knowledge of the properties of the various radiations of electrical origin on nature, of direct and alternating currents, and of electrotechnics in general, is of such importance in modern medicine that we heartily welcome the institution of a Diploma which will guarantee that its possessor has a thorough knowledge of the new and special technique required for the various electric treatments of to-day. The syllabus of subjects and the regulations governing the award, which provide, among other things, that the candidate must hold a recognised medical qualification, are published in full in the number of the Archives under notice. A study of the syllabus of the course of studies provided at Cambridge emphasises the range of physical phenomena, which have a therapeutic value—radiant heat, X-rays, the rays from radioactive substances, electrolysis, direct and high frequency currents, and static electricity, to name some of the most important. Obviously it is time for adequate provision to be made for instructing the medical man in the theory and manipulation of the machines and devices peculiar to this side of his art, since the average M.D. has not a very deep knowledge of physics. The only suggestion we would offer is that some attempt might be made to simplify or standardise the nomenclature of the subject. A glance at this short notice will show the variety of titles given to the new therapeutics, and of these the word "electrology," for instance, is given in Webster as "obsolete or rare." Surely there are sufficient terms already without reviving it.

BOOK-PRODUCTION NOTES

By J. H. MASON

"MODERN" type is the name by which the design that came into general use in this country between 1800 and 1808 is designated. (It is the type face still used in Blue Books.) To quote Luckombe in his Printer's Grammar, of 1808, "The great improvement which has taken place of late years in the form of printing types has completely superseded the Elzevir shape introduced from Holland by the celebrated Caslon. Everyone must observe, with increasing admiration, the numerous and elegant founts of every size which have with rapid succession been lately presented to the public." And then follow specimens from the Fry Type Foundry, the "Quousque tandem abutere, Catilina, patientia, mostra?" so affected by the older founders that it almost became a proverb for "type specimen."

Well, modern opinion has gone strongly back to Luckombe, and with good reason. The only definite quality—not very definite either—which calls forth his admiration is the elegance of the design. I think we may concede this without damaging the case for the old-style types. The letters are well drawn, carefully and finely drawn, and show a good sense of proportion and of colour contrast in the thicks and thins and hair-lines in the size shown, called the Luckombe "French Canon," equivalent to forty-eight point (about two-thirds of an inch). But is elegant drawing the desirable point in type? It is not. It tends to keep the single letters distinct units instead of their coalescing into word, phrase, or even sentence units. For the mind of the reader is partly formed by the mind of the writer, by his own experience in the manipulation of the pen, and feels for the onward flow of the pen in the letter design. And this is found at its best in the Italian writing that developed the Caroline minuscule and formed the model for the early Venetian types. The letter takes its character from the pen in the hands of a master of his instrument, and the ink and paper or vellum play their part—it is not deliberately drawn and passed on, but arrives in the continuous flow that strives to keep pari flumine with the stream of thought. The serifs or finishing strokes, e.g., of the capital C or T in "modern," are perpendicular palings that shut off relations with their neighbours; in old style they reach towards their neighbours, as though to join hands with them. The onward flow is felt in the curves, e.g., of the small m of old-style type, but in modern it stands almost coldly self-centred, the elegance strikes us as primness. The fine lines too are unsuitable for letterpress printing as they are easily damaged and then the type becomes unsightly. In engraver's lettering on copperplates, of course, this does not happen, as the fine line is printed from a sunken scratch, not a knife-like edge in relief. The engraver as a rule only used small groups of words, not pages of continuous text. (I do not forget Pine—his Horace dates 1733—but of him another time.) I cannot help thinking that modern type is the outcome of a mistaken standard, that of the engraver; as if the finish of delicate gold-smithing were adopted for carving in sandstone. To the engraver the hair-line is perfectly simple, to the typefounder it is a tour-de-force. The old-style design continued the manuscript tradition of form, with only such changes as the process of typefounding involved, such as the elimination of ligatures or tied letters. It continued in use till the end of the eighteenth century, when "elegance" displaced it. In forty years (a short time compared with the three-and-a-half centuries of old style) old style was revived in the Chiswick Press Juvenal and Lady Willoughby's Diary, and was enthusiastically received. New versions of the old-style design were cut, and it has continued in favour ever since.

A LETTER FROM FRANCE

THE YOUNG REVIEWS

Paris, February, 1920.

WHEN among us a reader of literary tastes wishes to obtain a bird's-eye view of the literature of the moment, to see it mapped out with all its currents, he thinks of the reviews. I mean by that not the old-established reviews, which after all are no more than magazines of the first class, but the living, active, combative reviews, which are the organs of groups, of literary and intellectual parties.

While the old reviews, in France as in England or in Germany, continued faithfully during the war to provide their usual articles on contemporary affairs, all the young French reviews found themselves cut off, the greater part of their staffs having been mobilised. Since the war they have reappeared, new reviews have been born, and important additions are announced for the spring. But, taken as a whole, the complexion of the world of the new reviews shows an aspect sufficiently different from what it had before the war and above all from what it had twenty years ago.

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The Nouvelle Revue Française has begun publication again since June 1st. The members of its pre-war staff meet again intact, because for the most part they belonged to a generation which reached, or had just passed, its fortieth year in 1914. The most important among them, the figure round whom the group was first assembled, was André Gide, and, like Gide, most of them had gone through the Symbolist Movement between 1890 and 1900. But they were no longer at the age of enthusiastic and violent prejudices; they cared much for analysis and intelligence and sought above all to see clear. Hence came their taste for psychological detail and for the literature of introspection, of which Jean Schlumberger produced poignant examples and which made the Nouvelle Revue Française the natural country of Marcel Proust. Hence also, and above all, the importance of its critical work, and that state of attentive and impartial clairvoyance which it has constantly striven to preserve. This clairvoyance did not exclude ardour or passion; the influence of Péguy, still more that of Claudel, was obvious in the fiery intellect of Jacques Rivière, now the editor of the review.

Unlike other reviews with an æsthetic bent, the Nouvelle Revue Française did not confine itself to the defence and the illustration of some definite artistic method. It welcomed, like the Mercure and the Revue Blanche of old days, everything which seemed to it interesting, original, and bearing the marks of authentic art. Obviously, for it, the centre of the artistic landscape was filled by the most illustrious of the whilom Symbolists, those who devoted themselves in solitude to build according to those mysterious ideal diagrams, drawn by Mallarmé upon a heroic and legendary sand: Gide, Claudel, Valéry. But the review became the home also of Charles Louis Philippe, that master of sorrowful tenderness and rending pity—of Pierre Hamp, who, in his stories of industrial life, has drawn the world of labour with a power frequently humorous and sometimes as original as Constantin Meunier's; of Jules Romains, the picturesque and powerful creator of "Unanimist" prose and poetry.

The Nouvelle Revue Française has emerged from its five years' concealment with the same characteristics. It still attempts to be a milieu of pure art and disinterested literature. But it is almost impossible, in France, for artists to-day to divest themselves of political preoccupations. They are divided, often fiercely, over this problem: "Should French thought to-day preserve or abandon its war attitude? Should it remain defiant towards the foreigner and subordinate everything to the continuance of the intellectual struggle against Germanism?" The editors of the Nouvelle Revue Française, who are divided on that question, endeavour in their review itself to elucidate it by discussions amongst themselves.

*      *      *      *      *

The Revue Critique des Idées et des Livres has also just reappeared. It was the organ of a younger generation than that of the Nouvelle Revue Française, and that is why the majority of its old conductors no longer respond to the call. More than twenty of them, and notably Pierre Gilbert, who was the heart and soul of them, were killed in action. As its name indicates, this review is above all concerned with criticism. You find in it few poems and no novels. The young men who united around it aimed at restoring to French literature a classic discipline, and fighting all the remains of romanticism from democracy to symbolism. That is why the review published special numbers dedicated to Richelieu, to Stendhal, to Mistral, and on the occasion of Rousseau's centenary a special number of another kind, remarkably violent, devoting to execration the Genevese whom they held to be the father of French romanticism and the Æolus of all the storms.

The Revue Critique des Idées et des Livres was profoundly influenced by Charles Maurras. It was the literary organ of the ardent, patriotic generation aroused in France by his influence and that of Maurice Barrès. Nevertheless, some months before the war it broke away from L'Action Française; or rather it was that paper, the organ of M. Maurras, which declared itself unable any longer to commend without reserve the tendencies of the Revue Critique. This cleavage arose out of some articles in the Revue Critique which praised the philosophy of M. Bergson. Now L'Action Française had opened war long before on Bergsonism for reasons which were not philosophic. That is why the Revue Critique, although still benevolently watched by M. Maurras, was considered by him as a lapse from orthodoxy.

In its resurrected form it has kept its classical tendencies, its taste for pure criticism, the intellectual discipline which made it subordinate everything to the national point of view. But on the other hand it shows an inclination to broaden, to become more elastic, to take a less rigid and combative attitude than of old. Although most of its editors are friends of M. Maurras and L'Action Française, it preserves its intellectual autonomy intact and is no longer attached to a political party. Its rôle seems to be to revive the old tradition of French classicism. It maintains especially those discussions on the problems of the day and the eternal problems, those intelligent and passionate debates which have always given so much animation to young French reviews.

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A new review, the work of which will often be in accord with that of the Revue Critique des Idées et des Livres, is announced for the month of March, and that announcement has already aroused much interest. This is the Revue Universelle, the organ of the "Parti de l'Intelligence." This party, which might well have found a less naïve title, is a nationalist group which proposes to keep the intellect of France in the channels of national tradition and civic vigilance. It includes almost all the monarchists of the Action Française, but also a certain number of patriotic writers who are not royalists, including Camille Mauclair, Daniel Halévy, Edmond Jaloux, Henri Ghéon, and Henri Massis. It has been founded in opposition to the "Clarté" group of Romain Rolland, Henri Barbusse, Georges Duhamel, and Pierre Hamp, which unites intellectuals with socialist and pacifist leanings. It is, in the world of letters, a resurrection of the old leagues of the "Patrie Française" and the "Droits de l'Homme," which flourished at the time of the Dreyfus affair. But up to the present the majority of French writers have not enrolled themselves in either body.

The title of the Revue Universelle is based on the desire of the "Parti de l'Intelligence" to make it an organ for propagating French intellectual influence abroad, for ensuring the dissemination and establishing the primacy of the classic culture which is bound up with the French genius. The Revue Universelle will attempt to give to French nationalism, which has hitherto confined its propaganda to France, an influence over the world. It is patently a difficult enterprise and one essentially a little paradoxical. But it will certainly be very interesting and will deserve to be closely watched abroad. The Revue Universelle will be directed by the clearest and strongest head amongst contemporary French students of foreign politics, M. Jacques Bainville. The names of the chief members of the "Parti de l'Intelligence" assure from the start a staff of the first order. The "Clarté" group has not yet announced its intention of founding a similar organ.

In the spring there will appear a review in French which will fill a place at present empty: the Revue de Genève, whose editor will be M. Robert de Traz. This will be a review essentially European, which will aim at giving an exact picture of intellectual Europe to-day, and will examine objectively æsthetic, political, religious and moral, national and international tendencies. Its founders believe that an authoritative position is assured.

*      *      *      *      *

Most of these reviews are or will be reviews of ideas. In contrast to what was the case twenty years ago the reviews which are devoted to new and bold artistic manifestations remain on a lower level. Before the war the Phalange was a very live and picturesque review around which were grouped a number of the old-time Symbolists and newer writers, from Francis Viélé-Griffin to Guillaume Apollinaire. Almost all the young made their débuts in the Phalange. It is regrettable that its director, M. Jean Royère, has decided not to revive it after the war.

The literature which is attached to Futurist and Cubist art has for organ the review Littérature, rather slender but curious. During the war there began to appear a very sumptuous Cubist review of literature and art, L'Elan, which was very interesting but did not survive its fourth number.

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It does not come within my present scope to refer to the old reviews, which are well enough known to English readers. But I must mention that in the last year a new one has been added to these, the Minerve Française, classical and traditional in tenets and of an excellent literary standard. Finally, as for the weekly papers, half way between the dailies and the reviews properly so called, they are not so important in France as in England. L'Opinion and L'Europe Nouvelle are at present the most alive; those and the Revue Hebdomadaire, which is in another category.

In fine, the young French reviews to-day are preoccupied with ideas first and art second. It is difficult for them, even when they are willing, to avoid a definite orientation towards politics and the problems of politics. They are the natural voices of a generation which is prevented by actual events from indulging in detached speculations. But that period of transition will pass and will no doubt soon help forward a movement in France for the recovery of the precious privileges of spiritual liberty.

ALBERT THIBAUDET

BIBLIOGRAPHIES OF MODERN AUTHORS

MAURICE HEWLETT

Verse

A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES. Dent. 1895.

SONGS AND MEDITATIONS. Constable. 1896.

ARTEMISION, IDYLLS AND SONGS. Elkin Mathews. 1909.

THE AGONISTS—A TRILOGY OF GOD AND MAN—MINOS, KING OF CRETE, ARIADNE IN NAXOS, THE DEATH OF HIPPOLYTUS. Macmillan. 1911.

HELEN REDEEMED AND OTHER POEMS. Macmillan. 1913.

SINGSONGS OF THE WAR. Poetry Bookshop. 1914.

THE SONG OF THE PLOW: BEING THE ENGLISH CHRONICLE. Heinemann. 1916.

GAI SABER: TALES AND SONGS. A Collection of Poems. Elkin Mathews. 1916.

THE LOVING STORY OF PERIDORE AND PERIVALE. A Poem. Collins. 1917.

THE VILLAGE WIFE'S LAMENT. A Poem. Secker. 1918.

Prose

EARTHWORK OUT OF TUSCANY. Being Impressions and Translations. Dent. 1895.

THE FOREST LOVERS. A Romance. Macmillan. 1898.

PAN AND THE YOUNG SHEPHERD. A Pastoral. Lane. 1898.

LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY. Chapman & Hall. 1899.

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF RICHARD YEA-AND-NAY. Macmillan. 1900.

NEW CANTERBURY TALES. Constable. 1901.

THE QUEEN'S QUAIR, OR THE SIX YEARS' TRAGEDY. Macmillan. 1904.

THE ROAD IN TUSCANY. Macmillan. 1904.

QUATTROCENTISTERIA: HOW SANDRO BOTTICELLI SAW SIMONETTA IN THE SPRING. Mosher, Portland, Maine. 1904.

[Taken from Earthwork out of Tuscany.]

FOND ADVENTURES. Tales of the Youth of the World. Macmillan. 1905.

THE FOOL ERRANT. Heinemann. 1905.

THE STOOPING LADY. Macmillan. 1907.

THE SPANISH JADE. Cassell. 1908.

HALFWAY HOUSE. A Comedy of Degrees. Chapman & Hall. 1908.

OPEN COUNTRY. A Comedy with a Sting. Macmillan. 1909.

LETTERS TO SANCHIA UPON THINGS AS THEY ARE. Macmillan. 1910.

[Reprinted from Open Country.]

REST HARROW. A Comedy of Resolution. Macmillan. 1910.

BRAZENHEAD THE GREAT. Smith, Elder. 1911.

THE SONG OF RENNY. Macmillan. 1911.

MRS. LANCELOT. A Comedy of Assumptions. Macmillan. 1912.

LOVE OF PROSERPINE. Macmillan. 1913.

BENDISH: A STUDY IN PRODIGALITY. Macmillan. 1913.

THE LITTLE ILIAD. A Novel. Heinemann. 1915.

A LOVERS' TALE. Ward, Lock. 1915.

LOVE AND LUCY. Macmillan. 1916.

FREY AND HIS WIFE. Ward, Lock. 1916.

THORGILS OF TREADHOLT. Ward, Lock. 1917.

GUDRID THE FAIR. Constable. 1918.

THE OUTLAW. Constable. 1919.

He has also written introductions to Bidder's In the Shadow of the Crown (1899); to Cynthia (1918); to Twelfth Night (Vol. 2, Renaissance Edition of Shakespeare); to Stendhal's The Chartreuse of Parma; and to Wilfred Thorley's Confessional and other Poems.

MAX BEERBOHM

THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE. A Fairy Tale for tired men. Bodley Booklets. 1897.

[In 1918 Mr. Lane published a new edition with coloured drawings by GEORGE SHERINGHAM.]

THE WORKS OF MAX BEERBOHM. Lane. 1898.

MORE. (Essays.) Lane. 1899.

THE POET'S CORNER. (Caricatures.) Heinemann. 1904.

YET AGAIN. (Essays.) Chapman & Hall. 1909.

ZULEIKA DOBSON, OR AN OXFORD LOVE STORY. Heinemann. 1911.

A XMAS GARLAND. (Parodies.) Heinemann. 1912.

FIFTY CARICATURES. Plates. Heinemann. 1913.

THE SECOND CHILDHOOD OF JOHN BULL. (Cartoons.) Swift. 1912.

CATALOGUE OF AN EXHIBITION OF CARTOONS BY M.B. (Leicester Galleries.) 1913.

SEVEN MEN. Heinemann. 1919.

DRAMA

MARRIAGE À LA MODE

IT was impossible to know from the reception of Marriage à la Mode at the Phœnix Society's production last month whether the numerous complaints of the behaviour of the audience when The Duchess of Malfi was performed had had effect or not, for Dryden's comedy puts no strain of any sort on the audience. It is a sign both of Dryden's greatness and of his weakness. For that "superhuman craftsmanship" of which Professor Saintsbury speaks is the privilege of a writer whose imagination does not outrun his powers. There is nothing in his mind that he finds difficult to express. And the difference in merit between one Dryden play and another is not a difference of degree in technical accomplishment—of success in expression—as it is with greater poets, but a difference in the value of the subject-matter. When Dryden gets hold of a good dramatic idea he writes a good play, when his material is deficient in interest his play is inferior. There are no violent ups and downs in any one play, whereas a poet of more passion and imagination does more mixed work. Some of Shakespeare's finest scenes and passages are in his least satisfactory plays, and though Shakespeare's natural genius for language was immeasurably greater than Dryden's so that it was impossible for him to write at any length without writing here and there wonderfully, yet he had, almost necessarily, less absolute command of it. Dryden's was an intellectual mastery that practically never failed him either in prose or verse. He is not considered to have had any natural gift for comedy. Hazlitt says: "Dryden's comedies have all the point that there is in ribaldry, and all the humour that there is in extravagance. I am sorry that I can say nothing better of them. He was not at home in this kind of writing, of which he was himself conscious. His play was horse-play. His wit (what there is of it) is ingenious and scholar-like, rather than natural and dramatic," and more recent critics have suggested that Dryden was unfitted for the new comedy that became universal after the Restoration—the comedy that held a mirror up to Society rather than to Nature—since Dryden "was not much a man of society."

It seems to me that this last criticism is largely true, but if he is not witty in the sense that Congreve and Sheridan are witty, he is often quite as amusing, and I cannot altogether agree with Hazlitt's pronouncement that his wit was "ingenious and scholar-like rather than natural and dramatic." Nothing could be more natural, for example, than the Epilogue to Marriage à la Mode, spoken by Rhodophil, which convulsed the house at the Lyric Theatre, and I doubt if it would be possible to find among all the Restoration Comedies an Epilogue so "dramatic"—revealing such insight into the feelings aroused by the play in the audience, and making such effective use of that knowledge. When Rhodophil says:

There are more Rhodophils in this theatre,

More Palamedes, and some few wives, I fear:

But yet too far our poet would not run;

Though 'twas well offered, there was nothing done.

He would not quite the women's frailty bare,

But stript them to the waist, and left them there:

And the men's faults are less severely shown,

For he considers that himself is one—

Some stabbing wits, to bloody satire bent,

Would treat both sexes with less compliment;

Would lay the scene at home; of husbands tell,

For wenches taking up their wives i' the Mall;

And a brisk bout, which each of them did want

Made by mistake of mistress and gallant.

Our modest author thought it was enough

To cut you off a sample of the stuff:

He spared my shame, which you, I'm sure, would not.

For you were all for driving on the plot:

You sighed when I came in to break the sport,

And set your teeth when each design fell short.

The audience at the Phœnix Society rose with uproarious laughter to each hit, it was so palpable. Again I find all the comedy scenes, the scenes between Palamede, Doralice, Rhodophil, and Melantha wholly admirable and exhilarating to a degree. I would almost gladly give up the whole of Congreve and Sheridan for this poetical, extravagant and romantic humour. The name of poet still clung to dramatic wits in the time of Congreve, and Congreve had perhaps some slight excuse for calling himself a poet, but when the eighteenth century had really arrived, when the abominable Sheridan came we had got into a prose age indeed. And yet I have no wish to call Sheridan—and still less Congreve—abominable, except by comparison with Dryden. We also have to acknowledge that the cultivation of verbal wit, of repartee, of elaborate social rococo, was the expression of the poetic fire instinctively preserving itself in an age so spiritually unfavourable to romance that it had to make itself externally romantic. Having lost imagination it fell back on decoration. A whole elaborate social ritual was built up to provide stimulants to the imprisoned senses. When in The Way of the World Mrs. Millamant says to Mirabell:

Good Mirabell, don't let us be familiar or fond, nor kiss before folks, like my Lady Fadler and Sir Francis: nor go to Hyde Park together the first Sunday in a new chariot, to provoke eyes and whispers, and then never to be seen there together again; as if we were proud of one another the first week, and ashamed of one another ever after. Let us never visit together nor go to a play together; but let us be very strange and well-bred: let us be as strange as if we had been married a great while, and as well-bred as if we were not married at all.

It is a cri-de-cœur. It is of the very essence of poetry in a narrow and worldly age. It is such passages in Congreve that justify Hazlitt in declaring—by comparison—that Dryden's wit was scholar-like rather than natural, for there is not a passage in Dryden's comedies so real, in the sense of being so local an expression of that passion for beauty which haunts the human heart and which in a society of the kind in which Mrs. Millamant moved will find such odd embodiment and be to ordinary eyes so completely disguised. In such a passage Congreve proves his right to be called a poet. What poetry there is in the society with which he is dealing he has expressed; for that appeal of the fine lady to Mirabell was a clutching at straws, a last despairing attempt at the preservation of some particle of beauty, of romance in the sordid life in which the married woman of fashion was about to be engulfed.

The poetry of this scene reaches back to the beautiful scene in Marriage à la Mode between Palmyra and Leonidas, though, as I have said, Dryden is more romantic, and so neither Palmyra nor Leonidas are of any age, they are merely the youth of all time. But surely no one can read the following passage without being moved to admiration of its beautiful ease, its romantic simplicity as contrasted with the romantic luxuriousness of the Elizabethans:

L   EON.: How precious are the hours of love in courts!

In cottages, when love has all the day,

Full, and at ease, he throws it half away.

Time gives himself, and is not valued, there;

But sells at mighty rates, each minute, here:

There, he is lazy, unemployed, and slow;

Here he's more swift; and yet has more to do.

So many of his hours in public move,

That few are left for privacy and love.

P   ALM.: The sun, methinks, shines faint and dimly, here;

Light is not half so long, nor half so clear:

But oh! when every day was yours or mine,

How early up! what haste he made to shine!

L   EON.: Such golden days a prince must hope to see,

Whose every subject is more blessed than he.

P   ALM.: Do you remember when their tasks were done,

How all the youth did to our cottage run?

While winter-winds were whistling loud without,

Our cheerful hearth was circled round about:

With strokes in ashes, maids their lovers drew;

And still you fell to me, and I to you.

L   EON.: When love did of my heart possession take,

I was so young my soul was scarce awake:

I cannot tell when first I thought you fair;

But sucked in love, insensibly as air.

P   ALM.: I know too well when first my love began,

When at our wake you for the chaplet ran:

Then I was made the Lady of the May,

And, with the garland, at its goal did stay:

Still as you ran, I kept you full in view;

I hoped, and wished, and ran, methought, for you.

As you came near, I hastily did rise,

And stretched my arm outright, that held the prize.

The custom was to kiss whom I should crown;

You kneeled, and in my lap your head laid down:

I blushed, and blushed, and did the kiss delay;

At last my subjects forced me to obey:

But, when I gave the crown, and then the kiss,

I scarce had breath to say, Take that—and this.

The whole of this beautiful scene was delightful on the stage, and by Palmyra (Miss Rita Thom), in particular, the verse was exquisitely spoken. One had that experience, rare indeed in the modern theatre, of subconsciously feeling that the whole audience was hanging on the words.

Again, what could be finer in its way than the scene—greatly helped by the stage-production at the Lyric Theatre, and by Mr. Norman Wilkinson's setting giving it an appropriate atmosphere of masquerade—where Doralice and Melantha are in boys' habits? Here Melantha's French affectation is used with the greatest skill to bring about a scene which is the very essence of romantic swagger. There are few scenes, if any, in Congreve or Sheridan that equal in wit this repartee between the pretended boys, Doralice and Melantha, egged on by Palamede and Rhodophil, leading up to Melantha's final extravagance:

I'll sacrifice my life for French poetry,

and the audience rocked with laughter at Miss Athene Seyler (Melantha) and Miss Cathleen Nesbitt (Doralice), who were superb in their representation of the parts.

Whenever these old comedies are revived there is always bound to spring up from somewhere a demand that they should be bowdlerized. Really the misplaced squeamishness of some men and women is something to marvel at! I have seen nearly every revue, musical comedy, and play that has been produced in London during the last two years, and I declare unhesitatingly that there is something radically wrong with the mentality of the people who can go habitually to the London theatres and music-halls and yet find that there is anything "filthy" about Dryden. Certainly there is no innuendo in Dryden, he is frankly outspoken. But filthy! Shade of Charles Lamb! What is to be done with such people? Not once during the whole performance of Marriage à la Mode was there an occasion when the most sensitive of young girls could have felt even momentarily uncomfortable. Such was far from being the case with a play that had quite a long run at a London theatre not long ago, to which, as far as I know, no one objected!

But I do not want to resist any attempt to make the Phœnix Society bowdlerize Dryden on that ground. Dryden—even more than Congreve—is inoffensive. There are dramatists with dirty minds; we often have had their works performed in London—adapted from the French or in their native English—but even these no one, I hope, would suppress. Dryden emphatically is not one of this class. A cleaner, more wholesome writer never put pen to paper, and the morbid squeamishness that objects to Dryden is the squeamishness of ill-health. It is a case for the doctor, for it is expressive of a pathological malady. On the subject as a whole it would seem an apt occasion to quote some sentences of Lamb's celebrated defence of Congreve, Farquhar, and Wycherley, as there appear to be people who have not heard of it. Lamb explains that these comedies have disappeared from the stage of his day—and he lived at the beginning of the age of Mrs. Grundy—because "the times cannot bear them." It is not alone, he adds, the occasional licence of the dialogue, it is that they will not stand the moral test that is so ridiculously applied to them. The age screws everything up to that. "Idle gallantry in a fiction, a dream, the passing pageant of an evening, startles us in the same way as the alarming indications of profligacy in a son or ward in real life should startle a parent or a guardian. We have no such middle emotions as dramatic interests left." Pursuing this idea, he adds: "We carry our fireside concerns to the theatre with us. We do not go thither like our ancestors, to escape from the pressure of reality so much as to confirm our experience of it; to make assurance double, and take a bond of fate. We must live our toilsome lives twice over, as it was the mournful privilege of Ulysses to descend twice to the shades." Here Lamb with the extraordinary penetration characteristic of that rare mind hit upon one of the principal causes of the bankruptcy of the theatre during the hundred years that were to follow him. We are, even at this moment, struggling to get free from that literal-mindedness which is the soul of materialism and which would fetter us down to what it calls realism and will have no extravagance of thought or language, and for whom an escape into the free speech of the theatre—an escape most necessary and most salutary—is, if you please, filth! "All that neutral ground of character," laments Lamb, "that happy breathing-place from the burthen of a perpetual moral questioning—the sanctuary and quiet Alsatia of hunted Casuistry—is broken up and disenfranchised, as injurious to the interests of society. The privileges of the place are taken away by law. We dare not dally with images, or names, of wrong. We bark like foolish dogs at shadows. We dread infection from the scenic representation of disorder and fear a painted pustule. In our anxiety that our morality should not take cold we wrap it up in a great blanket just out of precaution against the breeze and the sunshine. I confess for myself that (with no great delinquencies to answer for) I am glad of a reason to take an airing beyond the diocese of the strict conscience—not to live always in the precincts of the law courts—but now and then, for a dream-while or so, to imagine a world with no meddling restrictions—to get into recesses whither the hunter cannot follow me." And concludes Lamb, with fine common sense, "I come back to my cage and my restraint, the fresher and more healthy for it. I wear my shackles more contentedly for having respired the breath of an imaginary freedom."

It is not often given to any one man to have said the last word on a subject, but I think that on this question Charles Lamb has said the last word. Modern science lends its support to his judgment. The psycho-analyst is beginning to realise that the damage inflicted by socially necessary inhibitions can only be cured by art. It is to be hoped that we will hear less and less of this canting nonsense of "filth" applied to such noble and beautiful work as Dryden's. It is also to be hoped that the Phœnix Society may have a long life, for in the two productions it has so far given us it has more justified its existence than has any society I know of founded in the last dozen years.

W. J. TURNER

THE FINE ARTS

The National Gallery

THE National Gallery nowadays is a constant source of novelty. The familiar pictures which have been hidden so long are reappearing in brighter and more deliberate surroundings, and we are compelled to see them anew instead of merely battening on our past impressions. Not all the rooms are equally successful in their mural decoration, but nearly everywhere an improvement has been effected on the old gloomy colours. The function of decorations in a gallery is unostentatiously to show the works of art in the best contemporary light. For it is one of the paradoxes of classical art that, although its beauty is immortal, each generation sees this beauty from its own point of view. In fact, the immortality consists precisely in the possibility of continual recreation, and the environment is an outward assistance to such a process. Mr. C. J. Holmes is only obeying the spirit of the period in introducing the clear colours of full daylight. It is to be hoped that the British Museum authorities will follow suit and make their sculpture rooms slightly more exhilarating.

Among the most interesting recent additions are the purchases made at the sale of the Degas Collection in 1918. Many of them have been exhibited already for some time, but a few have only appeared lately, and several are still in the background. The later appearances include the large and rather prosaic study of soldiers, by Manet, and a finely-drawn but photographically-painted portrait by Ingres. In the neighbourhood of the Manet is an interesting comparison between two Corots, one painted in Italy early in his career, the other in his later, more typical period. The early landscape reveals an aspect of Corot that is little known in England. The conception has a clearness and thoroughness that is often lacking in his twilight fantasies, which are inclined to be stereotyped. From the Studd Bequest we have two interesting but oversweet figure and landscape sketches by Puvis de Chavannes.

Our collection of French paintings is growing, but we want many more—if not permanently, then on loan; why not?

The most notable English additions during 1919 are the three Whistlers from the Studd Bequest. The Lady with the Fan is inclined to be sentimental; the River Nocturne has considerable charm, but it is on too large a scale for so slender a theme. The Nocturne with the fireworks is the most nearly perfect.

When the rearrangement of the Gallery is complete many pictures may have to be kept downstairs. There are several at present on view in the English rooms which one hopes will be reserved for the curious and the importunate. There is also a large and unfortunate compilation by Holman Hunt hung in one of the approaches which might be better elsewhere.

The new El Greco is a very important acquisition, although it was probably not a quarter the price of the family group by Romney. It contains the quintessence of El Greco's nervously hard and dramatically intense vision (no, Mr. Roger Fry,[29] not melodramatic!), and it is not subject to exotic Venetian influences, as is his other composition on the same wall. It has been carefully cleaned, and the result is a triumph. Apparently under the old blackened varnish the colours were preserved with all their original purity and poignancy. The picture looks as though it were painted yesterday. In another sense too it is very modern. I say this reluctantly because I am opposed to an arbitrary division into ancient and modern, which implies an unwarranted depreciation of the "ancient." Obviously the "modern" is a mere passing phase, a torch which is hurried through the darkened rooms of the past, lighting up now this room, now that. It is in fact a question of temporary interest and relevancy, not of objective merit, although the latter may only be fully understood through the medium of the former.

[29] Mr. Fry is compelled to admit a dramatic content. But, he says, it is "melodramatic" (implying it should not be there). This is a subtle evasion. For what if it were not melodramatic?

Recent Sculpture by Jacob Epstein: Leicester Galleries

Mr. Epstein is a great portrait sculptor. He has a wonderful power of "living into" his models. He produces not only a likeness, but also that kind of likeness which we can enjoy without knowing the original, and in a certain sense even more than the original when known. For he sees what we should scarcely be able to see without his vigorous assistance. Standing before one of his portrait heads we have the consciousness of some magnetising influence, evoking all kinds of subterranean thoughts and emotions; we are drawn out of ourselves into our external objective vortex.

It is objective and yet essentially the creation of Mr. Epstein's "realistic" vision. Realistic is a difficult and dangerous word, but we know what is meant by it, although often when we try to explicate that knowledge still further we arrive at something which the word does not, or should not, or need not, mean. It should not mean, for instance, photographic, or immoral, or ugly. It may contain a consciousness of all these elements without being them, for to be conscious of them surely means to supersede and dominate them. "Realistic," of course, might be extended so as to cover everything, but in the present instance of ordinary usage it is limited to one particular aspect of things, which, curiously enough, is rather a negative than a positive one. It is the positive consciousness of negatives such as difficulty, failure, struggle, pain: it is the intense and overpowering desire to know them fully, to drain the imaginative experience of them to the dregs, because once they have taken a hold on our awareness, only by that means can we triumph over them.

Not only does Mr. Epstein endeavour to bring home to himself and to us in his character studies a sense of individualised conflict (though he is never gloomy), he often approves of sternness and ruggedness as good in themselves; he enjoys the titanic groping of life. And it is perfectly true that without some sort of a fight existence would be hopelessly inert and hyper-æsthetic; but we do want sometimes the calm and untroubled pleasure of attainment. Indeed only the complete process conjoining the two opposites is completely good, yet we inevitably stress now the one, now the other facet, placing in the centre of our consciousness either the fact of struggle and failure or the fact of success: for art is itself part of the process. And Mr. Epstein's art stresses the "realistic" side, not only in the sense that he is in desire revolting from it, but also that he appreciates it, enjoying the process as much as the arrival at the goal. For instance, he has made several studies of his own baby, over whom he has kept his head severely. Indeed he seems to have been too ferociously interested in the animalism and precocious ugliness of a small baby to have been at all tempted to idealise; at the same time he is impressed with the baby's vigour and vitality.

Sometimes it seems to me he loses sight of the whole in the elaboration of expressive detail. In the bust of Lord Fisher in the War Museum Exhibition he has obviously attempted to produce the leathery, wrinkled texture of an old man's skin, because he saw it as a significant feature. But in the effort to get this difficult effect he has lost sight of the significance and produced a mere verisimilitude of wrinkledness. Similarly in his Christ, the feature which arrests us most is the clay-like gruesomeness of the loosened wrappings. We shudder at the faint suggestion of decomposition and we are wounded by the slit in the opened palm of the hand. But practically the whole force of the composition has spent itself in these subsidiary details.

Paintings by Duncan Grant: Wm. B. Paterson and Carfax & Co. Ltd., 5 Old Bond Street

This is a very important exhibition, and confirms the report which has been current for some time that Mr. Duncan Grant is an artist of unusual originality. I am deliberately emphatic, not only because I am very enthusiastic about some of these pictures, but also because I feel sure that many people will have been "put off" from the first by a few of them, in which Mr. Duncan Grant, under the influence of the modern abstractionist and pattern-making theories, has taken undue liberties with the human body. Even in these pictures there is much that is very fine, but it is quite independent of the stupid distortions which only have a marring or comic effect. But consider, for instance, the Still Life No. 23, Bowl, Skull, and Jar. Whatever other criticism may be levelled against it, it is immune from the charge of arbitrariness. Personally, I have nothing but praise for it, as being a magnificent piece of lyrical painting. There are several other pictures—landscapes, still lives, interiors—possessing the same exquisite qualities, notably Nos. 2, 4, 7, 9, 12, 21. The last named, styled Juggler and Tight Rope Walker, which is in many ways the most brilliant of the whole collection, does evince here and there a certain exaggeration. This, however, can be overlooked because it does not rivet our attention.

On the other hand, in No. 29, Venus and Adonis, the placing of the lady's neck on her left-hand shoulder, with the consequent elongation of the right-hand shoulder, stirs up in our minds a whole swarm of general reflections, so that our æsthetic enjoyment of other real values in the picture is practically swamped. It is true that in caricatures we allow without cavil all sorts of liberties. But only because the result is expressive, and actually where we appreciate the caricature we do not notice any distortion, we see the work as convincingly true.

The Black Country. Drawings by Edward Wadsworth: The Leicester Galleries. (January.)

Mr. Wadsworth has almost found himself in his Black Country pictures, or better he has found a real object which coincides with his particular "vorticist" predilection. Continually is he obsessed with a certain forked-lightning pattern which zigzags over the world. Where it does not he often puts it there and, partially removing the world, leaves a pattern. However, in the slag heaps and belching chimneys and curved canals and splintered roofs of the Black Country, at any rate sometimes, this pattern comes back to earth, and the result is a striking picture. Vorticism and Futurism, in so far as they are art tendencies, represent the scientist and business man of the nineteenth century emerging painfully into emotional expression. Mr. Wadsworth and the "Futurists" have not been the first to discover science and industry artistically, but hitherto stress has been laid on the general impressiveness, the mystery and atmospheric volume of the subject. Mr. Wadsworth's particular contribution concerns the sheer joy in brutal mechanical movement and in the deadly bulk and solidity of industrial products and by-products. His best drawings are of ladle slag heaps, consisting of metallic-looking boulders hurled out into a desolation that yet teems with the energy that made and discarded them.

*      *      *      *      *

We have to congratulate Mr. D. Y. Cameron and Mr. George Henry on their election as Associates of the Royal Academy.

HOWARD HANNAY

MUSIC

THE RESURRECTION OF AN OPERA

IT was Dr. Vaughan Williams who, sometime about 1912 or 1913, suggested Purcell's opera The Fairy Queen for performance at Cambridge. In 1911 Mr. Clive Carey and a few others had organised at Cambridge a performance of The Magic Flute. Mozart's last and greatest work for the stage was in those days not so familiar to English audiences as it is now. It had not been seen in this country, as far as I am aware, since it was given by the students of the Royal College of Music about twenty years ago. That it should be attempted by Cambridge amateurs was regarded as preposterous—even Covent Garden had shied at it. But the promoters of the Cambridge opera were less nervous. If they had confidence, it was a confidence in Mozart and in the opera rather than in themselves. They knew the opera intimately enough to have convinced themselves that the chief difficulty of The Magic Flute lay not in the extreme compass of the two parts of Sarastro and the Queen of Night, but first in the necessity for a clear and logical exposition of the story, secondly in the complication of the ensemble numbers, and thirdly perhaps in the psychology of what is really the most difficult part of all, the Orator (Der Sprecher). If singers could be found who were prepared to sing the parts of Gabriel and Raphael in The Creation, they could make at least a decent show of Sarastro and the Queen. Ensemble singing was merely a matter of musicianship and hard work; the personality of the Orator was of necessity a question largely of luck in finding the right man and coaching him intelligently. The producers of the Cambridge performance were guided by two principles, to aim at clearness and unity of style rather than at magnificence, and to pin their faith to a great dramatic composer rather than to a star cast.

The reception given to The Magic Flute encouraged them to consider the possibility of performing another opera in 1914. Several operas had been passed in review when Dr. Vaughan Williams made his brilliant suggestion, a suggestion which was very quickly adopted. The opera was prepared for performance and put into rehearsal in the summer of 1914, with a view to bringing it out in December of that year. The musical portions of the first three acts were well in hand and most of the dresses designed at the moment when war was declared. As soon as the war was definitely over, and Cambridge had begun to resume something of its normal aspect, the opera was resumed, although a bare half-dozen of the original cast remained, and The Fairy Queen was finally presented for the first time to a modern audience on February 10th of this year.

Purcell and Shakespeare

It may be of interest to those who witnessed the performance to learn something of the peculiar problems which confronted the producers and of the principles on which they tried to solve them. The only material available at that time was the Purcell Society's full score and a copy of the original libretto of 1692. The British Museum possessed also the second edition of the libretto (1693). The first thing to do was to prepare and print an acting version and a vocal score. It must not be supposed that The Fairy Queen is an opera in the modern sense, like Dido and Æneas. It is an abridged and altered version of A Midsummer-Night's Dream, into each act of which is introduced a sort of ballet-divertissement with songs and choruses. These musical episodes have practically nothing to do with the play. In Act I. Titania enters with her fairies and orders music to entertain the Indian Boy. This is interrupted by the appearance of a drunken poet, who is blindfolded and pinched by the fairies. In Act II., instead of "Ye Spotted Snakes," there is a long allegorical scene introducing Night, Secrecy, Mystery, and Sleep. In Act III. a divertissement of a broadly comic character is commanded by Titania for the amusement of Bottom. In Act IV. Oberon summons up a pageant of Phœbus and the Four Seasons in honour of his reconciliation with Titania, and lastly the fairies provide in Act V. the most magnificent and extravagant show of all to celebrate the nuptials of Theseus and Hippolyta. It will be seen that there is a certain amount of dramatic reason and also of artistic unity and contrast about these musical episodes. The first, for the Indian Boy, is fantastic and childlike; the second, for Titania, voluptuous and mysterious; the third, for Bottom, half-comic and half-erotic; the fourth, for Oberon, is a sort of Sun-God's festival; the last, for Theseus and Hippolyta, an epithalamium.

The first difficulty to be faced was that of the Shakespeare dialogue, which is all spoken, not sung. Should the librettist's textual alterations be kept, or the original restored? Had the textual alterations been violent enough to stamp the whole play as belonging definitely and unmistakably to the age of Dryden we should have had no hesitation in sticking to them. We were quite clear from the start that we meant to produce Purcell's opera and not Shakespeare's play. But the alterations to the text of Shakespeare were just enough to be irritating to an audience whom we assumed to be familiar with Shakespeare, and troublesome to actors who were probably in the same case. The chances were that the actors would forget the alterations here and there and return unconsciously to the original, and that the audience would merely suppose that they had not learnt their parts properly. Besides, the opera was so long that drastic cuts were imperative. Here again we at once decided that as far as was practicable it should be Shakespeare and not Purcell that was to be cut. We therefore started by restoring the original text of Shakespeare in all the scenes which had not been cut altogether by the librettist, and then proceeded to prune the Shakespeare down until we had reached either our time-limit or the limit of intelligibility. The latter was reached first, and on that we proceeded to cut down Purcell. An obvious course was to adopt the version of 1692, rejecting the scene of the Drunken Poet, and the two songs, Ye Gentle Spirits and The Plaint, which were added in 1693. But the scene of the Drunken Poet was too good to throw away. The two songs we abandoned with some reluctance on account of their singular beauty; but they could easily be spared from the point of view of the stage. Indeed The Plaint would have been impossible to accept; it is dragged in for no reason by special request of Oberon, and is not only extremely long, but profoundly melancholy and totally inappropriate to the cheerful atmosphere of the Epithalamium.

One of the librettist's alterations was to transfer the whole of Pyramus and Thisbe to the rehearsal scene in the wood. The players act it "in our habits as we shall play it before the Duke," and the interruptions of Theseus and the rest are assigned to Puck. Here again we restored the original, if only to save time. The idea then occurred to us to save the play by having it acted in dumb show during the Entry Dance of Act V. This solved the problem of what to do with this particular dance-tune; it gave us additional time to prepare the Chinese scene behind the tableau-curtain, it saved the time occupied by the play, and spared us the very tedious mirth of all the knockabout business which in A Midsummer-Night's Dream has now become traditional. Further, it brought the clowns in again at the appropriate moment, and, what was more important, it associated Shakespeare more closely with Purcell's music. The little pantomime was worked out at rehearsal entirely by the actors themselves. They first walked through the directions of the Pyramus and Thisbe play; then the music was played and the action tried with it. No further alteration was needed at subsequent rehearsals, for it so happened that every one of the actors was musical, and they stepped and moved to Purcell's notes by natural instinct.

There remained still a few bits of music to be disposed of. In the seventeenth century people had to sit in the theatre for a long time before the play began, and to pass the time a concert was provided, consisting of a First Musick, or Second Musick, and lastly the Overture. Under modern conditions it would have been more in accordance with the spirit of Purcell to send our orchestra out into the street to play the First and Second Musick to the queue that was waiting to enter the pit and gallery, but since we could not imagine that police regulations would permit this, we utilised the four little pieces at different points as incidental music to the play. In so doing we knew that we were untrue to the strict traditions of Purcell's day; but we did not wish to cut these pieces out altogether, and we further thought that they would help to Purcellize the Shakespeare. We were somewhat surprised to find that several of the audience seemed to expect A Midsummer-Night's Dream in its entirety, once the play had started. Our assumption, which apparently was wrong, was that everybody knew Shakespeare's play practically by heart, and that we need do no more than just indicate its outlines, leaving the rest to be filled up by the imagination under the inspiration of Purcell's music.

Purcell and His Orchestra

The opera is scored for the usual Purcell band. In the big instrumental numbers two trumpets, kettle-drums, and two hautboys are added to the string. A few numbers have two flutes, but flutes and hautboys never occur simultaneously, which leads me to think that in Purcell's days the flutes and hautboys were generally played by the same players. The solos are accompanied sometimes by violins and bass in three parts, more often by the harpsichord and bass alone, the other instruments playing no more than the ritornelli. On the question of orchestration we never had a moment's hesitation. We were determined from the very first that we would not add a single note to Purcell's score. This meant, of course, that a very serious responsibility would be thrown on the harpsichord. We had experimented once with a harpsichord in a Bach Concerto at a concert, with the very embarrassing discovery that the harpsichord player could hardly hear a note that he played, while the unfortunate conductor could hear nothing else but the harpsichord. To the audience, as a matter of fact, the result was quite satisfactory. The harpsichord in the theatre was a more perilous problem, especially as we were not able to have any rehearsal of any kind in the theatre until the day before the first performance. Would the harpsichord be audible in the audience? Would it be audible on the stage? Would it stay in tune under the very variable conditions of temperature? Would one harpsichord be enough, or ought we to have two, as Hasse had at the Dresden Opera House? Would the harpsichord be monotonous as well as inadequate? Ought we to have in addition a pianoforte or possibly a harp? We decided to do the very best we could with one harpsichord and chance it. In view of the probability that the harpsichord might become amazingly monotonous, the harpsichord part was considered with the greatest possible care and no pains spared to make it as varied, as effective, and as expressive as possible. Once in the theatre, the instrument was tried in various positions until the right place for it was found. It was clearly audible both on the stage and in all parts of the house without ever becoming too insistent. Here I must say how deeply we were indebted to the sensitive musicianship of the player, an undergraduate in his first year, who, although he had never placed his fingers on a harpsichord until about a fortnight before the performance, was gifted with exactly that fine sense of scholarship in music which is the first essential of the complete maestro al cembalo.

EDWARD J. DENT

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THE LONDON

MERCURY

Editor—J. C. SQUIRE        Assistant-Editor—EDWARD SHANKS

Vol. I No. 6                          April 1920

EDITORIAL NOTES

LAST month we referred here to the fact that a deputation was to wait on Mr. Fisher to press the claim of the drama to State encouragement. The deputation, which included critics, actors, and representatives of all the most important societies concerned, was received on March 13th. Whatever may or may not come of it, its mere reception in Whitehall is an event which marks an important step in the evolution of the official attitude towards the drama, which, until recently, was conceived as a thing with which the State had no relations save that of blue-penciller. For this we may chiefly thank the new and vigorous British Drama League and its secretary, Mr. Geoffrey Whitworth. Several resolutions were laid before the Minister. With some of the proposals commended to him he had, as Minister of Education, nothing to do; but his reply to the deputation was very sympathetic in tone and showed full cognisance of the part that dramatic representation might play in national life.

We do not propose to dwell at length upon all the suggestions which, tentatively or confidently, were made by the deputation or the Conference which instructed it. One of them we frankly dislike, and that is the proposal that the Universities should recognise the new status of the drama by establishing faculties of the drama. Those who propose this cannot mean merely that our dramatic inheritance should be studied as literature; for the encouragement of such study falls within the scope of the English schools, which are becoming more important and more intelligently conducted every year. They cannot mean, either, we suppose, that dramatic representation should be encouraged; that is not the job of a faculty unless a Doctorate or Baccalaureate of Histrionics be contemplated. They can only intend that a theoretical and practical training in the dramatist's art should be given, that a scientific study of the principles—technics or some such thing would be the word—of dramatic writing, based on the analysis of admitted masterpieces and (perhaps) admitted failures, should be followed, or accompanied, by the writing, under surveillance, of new dramatic works. It is conceivable. We met recently a lady who had won the Doctorate of Philosophy in an American University. She had nothing about her of the grey sobriety of the metaphysician or the ethicist; and, questioned, she stated that she had taken her degree in the School of Short-Story Writing. Well, we know those American academic treatises on short-story writing: champion instruments for taking the bloom off any work of art and killing the artistic impulses of any student simple enough to surrender himself to them. And though we do not know, and we don't think posterity will know, the plays written by those graduates of American Universities who have gone out into the world as dramatic writers of approved competence, we have seen some of the manuals on which they also have pastured: manuals admirable only as subjects for burlesque. In the teaching of literature criticism of the drama, examination (if you like) of the elements of dramatic construction, has its place with other forms of criticism; the history of the drama with other sorts of history. There is no harm done, and a certain stimulus may be given to the talented, if students are encouraged to write "original" works, and if a certain amount of academic credit is given for such works. But a school of dramatic production, or of novel-writing, or of poetical composition ... may we be saved from that! The way in which teachers may develop dramatic, as other literary, talent is by encouraging the intelligent reading of good literature, and by demonstrating the grand truth that its roots lie in life fearlessly observed and passionately felt.

The more amateur dramatic performance—of works which have some imaginative quality in them—the better. If the Board of Education, which has already (we think) done a good deal to encourage both music and mimetics in the schools, can still further humanise the curriculum, all the richer will be the community, all the more amusing will be the lives of the children, and, in the end, all the richer will be our art. The Universities may probably be left to take care of themselves. Very likely a word of encouragement from a Minister of Education, a Prime Minister, or an Archbishop of Canterbury might in some places remove obscurantist opposition or secure facilities which have not been forthcoming. But young men are not children. They can arrange things for themselves, with the assistance of sympathetic and not necessarily official elders. And that the junior members of the Universities, since the war, have been taking with a new zest to dramatic production is a matter of common observation. If we go no farther than Oxford and Cambridge we have seen during the present term—eight weeks old as we write—the successful production of Mr. Hardy's Dynasts by the O.U.D.S., and at Cambridge the Marlowe Society's production of The White Devil and the revival of Purcell's Faerie Queene, organised by Dr. Rootham, Mr. Clive Carey, and Mr. Dent. This last was an imposing operation: a large acting cast, a ballet, an orchestra, dresses and scenery were supplied by junior members of the University and local ladies. Next term the A.D.C. are performing a modern comedy, and Comus is amongst the other things mooted for May Week. Organisation from above is nothing as good as this, especially if it takes the form of organisation of an academic course.

But the place of the drama in education is too large and difficult a subject to be dealt with in detail here: what we do wish to say a few words about is what, after all, was the main object of the deputation's visit to Whitehall, though it had little to do with the Minister of Education, as such—we mean the National Theatre. It was to this that the speakers for the deputation, particularly Dr. Courtney and Sir Sidney Lee, chiefly addressed themselves. Here also we have a subject which invites extended treatment if we begin to contemplate the possible relations between public authorities generally and the drama. It is reported that in South London a Town Council desires to give help out of the rates to the new operatic venture at the Surrey Theatre; and before long we shall probably hear suggestions that where local authorities wish to maintain theatrical enterprises they should obtain grants-in-aid from the Government. That is a large and a complicated, not to say a controversial, matter. But the National Theatre question can be strictly localised. All we need ask is: Ought there, or ought there not, to be a permanently endowed institution in London where the best English plays should be produced regardless of commercial risks, and ought, or ought not, the State to lend its moral and financial support to such an institution? And since there exists already a National Theatre Fund, which has acquired a site for a playhouse, we are faced ultimately with the question whether the Government should take a direct financial and administrative interest in that scheme.

The National Theatre scheme grew out of the preparations for commemorating the Tercentenary of Shakespeare's death—which fell in 1916, during the war. In 1904 a committee was organised, and in 1905 it was resolved, at a Mansion House meeting, to collect funds for an architectural memorial and, if possible, for a small theatre in which Elizabethan and other plays could be performed. In 1908 another Mansion House meeting was held, at which it was proposed to erect a statue in Portland Place (so convenient because it is very wide and nobody ever goes there) at a cost of not less than £100,000. Such an expenditure on such an object horrified a great many people. For some time—notably after the publication of an admirable book by Messrs. Granville Barker and William Archer—interest had been growing in the proposal for a National Theatre. The £100,000 statue scheme naturally led to the suggestion that a theatre would be a better memorial than a statue, and that two birds could be killed with one stone if the National Theatre were to be the Shakespeare Memorial. The notion was accepted; the two movements were amalgamated; and a fund for a Shakespeare Memorial Theatre was opened by a committee of which Lord Plymouth was chairman and Sir Israel Gollancz secretary. The public appeal was not so successful as it might have been. By 1910 the sum of £90,000 had been collected, of which £70,000 came from a single donor, Sir Carl Meyer. The committee spent £61,000 on a site in Gower Street, from which a certain revenue has since been received. Then came the war. The collection of money stopped, and it has not (so far as we are aware) been made clear to the public what the committee has been doing since the Armistice, what it proposes to do in the near future, and when it intends to make a bid for the rest of the four or five or (it may now be) six or seven hundred thousand that is required for the erection and endowment of a theatre.

Now it is evident that sooner or later the project must be resumed and a further appeal made to the public. It is possible that this appeal will be more successful than the last. After all, we hear of twenty new millionaires in Bradford alone, and any one of these could contribute a large portion of the whole sum required, thereby earning fame and, very likely, a public honour better deserved than some. It is obvious on the face of it that if the Government is known to look on the scheme with a benevolent eye its chances of success will be brighter. Is it impossible that, should the whole sum not be raised from private persons, the Government should guarantee a subsidy? This would, of course, involve some measure of Government control, and the presence of Government representatives on the permanent body of Trustees, who would sit there precisely as do the two Government directors recently appointed to the Board of a Cellulose Company. We say this without prejudice to the general question of the relations between the community and the theatre. The idea has been mooted that municipalities should subsidise theatres and that the Government should assist them with grants-in-aid. It is attractive, and a Whitehall Committee might well be appointed to explore it. But the National Theatre is a distinct and peculiar proposal. What we desire is that there should be in the capital one house with a position resembling that of the Comédie Française, or the Old Imperial Opera House in Petrograd, a house devoted to the production of good plays, provided with a stock company, and guaranteed against all the fluctuations of fortune. In brief, the revival of the English classic plays should be systematised. It should not be left to chance whether an Englishman should live and die without having an opportunity of seeing a competent, or indeed any, performance of Troilus and Cressida, of Marlowe's Faustus, of The Duchess of Malfi, of The Critic, of The Knight of the Burning Pestle, of The Way of the World, of The Broken Heart: to mention but a few of the interesting plays that ordinary managers can scarcely ever be expected to put on. For the ordinary manager must almost always build on hopes of a long run. These plays probably would not hold the stage for long runs; and if one of them did have a long run, it would only mean that during that run no other play would be visible at the theatre where it was being produced. Some of Shakespeare's plays have scarcely any prospect of being produced in our time in a London theatre, save only at the "Old Vic.," which has so finely struggled for existence, and so gloriously (though how far does its permanence rest on the continuance of a single life?) succeeded. Theatres are limited in number. They have become the subjects of violent speculation. Even if a private man with the most ambitious of plans obtained a theatre we should have no guarantee that he would not pass his theatre on next day to somebody who was willing to give him a handsome profit for his lease and hoped to recoup himself by a year's run of revue or American melodrama. We conceive that if publishing houses were like theatres, and could issue only one work at a time, Messrs. Methuen (we hope they will allow us to use their name as an illustration) might well be excused if, as between Shakespeare (of whom they publish admirable editions) and Tarzan of the Apes they chose, at this moment, the latter. There is a public for both kinds, but the smaller at any given moment (though over a long period the larger) is very badly catered for in the theatrical world, where everybody is bidding for the great rewards that the larger public can bestow, and is, at present, under the necessity of paying a "shortage" rent, which will not go down unless some prodigiously rich and adventurous syndicate starts building new theatres wholesale.

How far a National Theatre, especially a State-assisted National Theatre, can be expected, or will consider it its duty, to produce new plays of merit is doubtful. If that is one of its functions it will not be its chief function; were it so its work would be the centre of perpetual tempests of controversy, and its controllers would learn what lobbying means. It will have quite enough to do if it concentrates on the systematic revival, on repertory lines, of the best classic plays, with occasional production of foreign plays and of old plays of historical interest. That, surely, is a thing which should be done, a work which should be continually maintained and developed, a work which should as certainly be maintained at the public expense (if necessary) as should, say, the Encyclopædia Britannica or the Dictionary of National Biography, should there ever come a time when no publisher felt able to spare the capital required to keep those great compilations going. After all, what is there to differentiate the cases of these enterprises from that of the British Museum, which nobody, whatever his opinion about public undertakings generally, suggests should be, or ever could be, stablished and maintained on its present scale by private enterprise?

The binding-case for Vol. I. of THE LONDON MERCURY will be ready early in April. The case is of black cloth, with a white label in a sunk panel. It is designed to hold the six numbers plus an eight-page index (which will also be ready early in the month) and minus the six wrappers and the advertisement pages. Binding-cases will be supplied from this office at 3s. 6d. post free. If readers prefer that we should bind their numbers for them, they may send them here and pay an inclusive 6s., which will cover the cost of the case, the work of binding, and the return postage. The volume will be rather a fat one, but we felt that readers would think that twice a year was quite often enough to have this labour imposed on them.

LITERARY INTELLIGENCE

ARTHUR Henry Bullen died suddenly on February 29th, 1920, in his sixty-third year, at Stratford-on-Avon, where he had lived since 1906. He used to say that in his boyhood, as the son of Dr. George Bullen, Keeper of the Printed Books in the British Museum, he ran about the Library and browsed at pleasure, cultivating in his teens a taste (no doubt inherited) not only for the best in literature, but for the best in books too. He went to the City of London School and to Worcester College, Oxford, as a scholar; but, to judge from his mature habits, he must have been almost completely self-educated. A pleasant glimpse of him at Oxford may be seen in Professor Poulton's Viriamu Jones. He was already a man of very wide reading; within a few years of going down from Oxford he began to make himself known as an editor of Elizabethan drama and anthologies. Lyrics from Elizabethan Song-Books and its sequels no doubt are the most popular of his books; he rediscovered Thomas Campion, and poured out reprints of Old English Plays (two series), and the works of John Day, Marlowe, Marston, Middleton, and Peele. To edit a book, however, did not suffice him. For the last decade of the nineteenth century the firm of Lawrence & Bullen published a large number of remarkable works, ancient and modern, including not only familiar successes like Miss Harraden's Ships that Pass in the Night and Mr. W. W. Jacobs' Many Cargoes, half-a-dozen of the novels of George Gissing (a close friend of Bullen's), and early works of Mr. H. G. Wells, Moira O'Neill, and the authors of the Irish R.M., but also sumptuous and beautiful books, such as Botticelli's Illustrations to Dante, William Strang's Death and the Ploughman's Wife, and illustrated translations of Rabelais, Boccaccio, Straparola, Masuccio, and Ser Giovanni. Bullen's special taste was shown in the "Muses' Library," which began with Herrick, and included Keats (with an incomparable introduction by Robert Bridges) and William Blake (edited by W. B. Yeats).

Early in the present century he left the firm to continue publishing under his own name. To this period belong the Irish Plays and Ideas of Good and Evil of Mr. Yeats, whose Celtic Twilight and Secret Rose Bullen took over, with other books, from Lawrence & Bullen Ltd.; and such characteristic contributions to Elizabethan research as Dr. W. W. Greg's edition of Henslowe's Diary and Mr. R. B. McKerrow's Works of Thomas Nashe. In 1903 he dreamed one night that some one offered him a Shakespeare "printed at Stratford-on-Avon"; and within a year he had started the Shakespeare Head Press in order to realise the dream, which resulted in the "Stratford Town" Shakespeare in ten finely-printed volumes. Settling in Stratford, he devoted himself to printing and publishing, chiefly scholarly works of Shakespearean lore; but he also printed the handsome Collected Edition of the works of W. B. Yeats. About 1906, in addition to his other labours, he made a gallant effort as editor of the Gentleman's Magazine to revive its ancient glories, and managed to collect a wide variety of excellent articles. The best memorial to Bullen would be the realisation of a scheme long planned and fostered by him to make the Shakespeare Head Press at Stratford-on-Avon a properly subsidised centre of British Shakespearean scholarship.

In person he bore, especially in later years, a striking resemblance to Mark Twain; indeed, at the time of Mark's last visit to London, Bullen humorously complained of the awkwardness of being publicly recognised as someone else. He loved tramping and rambling—not exactly walking—whether in country or town; and as a young man had acquired a knowledge of the high-roads and antiquities of England and Wales that was outdone only by his extensive and peculiar knowledge of various brewages obtainable along the road. Here is a characteristic piece of Bullen's writing—an Editorial Note in the Gentleman's Magazine in 1906:

Sylvanus Urban, then but a boy, had started from Chepstow on a solitary walking tour, and was soon caught in a rattling thunderstorm on the Wyndcliff. Tintern Abbey and Raglan Castle are fresh in his memory to-day. A mile or two out of Monmouth he came upon some excellent nutty-hearted ale that George Borrow would have immortalised. As he pursued his way to Raglan Castle he pondered on the ale—"this way and that dividing the swift mind"—until at length, in despair of meeting an equal brew, he turned back again and had another tankard. Heavens, what days were those! In his pack he carried the Essays of Elia and read them in an old inn at Llandovery, where the gracious hostess lighted in his honour tall wax candles fit to stand before an altar. After leaving Llandovery, he lost his way among the Caermarthenshire hills, and was in very poor plight with hunger and fatigue when he reached the white-washed walls of Tregaron. At Harlech he rested for a couple of days, and then covered the way to Beddgelert—twenty miles, if he remembers rightly—at a spanking pace; proceeding in the late afternoon to climb Snowdon, and arriving at Llanberis an hour or so before midnight. Back to London, every inch of the way, walked the young Sylvanus. He indulges the hope that he may yet shoulder his pack again.

He read and re-read unendingly; he loved to talk of men and books with a boon companion, pacing to and fro, ruffling his grey mane and smoking continuously. On such occasions he would stagger his friends with an unexpected display of familiarity with recondite literature, or charm them with impromptu quotations, often at great length, declaimed with a loving appreciation of sound and rhythm. Everything that was old and ripe with goodness he loved, whether literature or furniture; in poetry above all his instinct for the best was infallible. In English, from 1550 to his own day, he seemed to have read and judged everything; but the atmosphere of antiquity that he breathed shut him off from appreciating many contemporary writers. He would keep Epictetus by his bedside, and chant Mrs. Browning's Pan while he dressed; he championed Coventry Patmore and could not admire Meredith. His very craftsmanship was antique; he could not ride a bicycle, infinitely preferring to walk; a typewriter was offensive to one who wrote innumerable letters all in his own hand; he did not even shave himself, finding, no doubt, a daily pleasure in visiting the barber. He was equally sound in his judgments on mezzotints or mutton, and preferred old English fare, with beer, to "Frenchified fuss." A chivalrous and generous scholar and gentleman; those who knew him will call to mind the phrase in which Bullen would refer to a dead friend—"now with God."

Mr. G. D. Smith, the prince of book-dealers, died suddenly in America early in the month. He had but recently been in England, and a few days before his death was cabling to England offers for an important library, which he had tracked down just before leaving. It was he who purchased the famous Venus and Adonis for £15,100 in the winter; he bought largely for the Huntingdon Library, and when he, or one of his millionaire clients, really wanted a book in the English salerooms the prices might break records, but there was no doubt about the book's destination. Mr. Smith was not, to put it mildly, a reading man, but he had a wonderful nose for a good thing, and he was an agreeable man to deal with—a good business man, but not one who attempted to trade unduly upon people's ignorance.

POETRY

"Skindle's" in Poperinghe

(The Salient, 1917)

Shut the door, Jameson, shut the blasted door—

The whole road's blocked as far as Elverdinghe.

Four Bridge would hold you up an hour or more

So don't go crashing up to-night, old thing—

What weather! Hall-marked Flanders wind and rain!

Come on inside. My groom will take your mare

Round to the smithy on the Market Square.

Let's have a dekko at the carte again.

It's a posh lunch to-day, Suzanne's a vision,

And the room's lousy with the old Division.

Just now MacMartin stopped me on the street

With news from Amiens. (And Marguerite

Sends you her love. Oh, it's a bonzer war

In cushy billets at the Poisson D'Or!)

Mac is the same old swinger—he "mistook"

His indicated route, and lost his bunch,

Jumped on a tender down from Hazebrouck

And blew in here with Willy Braid for lunch.

They're in the bar with Tupper, back from Blighty,

Capping his yarns of Baths and Aphrodite.

Yes—I go back at dawn. We're on the ridge

Over the Steenbeek by the corduroy bridge,

Past the big pill-box with the double cleft

To the main route stumps on the sky-line—then half-left.

It's about an hour from the lorry-stand, unless

You take the duckboards near the R.E. shaft.

Quicker that way, of course, but badly strafed.

You'll see a stranded tank there—that's the Mess.

What is it like now? Smelly, Jim, and muddy—

Under restraint, I call it fairly bloody.

Nothing like Nieuport. Why, it seems an age—

And yet the year is barely four months older,

Since we got rounds up on the narrow-gauge

And visited Belgian outposts in the polder.

That was the life, old Jimmy! Now it's a black

And gory business, slogging away by pack—

Most of it salvage—while the five-nines crump

Our half-drowned hairies staggering from the dump.

(Well, here's luck, Jim! Gone dry? Why, I'd forgotten—

Another brand, Suzanne! This sweet stuff's rotten.)

There's a new mob to-night about the town—

The whole back area's stiff with guns and troops,

And Proven road's chock-full with "heavy groups"

From six-inch up. They've put the tape-lines down

And moved the forward dumps to Poelcapelle.

Battle-headquarters' somewhere near the Bower,

All day and night we're brassing off like hell—

It's going to be a "Brock's" at zero hour!

The Hun's not loafing though—he's getting windy,

Listen! Even from here you can hear the shindy.

Two nights ago we caught it hell-for-leather.

The new relief had just gone on ahead,

Leaving the altered signal "green-over-red."

There was a little mist, and some soft weather—

All quiet at nine o'clock. Hardly a sound.

I took my gum-boots for a last look round.

Nothing was doing beside the usual cracks

Of long-range shrapnel on the duckboard tracks,

And a crooning eight-inch, humping along a load

Meant for the siding on the Pilkem road.

Clusters of Very lights along the line

Flickered and plunged. They helped my eyes to mark

Our barrage-lines across the battery-arc.

The pools were hoared with silver in the shine.

Peaceful it was. I strolled and smoked and stared—

There came a quickened rumble in the East,

Down the battalion front the lights increased.

Machine guns raved and stuttered. A rocket flared—

Scarlet and golden-rain spouted and spread,

Flares and skysigns and stars, and

Green-over-red!

Watch for it, Sentry! There again. Yes!

Battery-Action! S.O.S.!

Shadowy man after man leaps to a gun.

Flash from the centre—five then flash as one.

All round are flashes, lighting the livid

Faces of straining gun-crews.

Vicious and vivid

Fire spirals and cataracts—knives, spikes

Of fire stabbing the dark. Batters and strikes

On the ears the unutterable, profound

Debauchery of sound—

The roar and clutter and whinny—sustained, obscene

As if the dead beasts of the Pleistocene,

Spawned of the essence

Of ravaged earth's womb and her churned putrescence

Were howling over the mud their lusts unclean.

Then—well, when every hollow's a belching mass

Of wrangling guns, guns bellowing to guns—

You cannot tell a burst of ours from the Huns'—

Suddenly through the cordite I smelt the gas.

Down went the warning through the roar and screech—

The spitting splinters ploughed us like a squall,

Half-blinded gunners wrestled with the breech,

Gas-helmeted, smoke-drenched—you know it all—

Then the five-nines began. A salvo came,

And Number Four went up in a gust of flame.

I thought the whole of the line was smashed and finished—

And then, through the reek of the fog and the dropping mire,

From the right flank, steady and undiminished,

Came the assuring crashes of section-fire,

Timed and checked and re-laid. We groped and plunged

To pull the stricken out. Still droned the steady

Voice of the sergeants at the "set and ready."

Number One, fire! The muzzle flamed and lunged.

Number Two, fire!

By God, those chaps are stunners!

Search France, you'll find no better than my gunners.

But some good men went West—some of the best.

Horses or men, the best must always go—

Jim, it's a mad-blind, lunatic, filthy show—

Destiny's pitch-and-toss made manifest.

I'm sick to death of it.

And yet—and yet

There's a hold somehow in this crazed eclipse

Of the normal orient—a hold that grips—

Nothing in life, I suppose, lacks credit and debt—

The battered brain may hanker for surcease,

But under the brain—its curious—there is peace.

Hold on a bit. Last leave I met a fellow

Who cornered me at the club and hiccupped crude

Optimist zeal and tub-worn platitude—

You know the sort. Slug-bellied, slushy, mellow.

He winked, and wagged his tubby hands, and spouted—

"Break through next time, old boy!" He knew, he knew—

The final trap was laid—the Hun was outed—

He'd had it straight from Jones at G.H.Q.—

And—"Then we'll see you sportsmen back at Dover

Covered with glory—sorry it's all over."

So I let fly. I fed the blaze with faggots—

Hinted that on the whole we liked the Hun—

Roughed out a sketch of charnel-heaps and maggots—

The side of war that isn't sport nor fun;

Flung a few phrases chosen from the camps

At itch-struck females dashing about in cars

To pose in sketchy frills at snide bazaars—

At fat old profiteers and statesmen's ramps—

Oh, yes! I piled it on. He loathed the pill,

And barged his way out, rosy round the gill.

But was the swine half-right? It sounds like bliss

To sleep serene o' nights without surmise

Of S.O.S. lights screaming to the skies,

Deep in the warmth of Blighty out of this—

It sounds like bliss to forget the dug-out's reeking,

The bitter fog in the eyes, the life on a thread,

The crazed crescendo of the mortars seeking

Half-callous living and the unheeding dead,

And drowse in everlasting furloughs, under

The placid roofs of peace-time.

Well, I wonder!

If we get through it—if the Immortals choose

To grant a span again, when this be ended,

Of ordered life, impenetrably fended

By small restraints and sanctions and taboos—

Shall the recovered cares and leisures grip

The flabbier soul, or shall desire return

Back to the dug-out's care-free comradeship

And battle-time's magnificent unconcern

For dim to-morrows? Shall we find, once more,

Peace has its surfeits too as well as War?

Not the drab shadows only we'll remember,

But all the colour there was—the browns and blues

Down the deep shaft of Flemish avenues;

The swaying harvests gold-drenched with September;

And frosty mornings in the Spring retreat

When the scrap opened out, and it was good

To choose a gun-park in the greening wheat

And pitch a hidden tent in Holnon Wood—

Jimmy, old son, it made the pulses dance

To see those Devon daffodils in France!

We shall recall the eager clank and jingle

Of gun-teams on the pavé, moving South,

The long off-saddle in the midday drouth,

"Feed" in the cowslips by the wayside dingle;

The journey's welcome end amid the cool

Clutter of sun-warmed barns and straggling pines;

The urgent fuss around the wagon-lines;

Sweat-roughened horses drinking at the pool—

And then the morning start, with head-chains ringing

Swinging along at ease, the drivers' singing....

And moments better still. I thank the gods

For one white, perfect hour at Conteville,

With Bosches massing on the nearer hill,

And open sights as near as makes no odds.

Young Grant was with us then. The boy was daft,

Blind to the snipers, yelling like the damned:

Oh, good! Oh, bloody good! at every waft

Of three-rounds-gunfire. Then left section jammed,

And back the buzzers' private signal rolled:

Sweat on it, chum! We've got the bastards cold!

Such memories blaze their imprint under the traces

Of darker records on the palimpsest.

The blacker the time the deeper bites the zest

Of sudden sunshine on the open spaces.

There's a rough justice fingering the scale

Where greater guerdons risk the longer price—

Hazard your neck, and savour your cakes and ale—

Seek Eden-fruit, and stake your Paradise.

For though smooth road's good going, Jim—a kiss

Snatched at the edge of Hell is tenfold bliss.

One thing is sure. This crazy round-about

Destroys the introspective attitude.

Action uproots the dreamy Hamlet-mood,

And blithely cuts the yellow throat of Doubt.

Your job is clear before you, catalogued

From dawn to dawn. You cannot miss the greens,

Slice as you will—the fairway lies undogged

By furtive may-be-sos and might-have-beens—

Flank unto flank no hesitation ghosts

The crude commands of Corps Direction-Posts.

Leave it at that, then. On your toes, old son!

Still with a grin for plagues we can't abolish—

The super-fatted Staff; the wily Hun;

The Army's tribal god of Spit-and-Polish.

Blight seize 'em all!

I'll wander now and borrow

A couple of blankets from the R.T.O.,

You can doss down with me an hour or so.

We'll trek together to the guns to-morrow.

Finish your swipes, old Jimmy, while you can—

Walk—March! The blooming ride! Bonne chance,

Suzanne!

L. M. HASTINGS

Nobis cum Pereant

Nobis cum pereant amorum

Et dulcedines et decor,

Tu nostrorum præteritorum,

Anima mundi, sis memor.

On the mind's lonely hill-top lying

I saw man's life go by like a breath,

And Love that longs to be love undying,

Bowed with fear of the void of death.

"If Time be master," I heard her weeping,

"How shall I save the loves I bore?

They are gone, they are gone beyond my keeping—

Anima mundi, sis memor!

"Soul of the World, thou seest them failing—

Childhood's loveliness, child's delight—

Lost as stars in the daylight paling,

Trodden to earth as flowers in fight.

Surely in these thou hast thy pleasure—

Yea! they are thine and born therefor:

Shall they not be with thy hid treasure?—

Anima mundi, sis memor!

"Only a moment we can fold them

Here in the home whose life they are:

Only a moment more behold them

As in a picture, small and far.

Oh, in the years when even this seeming

Lightens the eyes of Love no more,

Dream them still in thy timeless dreaming

Anima mundi, sis memor!"

HENRY NEWBOLT

Beechwood.

Hear me, O beeches! You

That have with ageless anguish slowly risen

From earth's still secret prison

Into the ampler prison of aery blue.

Your voice I hear, flowing the valleys through

After the wind that tramples from the west.

After the wind your boughs in new unrest

Shake, and your voice—one voice uniting voices

A thousand or a thousand thousand—flows

Like the wind's moody; glad when he rejoices

In swift-succeeding and diminishing blows,

And drooping when declines death's ardour in his breast;

Then over him exhausted weaving the soft fan-like noises

Of gentlest creaking stems and soothing leaves

Until he rest,

And silent too your easied bosom heaves.

That high and noble wind is rootless nor

From stable earth sucks nurture, but roams on

Childless as fatherless, wild, unconfined,

So that men say, "As homeless as the wind!"

Rising and falling and rising evermore

With years like ticks, æons as centuries gone;

Only within impalpable ether bound

And blindly with the green globe spinning round.

He, noble wind,

Most ancient creature of imprisoned Time,

From high to low may fall, and low to high may climb,

Andean peak to deep-caved southern sea,

With lifted hand and voice of gathered sound,

And echoes in his tossing quiver bound

And loosed from height into immensity,

Yet of his freedom tires, remaining free.

—Moulding and remoulding imponderable cloud,

Uplifting skyey archipelagian isles

Sunnier than ocean's, blue seas and white isles

Aflush with blossom where late sunlight glowed—

Still of his freedom tiring yet still free,

Homelessly roaming between sky, earth and sea.

But you, O beeches, even as men, have root

Deep in apparent and substantial things—

Earth, sun, air, water, and the chemic fruit

Wise Time of these has made. What laughing Springs

Your branches sprinkle young leaf-shadows o'er

That wanting the leaf-shadows were no Springs

Of seasonable sweet and freshness! nor

If Summer of your murmur gathered not

Increase of music as your leaves grow dense,

Might even kine and birds and general noise of wings

Of summer make full Summer, but the hot

Slow moons would pass and leave unsatisfied the sense.

Nor Autumn's waste were dear if your gold snow

Of leaves whirled not upon the gold below;

Nor Winter's snow were loveliness complete

Wanting the white drifts round your breasts and feet.

To hills how many has your tossed green given

Likeness of an inverted cloudy heaven;

How many English hills enlarge their pride

Of shape and solitude

By beechwoods darkening the steepest side!

I know a Mount—let there my longing brood

Again, as oft my eyes—a Mount I know

Where beeches stand arrested in the throe

Of that last onslaught when the gods swept low

Against the gods inhabiting the wood.

Gods into trees did pass and disappear,

Gigantic beeches opened and received,

Then closing, body and huge members heaved

With energy and agony and fear.

See how the thighs were strained, how tortured here.

See, limb from limb sprung, pain too sore to bear.

Eyes once looked from those sockets that no eyes

Have worn since—oh, with what desperate surprise!

These arms, uplifted still, were raised in vain

Against alien triumph and the inward pain.

Unlock your arms, and be no more distressed,

Let the wind glide over you easily again.

It is a dream you fight, a memory

Of battle lost. And how should dreaming be

Still a renewed agony?

But O, when that wind comes up out of the west

New-winged with Autumn from the distant sea

And springs upon you, how should not dreaming be

A remembered and renewing agony?

Then are your breasts, O unleaved beeches, again

Torn, and your thighs and arms with the old strain

Stretched past endurance; and your groans I hear

Low bent beneath the hoofs by that fierce charioteer

Driven clashing over; till even dreaming is

Less of a present agony than this.

Fall gentler sleep upon you now, while soft

Airs circle swallow-like from hedge to croft

Below your lowest naked-rooted troop.

Let evening slowly droop

Into the middle of your boughs and stoop

Quiet breathing down to your scarce-quivering side

And rest there satisfied.

Yet sleep herself may wake

And through your heavy unlit dome, O Mount of beeches, shake.

Then shall your massy columns yield

Again the company all day concealed....

Is it their shapes that sweep

Serene within the ambit of the Moon

Sentinel'd by shades slow-marching with moss-footed hours that creep

From dusk of night to dusk of day—slow-marching, yet too soon

Approaching morn? Are these their grave

Remembering ghosts?

... Already your full-foliaged branches wave,

And the thin failing hosts

Into your secrecies are swift withdrawn

Before the certain footsteps of the dawn.

But you, O beeches, even as men have root

Deep in apparent and substantial things.

Birds on your branches leap and shake their wings,

Long ere night falls the soft owl loosens her slow hoot

From the unfathomed fountains of your gloom.

Late western sunbeams on your broad trunks bloom,

Levelled from the low opposing hill, and fold

Your inmost conclave with a burning gold.

... Than those night-ghosts awhile more solid, men

Pass within your sharp shade that makes an arctic night

Of common light,

And pause, swift measuring tree by tree; and then

Paint their vivid mark,

Ciphering fatality on each unwrinkled bark

Across the sunken stain

That every season's gathered streaming rain

Has deepened to a darker grain.

You of this fatal sign unconscious lift

Your branches still, each tree her lofty tent;

Still light and twilight drift

Between, and lie in wan pools silver sprent.

But comes a day, a step, a voice, and now

The repeated stroke, the noosed and tethered bough,

The sundered trunk upon the enormous wain

Bound kinglike with chain over chain,

New wounded and exposed with each old stain.

And here small pools of doubtful light are lakes

Shadowless and no more that rude bough-music wakes.

So on men too the indifferent woodman, Time,

Servant of unseen Master, nearing sets

His unread symbol—or who reads forgets;

And suns and seasons fall and climb,

Leaves fall, snows fall, Spring flutters after Spring,

A generation a generation begets.

But comes a day—though dearly the tough roots cling

To common earth, branches with branches sing—

And that obscure sign's read, or swift misread,

By the indifferent woodman or his slave

Disease, night-wandered from a fever-dripping cave.

No chain's then needed for no fearful king,

But light earth-fall on foot and hand and head.

Now, thick as stars leaves shake within the dome

Of faintly-glinting dusking monochrome;

And stars thick hung as leaves shake unseen in the round

Of darkening blue: the heavenly branches wave without a sound,

Only betrayed by fine vibration of thin air.

Gleam now the nearer stars and ghosts of farther stars that bare,

Trembling and gradual, brightness everywhere....

When leaves fall wildly and your beechen dome is thinned,

Showered glittering down under the sudden wind;

And when you, crowded stars, are shaken from your tree,

In time's late season stripped, and each bough nakedly

Rocks in those gleamless shallows of infinity;

When star-fall follows leaf-fall, will long Winter pass away

And new stars as new leaves dance through their hasty May?

But as a leaf falls so falls weightless thought

Eddying, and with a myriad dead leaves lies

Bewildered, or in a little air awhile is caught

Idly, then drops and dies.

Look at the stars, the stars? But in this wood

All I can understand is understood.

Gentler than stars your beeches speak; I hear

Syllables more simple and intimately clear

To earth-taught sense, than the heaven-singing word

Of that intemperate wisdom which the sky

Shakes down upon each unregarding century,

There lying like snow unstirred,

Unmelting, on the loftiest peak

Above our human and green valley ways.

Lowlier and friendlier your beechen branches speak

To men of mortal days

With hearts too fond, too weak

For solitude or converse with that starry race.

Their shaken lights,

Their lonely splendours and uncomprehended

Dream-distance and long circlings 'mid the heights

And deeps remotely neighboured and attended

By spheres that spill their fire through these estranging nights:—

Ah, were they less dismaying, or less splendid!

But as one deaf and mute sees the lips shape

And quiver as men talk, or marks the throat

Of rising song that he can never hear,

Though in the singer's eyes her joy may dimly peer,

And song and word his hopeless sense escape—

Sweet common word and lifted heavenly note—

So, beneath that bright rain,

While stars rise, soar, and stoop,

Dazzled and dismayed I look and droop

And, blinded, look again.

"Return, return!" O beeches sing you then.

I like a tree wave all my thoughts with you,

As your boughs wave to other tossed boughs when

First in the windy east the dawn looks through

Night's soon-dissolving bars.

Return, return? But I have never strayed:

Hush, thoughts, that for a moment played

In that enchanted forest of the stars

Where the mind grows numb.

Return, return?

Back, thoughts, from heights that freeze and deeps that burn,

Where sight fails and song's dumb.

And as, after long absence, a child stands

In each familiar room

And with fond hands

Touches the table, casement, bed,

Anon, each sleeping, half-forgotten toy;

So I to your sharp light and friendly gloom

Returning, with first pale leaves round me shed,

Recover the old joy

Since here the long-acquainted hill-path lies,

Steeps I have clambered up, and spaces where

The Mount opens her bosom to the air

And all around gigantic beeches rise.

JOHN FREEMAN

Shobeensho

(From the Irish Gaelic)

For my Granddaughter Jenny

O not as the wife of a churl would wrap you,

In coarse country woollens so roughly to hap you;

Between two sheets of the silk I'll lay you,

A cradle of gold in the wind to sway you.

I'd rock you to rest, my bright new-comer,

One dreamy day in the height of summer,

Under the eaves of whispering leaves,

Drowsed by the drone of the wee bee-drummer.

May a dream of delight steal into your slumber;

Till evening makes way for the Starry Number,

And with God's bright angels around to mind you,

No finger of death I pray may find you!

ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES

Storm and Stars

Naked night; black elms, pallid and streaming sky?

Alone with the passion of the wind,

In a hollow of stormy sound lost and alone am I,

On beaten earth a lost, unmated mind,

Marvelling at the stars, few, strange and bright,

That all this dark assault of surging air,

Wrenching the rooted wood, hunting the cloud of night,

As if it would tear all and nothing spare,

Leaves supreme in the height.

Against what laws, what laws, what powers invisible,

Sought not, yet always found,

Cries this dumb passion, strains this wrestle of wild will,

With tiger-leaps that seem to shake the ground?

Is it the baffled, homeless, rebel wind's crying,

Or storm from a profounder passion wrung?

Ah, heart of man, is it you, the old powers defying,

By far desires, by terrible beauty stung,

Broken on laws unseen, in a starry world dying,

Ignorant, tameless, young?

LAURENCE BINYON

THE FORESHORE OF LONDON

By H. M. TOMLINSON

IT begins on the north side of the City, at Poverty Corner. It begins imperceptibly, and very likely is no more than what a native knows is there. It does not look like a foreshore. It looks like another of the byways of the capital. There is nothing to distinguish it from the rest of Fenchurch Street. You will not find it in the directory, for its name is only a familiar bearing used by seamen among themselves. If a wayfarer came upon it from the west, he might stop to light a pipe (as well there as anywhere) and pass on, guessing nothing of what it is and of its memories. And why should he? London is built of such old shadows; and while we are here casting our own there is not much time to turn and question what they fall upon. Yet if some unreasonable doubt, a suspicion that he was being watched, made a stranger hesitate at that corner, he might begin to feel that London there was as different from Bayswater and Clapham as though deep water intervened. In a sense deep water does; and not only the sea, but legends of ships that have gone, and of the men who knew them, and traditions of a service older than anything Whitehall knows, though still as lively as enterprise itself, and as recent as the ships which moved on to-day's high water.

In a frame outside one of its shops hangs a photograph of a sailing ship. The portrait is so large and the beauty of the subject so evident that it might have been the cause of the stranger stopping there to fill his pipe. Yet how could he know that to those groups of men loitering about the name of that ship is as familiar as Suez or Rio, even though they have never seen her? They know her as well as they know their business. They know her house-flag—it is indistinguishable in the picture—and her master, and it is possible the oldest of them remembers the Clippers of that fleet of which she alone now carries the emblem; for this is not only another year, but another era. But they do not look at her portrait. They spit into the road, or stare across it, and rarely move from where they stand, except to pace up and down as though keeping a watch. At one time, perhaps thirty years ago, it was usual to see gold rings in their ears. It is said that if you wanted a bunch of men to run a little river steamer, with a freeboard of six inches, out to Delagoa Bay, you could engage them all at this corner, or at the taverns just up the turning. The suggestion of such a voyage, in such a ship, would turn us to look on these men in wonder, for it is the way of all but the wise to expect appearance to betray admirable qualities. These fellows, though, are not significant, except that you might think of some of them that their ease and indifference were assumed, and that, when trying not to look so, they were very conscious of the haste and importance of this great city into which that corner jutted far enough for them. They have just landed or they are about to sail again, and they might be standing on the shore eyeing the town beyond, in which the fate of ships is known by those they never see, but who are inimical to them, and whose ways are inscrutable.

If there are any inland shops which can hold one longer than the place where that ship's portrait hangs, then I do not know them. That comes from no more, of course, than the usual fault of an early impression. That fault gives a mould to the mind, and our latest thoughts, which we try to make reasonable, betray that accidental shape. It may be said that I looked into this window while still soft. The consequence, everybody knows, would be incurable in a boy who saw sextants for the first time, compasses, patent logs, sounding-machines, signalling-gear, and the other secrets of navigators. Not only those things, either. There was a section given to books, with classics like Stevens on Stowage, and Norie's Navigation, volumes never seen west of Gracechurch Street. The books were all for the eyes of sailors, and were sorted by chance. Knots and Splices, Typee, Know Your Own Ship, the South Pacific Directory, and Castaway on the Auckland Islands. There were many of them, and they were in that fortuitous and attractive order. The back of every volume had to be read, though the light was bad. On one wall between the windows a specimen chart was framed. Maps are good; but how much better are charts, especially when you cannot read them except by guessing at their cryptic lettering! About the coast line the fathom marks cluster thickly, and venture to sea in lines which attenuate, or become sparse clusters, till the chart is blank, being beyond soundings. At the Capes are red dots, with arcs on the seaward side to show at what distance mariners pick up the real lights at night. Through such windows, boys with bills of lading and mates' receipts in their pockets, being on errands to ship-owners, look outward, and only seem to look inward. Where are the confines of London?

Opposite Poverty Corner there is, or there used to be, an archway into a courtyard where in one old office the walls were hung with half-models of sailing ships. I remember the name of one, the Winifred. Deed-boxes stood on shelves, with the name of a ship on each. There was a mahogany counter, an encrusted pewter inkstand, desks made secret with high screens, and a silence that might have been the reproof to intruders of a repute remembered in silence and dignity behind the screens by those who kept waiting so unimportant a visitor as a boy. On the counter was a stand displaying sailing cards, announcing, among other events in London river, "the fine ship Blackadder for immediate dispatch, having most of her cargo engaged, to Brisbane." And in those days, just round the corner in Billiter Street, one of the East India Company's warehouses still remained, a sombre relic among the new limestone and red granite offices, a massive archway in its centre leading, it could be believed, to an enclosure of night left by the eighteenth century and forgotten. I never saw anybody go into it, nor come out. How could they? It was of another time and place. The familiar Tower, the Guildhall that we knew nearly as well, the Cathedral which certainly existed, for it could often be seen in the distance, and the Abbey that was little more than something we had heard named, they were but the scenery close to the 'buses. Yet London was more wonderful than anything they could make it appear. About Fenchurch Street and Leadenhall Street waggons could be seen going east, bearing bales and cases, and the packages were portmarked for Sourabaya, Para, Ilo-Ilo, and Santos—names like those. They had to be seen to be believed. One could stand there, forced to think that the sun never did more than make the floor of asphalted streets glow like polished brass, and that the evening light was full of glittering motes and smelt of dust, and that life worked itself out with ink in cupboards made of glass and mahogany; and suddenly you learned, while smelling the dust, that Acapulco was more than a portent in a book and held only by an act of faith. Yet that astonishing revelation, enough to make any youthful messenger forget where he himself was bound, through turning to follow with his eyes so casual an acceptance by a carrier's cart of the verity of a fable, is nowhere mentioned, I have found since, in any guide to our capital, though you may learn how Cornhill got its name.

For though Londoners understand the Guildhall pigeons have as much right to the place as the Aldermen, they look upon the seabirds by London Bridge as vagrant strangers. They do not know where their city ends on the east side. Their river descends from Oxford in more than one sense, and ceases to lose their respect in the neighbourhood of Westminster. It has little history worth mentioning below that. To the poets the river fails them, it becomes flat and songless where at Richmond the sea's remote influence just moves it; and there they leave it. The Thames goes down then to a wide grey vacuity, a featureless monotony where men but toil, where life becomes silent in effort, and goes out through fogs to nowhere in particular. But there is a hilltop at Woolwich from which, better than from Richmond, our river, the burden-bearer, the road which joins us to New York and Sydney, can be seen for what it is, plainly related to a vaster world, with the ships upon its bright path moving through the smoke and buildings of the City. And surely some surmise of what our river is comes to a few of that multitude which crosses London Bridge every day? They favour the east side of it, I have noticed, and they cannot always resist a pause to stare overside to the Pool. Why do they? Ships are there, it is true, but only insignificant traders, diminished by sombre cliffs up which their cargo is hauled piecemeal to vanish instantly into mid-air caverns; London absorbs all they have as morsels. Anyhow, it is the business of ships. The people on the bridge watch another life below, with its strange cries and mysterious movements. A leisurely wisp of steam rises from a steamer's funnel. She is alive and breathing, though motionless. The walls enclosing the Pool are spectral in a winter light, and might be no more than the almost forgotten memory of a dark past. Looking at them intently, to give them a name, the wayfarer on the bridge could imagine they were maintained there only by the frail effort of his will. Once they were, but now, in some moods, they are merely remembered. Only the men busy on the deck of the ship below are real. Through an arch beneath the feet a barge shoots out noiselessly on the ebb, and staring down at its sudden apparition you feel dizzily that it has the bridge in tow and that all you people there are being drawn down resistlessly into that lower world of shades. You release yourself from this spell with an effort and look at the faces of those who are beside you at the parapet. What are their thoughts? Do they know? Have they also seen the ghosts? Have they felt stirring a secret and forgotten desire, old memories, and tales that were told? They move away and go to their desks, or to their homes in the suburbs. A vessel that has hauled into the fairway calls for the Tower Bridge gates to be opened for her. She is going. We watch the eastern mists which take her from us. For we never are so passive and well disciplined to the routine of the things which compel us, but rebellion comes at times—misgiving that there is a world beyond the one we know, regret that we never ventured and made no discovery, and that our time has been saved and not spent. The bascules descend again.

There, where that ship vanished, is the highway which brought those unknown folk whose need created London out of reeds and mere. It is our oldest road, and now has many by-paths. Near Poverty Corner is a building which recently was dismissed with a brief humorous reference in a new guide to our City—a cobbled forecourt, tame pigeons, cabs, a brick-front topped by a clock-face: Fenchurch Street Station. Beyond its dingy platforms, the metal track which contracts into the murk is the road to China, though that is, perhaps, the last place you would guess to be at the end of it. The train runs over a wilderness of tiles, a grey plateau of bare slate and rock, its expanse cracked and scored as though by a withering heat. Nothing grows there; nothing could live there. Smoke still pours from it, as though it were volcanic, from numberless vents. The region is without sap. Above its plains project superior fumaroles, their drifting vapours dissolving great areas. When the train descends slightly, then holes appear in that cliff which runs parallel with your track. The desert is actually burrowed, and every hole in the plateau is a habitation. Something does live there. That region of burnt and fissured rock is tunnelled and inhabited; the unlikely serrations and ridges with the smoke moving over them are porous, and a fluid life ranges beneath unseen. It is the beginning of Dockland. That the life is in upright beings, each with independent volition and a soul; that it is not an amorphous movement, flowing in bulk through buried pipes, incapable of the idea of height, of rising, is difficult to believe. It has not been believed. If life, you protest, is really there, has any sense which is better than that of extending worm-like through the underground, then why, at intervals, is there not an upheaval, a geyser-like burst, a plain hint from a power usually pent, but liable to go skywards? But that is for the desert to answer. As by mocking chance the desert itself almost instantly shows what possibilities are hidden within it. The train roars unexpectedly over a viaduct, and below is a deep hollow filled with light, with a floor of water, and a surprise of ships. How did that white schooner get into such an enclosure? Is freedom nearer here than we thought?

The crust of roofs ends abruptly in a country which is a complexity of gasometers, canals, railway junctions, between which the long spokes of cabbage-fields radiate from the train and revolve, and what is the grotesque suggestion of many ships in the distance, for through gaps in a nondescript horizon masts appear in a kaleidoscopic way. The journey ends, usually in the rain, among iron sheds that are topped on the far side by the rigging and smoke-stacks of great liners. There is no doubt about it now. At the corner of one shed, sheltering from the weather, is a group of brown men in coloured rags, first seen in the gloom because of the whites of their eyes. What we remember of such a day is that it was half of night, and the wind played castanets with the sheet iron, hummed in the cordage, and swayed wildly the loose gear aloft. Towering hulls were ranged down each side of a lagoon that ended in vacancy. The rigging and funnels of the fleet were unrelated; those ships were phantom and monstrous. They seemed on too great a scale to be within human control. We felt diminished and a little fearful, as among the looming urgencies of a dream. The forms were gigantic but vague, and they were seen in a smother of the elements; and their sounds, sonorous, melancholy, and prolonged, were like the warning of something alien, yet without form, which we knew was adverse, but could not recall when awake again. We remember, that day, a few watchers insecure on an exposed dockhead that projected into a sullen dreariness of river and mud which could have been the finish of the land. At the end of a creaking hawser was a steamer canting as she backed to head down stream—she was obviously exposed now to a great adventure—the tide, rapid and noisy on her plates, the reek from her funnel sinking over the water. And from the dockhead, in the fuddle of a rain-squall, we were waving a handkerchief, probably to the wrong man, till the vessel went out where all was one, rain, river, mud, and sky, and the future.

It is afterwards that so strange an ending to a brief journey from a city station is seen to have had more in it than the time-table, hurriedly scanned, gave away. Or it would be remembered as strange, if the one who had to make that journey so much as thought of it again; for perhaps to a stranger occupied with more important matters it was passed as being quite relevant to the occasion, ordinary and rather dismal, the usual boredom of a duty. Its strangeness depends, very likely, as much on an idle and squandering mind as on the ships, the river, and the gasometers. Yet suppose you first saw the river from Blackwall Stairs, in the days when the windows of the Artichoke Tavern, an ancient weather-boarded house with benches outside, still looked towards the ships coming in! And how if then, one evening, you had seen a Blackwall liner haul out for the Antipodes while her crew sang a chanty! It might put another light on the river; but a light, I will admit, which others should not be expected to see, and if they looked for it now might not discover, for it is possible that it has vanished, like the old tavern. It is easy to persuade ourselves that a matter is made plain by the light in which we prefer to see it, for it is our light. One day, I remember, a boy had to take a sheaf of documents to a vessel loading in the London Dock. She was sailing that tide. It was a hot July noon. It is unlucky to send a boy, who is marked by all the omens for a city prisoner, to that dock, for it is one of the best of its kind. He had not been there before. There was an astonishing vista, once inside the gates, of sherry butts and port casks. On the flagstones were pools of wine lees. There was an unforgettable smell. It was of wine, spices, oakum, wool, and hides. The sun made it worse, but the boy, I think, preferred it strong. After wandering along many old quays, and through dark sheds with wide doors that, on such a sunny day, were stored with cool night and cubes and planks of gold, he found his ship, the Mulatto Girl. She was for the Brazils. Now it is clear that one even wiser in shipping affairs than a boy would have expected to see a craft that was haughty and portentous when bound for the Brazils, a ship that looked equal to making a coast of that kind. There she was, her flush deck well below the quay wall. A ladder went down to her, for she was no more than a schooner of a little over 100 tons. If that did not look like the beginning of one of those voyages that are reputed to have ended with the Elizabethans, then I am trying to convey a wrong impression. On the deck of the Mulatto Girl was her master, in shirt and trousers and a remarkable straw hat more like a canopy, bending over to discharge some weighty words into the hatch. He rose and looked up at the boy on the quay, showing then a taut black beard and formidable eyes. With his hands on his hips, he surveyed for a few seconds the messenger above without speaking. Then he talked business, and more than legitimate business. "Do you want to come?" he asked, and smiled. "Eh?" He stroked his beard. The Brazils and all! A ship like that! "There's a berth for you. Come along, my son." And observe what we may lose through that habit of ours of uncritical obedience to duty; see what may leave us for ever in that fatal pause, caused by the surprise of the challenge to our narrow experience and knowledge, the pause in which we miserably allow habit to overcome adventurous instinct! I never heard again of the Mulatto Girl. I could not expect to. Something, though, was gained that day. It cannot be named. It is of no value. It is, you may have guessed, that very light which it has been admitted may since have gone out.

Well, nobody who has ever surprised that light in Dockland will be persuaded that it is not there still, and will remain. What the foreshore of London is to some of us, and what those lights are which we see as reflections coming down the waters from a far adventure, to others would be what they are. The foreshore to them is the unending monotony of grey streets, sometimes grim, often decayed, and always reticent and sullen, that might never have seen the stars or heard of good luck; and the light would be, when closely looked at, merely a high gas bracket on a dank brick wall in solitude, its glass broken, and the flame within it fluttering to extinction like an imprisoned and crippled moth trying to evade the squeeze of giant darkness and the wind. The narrow and forbidden by-way under that glim, a path intermittent, and depending on the weight of the night which is trying to blot it out altogether, goes to Wapping Old Stairs. Prince Rupert once went that way. The ketch Nonsuch, Captain Zachary Gillam, was then lying just off, about to make the voyage which established the Hudson's Bay Company.

It is a path, like all those stairs and ways that go down to the river, which began when human footsteps first originated London with rough tracks. It is a path by which the successors of those primitives went out of London, when projecting the original enterprise of their ancestors from Wapping to the Guinea Coast and Manitoba. Why should we believe it is different to-day? The sea does not change, and seamen are what they were, if their ships are not those we admired many years ago in the India Docks. It is impossible for those who know them to see those moody streets of Dockland, indeterminate, for they follow the river, which run from Tooley Street by the Hole-in-the-Wall to the Deptford Docks, and from Tower Hill along Wapping High Street to Limehouse and the Isle of Dogs, as strangers would see them. What could they be to strangers? Mud, taverns, pawnshops, neglected and obscure churches, and houses that might know nothing but ill-fortune.

So they are; but those ways hold more than the visible shades. The warehouses of that meandering chasm which is Wapping High Street are like weathered and unequal cliffs. It is hard to believe sunlight ever falls there. It could not get down. It is not easy to believe the river is near. It seldom shows. You think at times you hear the distant call of a ship. But what would that be? Something in the mind. It happened long ago. You, too, are a ghost left by the vanished past. There is a man above at a high loophole, the topmost cave of a warehouse which you can see has been exposed to commerce and the elements for ages; he pulls in a bale pendulous from the cable of a derrick. Below him one of the horses of a van tosses its nosebag. There is no other movement. A carman leans against an iron post, and cuts bread and cheese with a clasp knife. It was curious to hear that steamer call, but we know what it was. It was from a ship that went down, we have lately heard, in the war, and her spectre reminds us, from a voyage which is over, of men who have gone. But the call comes again just where the Stairs, like a shining wedge of day, holds the black warehouses asunder, and shows the light of the river and a release to the outer world. And there, moving swiftly across the brightness, goes a steamer outward bound.

That was what we wanted to know. She confirms it, and her signal, to whomever it was made, carries farther than she would guess. It is understood. The past for some of us now is our only populous and habitable world, invisible to others, but alive with whispers for us. Yet the sea still moves daily along the old foreshore, and ships still go and come, and do not, like us, run aground on what now is not there.

OF PROSE

A FRAGMENT[30]

[30] Translated from the Dutch by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos.

By LODEWIJK VAN DEIJSSEL

I love the prose that comes towards me like a man, with sparkling eyes, with a loud voice, breathing hard and with great gestures of the hands. I want to hear the writer laugh and cry in it, to hear him whisper and shout, to feel him sigh and pant. I want his language to loom up before me like a tangible and resounding organism; I want him, when I read him in my room, to reveal to me, from the characters that shimmer before my eyes, a spirit that enters into me and seems to ascend within me from out of his pages.

I love the prose that comes rolling up from the infinity of the artist's soul, like a sea of sound, flowing calmly with its wide waves, drawing nearer, nearer, ever nearer, smooth and broad, suddenly illumined by intense gleams of light.

I love the prose that clashes towards me, rushes up to me, thunders down upon me in a raging torrent of passion.

I love the prose that is motionless and awful as mountain ridges.

I love the prose that plays and rejoices like a waving forest filled with birds in summer.

I love the prose which I see standing there before me, with its sentences, like a city of marble.

I love the prose that descends upon me like a golden shower of words.

I love the sentences that march like troops of broad-backed men, walking abreast, shoulder to shoulder, following one on the other in ever-widening ranks, up hill, down dale, with the tramp of their footsteps and the heavy movement of their strides. I love sentences that sound like voices underground, but come rising, rising, louder and in greater numbers, and pass and rise and ring and echo in the heavens.

I love words that arrive suddenly, as though from very far, shooting forth in golden brilliancy from a rift in the blue sky, or toppling high in the air, like dark rocks discharged from a straining volcano.

I love words that bang down upon me like falling rafters, or words that hiss past me like bullets.

I love words which I see standing there unexpectedly, like poppies or blue cornflowers in a field.

I love words that suddenly waft a perfume to me from the course of the style, like incense from a church-door or scent from a woman's handkerchief in the street.

I love words that in a moment rise softly, like a child's murmuring voice, from under the droning style.

I love words that just gurgle, like little stifled sobs.

I love the prose that blazes its joy and its rapture like stars above me, that lights glowing suns of love, that carries me over the thin ice of its disdain, through the rough black nights of its hatred, that clangs down upon me the green, copper voice of its irony and its laughter.

If you would please me, then stretch over my head a rainbow of language in which I shall see red anger raging, blue gladness rejoicing and yellow mockery laughing.

Take me up and carry me where you will: I crave for nothing more than to be powerless against the power of your Word.

Strike me with your Word, torture me with your Word and then let your Word fall down upon me like a rain of kisses....

HENRY JAMES

By EDMUND GOSSE, C.B.

I

VOLUMINOUS as had been the writings of Henry James[31] since 1875, it was not until he approached the end of his career that he began to throw any light on the practical events and social adventures of his own life. He had occasionally shown that he could turn from the psychology of imaginary characters to the record of real lives without losing any part of his delicate penetration or his charm of portraiture. He had, in particular, written the Life of Hawthorne in 1879, between Daisy Miller and An International Episode; and again in 1903, at the height of his latest period, he had produced a specimen of that period in his elusive and parenthetical but very beautiful so-called Life of W. W. Story. But these biographies threw no more light upon his own adventures than did his successive volumes of critical and topographical essays, in which the reader may seek long before he detects the sparkle of a crumb of personal fact. Henry James, at the age of seventy, had not begun to reveal himself behind the mask which spoke in the tones of a world of imaginary characters.

[31] Messrs. Macmillan are about to publish Mr. Lubbock's edition of James's Letters.

So saying, I do not forget that in the general edition of his collected, or rather selected, novels and tales, published from 1908 onwards, Henry James prefixed to each volume an introduction which assumed to be wholly biographical. He yielded, he said, "to the pleasure of placing on record the circumstances" in which each successive tale was written. I well recollect the terms in which he spoke of these prefaces before he began to write them. They were to be full and confidential, they were to throw to the winds all restraints of conventional reticence, they were to take us, with eyes unbandaged, into the inmost sanctum of his soul. They appeared at last, in small print, and they were extremely extensive, but truth obliges me to say that I found them highly disappointing. Constitutionally fitted to take pleasure in the accent of almost everything that Henry James ever wrote, I have to confess that these prefaces constantly baffle my eagerness. Not for a moment would I deny that they throw interesting light on the technical craft of a self-respecting novelist, but they are dry, remote, and impersonal to a strange degree. It is as though the author felt a burning desire to confide in the reader, whom he positively button-holes in the endeavour, but that the experience itself evades him, fails to find expression, and falls still-born, while other matters, less personal and less important, press in and take their place against the author's wish. Henry James proposed, in each instance, to disclose "the contributive value of the accessory facts in a given artistic case." This is, indeed, what we require in the history or the autobiography of an artist, whether painter or musician or man of letters. But this includes the production of anecdotes, of salient facts, of direct historical statements, which Henry James seemed in 1908 to be completely incapacitated from giving, so that really, in the introductions to some of these novels in the Collected Edition, it is difficult to know what the beloved novelist is endeavouring to divulge. He becomes almost chimæra bombinating in a vacuum.

Had we lost him soon after the appearance of the latest of these prefaces—that prefixed to The Golden Bowl, in which the effort to reveal something which is not revealed amounts almost to an agony—it would have been impossible to reconstruct the life of Henry James by the closest examination of his published writings. Ingenious commentators would have pieced together conjectures from such tales as The Altar of the Dead and The Lesson of the Master, and have insisted, more or less plausibly, on their accordance with what the author must have thought or done, endured or attempted. But, after all, these would have been "conjectures," not more definitely based than what bold spirits use when they construct lives of Shakespeare, or, for that matter, of Homer. Fortunately, in 1913, the desire to place some particulars of the career of his marvellous brother William in the setting of his "immediate native and domestic air," led Henry James to contemplate, with minuteness, the fading memories of his own childhood. Starting with a biographical study of William James, he found it impossible to treat the family development at all adequately without extending the survey to his own growth as well, and thus, at the age of seventy, Henry became for the first time, and almost unconsciously, an autobiographer.

He had completed two large volumes of Memories, and was deep in a third, when death took him from us. A Small Boy and Others deals with such extreme discursiveness as is suitable in a collection of the fleeting impressions of infancy, from his birth in 1843 to his all but fatal attack of typhus fever at Boulogne-sur-Mer in (perhaps) 1857. I say "perhaps" because the wanton evasion of any sort of help in the way of dates is characteristic of the narrative, as it would be of childish memories. The next instalment was Notes of a Son and Brother, which opens in 1860, a doubtful period of three years being leaped over lightly, and closes—as I guess from an allusion to George Eliot's Spanish Gypsy—in 1868. The third instalment, dictated in the autumn of 1914 and laid aside unfinished, is the posthumous The Middle Years, faultlessly edited by the piety of Mr. Percy Lubbock in 1917. Here the tale is taken up in 1869, and is occupied, without much attempt at chronological order, with memories of two years in London. As Henry James did not revise, or perhaps even re-read, these pages, we are free to form our conclusion as to whether he would or would not have vouchsafed to put their disjected parts into some more anatomical order.

Probably he would not have done so. The tendency of his genius had never been, and at the end was less than ever, in the direction of concinnity. He repudiated arrangement, he wilfully neglected the precise adjustment of parts. The three autobiographical volumes will always be documents precious in the eyes of his admirers. They are full of beauty and nobility, they exhibit with delicacy, and sometimes even with splendour, the qualities of his character. But it would be absurd to speak of them as easy to read, or as fulfilling what is demanded from an ordinary biographer. They have the tone of Veronese, but nothing of his definition. A broad canvas is spread before us, containing many figures in social conjuncture. But the plot, the single "story" which is being told, is drowned in misty radiance. Out of this chiaroscuro there leap suddenly to our vision a sumptuous head and throat, a handful of roses, the glitter of a satin sleeve, but it is only when we shut our eyes and think over what we have looked at that any coherent plan is revealed to us, or that we detect any species of composition. It is a case which calls for editorial help, and I hope that when the three fragments of autobiography are reprinted as a single composition, no prudery of hesitation to touch the sacred ark will prevent the editor from prefixing a skeleton chronicle of actual dates and facts. It will take nothing from the dignity of the luminous reveries in their original shape.

Such a skeleton will tell us that Henry James was born at 2 Washington Place, New York, on April 15th, 1843, and that he was the second child of his parents, the elder by one year being William, who grew up to be the most eminent philosopher whom America has produced. Their father, Henry James the elder, was himself a philosopher, whose ideas, which the younger Henry frankly admitted to be beyond his grasp, were expounded by William James in 1884, in a preface to their father's posthumous papers. Henry was only one year old when the family paid a long visit to Paris, but his earliest recollections were of Albany, whence the Jameses migrated to New York until 1855. They then transferred their home to Europe for three years, during which time the child Henry imbibed what he afterwards called "the European virus." In 1855 he was sent to Geneva for purposes of education, which were soon abandoned, and the whole family began an aimless wandering through London, Paris, Boulogne-sur-Mer, Newport, Geneva, and America again, nothing but the Civil War sufficing to root this fugitive household in one abiding home.

Henry James's health forced him to be a spectator of the war, in which his younger brothers fought. He went to Harvard in 1862 to study law, but was now beginning to feel a more and more irresistible call to take up letters as a profession, and the Harvard Law School left little or no direct impression upon him. He formed a close and valuable friendship with Mr. Howells, seven years his senior, and the pages of the Atlantic Monthly, of which Mr. Howells was then assistant editor, were open to him from 1865. He lived for the next four years in very poor health, and with no great encouragement from himself or others, always excepting Mr. Howells, at Cambridge, Massachusetts. Early in 1869 he ventured to return to Europe, where he spent fifteen months in elegant but fruitful vagabondage. There was much literary work done, most of which he carefully suppressed in later life. The reader will, however, discover, tucked away in the thirteenth volume of the Collected Edition, a single waif from this rejected epoch, the tale called A Passionate Pilgrim, written on his return to America in 1870. This visit to Europe absolutely determined his situation; his arrival in New York stimulated and tortured his nostalgia for the old world, and in May, 1872, he flew back here once more to the European enchantment.

Here, practically, the biographical information respecting Henry James which has hitherto been given to the world ceases, for the fragment of The Middle Years, so far as can be gathered, contains few recollections which can be dated later than his thirtieth year. It was said of Marivaux that he cultivated no faculty but that de ne vivre que pour voir et pour entendre. In a similar spirit Henry James took up his dwelling in fashionable London lodgings in March, 1869. He had come from America with the settled design of making a profound study of English manners, and there were two aspects of the subject which stood out for him above all others. One of these was the rural beauty of ancient country places, the other was the magnitude—"the inconceivable immensity," as he put it—of London. He told his sister, "The place sits on you, broods on you, stamps on you with the feet of its myriad bipeds and quadrupeds." From his lodgings in Half Moon Street, quiet enough in themselves, he had the turmoil of the West End at his elbow, Piccadilly, Park Lane, St. James's Street, all within the range of a five minutes' stroll. He plunged into the vortex with incredible gusto, "knocking about in a quiet way and deeply enjoying my little adventures." This was his first mature experience of London, of which he remained until the end of his life perhaps the most infatuated student, the most "passionate pilgrim" that America has ever sent us.

But his health was still poor, and for his constitution's sake he went in the summer of 1869 to Great Malvern. He went alone, and it is to be remarked of him that, social as he was, and inclined to a deep indulgence in the company of his friends, his habit of life was always in the main a solitary one. He had no constant associates, and he did not shrink from long periods of isolation, which he spent in reading and writing, but also in a concentrated contemplation of the passing scene, whatever it might be. It was alone that he now made a tour of the principal English cathedral and university towns, expatiating to himself on the perfection of the weather—"the dozen exquisite days of the English year, days stamped with a purity unknown in climates where fine weather is cheap." It was alone that he made acquaintance with Oxford, of which city he became at once the impassioned lover which he continued to be to the end, raving from Boston in 1870 of the supreme gratifications of Oxford as "the most dignified and most educated" of the cradles of our race. It was alone that during these enchanting weeks he made himself acquainted with the unimagined loveliness of English hamlets buried in immemorial leafage and whispered to by meandering rivulets in the warm recesses of antiquity. These, too, found in Henry James a worshipper more ardent, it may almost be averred, than any other who had crossed the Atlantic to their shrine.

Having formed this basis for the main predilection of his English studies, Henry James passed over to the Continent, and conducted a similar pilgrimage of entranced obsession through Switzerland and Italy. His wanderings, "rapturous and solitary," were, as in England, hampered by no social engagement; "I see no people to speak of," he wrote, "or for that matter to speak to." He returned to America in April, 1870, at the close of a year which proved critical in his career, and which laid its stamp on the whole of his future work. He had been kindly received in artistic and literary circles in London; he had conversed with Ruskin, with William Morris, with Aubrey de Vere, but it is plain that while he observed the peculiarities of these eminent men with the closest avidity, he made no impression whatever upon them. The time for Henry James to "make an impression" on others was not come yet; he was simply the well-bred, rather shy, young American invalid, with excellent introductions, who crossed the path of English activities, almost without casting a shadow. He had published no book; he had no distinct calling; he was a deprecating and punctilious young stranger from somewhere in Massachusetts, immature-looking for all his seven-and-twenty years.

Some further uneventful seasons, mainly spent in America but diversified by tours in Germany and Italy, bring us to 1875, when Henry James came over from Cambridge with the definite project, at last, of staying in Europe "for good." He took rooms in Paris, at 29 Rue de Luxembourg, and he penetrated easily into the very exclusive literary society which at that time revolved around Flaubert and Edmond de Goncourt. This year in Paris was another highly critical period in Henry James's intellectual history. He was still, at the mature age of thirty-two, almost an amateur in literature, having been content, up to that time, to produce scarcely anything which his mature taste did not afterwards repudiate. The Passionate Pilgrim (1870), of which I have spoken above, is the only waif and stray of the pre-1873 years which he has permitted to survive. The first edition of this short story is now not easy of reference, and I have not seen it; the reprint of 1908 is obviously, and is doubtless vigorously, re-handled. Enough, however, remains of what must be original to show that, in a rather crude, and indeed almost hysterical form, the qualities of Henry James's genius were, in 1869, what they continued to be in 1909. He has conquered, however, in A Passionate Pilgrim, no command yet over his enthusiasm, his delicate sense of beauty, his apprehension of the exquisite colour of antiquity.

From the French associates of this time he derived practical help in his profession, though without their being aware of what they gave him. He was warmly attracted to Gustave Flaubert, who had just published La Tentation de St. Antoine, a dazzled admiration of which was the excuse which threw the young American at the feet of the Rouen giant. This particular admiration dwindled with the passage of time, but Henry James continued faithful to the author of Madame Bovary. It was Turgenev who introduced him to Flaubert, from whom he passed to Guy de Maupassant, then an athlete of four-and-twenty, and still scintillating in that blaze of juvenile virility which always fascinated Henry James. In the train of Edmond de Goncourt came Zola, vociferous over his late tribulation of having L'Assommoir stopped in its serial issue; Alphonse Daudet, whose recent Jack was exercising over tens of thousands of readers the tyranny of tears; and François Coppée, the almost exact coeval of Henry James, and now author of a Luthier de Cremone, which had placed him high among French poets. That the young American, with no apparent claim to attention except the laborious perfection of his French speech, was welcomed and ultimately received on terms of intimacy in this the most exclusive of European intellectual circles is curious. Henry James was accustomed to deprecate the notion that these Frenchmen took the least interest in him: "they have never read a line of me, they have never even persuaded themselves that there was a line of me which anyone could read," he once said to me. How should they, poor charming creatures, in their self-sufficing Latin intensity, know what or whether some barbarian had remotely "written"? But this does not end the marvel, because, read or not read, there was Henry James among them, affectionately welcomed, talked to familiarly about "technique," and even about "sales," like a fellow-craftsman. There must evidently have developed by this time something modestly "impressive" about him, and I cannot doubt that these Parisian masters of language more or less dimly divined that he too was, in some medium not by them to be penetrated, a master.

After this fruitful year in Paris, the first result of which was the publication in London of his earliest surviving novel, Roderick Hudson, and the completion of The American, Henry James left his "glittering, charming, civilised Paris" and settled in London. He submitted himself, as he wrote to his brother William in 1878, "without reserve to that Londonising process of which the effect is to convince you that, having lived here, you may, if need be, abjure civilisation and bury yourself in the country, but may not, in pursuit of civilisation, live in any smaller town." He plunged deeply into the study of London, externally and socially, and into the production of literature, in which he was now as steadily active as he was elegantly proficient. These novels of his earliest period have neither the profundity nor the originality of those of his middle and final periods, but they have an exquisite freshness of their own, and a workmanship the lucidity and logic of which he owed in no small measure to his conversations with Daudet and Maupassant, and to his, at that time almost exclusive, reading of the finest French fiction. He published The American in 1877, The Europeans and Daisy Miller in 1878, and An International Episode in 1879. He might advance in stature and breadth; he might come to disdain the exiguous beauty of these comparatively juvenile books, but now at all events were clearly revealed all the qualities which were to develop later, and to make Henry James unique among writers of Anglo-Saxon race.

His welcome into English society was remarkable if we reflect that he seemed to have little to give in return for what it offered except his social adaptability, his pleasant and still formal amenity, and his admirable capacity for listening. It cannot be repeated too clearly that the Henry James of those early days had very little of the impressiveness of his later manner. He went everywhere, sedately, watchfully, graciously, but never prominently. In the winter of 1878-79 it is recorded that he dined out in London 107 times, but it is highly questionable whether this amazing assiduity at the best dinner-tables will be found to have impressed itself on any Greville or Crabb Robinson who was taking notes at the time. He was strenuously living up to his standard, "my charming little standard of wit, of grace, of good manners, of vivacity, of urbanity, of intelligence, of what makes an easy and natural style of intercourse." He was watching the rather gross and unironic, but honest and vigorous, English upper-middle-class of that day with mingled feelings, in which curiosity and a sort of remote sympathy took a main part. At 107 London dinners he observed the ever-shifting pieces of the general kaleidoscope with tremendous acuteness, and although he thought their reds and yellows would have been improved by a slight infusion of the Florentine harmony, on the whole he was never weary of watching their evolutions. In this way the years slipped by, while he made a thousand acquaintances and a dozen durable friendships. It is a matter of pride and happiness to me that I am able to touch on one of the latter.

It is often curiously difficult for intimate friends, who have the impression in later years that they must always have known one another, to recall the occasion and the place where they first met. That was the case with Henry James and me. Several times we languidly tried to recover those particulars, but without success. I think, however, that it was at some dinner-party that we first met, and as the incident is dubiously connected with the publication of the Hawthorne in 1879, and with Mr. (now Lord) Morley, whom we both frequently saw at that epoch, I am pretty sure that the event took place early in 1880. The acquaintance, however, did not "ripen," as people say, until the summer of 1882, when in connection with an article on the drawings of George du Maurier, which I was anxious Henry James should write—having heard him express himself with high enthusiasm regarding these works of art—he invited me to go to see him and to talk over the project. I found him, one sunshiny afternoon, in his lodgings on the first floor of No. 3 Bolton Street, at the Piccadilly end of the street, where the houses look askew into Green Park. Here he had been living ever since he came over from France in 1876, and the situation was eminently characteristic of the impassioned student of London life and haunter of London society which he had now become.

Stretched on the sofa and apologising for not rising to greet me, his appearance gave me a little shock, for I had not thought of him as an invalid. He hurriedly and rather evasively declared that he was not that, but that a muscular weakness of his spine obliged him, as he said, "to assume the horizontal posture" during some hours of every day in order to bear the almost unbroken routine of evening engagements. I think that this weakness gradually passed away, but certainly for many years it handicapped his activity. I recall his appearance, seen then for the first time by daylight; there was something shadowy about it, the face framed in dark brown hair cut short in the Paris fashion, and in equally dark beard, rather loose and "fluffy." He was in deep mourning, his mother having died five or six months earlier, and he himself having but recently returned from a melancholy visit to America, where he had unwillingly left his father, who seemed far from well. His manner was grave, extremely courteous, but a little formal and frightened, which seemed strange in a man living in constant communication with the world. Our business regarding Du Maurier was soon concluded, and James talked with increasing ease, but always with a punctilious hesitancy, about Paris, where he seemed, to my dazzlement, to know even a larger number of persons of distinction than he did in London.

He promised, before I left, to return my visit, but news of the alarming illness of his father called him suddenly to America. He wrote to me from Boston in April, 1883, but he did not return to London until the autumn that year. Our intercourse was then resumed, and, immediately, on the familiar footing which it preserved, without an hour's abatement, until the sad moment of his fatal illness. When he returned to Bolton Street—this was in August, 1883—he had broken all the ties which held him to residence in America, a country which, as it turned out, he was not destined to revisit for more than twenty years. By this means Henry James became a homeless man in a peculiar sense, for he continued to be looked upon as a foreigner in London, while he seemed to have lost citizenship in the United States. It was a little later than this that that somewhat acidulated patriot, Colonel Higginson, in reply to some one who said that Henry James was a cosmopolitan, remarked, "Hardly! for a cosmopolitan is at home even in his own country!" This condition made James, although superficially gregarious, essentially isolated, and though his books were numerous and were greatly admired, they were tacitly ignored alike in summaries of English and of American current literature. There was no escape from this dilemma. Henry James was equally determined not to lay down his American birthright and not to reside in America. Every year of his exile, therefore, emphasised the fact of his separation from all other Anglo-Saxons, and he endured, in the world of letters, the singular fate of being a man without a country.

The collection of his private letters, therefore, which is announced as immediately forthcoming under the sympathetic editorship of Mr. Percy Lubbock, will reveal the adventures of an author who, long excluded from two literatures, is now eagerly claimed by both of them, and it will display those movements of a character of great energy and singular originality which circumstances have hitherto concealed from curiosity. There was very little on the surface of his existence to bear evidence to the passionate intensity of the stream beneath. This those who have had the privilege of seeing his letters know is marvellously revealed in his private correspondence. A certain change in his life was brought about by the arrival in 1885 of his sister Alice, who, in now confirmed ill-health, was persuaded to make Bournemouth and afterwards Leamington her home. He could not share her life, but at all events he could assiduously diversify it by his visits, and Bournemouth had a second attraction for him in the presence of Robert Louis Stevenson, with whom he had by this time formed one of the closest of his friendships. Stevenson's side of the correspondence has long been known, and it is one of the main attractions which Mr. Lubbock holds out to his readers that Henry James's letters to Stevenson will now be published. No episode of the literary history of the time is more fascinating than the interchange of feeling between these two great artists. The death of Stevenson, nine years later than their first meeting, though long anticipated, fell upon Henry James with a shock which he found at first scarcely endurable. For a long time afterwards he could not bring himself to mention the name of R. L. S. without a distressing agitation.

In 1886 the publication of The Bostonians, a novel which showed an advance in direct or, as it was then styled, "realistic" painting of modern society, increased the cleft which now divided him from his native country, for The Bostonians was angrily regarded as satirising not merely certain types, but certain recognisable figures in Massachusetts, and that with a suggestive daring which was unusual. Henry James, intent upon making a vivid picture, and already perhaps a little out of touch with American sentiment, was indignant at the reception of this book, which he ultimately, to my great disappointment, omitted from his Collected Edition, for reasons which he gave in a long letter to myself. Hence, as his works now appear, The Princess Casamassima, of 1886, an essentially London adventure-story, takes its place as the earliest of the novels of his second period, although preceded by admirable short tales in that manner, the most characteristic of which is doubtless The Author of Beltraffio (1885). This exemplifies the custom he had now adopted of seizing an incident reported to him, often a very slight and bald affair, and weaving round it a thick and glittering web of silken fancy, just as the worm winds round the unsightly chrysalis its graceful robe of gold. I speak of The Author of Beltraffio, and after thirty-five years I may confess that this extraordinarily vivid story was woven around a dark incident in the private life of an eminent author known to us both, which I, having told Henry James in a moment of levity, was presently horrified and even sensibly alarmed to see thus pinnacled in the broad light of day.

After exhausting at last the not very shining amenities of his lodgings in Bolton Street, where all was old and dingy, he went westward in 1886 into Kensington, and settled in a flat which was both new and bright, at 34 De Vere Gardens, Kensington, where he began a novel called The Tragic Muse, on which he expended an immense amount of pains. He was greatly wearied by the effort, and not entirely satisfied with the result. He determined, as he said, "to do nothing but short lengths" for the future, and he devoted himself to the execution of contes. But even the art of the short story presently yielded to a new and, it must be confessed, a deleterious fascination, that of the stage. He was disappointed—he made no secret to his friends of his disillusion—in the commercial success of his novels, which was inadequate to his needs. I believe that he greatly over-estimated these needs, and that at no time he was really pressed by the want of money. But he thought that he was, and in his anxiety he turned to the theatre as a market in which to earn a fortune. Little has hitherto been revealed with regard to this "sawdust and orange-peel phase" (as he called it) in Henry James's career, but it cannot be ignored any longer. The memories of his intimate friends are stored with its incidents, his letters will be found to be full of it.

Henry James wrote, between 1889 and 1894, seven or eight plays, on each of which he expended an infinitude of pains and mental distress. At the end of this period, unwillingly persuaded at last that all his agony was in vain, and that he could never secure fame and fortune, or even a patient hearing from the theatre-going public by his dramatic work, he abandoned the hopeless struggle. He was by temperament little fitted to endure the disappointments and delays which must always attend the course of a dramatist who has not conquered a position which enables him to browbeat the tyrants behind the stage. Henry James was punctilious, ceremonious, and precise; it is not to be denied that he was apt to be hasty in taking offence, and not very ready to overlook an impertinence. The whole existence of the actor is lax and casual; the manager is the capricious leader of an irresponsible band of egotists. Henry James lost no occasion of dwelling, in private conversation, on this aspect of an amiable and entertaining profession. He was not prepared to accept young actresses at their own valuation, and the happy-go-lucky democracy of the "mimes," as he bracketed both sexes, irritated him to the verge of frenzy.

It was, however, with a determination to curb his impatience, and with a conviction that he could submit his idiosyncrasies to what he called the "passionate economy" of play-writing, that he began, in 1889, to dedicate himself to the drama, excluding for the time being all other considerations. He went over to Paris in the winter of that year, largely to talk over the stage with Alphonse Daudet and Edmond de Goncourt, and he returned to put the finishing-touches on The American, a dramatic version of one of his earliest novels. He finished this play at the Palazzo Barbaro, the beautiful home of his friends, the Daniel Curtises, in Venice, in June, 1890, thereupon taking a long holiday, one of the latest of his extended Italian tours, through Venetia and Tuscany. Edward Compton had by this time accepted The American, being attracted by his own chances in the part of Christopher Newman. When Henry James reappeared in London, and particularly when the rehearsals began, we all noticed how deeply the theatrical virus had penetrated his nature. His excitement swelled until the evening of January 3rd, 1891, when The American was acted at Southport by Compton's company in anticipation of its appearance in London. Henry James was kind enough to wish me to go down on this occasion with him to Southport, but it was not possible. On the afternoon of the ordeal he wrote to me from the local hotel: "After eleven o'clock to-night I may be the world's—you know—and I may be the undertaker's. I count upon you and your wife both to spend this evening in fasting, silence, and supplication. I will send you a word in the morning, a wire if I can." He was "so nervous that I miswrite and misspell."

The result, in the provinces, of this first experiment was not decisive. It is true that he told Robert Louis Stevenson that he was enjoying a success which made him blush. But the final result in London, where The American was not played until September, 1891, was only partly encouraging. Henry James was now cast down as unreasonably as he had been uplifted. He told me that "the strain, the anxiety, the peculiar form and colour of the ordeal (not to be divined in the least in advance)" had "sickened him to death." He used language of the most picturesque extravagance about the "purgatory" of the performances, which ran at the Opera Comique for two months. There was nothing in the mediocre fortunes of this play to decide the questions whether Henry James was or was not justified in abandoning all other forms of art for the drama. We endeavoured to persuade him that, on the whole, he was not justified, but he swept our arguments aside, and he devoted himself wholly to the infatuation of his sterile task.

The American had been dramatised from a published novel. Henry James now thought that he should do better with original plots, and he wrote two comedies, the one named Tenants and the other Disengaged, of each of which he formed high expectations. But, although they were submitted to several managers, who gave them their customary loitering and fluctuating attention, they were in every case ultimately refused. Each refusal plunged the dramatist into the lowest pit of furious depression, from which he presently emerged with freshly-kindled hopes. Like the moralist, he never was but always to be blest. The Album and The Reprobate—there is a melancholy satisfaction in giving life to the mere names of these stillborn children of his brain—started with wild hopes and suffered from the same complete failure to satisfy the caprice of the managers. At the close of 1893, after one of these "sordid developments," he made up his mind to abandon the struggle. But George Alexander promised that, if he would but persevere, he really and truly would produce him infallibly at no distant date, and poor Henry James could not but persevere. "I mean to wage this war ferociously for one year more," and he composed, with infinite agony and deliberation the comedy of Guy Domvile.

The night of January 5th, 1895, was the most tragical in Henry James's career. His hopes and fears had been strung up to the most excruciating point, and I think that I have never witnessed such agonies of parturition. Guy Domvile—which has never been printed—was a delicate and picturesque play, of which the only disadvantage that I could discover was that instead of having a last scene which tied up all the threads in a neat conclusion, it left all those threads loose as they would be in life. George Alexander was sanguine of success, and to do Henry James honour such a galaxy of artistic, literary, and scientific celebrity gathered in the stalls of the St. James's Theatre as perhaps were never seen in a playhouse before or since. Henry James was positively storm-ridden with emotion before the fatal night, and full of fantastic plans. I recall that one was that he should hide in the bar of a little public-house down an alley close to the theatre, whither I should slip forth at the end of the second act and report "how it was going." This was not carried out, and fortunately Henry James resisted the temptation of being present in the theatre during the performance. All seemed to be going fairly well until the close, when Henry James appeared and was called before the curtain only to be subjected—to our unspeakable horror and shame—to a storm of hoots and jeers and catcalls from the gallery, answered by loud and sustained applause from the stalls, the whole producing an effect of hell broke loose, in the midst of which the author, as white as chalk, bowed and spread forth deprecating hands and finally vanished. It was said at the time, and confirmed later, that this horrible performance was not intended to humiliate Henry James, but was the result of a cabal against George Alexander.

Early next morning I called at 34 De Vere Gardens, hardly daring to press the bell for fear of the worst of news, so shattered with excitement had the playwright been on the previous evening. I was astonished to find him perfectly calm; he had slept well and was breakfasting with appetite. The theatrical bubble in which he had lived a tormented existence for five years was wholly and finally broken, and he returned, even in that earliest conversation, to the discussion of the work which he had so long and so sadly neglected, the art of direct prose narrative. And now a remarkable thing happened. The discipline of toiling for the caprices of the theatre had amounted, for so redundant an imaginative writer, to the putting on of a mental strait-jacket. He saw now that he need stoop no longer to what he called "a meek and lowly review of the right ways to keep on the right side of a body of people who have paid money to be amused at a particular hour and place." Henry James was not released from this system of vigorous renunciation without a very singular result. To write for the theatre the qualities of brevity and directness, of an elaborate plainness, had been perceived by him to be absolutely necessary, and he had tried to cultivate them with dogged patience for five years. But when he broke with the theatre, the rebound was excessive. I recall his saying to me, after the fiasco of Guy Domvile, "At all events, I have escaped for ever from the foul fiend Excision!" He vibrated with the sense of liberation, and he began to enjoy, physically and intellectually, a freedom which had hitherto been foreign to his nature.

(To be concluded)

A CASE FOR RECORDS

By HILARY JENKINSON

IT has long been a commonplace of depreciation to say that England possesses more valuable collections of historical documents than any other country, and displays more indifference to them. "En Angleterre tout est en désordre," says an eminent French critic: and the Times Literary Supplement quotes him.[32] Since the middle of last century the declared classes of public records in this country (those of the Central Government) have, it is true, had a settled habitation, a staff to look after them, and a good deal of attention from a small section of the public; also a considerable, though relatively small, number of publications has been devoted to them and some of the clamorous interests, the genealogist's, for example, fed if not sated. The same amount of good fortune, except by the hazard of their coming into the hands of an enthusiast, has not in many cases befallen the records belonging to local bodies; still less has it come to the enormous private collections originally accumulated in connection with the descent of real property, and now, since the invention of "short title," no longer in any demand for their primary purpose. If the public records of the past may in our day be considered to have found safety, it is still possible to witness in this country the unedifying spectacle of the museum or the rich collector buying up the pretty specimen from a collection of manorial records, while the remainder, of which it should form an integral part, after the lesser lights of the collecting world have taken gradual toll of it, goes without protest from any one to the tambourine-maker or the glue merchant. It is as though an anatomist, having exhumed his great-grandfather, should add to that injury the insult of preserving an interesting metacarpal in his cabinet, while he distributes the rest of the body to various colleagues, with remainder to the manufacturer of fertilisers: one is tempted to send science to blazes and wish the poor old gentleman might have been left intact, if useless, underground.

[32] November 27th, 1919.

I have spoken in this first paragraph of the unhappy state of the small collections in England because that state is an obvious and striking result of the same cause which has produced most of our mistakes in the preservation, sorting and editing of documents in the past; because the distinction at present existing between the public and the private collections is so symptomatic of our worst failure in this field: in effect, in all these years during which historical documents have met with a certain amount of appreciation, it has apparently never occurred to us to make definite search for the essential features common to all records, high or low, and to apply to all records a treatment based on the examination of those features. But the most interesting archive question of the present time seems to me to be the question of the records we ourselves are producing. If our shortcomings as owners of archives have affected adversely our treatment of what the past has left to us, are they not capable of doing quite as much harm to that which we ourselves are to bequeath to the future? And, further, if England, owing to its wealth of records, provides a particularly large number of examples of things to be avoided, is it not possible that the application of the warning derived from these may prove to be common to other countries? It is, indeed, no new criticism of the French School, the acknowledged leader of the world in this matter, to say that the circumstances under which the French national collections were put together have led it sometimes to consider the isolated document rather to the exclusion of that record which forms only a single link in a long chain.

We are led, therefore, to inquire how far certain generalisations, based on the character of our existing English records, maybe applied as criteria to the treatment of those records which are accumulating in our own time in England and perhaps in other countries.

A record, if we may venture here to give definition to a loosely-used word, is a document drawn up, or at any rate made use of, in the course of an administrative process, of which itself forms a part, and subsequently preserved in his own custody for his own reference by the administrator concerned or his successors. The process and the administration may be as important or unimportant as you please; the result may be the Rolls of Chancery or the deed-box of a manor: the essential features are the same in both cases—the administrative origin, the administrative reason for preservation, the preservation in administrative custody: so also are the results the same from the point of view of the subsequent 'ologist—the two priceless qualities of authenticity and impartiality; the first proceeding from the fact that the records have been always in custody,[33] and in a certain relationship one with another, the second derived from the fact that they were not drawn up for the information of posterity,[34] and, therefore, have no bias to one side or the other of posterity's problems. Any number of interesting instances[35] might be adduced from the records of the past, both of the value of these qualities and of the ease with which they may be flawed; but let us here leave for the time consideration of the records the past has bequeathed to us and inquire how far the qualities which, with all its historical faults, it gave us in most of its documents are going to be found by our descendants in those we leave to them. The unprecedented mass of documents which the various executive departments must have accumulated during the war may well frighten us into a serious consideration of this subject at the present moment.

[33] The licence of high officials has sometimes violated this, a practice much to be deprecated. I refer to this again below.

[34] This fact may, of course, lead in ignorant times, such as was the early nineteenth century, to destruction.

[35] A well-known case is the volume, belonging to the records of the Master of the Revels, which, if it is genuine, dates one of Shakespeare's plays: unfortunately it was for a considerable time out of official custody, and doubts have been cast on the authenticity of the most important page.

Now, the rules for safe preservation and custody are simple things, matters of proved experience, a number of which are set out in a small book recently published in England, and at more length in the well-known Continental treatise;[36] and though the standard of archive-keeping by local authorities is at present very uneven, we may, for the shortening of this article, dismiss that side of the question with pious hopes. Assuming, then, that the documents of our own time, when they come to the state of archives, will be preserved in suitable places and under proper rules of custody, assuming further that we are able to drill archivists into leaving their charges as far as possible in the physical order and state in which they find them (so as to preserve the old association of document with document), we have to face as our chief danger a threat not so much to the authenticity of the record as to its impartiality—the most important of all its qualities and one which, once damaged, cannot be restored. Interference with impartiality may occur at two points: in the first place it may occur, as indeed it has sometimes done in the past, at or near the time of the document's making; the administrator who makes it may himself have an eye on posterity. We shall have to recur to this again, but for the moment let us turn to the second, which is the more serious because it brings us up against the great modern record problem, bulk: impartiality may be—rather, is—impugned when we come to the selection of documents for preservation.

[36] C. Johnson: The Care of Documents (S.P.C.K. Helps for Students of History); and Muller, Feith, and Fruin: Manuel pour le Classement des Archives.

The obvious remedy for this is not to select—to preserve everything; but this is in practice an equally obvious impossibility: the instance already quoted of the accumulation of our war records[37] would no doubt supply apt illustration, but the custodian of county records is faced on his small scale with exactly the same difficulty: we are all confronted, in fact, with this main problem—how are we to reconcile our desire to preserve in our records certain qualities which have accompanied in the past an uncontrolled accumulation with the necessity of our own day for restriction? Up to now, in face of this problem, and in face of the system of selection, or destruction, which is actually in use, no one (not even the Royal Commission, which has obviously devoted much attention to the subject) has really gone further than to tell the selectors that they must be very careful. But can they? Let us take a case of public records, an imaginary class of, say, 200,000 pieces to be dealt with in a limited space of time by a limited number of people who have probably other work waiting to be done: how can they possibly say (since they have not the time to make a detailed comparison) that all the information contained in certain documents which they propose to condemn is to be found elsewhere? Or, taking another criterion, how can they say that certain documents are going to be without interest for the future? There are classes of documents in the Public Record Office now frequently used and highly valued which little more than fifty years ago might well have been destroyed as having no interest for any branch of human study then known.

[37] Records so vast that in its last report (1919) the Royal Commission has found it necessary to alter its original (1914) recommendations regarding the provision of new repository accommodation.

At this point the natural thing is to seek the advice of the historian, who is indeed, being an enthusiast, anxious to give it. Now, the historian may fairly claim to have done much for records in the past. He is mainly responsible for the recognition of public records as things valuable and to be kept carefully for other reasons than that of mere antiquity; and he has done something in England (one always hopes that he will do more presently) for local and private collections. But he cannot predict the needs of future research workers (who may not be historians at all) any more than he was able to predict in the time of the old Record Commission the needs of our own day: witness the indexes, quite useless to an economic historian, of the very important Chancery Rolls of King John, published about 1830. Even if we grant that he may make a better guess than other men, we are met by a still graver objection in the fact that we cannot rule out at least the possibility (since he is human and an historian) of his having a predilection for the evidence which will establish a certain view or emphasise a certain line of inquiry. The use of an historian, or of any other person who uses records for research purposes, as a selector seems to me incompatible with the preservation of their characteristic impartiality: there will be a possibility—and the mere possibility is enough—of suppressio veri, if not of suggestio falsi; and what should have been a record, preserved by circumstances which do not affect its value as evidence, will become no more than the narrative or at most the pièce justificative of a specialist; you might as well allow a botanist to produce a hybrid in order to prove not its possibility but its existence as a natural form.

But if we cannot use the historian for our purposes we may perhaps call in the trained archivist. I am afraid that here again we shall find no help. The archivist may take an interest in any of the subjects upon which his collections furnish evidence; but such interests have nothing to do with (indeed they sometimes impede) the duties that are his of safeguarding, arranging, and making accessible and of basing himself for all these duties on the internal structure of the classes of documents in his charge: with the possible exception of the last there is nothing in these qualifications to make him more fit than the historian for the work of selection—and destruction.

Is there, then, no possible way—we will not say of dealing with our present accumulations; they, it may be, on account of their sheer bulk must be dealt with by such ad hoc methods as the circumstances admit of; and into those methods it is not our province here to enter—but merely for our guidance in the future, is there no chance of reconciling the requirements of ourselves and posterity (so far as these can be foreseen) with the intrinsic interests of the records themselves—the external with the internal—or rather perhaps of finding some method of treatment which will give to our records a reasonable bulk while preserving their important characteristics, and at the same time will at least not sacrifice unduly the interests of the research-worker? Perhaps an indication of such a possibility is to be found in the words "our present accumulations" which we used above. How would it be if we set ourselves in the future to prevent accumulations?

A certain amount of contemporary destruction of the more obviously ephemeral papers—notes from one department of an office to another saying, "Passed to you, please," and perhaps documents of a more advanced type—does, of course, in our own days sometimes take place in large offices. And there are not wanting indications that a perception of the need of something more, especially in regard to public offices, has been growing since the Act of 1877, provided that the Master of the Rolls might make rules respecting the disposal by destruction or otherwise of documents which are deposited in or can be removed to the Public Record Office (note the lack of any distinction between the two classes) and which are not of sufficient public value to justify their preservation in the Public Record Office. Such an indication is seen in the desire expressed by the late Royal Commission on Public Records[38] for the substitution in Government offices of destruction and preservation of documents according to well-considered principles for destruction founded on arbitrary, varying opinions; and for the relief of the Public Record Office Repository from a cumbersome mass of useless or unnecessary documents. But no one, so far as I am aware, has yet summed up and balanced, for the benefit of all records and record-keepers, whether public or private, the merits and demerits of the various systems of destruction, either in the light of the intrinsic character of records themselves or in that of the experience gained from a study of our ancestors' methods. And the accumulations of documents, many of which are subsequently judged not to be material, continue.

[38] First report, p. 41; cp.: second report, p. 71, etc.

Now we may assume, indeed we know, that from the earliest times not only selections of subjects for representation in permanent records but also actual destruction of documents has been practised by the administrators who have left us their collections. Only—and here is the distinction—since the question of bulk did not trouble them as it does us, they were able to act solely on the ground that the record in question was not required for their current administrative purposes. Note that in this their impartiality was not affected by the external considerations of either this world or the next, neither by any interest in the history-writing of the future, nor by the exigencies of floor-space in the present. Any subsequent destruction, direct or indirect, by our ancestors was quite a different matter: such destruction has invariably been the subject ultimately of adverse criticism, though no doubt the person responsible saw no particular harm in it. For example, take the case of the burning of the Exchequer tallies in 1834. The position of contemporaries is probably represented tolerably by that of Charles Dickens, who criticised the proceeding on the ground not only that it burned down the Houses of Parliament, but also that it was a wanton waste of firewood which might have been given to the poor: yet already we, not a hundred years after, are regretting it. On the other hand, though historians are in the habit of saying vaguely that much which was of incalculable value must have been lost, they refer always to the losses due to various forms of carelessness. I have never heard anyone venture to criticise the Chancery, for example, because it did not preserve full copies of non-returnable writs or the Exchequer because certain draft accounts were destroyed.

What, in fact, are the principal gaps in old records which affect us moderns? If we take two of the documents which have thrown light on the personal history of Shakespeare (not a matter of much moment to his contemporaries) we shall arrive at a clear distinction between two different kinds of destruction, or shall we say failure to preserve? On the one hand, we have a document signed by Shakespeare as a witness: all that mattered to the court here was that certain evidence had been given by some indifferent person and accepted. Could we have blamed it if it had failed to preserve this signature which we find so intriguing, or had allowed it (as was sometimes done) to be written in by the scribe who took down the deposition? Or if it had preserved the whole document only in the form of a summary? Most certainly we could not: how was the court to know that we should be interested in Shakespeare's life and handwriting? On the other hand, take the case where Shakespeare himself was party to a fine: had the court of Common Pleas failed to preserve the "foot" of that fine, which was a recognised form of evidence of its own transactions, we should legitimately criticise its carelessness.

It appears, therefore, that the only criticism posterity will be able to pass on us, if we adhere to the practice of our ancestors, will be one based on the extent to which we leave record behind us of the work of the various administrations; and our further queries then resolve themselves into two:

(1) Can we train our administrator so to keep his records at the time they are made that they will give a fair picture of the activities of his office, and this without desiring him to do it for the benefit of posterity, without making an historian of him?

(2) Can this be done so economically as to get rid of the bulk difficulty in connection with preservation?

If the answer to each of these questions is "Yes," then our problem is solved.

It is not, of course, possible to answer them in detail here, because to do so would involve inserting a detailed scheme for the keeping of archives in a modern office; it would also involve going into such highly technical, and in some cases controversial, matters as the use and abuse of flimsies, the whole position of the typewriter in record-making (with an excursus on carbons and inks), the comparative merits of various filing systems, and, as regards this country at least, liaison between Government departments. But we may perhaps try in the most general terms to lay down a few first principles and see how far they indicate the possibility of an answer. We may premise that while no two accountants differ radically in their methods, the name of the various filing systems and practices is legion; while we have had double-entry for three or four hundred years, no one has yet hit on a system of filing correspondence and the like which commands general approval; from which we may draw the corollary that almost everywhere there are large redundancies.

If, then, we are to educate our administrator we should begin

(1) By explaining the trouble that has been caused by accumulations of records in the past and the impossibility of dealing with them reliably and satisfactorily in the present. This trouble we require him to prevent in the future by a system of personal attention and studied economy. (He would, of course, say at once that this could not be done; the reply is "Have you tried?")

(2) The next point is concerned also with authenticity, but it is in every way of primary importance.[39]

[39] How important may be judged from the perusal of more than one modern volume of more than one great statesman's "Private Papers"—many of them public records which have been taken out of custody. Perhaps the new diplomacy may do something to remedy this evil.

Every office, no matter how small, must have a registry;[40] i.e., must be divided up, qua records, into two branches, administrative and executive; it must have a small branch which keeps and controls, distinct from the large which makes and uses, documents. Registry, the keeper and controller of office papers, is to lay down the way in which letters are to be written and whether copies are to be made. When they are made (or received, if they come from without) all office documents are the property of registry, which is responsible for destruction or preservation (with, of course, the advantage of advice from the executive side in a large office) and for safeguarding and methods of arrangement.

[40] I hope I shall not be accused of ignorance of the fact that registries do exist in some offices. The point is, first, that their existence is not universal; second, that they have not yet been turned towards those functions which it is here suggested they should fulfil.

(3) The golden rule for administrators is: in preserving and arranging documents keep in view a single purpose, that of enabling an ignorant successor by their means to carry on if you and the whole of your staff were blotted out. We depend largely on this rule for an answer to the historian's objection that the administrator if left to himself will destroy all the valuable things—lose the Shakespeare fine, in fact. It is not, however, inserted here for that purpose, but because it is obviously sound.

(4) Apart from this rule the first principle should be economy; and economy, if registry is not to be overburdened with work, must consist largely in rules carefully thought out concerning not the documents which are to be destroyed, but the documents which are never to be made: for example, probably at least 50 per cent. of the copies of out-letters which are preserved in a big office record nothing more than despatch, which could be done in two words or less in a general register.

(5) The ideal subject index, it has been said, would have only one entry and any quantity of cross-references; similarly there is an ideal of a single master series in records: being an ideal, neither of these things is realisable, but it is possible to get near to them. For example, registry can and should have a record of its own, a single general register, and a properly made entry in this would be amply sufficient record of many transactions which are at present dignified with a dossier.

(6) In this connection we may refer to the necessity for the intelligent use of mechanical devices: many duplicates and unnecessary documents are habitually kept owing to a failure to appreciate the merits as distinguishing features of a red pencil and a blue, the opposition of left to right, the possibilities of the first and the second column, not to mention the third, fourth, and fifth....

(7) Registry should have a clear conception of the nature of records—that there are only three kinds: In-letters, out-letters, and memoranda (including accounts). A realisation of this and of the way in which records work into each other means economy in internal arrangement, and in the case of Government offices might, if liaison were close and a single system of record-keeping in general use, make new economies possible as between departments.

(8) So far we have been considering the possibilities of an economy which consists in not making documents; but we have, of course, to consider also actual destruction, of which there are three kinds: (a) First, there is what we may call posthumous destruction, the kind which is now most in vogue, and which we want to stop altogether: that is the destruction which deals with an accumulation formed perhaps years before—destruction for its own sake, because of over-great bulk. Then (b) there is immediate destruction, which gives effect to the judgment passed at the earliest possible moment on a document: you wait only until a letter (let us say perhaps a letter making an appointment) is acknowledged, and then, since its actual terms concern only the person addressed, and for your office's purposes you have sufficient evidence in your registry, you destroy. (c) Finally, there is deferred destruction, the kind which comes into operation where a document, already condemned, so far as concerns the purposes of the office, is temporarily preserved for some purely external reason; for example, in connection with the provisions of the Statute of Limitations.

(9) A primary rule of destruction is that no letter-in, copy of letter-out, or draft of office memoranda shall be kept which does not mean a stage in advance for the office's business. But it is particularly necessary that this destruction should take place at the earliest possible moment, while the business is fresh in the minds of those concerned; because there are documents which, though they have no direct result themselves, yet by that very fact mark an advance in the policy (let us say) of a department, and delay in the consideration of these might conceivably be dangerous.

(10) For the purposes of deferred destruction some system of automatic working will be necessary; for instance, if large masses of papers, valueless otherwise to the office, have to be kept, say, for six years for legal reasons, there should be a regular system by which every day the register of six years back should be examined and the papers there marked (let us say) D.D., for deferred destruction, should be at once drawn, disposed of, and marked off. It is possible that some system might be introduced to cover doubtful cases, which could be given a short lease of life—some statutory number of months, pending a decision by circumstances upon their value. This would be a good safeguard against careless destruction, though that should never occur.

(11) Finally, lest this compromise should let in abuses, there must be a short time of probation for documents fixed, perhaps not more than a year; and, as soon as any document has passed through that, it should automatically go to the record class, where no further destruction is permitted; it would probably in practice be subjected to a final scrutiny a few days before it reached this happy state. As many such documents might still be needed for reference, they would possibly remain with those still on probation or go only to some intermediate muniment-room, not to the final record repository, but they would be records, full-fledged.

The above suggestions are offered only as suggestions, susceptible of much revision and needing much more expansion. The only claim made for them is that they do face the real difficulty of the record situation, and do sketch lines along which the reasonable requirements of the historian, or any other worker who may be destined in the future to pursue strange learning along unthought-of paths, are adequately met; the question of bulk is met, and the present system of dealing in a hopeless kind of way with accumulations already formed and hardened is got rid of; and violence is not done to the structure of the records themselves.

Criticism of the proposed system will probably be divided between statements that it does too much and that it does too little. We may reply that there is no inherent impossibility in the via media, that all alternative systems are destructive of the most essential qualities of records, and that ours is, therefore, at least worth a trial.

Attempts are from time to time made in most large offices to secure the keeping of documents in a manner convenient to those who use them for official purposes. But why not something longer sighted, a little care for the records themselves? Why not a Manual of Record Making and Keeping for Clerks in Government and other Offices?

ON INTERPRETATION IN MUSIC

By SIR GEORGE HENSCHEL, Mus.Doc.

THE question of interpretation, especially in the field of music, and more particularly as regards song, has been prominent of late. Lectures on interpretation, books on the subject have been announced in the papers under more or less attractive titles, but I fear I have never read the latter, nor gone to any of the former. Indeed I confess that throughout my life I have given little, if any, thought to interpretation: a fact not easily accounted for, unless it be that when I was young, people must have been more unsophisticated. Interpretation in music was a thing rarely spoken of. If, for instance, there was a Beethoven symphony on the programme of a concert, people went because they wanted to hear the symphony, not how a conductor interpreted it. It evidently sufficed these good people to have confidence in the musicianship and skill of the members of an orchestra and in the loyalty of their conductor as regards carrying out the composer's wishes as to tempo and expression, confidence altogether in the efficiency of any artist ready to brave the test of publicity. Moreover, conductors were then stationary; the fashion of prima-donna conductors, travelling from one place to another, each trying to outdo his rival in so-called originality, had not come into being, and there was little opportunity for a comparison.

Of course, I had read or heard of points in law being capable of different interpretation by different lawyers, also was aware of the fact that interpreters are persons who, being masters of several languages, act between two people ignorant of each other's tongue, or whose office it is to translate orally in their presence the words of parties speaking different languages, but I never connected the term with music, which, I thought, being a language spoken and understood all the world over, did not require the services of an interpreter. This, of course, was a very youthful notion. But even in later years the question did not interest me very much, and it was not until three or four years ago the editor of an American musical magazine asked me to write for his paper an article which he wished to be entitled "Some Elementary Truths on Song-Interpretation" that the matter attracted my serious attention. I remember answering the gentleman: "My dear sir,—Since we are still waiting for a satisfactory answer to the ancient question 'What is truth?' I must confess myself utterly incompetent to gratify your flattering desire; indeed, without immodesty, I hope, should be reluctant to accept any mortal's opinion regarding a question of art as truth." Somehow or other, however, the thing got hold of me and I began to be curious to see what could be said, or at any rate what I might be able to say on the subject. So, first of all, I consulted the Oxford Dictionary to see whether among the various definitions of the word "Interpretation," which that wonderfully complete book was sure to offer, there might not be one applicable to music, or altogether to art. And there I found that "To interpret" may mean:

Expound the meaning of, bring out, make out the meaning of, explain, understand, render by artistic representation or performance.

Well, this was something to start from, anyhow. Let us see: "Expound the meaning of."

From the oracles of old, not infrequently more obscure on purpose to give them greater importance, down to a speech from the front benches, utterances in words may, and indeed often do, need expounding the meaning of, but it seems to me in music, and, perhaps, in art altogether, the necessity for explanation nearly always indicates a certain degree of inferiority. I cannot imagine anyone looking at a Velasquez, or Titian, or Rembrandt, or Michelangelo asking "What does it mean?" but I am sure we all have heard that question, very likely emphasised by the addition of two little words, like "on earth," or something stronger, at exhibitions of Futurist art.

So in a piece of absolute music, i.e., music without words, for an orchestra or a solo instrument, any attempt at expounding the meaning of, make out the meaning of, must, in my humble opinion, always be more or less of a failure, whilst, of course, there can be no need of such an attempt at all if the music be programme music, or if, by the title given to it, like, for instance, Elegy, Reverie, Humoreske, Nocturne, Barcarolle, and so on, the composer clearly has indicated his intention. There is no need asking what Bach, Beethoven, Brahms meant by their symphonies, their fugues.

You might as well ask what the meaning of a cathedral. These things are there for us to wonder at the greatness and power of the human mind, to lose ourselves in admiration of the various forms of beauty in which they reveal themselves, to bow down, to worship. On the other hand, in music with words, the poems chosen by the composer are rarely sufficiently obscure or eccentric to require "expounding the meaning of."

It seems to me, therefore, that the only definition of the word interpretation with which we need concern ourselves is "Render by artistic representation or performance." And that would seem simple enough were it not that when it comes to a song we have to deal with a compound of poetry and music which complicates matters inasmuch as there is art required for reciting a poem as well as for singing the music.

That the music of a song, as such, may be beautifully rendered by an instrument other than the voice we all know. Who—to quote only one example—has not heard Schubert's Ave Maria played on a 'cello? And the words of a song detached from the music may find an ideal interpreter in the person of a talented reciter, who, as regards music, may not know one note from another. The perfect interpreter of a song, therefore, would have to combine in him or herself the talents and qualities of both a reciter and a singer, and it will be seen at once that, as in song the music is of the first importance, not only should an intending singer make a point of studying music as well as singing, but the study of theory, harmony, counterpoint, etc., that is to say, of music as a creative art should always be made the foundation on which all special studies for expressing that art should rest.

I have just said that in a song the music is first in importance. Should, therefore, by any chance a composer have failed, as some of the best have been known to now and then, to make the music fit the words completely, it would be the duty of the singer to consider the musical phrase in the first instance and fit in the words as well as possible under the circumstances, even at the risk of breaking between two words which otherwise it would be better not to separate.

The question of breathing is altogether one which puzzles a great many singers. Take, for instance, a Bach or Handel aria, with semiquaver runs, often extending over half-a-dozen bars or more. There are singers who deem it beneath their dignity to breathe during such a run, and go on until they are red in the face, or else, if they see they must after all, put in additional words. This is quite unnecessary. Such occasions should be treated instrumentally. Give such a run to, say, an oboe player and you will find that he now and then will take an instantaneous little breath which enables him to do justice to every note and carry the thing through successfully and without exhaustion. It is generally the childish fear of being thought lacking in physical strength which induces some singers to delay breathing until the thought of their bursting a blood vessel remains the only one left in the poor listener, rendering anything like interpretation and, therefore, artistic enjoyment of such a performance utterly impossible. If you know how to breathe, i.e., how to replenish your lungs in the twinkling of an eye and imperceptibly, you cannot really breathe too often, for by such judicious breathing you are infinitely better able to satisfactorily accomplish the task before you. I remember being asked, years ago, to hear, with a view to giving my opinion on her talent and voice, a young singer, now quite famous, and being horrified at her utterly mistaken idea as to breathing. Disregarding all thought of intelligent phrasing, she actually never breathed unless positively obliged to do so. I stood it as long as I could and then got really angry. I stopped her short and said, "My dear young lady, do you wish to show the people what wonderful lungs you have, or what a beautiful song it is you are singing?" You can only do one of the two things at a time. Supposing even your breathing be good, which, being neither inaudible nor invisible, I am sorry to say it is not; you will have to learn that an accomplishment, be it ever so great, in anything pertaining to a detail in the mere technique of an art becomes a fault the moment attention is drawn to it. A singer who after the singing of a beautiful song is complimented on the excellent management of his breath or the wonderful articulation of his words should go home and resolve to do better next time, and not rest satisfied until he feels that the singer's highest aim should be the full appreciation and enjoyment on the part of the listener of the work interpreted. That aim being achieved he need wish for no greater praise.

For an intelligent and thoroughly satisfactory rendering of a song it is absolutely imperative that the vocal technique of the singer—and the breathing is as important a part of it as the actual singing—be developed to a state of efficiency, such as to need no more thought than, for instance, a pianist interpreting a Beethoven sonata should have to give to the fingering. All technical difficulties should have been overcome once for all and technique itself become a matter of course before an attempt at interpretation is made.

The two principal factors in the technique of singing are vocalisation and articulation, the one referring to music, the other—articulation—to speech, each complementing the other, though I hold that of the two articulation is the more important, since it is not the vowels but the consonants which enable a singer to "bring out the meaning of," i.e., to interpret a word. You may sing the vowel, for instance, of the word "soul" ever so beautifully, it is not until you add the "l" with the same intensity of purpose that the word puts on flesh and blood, as it were, and becomes a living thing. Or take the word "remember." No actor, impersonating, for instance, the ghost of Hamlet's father, could make an impression with the word by dwelling on the vowel "Reme-e-e——," but leaving the vowel quickly and continuing to sound the "m" a good actor could walk almost across the whole stage holding on to that consonant without exaggeration—"Remem-m-m-ber." It is the consonants, as I said before, which convey the meaning of a word, and they should be made the subject of special study. If you wish to interpret you should, in the first place, strive to make yourself understood, and that, with the best vocalisation in the world, you can do only by a mastery of the consonants, i.e., by a perfect articulation. You all know that delicious story of the dear old lady coming home from a village concert, where the hit of the evening had been made by a girl singing, "Wae's me for Prince Charlie." Being asked whether she had enjoyed the concert, she said, "Not very much; I couldn't understand half the people who sang, except one girl who sang a nice funny song." "Do you remember the title?" "No, but she kept on asking 'Where's me fourpence, Charlie?'" This singer evidently had not made a special study of consonants.

In vocalisation, too, there are certain details which often fail to receive, on the part of the singer, the attention which should be paid to them. One of them, and, in my opinion, a very important one, because of its great help towards interpretation, is the colouring of the tone. I have heard many an otherwise good singer whose singing became exceedingly monotonous after a while by reason of a lack of variety in tone-colour, and I remember one lady in particular, the possessor of a beautiful rich contralto voice, from whose singing—had it not been for the words—you could not possibly have told whether what she sang was sad or cheerful. And yet our five vowels A, E, I, O, U being what we may call the primary colours of the voice, a singer should be able, by skilful and judicious mixing of these colours, to produce as many different shades of, let us say, the vowel A as a painter of the colour, say, of red. I have in my long experience of a teacher found it of the utmost value to make a pupil sing even a whole song on nothing but the vowels of the words, with the object of expressing the character of the music by mere vocalisation. We all love that glorious aria in the Messiah, "He was despised." Well, let a student try to convey its sadness, its deeply religious feeling in that way, i.e., without words, by the instrument of the voice alone, and, if after a while she succeeds, she will have taken a very big step toward realising, i.e., toward interpreting, the full beauty of that exquisite blending of words and music. For a thoroughly artistic rendering of emotional songs of that kind or of songs of dramatic character, such as ballads in which the singer has to impersonate character and run up and down the gamut of passion, it is of the greatest importance that the singer should have under perfect control not only his technique, but his feelings too. If your feelings get the better of you before the public, you are apt temporarily, and for physical reasons, to lose the mastery of your technique. There is a story told of the famous American actor, Edwin Booth, whose daughter, his severest critic, always, at his request, had to be in the stage-box where and whenever he acted. On one occasion the play was Victor Hugo's The King's Jester, known to us all from Verdi's Rigoletto. The part of the Jester was considered one of the best of Booth's many fine impersonations. When the harrowing scene came in which the poor man finds the body of his murdered daughter in the sack, Booth on that night for some reason or other was so overcome by the situation that actual tears ran down his cheeks, and he thought he had never acted that scene better or with greater feeling. The first thing his daughter said to him as they met in his dressing-room after the play was, "Were you quite well, father?" "Quite. Why?" "Because that scene with Gilda's body never made so little impression on me and on the people, as far as I could see."

And naturally. When you lose control of yourself you must not expect to be able to control your audience.

On the other hand, there was a great singer, Wilhelmina Schroeder-Devrient, the greatest exponent of the part of Leonora in Beethoven's Fidelio. In that wonderful scene in the underground prison when, disguised as the jailor's boy, and unrecognised by her unfortunate husband, the chained prisoner Florestan, she hands the starving man a crust of bread, singing to Beethoven's touchingly appealing notes, and in a voice choked with emotion, "There, take this bread, thou poor, poor man," that great singer was often known to actually crack a little aside joke with old Rocco, the jailor, whilst the front of the house was in tears. That is what I call art. Very likely she had cried herself many a time over that same scene when studying it.

Of course the actor—and by that I mean the operatic-singer as well—has a not inconsiderable advantage over the concert-singer, in that he possesses in facial expression and gesture two additional aids to interpretation, both important and powerful. I say two, although facial expression is available to the concert-singer as well, but whilst that and gesture form an essential part in the training of the actor, facial expression is hardly ever systematically studied by the singer of songs who, in this respect, is left to his own resources with often rather curious results. I have listened to many a singer—I am sorry to say mostly of the fair sex—who, very likely for fear of making grimaces, maintained throughout a whole song, and heedless of the varying moods and sentiments expressed in it, a sickly, inane, apologetic sort of a smile, whilst, on the other hand, I remember hearing a famous singer who, in Schubert's great song, Der Doppelgänger, allowed his features already during the short prelude to the song to assume a most ghastly expression of pain and terror which, quite apart from such a proceeding being apt to have the opposite effect, was in this case quite the wrong thing to do, for the opening of the song is merely a sad recollection, on the part of the unfortunate lover, of happier times when his beloved was still inhabiting the house he is passing. "The night is still, the streets are silent, 'twas in this house my true love lived." The tragedy and horror only commence with "There too stands a man and gazes up on high, and wrings his hands in agony of pain," reaching the climax with the words, "I shudder when I behold his face, the moon reveals to me my own image." But when this climax came it was robbed of much of its impressiveness by the singer having anticipated it. He evidently took it for granted that his listeners knew Heine's poem and Schubert's song, or had made themselves acquainted with the words beforehand by looking into the book of words. That is a great mistake. You should always sing as if the song you are interpreting had never been known or sung before, and you were the first to make it public. Every one of you, I am sure, has at one time or other told a little fairy-story to a child. You know how deliberately such a story should be told, how distinctly the pronunciation of every syllable, every consonant, in order that the little ones may grasp the meaning of what you are saying the very moment you are saying it, so as not to lose the thread of the tale, to break the spell. Well, that's the way you should sing. Even if you know that what you are singing is the most well-known, popular, hackneyed thing, always imagine one person in your audience—sitting in the very last row—to whom it is something absolutely new, and that imaginary person should be the child to whom you are telling a story. So you see all these little details have to be thought out. The singer should even be careful in the selection of his songs. (When I speak of "him" and "his" I, of course, mean "her" and "hers" as well.) The greater the singer's art the more will he be able to force his hearers into forgetfulness of a possible discrepancy between, for instance, his personal appearance and the sentiment or character he is endeavouring to represent. But here, too, some discretion should be exercised. A lady, for instance, weighing fourteen stone and a half should not, as I have heard one do, put the audience's capacity for self-control to too severe a test by singing baby-songs like, "Put me in my little bed, mother," or "If nobody ever marries me and I don't know why he should." Yes, even the time of day, and the scene and the occasion should find a place among the questions to be considered by a singer when choosing a song for performance, as under circumstances the best interpretation may not only fail to be appreciated, but even produce an effect utterly unlooked for.

It was many years ago, two or three nights after Gilbert and Sullivan's incomparable Mikado had been launched on its triumphal career at the Savoy, that there was a big evening party at Sullivan's flat, to have the honour of meeting the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Edinburgh. An excellent little programme of music had been gone through, and just after midnight, supper being over, the whole party once more repaired to the drawing-room for some jollier things. Nearly all the principal singers from the Savoy had come over in their Mikado costumes and, with the composer at the piano, delighted the guests with excerpts like "Three little Maids from School" and "The flowers that bloom in the Spring, tra-la," doubly fascinating then on account of the novelty of the thing.

Everybody, and none the least so the two Royal guests, who occupied two armchairs in front, with the programme in their hands, enjoyed the entertainment to the utmost, and the fun was at its height when one of the guests, a celebrated contralto, famous for her rendering of ballads—I mean the style of ballads in vogue thirty-five years ago—was asked if she wouldn't sing one of them. She, of course, readily consented, solemnly mounted the little platform, and there was a hush as she stood there, motionless like a statue, her face expressing a seriousness so strangely in contrast with the mirth and laughter that had pervaded the room but a few minutes before, that I noticed the two Royal programmes being brought somewhat nearer the Royal faces. Then the accompanist struck the first chords of the introduction and—could we really believe our ears?—the lady began to sing—you'll never guess—"The Three Fishers!" Higher and higher up went the Royal programmes, a dead silence reigned in the room until it came to the "Three Corpses," when, little by little, small noises like half-suppressed sneezes or sobs could be heard here and there, increasing in frequency and volume, and when it came to the refrain—it was now a little after 1 a.m.—"The sooner it's over the sooner to sleep," the last "moa-oa-oa-ning" was drowned in a vociferous applause of a character such as I am sure that ballad had never before evoked.

And now I should like to mention another factor in the rendering of music, the importance of which is often underrated, and that is the tempo. Good music, I have found, not only does not lose but rather gains by the tempo, whatever it might be, being taken with deliberation. There are degrees in any designation of time, and one is apt to forget that the Italian words in common for that purpose may refer, not only to the metronomic measure, but also to the character, the mood of a piece. Allegro means lively. But there are degrees of liveliness. An elephant may be lively, but I take his liveliness to be of a somewhat different kind from that, for instance, of the frisky little chap whose antics are so deliciously and humorously described in Goethe and Berlioz's immortal "Song of the Flea" in Faust. I remember once hearing Schubert's Erlking taken at such a break-neck speed that I wondered both father and child were not killed before the end of the first stanza. It reminded me of a rather amusing series of telegraphic versions of celebrated poems, which many years ago appeared in the Fliegende Blätter—the Continental Punch—and of which that of the Erlking might be rendered in English by something like this: "Night wild—Father and child—Ride through the dark—Erlking out for a lark—Boy frightened—Father's grip tightened—Father, ride on—Yes, my son—Reach home in fear and dread—Father alive, child dead."

When we recall the definition of the word Interpretation as it refers to music and poetry, viz., Rendering by artistic representation or performance, we shall find that that little qualification "artistic" makes all the difference in the world, inasmuch as it clearly shows that a mere representation or performance may not necessarily be an interpretation and that it requires an artist to make it such. And it follows that there must be any amount of variety in the interpretation of one and the same thing. An old Latin proverb says: "Duo si faciunt idem, non est idem." When two people do the same thing, it isn't the same thing. Well, if that be true in any undertaking, how infinitely great must be the possibility of such variety when the two people of the proverb are artists! For though we speak of the artistic temperament as if it were something absolute and definable, we know in how many different ways such a temperament may manifest itself.

There are no two painters who, put before the same landscape, would paint it, i.e., interpret it, in the same way. Neither, I maintain, are there two actors who would interpret Hamlet, or two singers who would sing the same song exactly alike. They each have, when they have attained maturity, their own style, and style, as an eminent painter of the last century has admirably expressed it, is the leaving out of everything superfluous, a definition which fits our subject equally well. No two artists will think the same thing superfluous; indeed, what the one considers so, the other may deem essential. Here, too, the actor—to come back to poetry and music—is better off than the musician. He has a far greater scope, i.e., a far wider outlet for his imagination. He is given the words to do what he likes with. One actor—to keep to Hamlet—might after long study have come to the conclusion that, for instance, the last lines of that fine monologue at the end of the second act should be triumphantly exclaimed in a loud voice:

The play's the thing

Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King.

Whilst another, equally eminent, would make an equally great impression by almost whispering the words to himself, as if afraid of betraying the secret: "The play's the thing...." Who could say of the one or the other interpretation "This is right," or "This is wrong"? In this case the same result is arrived at by different means. On the other hand, I remember a little story my father told me when I was a boy, of a man who had been made very angry by a letter from his son at the University asking him for money. In that mood he is met by an old friend who asks him, "What's the matter? Why are you thus out of sorts?" "Well," says the other, "look at this impertinent letter I've just got from my son, 'Father, please send me money!'"—reading out the words in a quick, impatient, commanding voice. "Of course," he adds, "I shan't do anything of the kind."

"Let me see the letter," the benevolent friend asks—he was very fond of the boy—and, reading the words with a gentle, pleading, affectionate inflexion of the voice, he says, "Why, my dear fellow, it's a very charming letter. He writes, 'Father, please send me money.'" "Ah," says the father, "if he writes like that, he shall have it!" Here, without doubt, the different interpretation had a different result. Certainly the son will have thought so.

Varieties such as just quoted are, however, quite impossible in music. Here we are faced by absolute orders given by the composer who says: "This is to be forte, this piano; here you must increase, there decrease; here hurry, there retard." But this apparent clipping of the interpreter's wings is only a blessing in disguise, for it makes it possible for even a singer of inferior intelligence to render by artistic representation or performance, i.e., to interpret a song; so that, whilst we would not listen to a representation of the character of Hamlet by a stupid or uneducated man, we may thoroughly enjoy the rendering of a song by a singer with a fine voice, even if he be a most uninteresting, commonplace person otherwise, as long as he masters the technique of his art and loyally and conscientiously follows the directions given by the composer.

A loyal, reverent attitude to the author is a thing on which too great stress cannot be laid. A work deemed worth performing should be rendered as the author wrote it. By this I do, of course, not mean that an orchestral work or an organ fugue or a string quartet should not be played on the pianoforte. Quite the contrary. Skilful transcriptions and arrangements are indeed as great a boon as are reproductions of the famous masterpieces of painting or sculpture, without which our knowledge of the art would be lamentably defective. There have also been cases where one great master has thought it desirable to complement the work of another, either by writing accompaniments to originally unaccompanied instrumental works, as Schumann did to Bach, or by strengthening the accompanying orchestra in a choral work, as Mozart did to Handel's Messiah. As far as I know the original text has in all such cases been allowed to remain intact; and works thus treated being obtainable in the original as well as in the complemented version, the choice is left to the personal taste of the musicians responsible for the performance. What I mean is that the text of the composer should not be tampered with. There have now and then attempts been made at improving Beethoven's scores on the plea that some instruments employed by the master—like, for instance, the flute—have been developed so as to allow notes to be played on them now which were impossible at the time Beethoven wrote, and that very likely, had these notes been at the master's disposal, he would have made use of them. This may or may not be so, but it seems to me a dangerous theory to work upon, for once you commence meddling with a master work it would be difficult to know where to draw the line, and there is no saying whither it would lead. Besides, every great period in the history of art has its own characteristics. A so-called full orchestra in Beethoven's time was a very different thing from what we are accustomed to consider one to-day, when woodwind, brass, percussion, harps, and what not often alone outnumber the entire personnel of a grand orchestra a century ago. Moreover, if you leave Beethoven's scores untouched, his mastery of orchestration becomes all the more wonderful. There are instances—just think of that glorious climax in the Third Leonora Overture, or the end of that to Egmont—where, even considering only the mere physical power of sound, he gets results from his orchestration that no modern writer has as yet surpassed.

It is hardly credible that, arrogant enough as such attempts at improving Beethoven's orchestration are, there exist people who go further still and actually alter a great composer's directions as to expression. Most of us know how particularly fond Beethoven was of interrupting a seemingly increasing fortissimo by a sudden pianissimo. You will recall that splendid scherzo in the "Seventh Symphony," where he commences with an exultant fortissimo, evidently meaning to continue in that vein, when all of a sudden the ft on the last crotchet of the second bar is followed by a pp on the first crotchet of the third, the result is simply marvellous.

Well, some years ago I had to conduct that symphony as a deputy for the regular conductor, who was prevented from being at his post on that occasion. Can you imagine my surprise and disgust when, at the rehearsal, commencing with the Scherzo, and looking forward to that sudden pp on the first note of the third bar, that pp appeared already on the last note of the second bar, which should have still been ft. Stopping the orchestra indignantly, I asked, "What on earth are you doing, gentlemen?"

"We have got it so in our parts," was the answer. "Impossible," I said. "Let me see!" The leader handed me the part, and there, to be sure, I was flabbergasted to find the mark of pp on the first note of the third bar actually transferred in blue pencil to the preceding note, thus not only completely spoiling Beethoven's fun, but altering and weakening the subject, which, as anybody might see, commences with the down, not the up beat. I wonder if one should envy a man or pity him for a degree of self-estimation which could render him capable of blue-pencilling Beethoven!

He certainly has arrived at what a witty American friend of mine would call the "Shoehorn stage." To my enquiries about a mutual acquaintance, that gentleman answered, "He? Why, he's that big now he has to use a shoehorn to put on his hat!"

But this is by no means an isolated example of the lamentable lack of reverence in this country toward the works of the great masters of music. However much one might be horrified at the utterly mistaken tempi one often has to listen to in the rendering of the classics, especially Mozart and Beethoven, that, after all, sad and deplorable as it is, may only be the consequence of ignorance or the result of insufficient musical training on the part of the performer. It is the wanton, deliberate tampering with the text of a great composer which is unpardonable. No one among the classics was more explicit or exacting as to the way he wished his works to be rendered than Beethoven. Take once more that surpassingly beautiful Leonora Overture No. III. Who has not been thrilled to the innermost depths of his soul by those distant trumpet-calls, each ending with a long pause on the last note, and followed immediately, i.e., without any further pause and whilst that last note still lingers in one's ears, by one of the most divinely inspired phrases ever penned by even that great master? After the first call the orchestra plays it, in a mysterious pianissimo, in the same key as the call itself—B flat; after the second, more impressive still, a third lower, in G flat. Well, at a recent performance of that great work the conductor, according to the papers an "acknowledged authority" on Beethoven, coolly added a "general pause" on to each of those two pauses on the last note of the trumpet-call; that after the second call lasting for fully ten seconds. No words can express my disappointment, my indignation, for, of course, the sublime beauty of that low G flat with which the double-basses and 'celli enter whilst the high B flat of the trumpet-call is slowly dying away in the distance was lost completely. Indeed it would have mattered little now in what key the orchestra had come in—the thing was irretrievably spoiled.

Anywhere on the Continent the audience would have given unmistakable signs of their disapproval, and the Press been unanimous in the condemnation of such practices on the part of the conductor. Here that gentleman was vociferously applauded by the audience and—with, I think, one solitary exception—lauded to the skies by the Press, the one or two papers which were bold enough to timidly admit his "occasionally taking liberties with Beethoven" declaring such liberties to be those of "an intimate, an adept."

Intimate indeed! If a hundred years ago an intimate of Beethoven's had dared to do such a thing in Beethoven's presence, the master, as we know him from his letters, would have flung the score at his head, thundering, "Knave, canst thou not read? Dost thou think if I had wanted those two general pauses, I did not know how to put them in my score?"

What are we coming to? Irreverence, contempt of traditions, breaking with a glorious past, disregard of law, of form—are they also in the realm of music a sign of the times, a sort of Bolshevism?

Fancy an actor, tired of that everlasting "To be or not to be," and thinking it too hackneyed, surprising the audience by commencing the great monologue for a change with "To exist or not to exist"; or another, going one better, and considering the absence of rhyme in that monologue rather a mistake of Shakespeare's, hitting on the happy and original idea of correcting it into something like:

To be or not to be—

That is what staggers me.

And yet that would not be one whit less of a sacrilege.

And take a song or an aria; how often does one not hear even good singers change a note into a higher one, with the object of showing the voice to better advantage, or of making a phrase, generally the final cadence, more effective, so as to get a few more handfuls of applause, or perhaps even an additional recall at the end?

"That's villainous," says Hamlet, "and shows a most pitiful ambition."

This altering of notes brings me upon a question which has ever been the subject of much controversy among musicians: Are there any rules as to the singing of recitatives or, rather, to the substituting now and then, in the singing of recitatives of notes other than those written by the composer? Should, for instance, the phrase in the Messiah

My answer as regards the first of these two examples is as decided a "No" as my "Yes" is in regard to the second. This may, perhaps, be considered somewhat arbitrary and entirely a matter of taste, but I venture to hope that after what I have to say on the subject it will be found to be only partly a matter of taste, and of arbitrariness not at all. I base my objection to the alteration in the first, and my approval of that in the second example on a theory which seems to me to commend itself by its simplicity, and may be explained in the shape of a rule something like this:

Take the note as to the changing of which into a higher or lower you are in doubt, and look first at the note preceding and then at the note following that doubtful note. Then see if the note you wish to substitute for the printed note lies on the way from the preceding to the following note. If it does, you are justified in making the change; if not, leave it alone. Here is our first example:

The doubtful note is the C on "shep," the preceding one is the G below, the following is the C. Now, does the D you wish to substitute for the C on "shep" lie between that "G" and that "C" on the second syllable of shepherd? No, let the phrase therefore remain as written. In the second example:

The questionable note is the A on "Da" and does lie on the way from the C sharp to the A on the second syllable of David; it is, therefore, not only perfectly legitimate, but even good to make the change, and the phrase should be sung:

The question of taste enters when it comes to the exception to the rule. According to that it would be legitimate, taking yet a third example from the Messiah:

In this case, however, it would be decidedly better to leave the phrase unchanged, for we have had four B flats already in that short sentence, and the A, coming pat on the F major chord, is rather relieving and refreshing. Here, as in many other cases, "let your own discretion be your tutor." Of an exception to the rule as regards the first of these three examples being either justifiable or advisable I know no instance. Of course, all I have said on this subject refers to the slow, deliberate, serious recitative in oratorio and other sacred music only, and not at all to what is called "secco" recitative in opera, which is practically no more than speech somewhat rapidly delivered in specified musical terms. There you should change the doubtful note into one above or below it at every opportunity, for by doing so you impart a certain spontaneity and freedom to the sentences, emphasising their resemblance to the spoken word. Here is an example in the style of Mozart:

But I am reaching the limit of the space allowed for this article and fear my chat has been on "kindred topics" rather than on the alleged main theme of interpretation. But surely none of my readers expected me to answer the question "How to Interpret"? If so, I should be as truly sorry for having disappointed them as I was some years ago to have been obliged to disillusion the organist of the little Parish Church of Alvie. I don't mean myself, for I only officiated there in that capacity during the summer months, when I was at home. I mean the regular, appointed, salaried, real organist. She was a young girl of sixteen, a native of the parish, who, fond of music, like all Scots people, could strum two or three tunes on the piano, and to whom I had given a few lessons in the managing of the American organ in the church. At the request of my old friend, the Rev. James Anderson, our late and much lamented minister, I had introduced the playing of a voluntary during collection, always, of course, improvising on the Psalm or hymn tunes of the day's service, or on whatever came into my head. Well, a week after I had left Alvie for London, the first year of that innovation, I received a letter from the young lady, consisting of the following five lines: "Dear Mr. Henschel—Mr. Anderson wishes me to play voluntaries during collection, just as you did. Would you please let me know how you do it?"

I was touched by so much faith and innocence. The playing of an instrument—and singing, as such, is but playing on the vocal instrument in our throats—may be taught and, with patience and perseverance, brought to as near a degree of perfection as humanly possible; that is a matter of craft, of physical, I may say muscular, skill. The mystery of what is best, imperishable in any art, lies in the soul and in the brain. If dormant, it may be awakened and fostered; if absent, it cannot be acquired by teaching. Interpretation, though but recreative, certainly is an art, or at least part of one. And art is long and life is short, and of learning there is no end.

To have a chance of becoming an artist in the true sense of the word, the student, fortunate in the possession of the heavenly gift of talent, should from the outset resolve to strive for none but the highest ideals, refuse to be satisfied, both in taking and giving, with anything but the best and purest, and last, though by no means least, resist the temptations which the prospect of popularity and its worldly advantages, frequently the result of lowering that high standard, may place in his way.

ROBERT BRIDGES'S LYRICAL POEMS[41]

[41] October and Other Poems. By Robert Bridges. Heinemann. 1920. 5s. net. Poetical Works, Excluding the Eight Dramas. By Robert Bridges. 1912. Oxford University Press. For other works see "Bibliography" in current issue.

By J. C. SQUIRE

I

MR. Bridges's new volume of poems (the first that he has published since he became Poet Laureate) must be read for what it is, the work of a man seventy-five years of age. This statement is not made as an excuse: there are weak—occasional and patriotic—poems in the book, but some also which are beautiful additions to his canon. But some of his critics, so inadequate is still the recognition of what he has done, have treated the book as though his claim to be a great poet rested partly upon it, failing to read it, as they should, in the light of all that has gone before it. Properly regarded, it awakes not disappointment, but wonder that a poet so old should still sometimes have the genuine impulse, should still keep his spirit fresh, and should still be capable of ingenious and fruitful experiments in technique—experiments moreover in which the content is never subordinated to the form, however exacting and interesting the form may be. October, Noel, Our Lady, Flycatchers, The West Front, Trafalgar Square, and Fortunatus Nimium are all poems that any man might be proud to write in his prime; and beyond these there is the delicious invention of The Flowering Tree:

What Fairy fann'd my dreams

while I slept in the sun?

As if a flowering tree

were standing over me:

Its young stem strong and lithe

went branching overhead,

And willowy sprays around

fell tasselling to the ground

All with wild blossom gay

as is the cherry in May ...

The sunlight was enmesh'd

in the shifting splendour

And I saw through on high

to soft lakes of blue sky:...

So I slept enchanted

under my loving tree

Till from his late resting

the sweet songster of night,

Rousing, awakened me:

Then! this—the birdis note—

Was the voice of thy throat

which thou gav'st me to kiss.

The occasion may suitably be seized to make a few notes on Mr. Bridges's shorter—never mind the title and the word "lyrical"—poems as a whole.

II

Mr. Bridges is often written of as though he were primarily a technician. He has always taken a keen interest in prosody; he has written books, and formulated theories, about it; his experiments in classical metres and his notions about English spelling have, to those who have not troubled to discover the intellectual strength and the strong common sense which commonly marks his linguistic writings, given him something of the air of a pedant. But the theoriser and the innovator of the "shorter poems" has nothing to do with pedantry. There are poems in which the scrutinous eye may detect very elaborate pains. April 1885 is a fabric of internal rhyme, assonance, and alliteration which it would be hard to parallel in English:

Wanton with long delay the gay Spring leaping cometh;

The blackthorn starreth now his bough on the eve of May:

All day in the sweet box-tree the bee for pleasure hummeth:

The cuckoo sends afloat his note on the air all day.

Now dewy nights again and rain in gentle shower

At root of tree and flower have quenched the winter's drouth:

On high the hot sun smiles, and banks of cloud uptower

In bulging heads that crowd for miles the dazzling south.

That may be called a tour-de-force; as a rule, though Mr. Bridges's variety of stanza and rhythm is immense, the craftsman never intrudes. His ingenuities merely serve their purpose; his music cannot be separated from his sense; his rhythms are sought, and found, as the only suitable rhythms for the words and the scenes that are being expressed and described. How otherwise than in the beautiful movement used can we imagine the picture of A Passer By?—the fresh blue day, the crowded sail, the vision of a queenly progress across the world to a far harbour in the south? It is one of fifty such feats, triumphs of fastidious art, never completely understood until the poems are read aloud. His power of music has developed steadily throughout his career, but scarcely a poem of any period can be quoted without illustrating his surpassing technical gifts. We shall come to many presently; here, when we are thinking primarily of the skill with which he weaves a close-fitting garment of sound for his thought, we may take as a single example, London Snow:

When men were all asleep the snow came flying,

In large white flakes falling on the city brown,

Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying,

Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town

Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing;

Lazily and incessantly floating down and down:

Silently sifting and veiling road, roof, and railing;

Hiding difference, making unevenness even,

Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing.

All night it fell, and when full inches seven

It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness,

The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven....

The accuracy of the description is extraordinary and continues as the town awakes, and boys go snowballing to school, a few carts creak along, and the pale sun rises to awake the noisier day. But the observation, the accuracy, the response of the heart to the beauty of the scene, might have been found elsewhere: the astonishing management of the rhythms, which, even when divorced from the meaning of the words, translate the steady falling, the wayward criss-crossing, the lightness and crispness, and soothing persistence of snow in an almost windless air, is peculiar to Mr. Bridges. Words and music are with him always inseparable: he is at the opposite pole from the man, often not unintelligent in other ways, who forces his material into a strait-jacket of jingle. In this respect his taste is as flawless, his subtlety as unfailing, as any in the records of literature.

III

It is possible, and it has often been stated, that Mr. Bridges will chiefly live as a poet of the English landscape. Certainly he would live if only his landscape poetry were preserved. It may seem a large assertion, but no Englishman has written so large a body of good landscape poetry. There are two obvious things to be said about it.

The first is that his landscape is the landscape of the South of England, more particularly of the Thames Valley and the downs by the sea—two regions which he significantly chooses as typical, when, in The Voice of Nature, he wishes to point an argument. He never describes foreign or remote scenes; and—it may be regarded as symbolic of his attitude to the more violent things of life—he never leaves the land for the sea. Even British territorial waters he never sails; there is much of the sea in his work, but it is the sea as seen from the shore, blue and smiling and dancing, or whipped by the wind, caught in a narrow peep between shoulders of the downs or watched from a hill through a telescope:

There many an hour I have sat to watch; nay, now

The brazen disk is cold against my brow,

And in my sight a circle of the sea

Enlarged to swiftness, where the salt waves flee,

And ships in stately motion pass so near

That what I see is speaking to my ear.

Mr. Bridges's landscape is bounded by the English Channel; his hills are the Downs; his rivers are clear and gentle streams; his trees oak and beech, elm and larch; he is as surely of the South of England as Wordsworth is of the North. And the second obvious thing is that, being a true landscape poet and not a romantic who exploits nature to find backgrounds for his passions, it is of ordinary landscapes that he writes. Tennyson, too, was an observer, but many of his best-known landscapes are of the selected kind. It is one thing to write of the sort of natural scene traditionally approved as remarkable: sunset on a marsh, sunrise on the Alps, stupendous cliffs, high cataracts, and breakers in the moon. It is another to describe, giving the breath of life to your description, what any man, going out on any day in any season, will see when he looks over a five-barred gate or takes a footpath through the woods. Mr. Bridges writes of nature like a countryman. His abnormal scenes are rare; he sees the beauty in the normal. He sings of nightingales when he hears them, but rooks are far more frequent in his verse; his suns seldom go down in flaming splendour, but drop red into the grey or die invisibly. One by one scenes from his familiar landscape have moved him to verse, until his books contain a complete catalogue of the English rural year, all its ordinary recurrent colours, and scents and sounds, trees, flowers, birds, skies and waters.

Spring. A village in the downs, and men winnowing in a barn. The palm-willows and hazels. The first flowers, primroses and green hyacinth spikes, shooting up amid moss and withered undergrowth. Brisk ploughmen. Birds happily courting in the jocund sun.

Summer. The garden, with bees on the flowers and in the overhanging limes, and rooks cawing in the elms. The hayfields in the sun; fields green with waves of rustling wheat; the hum of insects and the song of larks in a sky pure blue, or heaped with "slow pavilions of caverned snow," "sunshot palaces of cloud"; the downs, starred with small flowers, where rabbits nibble the grass; the noise of scythes. The river: still water, the dip of oars, a boat that glides with its reflection past flowering islets and dipping branches and meadows, where "the lazy cows wrench many a scented flower"; bathers; fish leaping in the pools; the peace of evening as it falls over water and trees; moonlight on the flashing weir. There are storms that blacken the sea and beat down the corn, but they pass and the sun comes out again, gathering strength.

Autumn. The garden in September, with late flowers. The ripe orchards and fields where "the sun spots the deserted gleanings with decay." The winds of October that come and fill ruts and pools with golden leaves. The later storms that mingle the leaves with snow.

Winter. The short days and the infrequent sun on lonely songless lands. Rooks after the plough, the team against the skyline. A rough sea and snow on the beach. Robin on the leafless bough. Dark afternoons and evenings by the fire, companioned or alone.

All those signs of the seasons and hundreds more could be illustrated from Mr. Bridges. One cannot do more here than huddle together a few characteristic fragments from which the whole may be deduced. If the first three are records of the shape, colour and movement of clouds, it is fitting: all Mr. Bridges's landscapes have skies, and most of his skies (being English) have clouds:

From distant hills their shadows creep,

Arrive in turn and mount the lea,

And flit across the downs and leap

Sheer off the cliff upon the sea;

And sail and sail far out of sight.

But still I watch their fleecy trains,

That piling all the south with light,

Dapple in France the fertile plains.

And o'er the treetops, scattered in mid-air,

The exhausted clouds laden with crimson light

Floated, or seemed to sleep; and, highest there,

One planet broke the lingering ranks of night.

The upper skies are palest blue

Mottled with pearl and fretted snow:

With tattered fleece of inky hue

Close overhead the storm-clouds go.

Their shadows fly along the hill

And o'er the crest mount one by one:

The whitened planking of the mill

Is now in shade and now in sun.

With gentle flaws the western breeze

Into the garden saileth,

Scarce here and there stirring the single trees,

For his sharpness he vaileth:

So long a comrade of the bearded corn

Now from the stubbles whence the shocks are borne,

O'er dewy lawns he turns to stray,

As mindful of the kisses and soft play

Wherewith he enamoured the light-hearted May,

Ere he deserted her;

Lover of fragrance, and too late repents;

Nor more of heavy hyacinth now may drink,

Nor spicy pink,

Nor summer's rose, nor garnered lavender,

But the few lingering scents

Of streakèd pea, and gillyflower and stocks

Of courtly purple and aromatic phlox.

And at all times to hear are drowsy tones

Of dizzy flies, and humming drones,

With sudden flap of pigeon wings in the sky,

Or the wild cry

Of thirsty rooks, that scour ascare

The distant blue, to watering as they fare

With creaking pinions, or—on business bent,

If aught their ancient polity displease—

Come gathering to their colony, and there

Settling in ragged parliament,

Some stormy council hold in the high trees.

In the golden glade the chestnuts are falling all;

From the sered boughs of the oak the acorns fall;

The beech scatters her ruddy fire;

The lime has stripped to the cold,

And standeth naked above her yellow attire;

The larch thinneth her spire

To lay the ways of the wood with cloth of gold.

Out of the golden-green and white

Of the brake the fir-trees stand upright

In the forest of flame, and wave aloft

To the blue of heaven their blue-green tuftings soft.

Out by the ricks the mantled engine stands

Crestfallen, deserted—for now all hands

Are told to the plough—and ere it is dawn appear

The teams following and crossing far and near,

As hour by hour they broaden the brown bands

Of the striped fields; and behind them firk and prance

The heavy rooks, and daws grey-pated dance:

As awhile, surmounting a crest, in sharp outline

(A miniature of toil, a gem's design)

They are pictured, horses and men, or now near by

Above the lane they shout lifting the share,

By the trim hedgerow bloom'd with purple air;

The long dark night, that lengthens slow,

Deepening with Winter to starve grass and tree,

And soon to bury in snow

The Earth, that, sleeping 'neath her frozen stole,

Shall dream a dream crept from the sunless pole

Of how her end shall be.

The best of all (such as The Downs and The Storm is Over) cannot be quoted except entirely; they are landscapes complete, earth and sky. But let it not be supposed that Mr. Bridges is ever a mere describer who sits down mechanically in front of any scene with his little box of water-colours. We have known such, and sometimes they have been learned in botany; their exactitude of detail is dull, their serried statements useless; only the man who is touched by the beauty in a scene, or aroused by a scene to an awareness of beauty behind it, will fuse the several things he sees into a whole. The writer who has felt no emotion communicates none, and the greatness of Mr. Bridges's poems of landscape is derived not solely from his knowledge of landscape, the wary eye, but from his feeling for it, the eye of love. His scenes are precise, but they are never photographs; there is no doubt about the sentiment that he felt when he saw them.

IV

And Mr. Bridges, even when at his best, is not only a landscape poet, but a poet cunning in the experiences of the heart. Very many of his poems are love poems and many of them are beautiful: if the fact has not been widely observed it must be because they are happy love poems, or at least because they are not excessive in expression. The proclivity that makes him, in another sphere, write not about storms but about calms after storms, is seen always: he has no violence, no vehement abandonment. But there is little of that in Wordsworth and other poets the depth of whose affections, the reality of whose suffering, cannot be doubted. Mr. Bridges's love-poetry makes no brutal assault on us. His constant reference to Virgil, Mozart and the old composers is significant. He never declaims, never raves, despairs, or burns in print: but he knows the ways of lovers' hearts, and his quiet stanzas, whether their subject be the pain of doubt, or separation, or the joy of union, or calm affection by the warm domestic hearth, have a truth and strength which outwear the ardours of many poets. In When My Love was Away, My Spirit sang all day, I will not let thee go, and twenty more he lover's calendar is written as that of the seasons elsewhere, and if his praise is soft and measured like the old music in which he so constantly delights, love's fine extravagance is, for all the tempered sound, nevertheless there:

Her beauty would surprise

Gazers on Autumn eves,

Who watched the broad moon rise

Upon the scattered sheaves.

He is self-controlled and never shouts; he does not hunt the universe for new and strange sorrows nor harrow himself overmuch with the problems of existence; but those griefs that fall to the common lot of mankind have come to him and drawn beautiful poetry from him. Many poets have written habitually of Death; few have said as little about Death as Mr. Bridges; but he has said all he has to say and need say about death, loss, and sorrow in two poems, the poem which begins:

I never shall love the snow again

Since Maurice died,

and the other On a Dead Child: "Perfect little body, without fault or stain on thee...."

So I lay thee there, thy sunken eyelids closing—

Go lie thou there in thy coffin, thy last little bed—

Propping thy wise, sad head,

Thy firm, pale hands across thy chest disposing.

So quiet! doth the change content thee?—Death, whither hath he taken thee?

To a world, do I think, that rights the disaster of this?

The vision of which I miss,

Who weep for the body, and wish but to warm thee and awaken thee?

Ah! little at best can all our hopes avail us

To lift this sorrow, or cheer us, when in the dark,

Unwilling, alone we embark,

And the things we have seen and have known and have heard of, fail us.

In Winter Nightfall there is all the complaint of ailing old age, in Pater Filio the passionate anxiety of parent for child; the normal, inevitable griefs and dejections are all here, expressed with gravity, yet always with poignancy. But normal and inevitable they are. One gets the impression that, beyond the "common lot," the poet has had few distresses. Intense joy—nobody has given it better definition than he—is as rare as intense sadness, but ordinarily he is happy, or at worst not uncomfortably melancholy, and the happiness has become more pervasive as he has grown older. He is the poet of a leisured country life, led by a sensitive physically healthy man, with whom the major things of life have gone well and who, in those circumstances, is temperamentally inclined to a grateful contentment.

V

Mr. Bridges has not made the easy appeal by violence of expression; and he has not made the easy appeal by violence of doctrine. If he has been less discussed than many inferior writers, it is not so much that he is without doctrine as that he is without novel doctrine and has never been a doctrinaire. Any noisy demonstrator with a new lie may attract attention, if it is only the attention of those who wish to dispute with him; and it is easier to dispute (or agree) with the man whose "views" are explicit than with him who leaves them implicit. The mere fact that Mr. Bridges's practical philosophy has been held by hundreds of millions of ordinary people in many ages does not prove that he has no philosophy. He is a Christian, but he says little about that. He is politically sceptical of systems, but he says little about that. He accepts life, with its pains and pleasures, and he is happy that his life has been cast in an ordered traditional civilisation. He sees life in proportion, with the greater goods clear: childhood, the love of a woman and of children, the beauty of the earth, days of peace, joyful work, friendship. He does not proclaim a way of life, but it will be easy for his critics to deduce one from his poetry: if he does not tell people how to enjoy life it is because he is too busy enjoying it himself, and if he does not expound his religion, it is because he probably holds it to be "the religion of all sensible men." He never loses hold of his settled philosophy. In depression he does not imaginatively revel in the gloom of a Universe gone black, but consoles himself out of his knowledge:

O soul, be patient: thou shalt find

A little matter mend all this,

Some strain of music to thy mind,

Some praise for skill not spent amiss.

In the peace of a churchyard he can write:

Nay, were my last hope quenched, I here would sit

And praise the annihilation of the pit.

He lives through the moments of dejection and awaits, with sure hope, those moments when

Life and joy are one—we know not why—

As though our very blood long breathless lain

Had tasted of the breath of God again.

There are times when he is at almost that pitch of bliss for days together, and he says with each evening:

That I have known no day

In all my life like this.

And with any dawn may come the exhilaration and the resolve

I too will something make

And joy in the making.

Very rarely some slight dogmatic statement is actually present, the affirmation of something which is not necessarily false because it is as old as man, and modestly put. "For howso'er man hug his care, The best of his art is gay." He sees Spring in Winter more often than Winter in Spring:

And God the Maker doth my heart make bold

To praise for writing works not understood,

Who all the worlds and ages doth behold,

Evil and good as one, and all as good.

It may by some be called an easy acceptance; by others the answer will be made that the refusal to accept does not get us much further. Mr. Bridges's own answer would perhaps be Lycomedes':

men who would live well

Weigh not these riddles, but unfold their life

From day to day.

No attempt has been made in these brief notes to do more than indicate the artistic virtues and the outlook of Mr. Bridges: the elucidation is scant enough, and there was no space for reasoned criticism or for discussion of the qualities which he lacks and which other poets have possessed. But it may, in conclusion, be repeated that he is, as an artist, as careful and skilful as any poet who has ever written, and that as a man he has never lied, never posed, never assumed a factitious mood because it might impress or a factitious opinion because it might startle. He is sensible, and he is (in the best sense) commonplace in his outlook and in his affections and admirations; the changing conditions of our times have affected him little; he thinks more of the "man harrowing clods" than of the "breaking of nations"; the river, the cornfields, the village church, the domestic fireside, do obscure for him the mental and physical struggles of our world; he has his ideal of the sound mind in the sound body, and he cannot see why anything should modify it. But his philosophy will not stale when many of our controversialists have gone the way of Godwin and Malthus; and a reader who went to him for knowledge of how to live would certainly not be led on the rocks, little as Mr. Bridges may directly say on the subject. Nobody could be less like an apostle, but serenity, delight, cleanliness, and honesty are in him—and courage. The thought of death does not appal him, it braces him to work and joy. "Man hath his life," says Thetis in one of his dramas, "that it must end condemns it not for naught." The same certainty is in the lyrics:

Daily thy life shortens, the grave's dark peace

Draweth surely nigh,

When good-night is good-bye;

For the sleeping shall not cease.

Fight, to be found fighting: nor far away

Deem, nor strange thy doom.

Like this sorrow 'twill come,

And the day will be to-day.

The greatest of practical truths could not be put more stoutly, nor with a finer imaginative touch.

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES AND NEWS

Correspondence from readers on all subjects of bibliographical interest is invited. The Editor will, to the best of his ability, answer all queries addressed to him.

MR. YATES THOMPSON'S ILLUMINATED BOOKS

THESE lines are written before the date at which the second portion of Mr. Yates Thompson's illuminated books are to be sold at Sotheby's. They have no reference therefore to the relative value of the books as realised under the hammer. The intrinsic value of books, however, should not be measured merely by their market price. Splendid as are the French and Italian manuscripts and the eight printed books which are included in the sale, the greatest interest of all has its centre in the fourteen books which show the gay piety of English illumination between the last quarter of the twelfth century and the middle of the fifteenth. Indeed, no other group in all the hundred books to which Mr. Yates Thompson definitely limited his famous collection has quite the same claims of artistic and historical interest as these. They do not, of course, cover the whole range of English illumination. There is no example of the art of outline drawing, which flourished with amazing vigour in England for a century and a half before the Norman Conquest, convicting Mr. G. K. Chesterton of inexactitude when, in a recent number of THE LONDON MERCURY, he suggests that mediæval illuminators used their paints before they had learned how to draw. The vivacity and grace shown in those early drawings, chastened but not subdued by Continental and Byzantine influences, left traces in English books, and continued to afford a firm groundwork for English illumination for more than three centuries. There are but few examples of them in private hands. Neither has Mr. Yates Thompson any example of the great Winchester School, represented in the tenth century by the Benedictional of St. Æthelwold, now the property of the Duke of Devonshire, and in the twelfth by the great Bible at Winchester Cathedral. But English art had its flowering time in the fourteenth century, and its late summer in the fifteenth; and amongst the books offered for sale at Sotheby's are brilliant examples of both these periods.

*      *      *      *      *

Taking the more important of these English books in the order of their date, we have first the Life of St. Cuthbert, with its series of fifty-six lovely full-page miniatures, probably painted at Durham about 1180, a delightful example of a rare type of book. The Apocalypse has an important chapter to itself in the history of painted books, and the late thirteenth-century copy in the collection is one of the finest surviving copies of that favourite picture-book of the Middle Ages. It has much in common with the copy at Lambeth, and Dr. M. R. James traces them both to the same birthplace, probably St. Augustine's at Canterbury. The copy in the sale has no less than 152 miniatures, some of which seem to have been painted in Italy, whence more than six centuries later Mr. Yates Thompson brought it back to England.

*      *      *      *      *

The three fourteenth-century manuscripts in the group are a Psalter of Northern origin, probably written for a member of the Yorkshire family of de la Twyere; an early Sarum Missal, with historiated initials, in which some of the figure-drawing recalls that of Queen Mary's Psalter in the British Museum; and the Psalter of John of Gaunt, to whom it is believed to have been given, perhaps on his marriage with Blanche of Lancaster in 1359. Many of the miniatures in this splendid book are enshrined in Gothic canopies and painted in gold and silver; and the silver, so apt to turn black through oxydization, has on most of these pages kept its lustre. This Psalter is one of the finest examples of English work which has survived from the second half of the fourteenth century. Mr. Yates Thompson confesses that it cost him a bigger price than any other of his books.

*      *      *      *      *

The Hours of Elisabeth ye Quene, so called from the signature of the Queen of Henry VII. written at the foot of one of the pages, is a very rich and beautiful example of that new spirit in English illumination which has been connected with the marriage of Queen Anne of Bohemia to King Richard II. in 1382. Dating from that event, English work for almost the first time takes a character which is quite distinct from contemporary French or Flemish illumination, and the change is attributed to the work and influence of the artists whom the Bohemian princess brought in her train. The strong, clear outline, made by pen or pencil, which had been a tradition from the beginning of English pictorial art, now yields place to soft brushwork. The human figure, which has hitherto been represented by types, assumes individuality and realism. There is found, too, a new character in portraiture, with the features carefully and delicately moulded. The rich borders of books of this period have details unknown in the French work, which, hitherto, has been so nearly akin to that done in England. The kinship can be traced rather to contemporary books painted in Italy and Southern Germany. These English borders are apt to have a certain heaviness in design, especially when compared with the graceful ivy-leaf pattern in French illumination of the same date. Thanks, however, to the greater brilliancy and gaiety of the colouring, which is also a note of the new English style, this heaviness in design is hardly felt. In this Book of Hours the colours, which for the most part are delicate shades of red and blue, heightened with white, and richly gilt, are especially brilliant. The class of illumination which it represents belongs to a limited and distinct period of English art which has yet to be fully explored.

*      *      *      *      *

The group of eight books printed on vellum which follows the English books in the order of lots, and in the catalogue is sandwiched between them and the French and Italian manuscripts, is quite worthy of such good company. These printed books show how deliberately and how successfully the first printers sought to copy the manner and also the special beauty of the finest manuscripts of their own age. Amongst these fine volumes are the Mainz de Officiis of 1466; Peter Schoeffer's Justinian of 1468; an illuminated copy of Jenson's Pliny of 1472—the type of which had so notable an influence on the work of the Kelmscott and Doves Presses; John of Verona's Valturius of 1472, the earliest book to be printed in Italy with Italian woodcuts—and this copy is illuminated too. The group shows how far from vain even in an artistic sense was the boast made in the colophon of one of the earliest Venetian printers that already by his new craft

"Calami superaverat artem."

B. H. N.

GENERAL NOTES

Messrs. Dobell's catalogue for March, 1920, contains mention of a very curious and beautiful book of designs made exclusively of feathers. There are about one hundred and fifty of these designs, which were made, according to the inscription on the title-page, by "Dionisio Minaggio Giardinero Di sa ea Guobernator Del Stat di Milano. Inventor et Feccit Lano Del 1618." His Excellency the Governor of the State of Milan was fortunate in possessing so talented a gardener. Dionisio Minaggio was, in his way, a remarkable artist. His feather pictures, which include a beautiful series of birds portrayed in their own plumage, a series of hunting scenes, illustrations of musical instruments, and a number of charming figures from the Old Comedy, are often quite enchanting. The designs are reminiscent of the best sampler work, while the feathers give a richness, variety, and unexpectedness of colouring such as no sampler has ever possessed. Feather work of a much later period is not uncommon; but we should imagine that so large a series of such an early date is something quite unique. The book is priced at £200.

*      *      *      *      *

The catalogue of the library of Mr. Walter Thomas Wallace, which is to be sold in the last days of March by the American Art Association, in New York, has just reached us. Mr. Wallace's astonishingly rich collection includes copies of the four Folios of Shakespeare and of several of the Quartos. Among the Elizabethan rarities are The Palace of Pleasure, Sidney's Arcadia, The Faerie Queene, and other poems of Spenser. Among the eighteenth-century treasures is to be found one of the two known copies of Goldsmith's Threnodia Augustalis. Keats and Shelley are well represented. There is a very complete collection of Tennyson first editions and an almost unique series of Lamb books, including a copy in the original binding of the almost extinct first edition of Poems for Children (1809). There are also remarkably complete sets of first editions of such American authors as Poe, Bryant, Longfellow. We anticipate some new records in the way of prices.

*      *      *      *      *

As we go to press the first reports of the beginning of the Buxton Forman sale at the Anderson Galleries, New York, reach us. They emphasize the present flourishing condition of what the late owner of the books in question once, in an unguarded moment, called "The Keats and Shelley" business. Two copies of books by Keats, which belonged to Fanny Braune (afterwards Mrs. Lindon), were included in the first day's sale. The Poems (1817), inscribed with her name, "Frances Lindon," and presumed to be a presentation copy from the poet, and a first edition of Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of St. Agnes, etc. (1820), inscribed on the title-page "to F. B. from J. K." These two books fetched $1750 and $4000, and, at the normal rate of exchange, £350 and £800 respectively. Even a series of eighteen letters from George Keats sold for $1800. Apparently it is better to be a poet's brother than oneself a poet, for an eight-page autograph manuscript of William Blake's poem Genesis, which is still unpublished, was bought by the Rosenbach Company, of Philadelphia, for $1350.

*      *      *      *      *

Other items in this sale were Browning's Pauline, first edition (1833), an uncut copy with the original boards and paper label intact ($2560) and the MS. of Colombe's Birthday, title and fifty-nine folio pages ($1200). Eight hundred dollars, normally the equivalent of £160, was the price paid for a copy of the first edition of Adam Bede (1859), presented by George Eliot to Thackeray.

A. L. H. and I. A. W.

CORRESPONDENCE

AMERICAN COPYRIGHT

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—I trust you will find room to insert this letter after the space you have given to Mr. G. H. Putnam. We are all grateful for the work that Mr. Putnam has done, but—to use an American phrase, which no doubt he will appreciate—"there are others" who have worked equally hard, and not infrequently with a more satisfactory result. We must thank you, therefore, for your brief Editorial Note in the March issue.

The real reason, however, for this letter is to correct some of the statements made by Mr. Putnam. He glorifies the new American Act because of its liberal allowance of 120 days' "interim" copyright. He has understated his own case. The Act gives sixty days from the publication abroad in which to deposit a copy at Washington, and four months from the date of deposit in which to take up the copyright, subject to the numerous harassing technicalities of the Act. An author, therefore, has 180 instead of 120 days.

In Mr. Putnam's second statement he tries to score a point against Great Britain. As in the former paragraph he understated his case, in this he would overstate it.

He complains that American authors have to make a bona-fide publication in Great Britain within fourteen days of the publication in the United States. He italicises bona fide. He must have overlooked the fact that publication is an essential part of copyright in the States just as much as it is in Great Britain. This item then can be ruled out.

He contrasts, however, the meagre allowance of fourteen days under the British Act against the liberal allowance of 180 (not 120) days under the American Act. It must be pointed out with due emphasis that when the author is not hampered by typesetting clauses, printed copyright notices, and filing difficulties, time in the matter of publication is really of little account. The American publisher has merely to ship off a consignment before he publishes the book in the States and to await instructions from the London house that the consignment has arrived. There is no difficulty in this step. So long as the technicalities of United States Act still stand we are sick of these counter-irritants, which, now the war is over, "cut no ice."

We have heard that the Typesetters' Union—of which Mr. Putnam seems unduly alarmed—could be made to understand from statistics supplied that they are standing in their own light. But, perhaps, if they are still obdurate on the practical side, they might be influenced by the argument of the idealist "that it is a disgrace to a civilised nation to stand outside the intellectual Union of other civilised Nations." The Americans have had the opportunity of joining the revised Convention of Berne for many years, but have neglected to do so.

It is not astonishing, therefore, that President Wilson cannot influence them to follow him into the League of Nations under the Peace Treaty.

For the last paragraph of Mr. Putnam's letter—his ἀπολογία {apologia} for American authors and publishers—all authors in Great Britain are grateful. If British authors have not followed with appreciation the efforts of their brothers in the States, they should have done so. We gladly now pay tribute to the work of those who so long and earnestly, yet unsuccessfully, have struggled to bring the United States to join the ranks of other civilised nations.—Yours, etc.,

G. HERBERT THRING.

March 11th.

[Perhaps Major Putnam will reply.—EDITOR.]

FLAUBERT AND MR. STURGE MOORE

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—Mr. H. W. Crundell thinks that I should explain the absence of a note to my poem Micah; the presence of the one he suggests would have appeared to me an impertinence. Did Gray and Arnold call attention by notes when they adapted a few lines from Pindar? Did Tennyson thus docket what he owed to Homer and Virgil? To me the explanation seems rather due from Mr. Crundell: why he wrote his letter, and from you, why you printed it. However, obviously you think differently, so this occasion may as well serve me to allay an innocent curiosity that I neither intended to provoke nor to baffle. Besides Mr. Crundell's find there is a longer passage from Salammbo in my Mariamne. I put a line from Goldsmith's She Stoops to Conquer into my Rout of the Amazons, a phrase from Myers' translation of Pindar into At Bethel, and a phrase from Milton into Love's First Communion. Excepting the usual array from the Bible, I believe these to be all my verbal and literal appropriations.—Yours, etc.,

T. STURGE MOORE.

P.S.—I have forgotten an unintentional one, a line from Keats in Mariamne.

[By printing Mr. Crundell's letter we didn't mean to suggest that we agreed with his argument; we were merely interested in the derivation of a beautiful passage in a beautiful poem.—EDITOR.]

"MANSOUL"

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—Your review of Mr. Doughty's Mansoul reveals an attitude somewhat similar to that of Jeffrey towards Wordsworth. May a humble reader hesitatingly retort the phrase—This will never do? Your reviewer does not think Mr. Doughty should be ignored, but he finds Chaucer easier and more modern, and considers this poetry at best a thing of tough shreds and purple patches.

With this opinion I do not contend, for I do not clearly understand upon what principle of criticism your reviewer is acting; but I should like to suggest that his opinion springs from a misconception which ought not to be nourished by the LONDON MERCURY. He seems to think that Mr. Doughty's "guttural obscurity of speech," his style in general, is a vital fault. I submit that he assumes rather than proves such a degree of obscurity, and that he puts an excessive value upon the merely formal and conventional graces of English blank verse. He does not recognise that Mr. Doughty is making not only his own poem, but his own style, and that the poetry is to be judged not exclusively by its conformity with traditional verse—the false standard of the eighteenth century—but by the success with which its style empowers and lucidly presents the author's conception. Casual wrynesses, unaccustomed inversions, idiosyncratic punctuation (forgive, dear Cobbett, the long words) do not affect this central question. Your reviewer admits the greatness of the poet's conception, admits that it has the substantial elements of noble poetry—I mean such elements as we find in Paradise Lost and The Dynasts—but is unwilling to admit that his form is his natural form, the form that expresses not only his explicit intention but his implicit character, and, therefore, a good form. I submit that Mr. Doughty's style in poetry is the inevitable expression of his mind at work upon imaginative themes. I submit that a true poet does not and cannot choose his style, and that the test of his style is not its degree of conformity with Chaucer's simplicity, Milton's lofty sweetness, Tennyson's effusive delicacy, but the fullness with which it expresses his own imaginative vision. Mr. Doughty has written, not a few miscellaneous lyrics, but a vast body of poetry in which a perfectly clear apprehension of past and future is presented. His themes are unfolded with such fullness as enables us to judge whether the expression of them, unusual as it may seem, ruins them or preserves them unspoiled, sustains or dulls their brightness. With extreme diffidence I suggest that your reviewer has not addressed himself to this proposition, and that this proposition remains an elementary principle of criticism. And I would remark that Mr. Doughty's own observations upon his style (note to The Dawn in Britain, Volume 6) might suitably be referred to for a precise statement of his attitude towards the English language.

The principles of criticism do not change, but may be eclipsed or clouded. They are familiar, yet need constant reassertion and illustration. Difficult as it may be to reduce these abstractions to clear and useful formulæ, I think it would be a service to letters if you, Sir, would state and clarify them afresh. Wanting definition and illustration, creation and criticism may become discordant, with unhappy results for each. It is my suspicion of a faint discord that must form the apology for the length of this letter.—Yours, etc.,

S. E.

[We did not dispute that Mr. Doughty's style is natural to him. We merely said that that is his and our misfortune.—EDITOR.]

JOHN DONNE

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—After reading the most interesting paper on John Donne in the last number of THE LONDON MERCURY, I wonder whether Browning had not him in mind when he wrote The Grammarian's Funeral. "An hydroptic immoderate desire of human learning and languages" consumed the "soul by-droptic" grammarian no less than Donne; like Donne even to the crumbs he'd "fain eat up the feast, Aye, nor feel quaesy." He knew nothing, it is true, of "the quaesy pain Of being beloved and loving"; his was a passion of mind only, though, like Donne, he knew the sickness of the body overwrought. The analogy could be traced further.

For more reasons than the tracing of remembrance of Donne in one poem it would be interesting to know how "longe" Browning "hadde ygo" to the earlier poet.—Yours, etc.,

J. R. RACKHAM.

Queen Mary High School for Girls, Anfield Road, Liverpool, February 13th.

A POINT IN SHERIDAN

(To the Editor of THE LONDON MERCURY)

SIR,—In one of the scenes of Sheridan's School for Scandal occurs the following passage: "You may see her on a little squat pony with her hair plaited up behind like a drummer's...." (Act 2, sc. 2.)

I presume that the underlined words, which have often puzzled me, are an allusion to the manners of the time, with which I am insufficiently acquainted. As none of the editions I have been able to consult give any explanation on the point, perhaps one of your readers would oblige me by throwing some light on the matter.—Yours, etc.,

F. PELLISIER.

Remiremont, Vosges, February 16th.

LEARNED SOCIETIES, ETC.

THE SOCIETY OF ANTIQUARIES

VANDALISM in Egypt is deplored in London, but in the present circumstances we cannot throw stones. Rubbish-heaps are often romantic, and those of Fostât (Old Cairo) contain masses of mediæval pottery and other treasures well worth preserving; but the local authorities propose to create a new suburb by erecting workmen's dwellings all over them. Systematic excavation cannot be hurried, and careful search might throw light on the origin of maiolica.

For the first time perhaps in its long history, the Society has devoted an ordinary meeting to the discussion of Ways and Means. The following are the principal alternatives: (i) To raise the subscription and invite donations; (ii) to extend the franchise and popularise the Society; and (iii) to economise further and lower the output. The argument that thousands are waiting to join in the work of the Society is not convincing; and as about ninety per cent. of the Fellows do not attend the meetings, the publications are their only tangible reward. If the standard is to be maintained, few would expect the same return for half the subscription they paid on joining, but to double the annual levy would be a drastic reform; yet the Society is further committed to field-work of considerable public interest. The rich we have always with us, but their presence is not felt so much here as in America.

THE SOCIETY FOR THE PROTECTION OF ANCIENT BUILDINGS

During the last few weeks the restoration of the Lady Chapel of Worksop Priory has been in progress. It was a roofless ruin, retaining much fine thirteenth-century work. It is being re-roofed, the fallen portions rebuilt, and missing parts renewed in the style of the original building, the new work being made to resemble as nearly as may be what the old is believed to have been.

This on the face of it sounds reasonable enough, but experience has shown that in practice the result of such treatment is the reverse of satisfactory. It is exactly what the restorers of the last century did, and what people with any knowledge or love of old buildings deplore to-day, whenever it comes to their notice. It is just such a case as this which goes to the root of the matter in which the Society interests itself, and its customary ruling thereon may be stated in the following way:

1. The ruin should be subjected only to repairs needed for its upkeep.

2. If the site is absolutely necessary to the community for the purposes of its daily life, it has a right to use such ruins and even in extremity to demolish them.

3. Confronted by a similar necessity it may be justifiable to incorporate an old building in a new one. The danger in this case lies, however, in the fact that the desire to restore for the sake of restoration may outrun the actual need of a new building designed to fulfil some special purpose.

Having made this concession to a genuine demand, the Society still stands out against restoration. The new work should be good and in harmony with the old, but it should also be living architecture and not a study in dead style.

As Professor Lethaby expressed it, "Architecture is a current speech, it is not an art of classical quotation."

But the Lady Chapel of Worksop Priory is actually being restored. So, though much more might be said, the case ends here, save for the thought that with better guidance different conclusions would have been reached.

The promoters of the scheme, having so far determined to make use of the ruin, might have asked the advice of a selected group representative of our best men—a group which should include within it one real authority versed in the building methods of the same period as that of the ruin, an acknowledged authority on modern architecture, a representative both of the Society of Antiquaries and the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings. To these one would add a local architect or builder conversant with the local conditions and material.

To such an advisory board would be committed the task of choosing an architect, whose plans would be submitted for approval before being recommended to the promoters.

The scheme may seem to savour too much of the ideal which has no part in actual life, yet it is worth consideration, for from it, one might say almost inevitably, good work must result.

As a matter of fact the Committee does comprise within itself the qualities of such an advisory board, but the above suggestion is made for those who may prefer, for one reason or another, to ask advice elsewhere.

THE EGYPT EXPLORATION FUND

The work of this Society has two main branches: the first is the excavation of Egypt's buried treasures and the publication of careful records of the finds; the second is the preservation and translation of the inscriptions, including papyri found in the course of excavation. The Society has already published hundreds of papyri, the most important being included in the Oxyrhynchus Papyri edited by Professors Grenfell and Hunt.

In a lecture given at the rooms of the Royal Society, Burlington House, on Friday, February 20th, on "The Historical Value of Greek Papyri," Mr. H. Idris Bell, a member of the staff of the British Museum, gave a scholarly review of the work already done in the publication of papyri, both in this and in other countries, and laid stress on the necessity for further work in this direction. He pointed out that, although this country was holding its own in the matter of publication of fresh material, it was falling behind other countries in the work of comparing and computing results and the tabulation of the information thus obtained.

The lecturer said papyri help to correct the false perspective in which we see history. We tend to see it as a succession of dramatic events and of great personalities, and economic processes attain a precision and clearness which is not obvious to contemporaries. But this is not our attitude towards our own time, and documents show us that it was not that of our predecessors. Great events of history occur but seldom, and when they do they are recorded from the purely personal point of view. The historian cannot chronicle minor interests, but the papyri serve as the "acid test" of the objectivity of his narrative, and for this reason it is well that the student should supplement his reading of history by some study of documents, and for no department of ancient history have we a body of documentary evidence comparable to the papyri.

Papyri make us acquainted with the ordinary man, his style of living, his domestic relations, and his family life; it thus becomes possible to study the popular psychology of Græco-Roman Egypt, and so, by analogy, to some extent, the Græco-Roman world.

With regard to administration papyri show us the actual working, not the theory, of administration, and the two rarely exactly coincide. So too with law; the practice of the law usually differs from the theory of law, and papyri reveal the practice and show us the applied law.

Turning to religion, papyri mostly illustrate the popular attitude towards religion; there is not much on mystery cults, but they show the attitude of the individual towards the deity. It is also possible from them to trace the borrowings of Christianity from Paganism and to contrast the Christian and the pagan attitude.

The lecturer gave many interesting illustrations from papyri, including letters from parents to children and children to parents, letters of condolence, letters from men engaged upon business or war to their wives and families, which give a vivid picture of the life of the time.

Sir Frederic Kenyon, K.C.B., who was in the chair, in thanking the lecturer emphasised the importance of the study of papyri and the scope this branch of research opened for original work. Here is a vast field of labour, at present only superficially worked; the harvest is plentiful, but the labourers are few; certainly they are indefatigable, but more workers are needed if the full value is to be extracted from these papyri. Other countries are alive to the importance of the work, but our own Universities are somewhat apathetic and need arousing.

THE ROYAL NUMISMATIC SOCIETY

At the monthly meeting of the Royal Numismatic Society on February 19th, Mr. Percy H. Webb exhibited a portion of a find of late Roman coins from Egypt. The find covered the period A.D. 298-313, Domitius Domitianus—Maximinus Daza, and was, said to have comprised nearly two bushels of coins. The coins which Mr. Webb had been able to examine belonged to the last five years of the period, and were of three rulers only, Galerius Maximian, Galeria Valeria, and Daza. The bulk of the coins were of the Alexandria mint, although Antioch, Cyzicus, and Nicomedia were also represented. The find presented a number of interesting features and afforded an interesting opportunity of testing M. Jules Maurice's work, which it supported in every detail.

Mr. G. C. Brooke read a paper by Mr. R. C. Lockett on "The Coinage of Offa." The most reasonable suggestion for the date of the beginning of the Mercian coinage was after the battle of Otford in 774, but it might be as late as the Council of Chelsea, 786. The mint was probably Canterbury, as seven of his moneyers struck coins for Coenwulf, and three of these worked for Eadberht, Cuthred, and Baldred. Coins bearing the name Eadberht were probably to be attributed to Eadberht, Bishop of London, 772-787. Another penny with the name hitherto not read satisfactorily should probably be attributed to Higberht, Bishop of Lichfield, who was made Archbishop in 787. Cynethrith's coinage was evidently struck in Offa's lifetime, either as a complimentary issue, or in a period of regency during Offa's absence. A classification of the pennies of Offa was proposed, based on their affinity to the coinage of Jaenberht and Æthilheard.

BOOKS OF THE MONTH

POETRY

FLOWERS IN THE GRASS. By MAURICE HEWLETT. Constable. 5s. net.

In recent years Mr. Hewlett, who earned his first fame as a romancer, has been devoting himself most seriously to verse. And he has done a very remarkable thing. Two or three years ago, with perhaps twenty novels and several books of poems behind him, he brought out a long poem—The Song of the Plow—which was a new thing in poetry, and which was indisputably the finest thing he had done in either "harmony," an epical poem, which was as easy to read as an excellent novel, and as good to read the third time as the first. There were lovely detachable things in it, but it was most striking when taken as a whole, racy, muscular, original. He followed it with The Village Wife's Lament, a tragedy of the war, only less striking in so far as it was less long. We have here a collection of his recent lyrics. They have not the outstanding merit of those works on the larger canvas, but they are far superior to his early lyrics, and bear new witness after their manner to his late poetic flowering.

The poems are all rural: mainly Wiltshire, the ancient downs, the valleys, the villages, the spire of Salisbury. But, save for a few delicious fancies about flowers, they all contain the human too. Landscape for Mr. Hewlett, however beautiful, however forbidding, is always a background for human character and human history. On that great hill the ledges were planted with corn by primitive men; on that other the Roman sentries stood; in that field there is a ploughman whose eyes and hair and thews are Saxon. Quotation from him is difficult, because of the very largeness of his imagination; his details are so subordinate that, though he usually gets the phrase right in its context, he seldom gets the phrase arresting out of its context. Now and then he is gentler, his language more honeyed, his rhythms less rugged, and in poems like Summer Night he falls into a beautiful and a very "contemporary" music.

That, and Jacob's Ladder, and The Cedar, and the uncanny and impressive Chelsbury are among the best things in the book; the last two show his historic imagination at its best, economical though the expression is. But the best of all, we think, is In the Fire.

The fire burns low;

Now the dying embers

Twinkle and glow

Like village lights,

Seen from the heights

In dark Decembers.

There's the foggy gleam

From the Horse and Groom,

Where topers dream

In front of their liquor,

And candles flicker

As pipes allume ...

The whole village passes across the vision: the smithy, a pair in a farm, an amber blind with girls' shadows on it, a candle and one reading in a loft: the lights go out one by one till all is dark. It is a charming picture, and the stanza is beautifully suited to it. It is a pity that Mr. Hewlett mars it in places with a stumbling-block word or rhyme.

COUNTRY SENTIMENT. By ROBERT GRAVES. Martin Secker. 5s.

It must be confessed that the very title of Mr. Graves's new book awakes in us a feeling of pleasure. Mr. Graves has a flair for titles. We remember his Beside the Brazier and Fairies and Fusiliers with a sense that the author has always succeeded in getting a suggestion of his individual quality into the names of his books. In the volume before us Mr. Graves repeats some of his former successes. The poem A Frosty Night is a good example of that dialogue form which Mr. Graves uses with great skill, and in which we may see the influence of the old ballads:

MOTHER.

Alice, dear, what ails you,

Dazed and white and shaken?

Has the chill night numbed you?

Is it fright you have taken?

ALICE.

Mother, I am very well,

I felt never better.

Mother, do not hold me so,

Let me write my letter.

It is a quiet beginning, and it looks very easy to do, but that appearance is deceptive. To write with economy and in an almost conversational tone without becoming flat and banal is extremely difficult, but Mr. Graves's hand rarely loses its cunning in those awkward passages of low emotional pitch which are unavoidable in any sort of narrative verse. When the pitch rises he has a remarkably sure touch and can give us a vivid picture without any of the elaborate, detailed word-painting which is the bane of so much modern poetry. What could be finer, for example, than the stanzas that follow those already quoted:

MOTHER.

Sweet, my dear, what ails you?

ALICE.

No, but I am well;

The night was cold and frosty,

There's no more to tell.

MOTHER.

Ay, the night was frosty,

Coldly gaped the moon,

Yet the birds seemed twittering

Through green boughs of June.

Soft and thick the snow lay,

Stars danced in the sky.

Not all the lambs of May-day

Skip so bold and high.

Your feet were dancing, Alice,

Seemed to dance on air,

You looked a ghost or angel

In the starlight there.

Your eyes were frosted starlight,

Your heart fire and snow.

Who was it said, "I love you"?

ALICE.

Mother, let me go!

Mr. Graves resembles Mr. W. H. Davies in the quiet freshness of his best work. If he has a fault it is that he is rather too apt to point a moral. He may have caught this—along with much of his rhythmic subtlety—from his study of nursery rhymes, but there is very little of it in the present book, which is full of the most charming fancy. Perhaps Mr. Graves's most characteristic work is to be found in such a poem as Vain and Careless, which begins:

Lady, lovely lady,

Careless and gay!

Once when a beggar called

She gave her child away,

and which continues in a quaint fantasy of thought and expression that is entirely Mr. Graves's own, and is an original contribution to modern poetry. One of the best poems in the book is called Thunder at Night, and it describes two children into whose dreams the real thunderstorm outside their house enters. The boy is dreaming of a bear, the girl of monkeys and snakes. The hot, confused feeling of the night is vividly suggested and then the poem suddenly ends with a stanza that is a complete change in temperature and beautifully suggests the approaching dawn:

They cannot guess, could not be told

How soon comes careless day,

With birds and dandelions gold,

Wet grass, cool scents of May.

The book is well named Country Sentiment, for it has much of the beauty and the fragrance of the countryside.

LINES OF LIFE. By HENRY W. NEVINSON. Allen & Unwin. 3s. 6d.

THE PEDLAR, AND OTHER POEMS. By RUTH MANNING-SANDERS. Selwyn & Blount. 3s. 6d.

SKYLARK AND SWALLOW. By R. L. GALES. Erskine Macdonald. 5s.

Of the authors of these three books of verse Mr. Henry W. Nevinson is the only one who has made a reputation as a prose-writer, and it is not surprising that his work should show the widest range of thought and expression. His poems maintain a high level of accomplishment; here, for example, is a sonnet:

A GERMAN WINTER.

On leagues of solid land the snow lies deep,

The snow falls crumbling from the leaden sky;

All but the fir is white; with timorous eye

Strange little birds in at the window peep,

From frozen forests come; black rivers creep,

Shrunk with the cold till half their bed is dry,

Along the ice-hung ozier reeds, and by

The wooden villages with gables steep,

Huddled around their spires.

Oh, far away

A purple mountain rises from the sand

The golden sand beneath the golden day;

Down the bright steep the waterfall plunges free

From ledge to radiant ledge, and on the strand

Sounds the long murmur of the eternal sea!

But it is the accomplishment of a sensitive and highly-trained mind, accustomed to literary expression rather than the work of an original poet; none the less it reveals sympathies and perceptions which the author has not been able to put into his prose.

Mr. R. L. Gales is an old hand who has written a great deal of charming verse, which has been widely enjoyed by those who can appreciate smoothness and sweetness better than music, colour, and imaginative power. Mr. Gales has a genuine vein of feeling and real skill, as the following extract will show:

Long ago

In their towers

The clocks struck

Old hours

That went so slow

Long ago

In George Hubert's parsonage

The wood-fire of old apple-trees

It flamed and flared and flickered so.

Long ago

At Hampton Court in the mild sun

In the tall limes great clumps were hung

Of mistletoe

*      *      *      *      *

Long ago

Peace has fallen upon the pain

The grief, the madness of these twain,

Lovely lovers by Love slain,

Long ago.

In some ways Miss Ruth Manning-Sanders' work is more ambitious than Mr. Nevinson's or Mr. Gales'; but if she essays more, she performs, if anything, less. There is evident in her work an ardent searching of the spirit and a philosophical tendency that are worthy of praise, but nowhere are her emotions and thoughts transmuted into poetry's gold by any magical touch. We have, in other words, much of the raw material of poetry spread out before us, but not poetry itself. Nevertheless, there is a distinctive quality in her work which has affinities with some seventeenth-century poems; it is present in the poem entitled Emotions, which begins thus:

Spirits to whom my lady's little world

Is but a tree of rest,

Whence birdlike free, ye rise and soar

Each on your several quest

Above the heavy hills that close around

My strip of ground,

but does not keep at that level.

It may be that Miss Ruth Manning-Sanders will achieve considerably more than she has so far succeeded in doing.

KOSSOVO: HEROIC SONGS OF THE SERBS. Translated from the original by HELEN ROOTHAM. Introduction by MAURICE BARING. Historical Preface by JANKO LAVRIN. Frontispiece by TOMA ROSANDIĆ. Blackwell. 4s. 6d. net.

The frontispiece of this volume is as crowded with names as a modern theatre programme; we looked at the top for "licensee" and "lessee." But, unlike the plays, the book is good. Serbia, which has several great cycles of epic-ballads, is the one country where the creation of poetry on primitive lines still flourishes; a cycle seems to be developing out of the retreat through Albania. The greatest group of all, however, is the group which grew out of the defeat (in 1389) by the Turks on the "Field of Blackbirds." The originals (and Miss Rootham's versions) are all in trochaic decasyllabics. They deal with one group of figures: the Tsar Lazar, who was killed; his wife Militsa; the hero Milosh Obilish, who stabbed the victorious Sultan in his tent; Jug Bogdan, his ten sons, and the traitor Vuk Brankovitch. The warriors march off, they are defeated, they die: ravens or other messengers carry the news to the stricken Tsaritsa in her tower: teamsters years after find the Tsar's head, still preserved in a well, and it miraculously joins the body. All a nation's sorrow is in these songs, all the great memories and defiant resolve, that kept the race alive and proud, and led the recapturers of Kossovo, in our own day, to fall to their knees on the sacred ground. The translation seems very good; the fire remains in the whole, but the magic has inevitably escaped from the parts. We can only quote a specimen at random:

To his feet leaps Milosh, that great warrior,

To the black earth bows himself, and answers:

"Tsar Lazar, for this thy toast I thank thee,

Thank thee for the toast and for the goblet,

But for those thy words I do not thank thee.

For—else may the truth be my undoing—Never,

Tsar Lazar, was I unfaithful,

Never have I been, and never will be.

And to-morrow I go to Kossovo

For the Christian faith to fight and perish.

FLEURS-DE-LYS. A Book of French Poetry freely translated into English verse. By WILFRID THORLEY. Heinemann. 6s. net.

We may heartily congratulate Mr. Thorley upon his ambition and his industry. He conceived the prodigious idea of giving English versions of poems by all the representative French poets from the earliest age until our own time. He has translated three hundred, and he has increased his labours by doing the earlier ones into archaic English. For example, his first specimen (twelfth century) is entitled The Twa Systres, and begins:

The mirk did fa' lang syne, lang syne,

When twa fond systres wi' hands that twine

Went down to bathe whaur the waters shine.

And Villon's most famous ballade opens:

O tell me where and in what lande

Is Flora and the Roman lass?

He knows his ground, and his selection of originals is admirable. But his versions usually take the bloom off. Baudelaire's

O Mort, vieux capitaine, il est temps, levez l'ancre

becomes

Haul up the anchor, captain old, O Death, for it is time:

which is the same thing with a difference. Sometimes he even fails to get essential parts of the sense. In recommending his book, therefore, to those many to whom such a survey in English would be useful, we warn them that the translations at best are graceful versifying. Mr. Thorley, happily, is usually on his own highest level, and the book can be read with very little annoyance and a certain amount of edification.

THE PATHS OF GLORY. A Collection of Poems written during the War, 1914–1919. Edited by BERTRAM LLOYD. Allen & Unwin. 4s. 6d. and 3s.

The title of this anthology is presumably ironical. He who would have a comprehensive selection of war poems reflecting the sentiments of the mass of our people, and most of the British soldiers, must go to Miss Jacqueline Trotter's Vision and Valour (Longmans'), which we shall review in our next issue. This collection is a collection with an avowedly propagandist aim. It contains poems exposing the cruelty and filth of War in general, which were inspired by the late War. It is not yet complete. For instance, Major Brett-Young's Bête Humaine might suitably have been included. But most of the poems included are genuine and well written. Amongst the authors "covered" are "A. E.," Paul Bewsher, Geoffrey Dearmer, Walter de la Mare, Wilfrid Gibson, Laurence Housman, Margaret Sackville, Siegfried Sassoon, Dora Sigerson, and Alec Waugh.

NOVELS

AN IMPERFECT MOTHER. By J. D. BERESFORD. Collins. 7s. 6d. net.

ELI OF THE DOWNS. By C. M. A. PEAKE. Heinemann. 7s. net.

THE BANNER. By HUGH F. SPENDER. Collins. 7s. net.

ROAST BEEF, MEDIUM. By EDNA FERBER. Methuen. 6s. net.

In An Imperfect Mother Mr. J. D. Beresford has set himself the extraordinarily difficult and delicate task of describing a mother's unorthodoxy as seen by her grown-up children. Of Mr. Beresford it can generally be said that he is quite fearless of the troubles he makes for himself. Yet in this particular instance some doubt might be left in the reader's mind as to whether his designing of the book was hurried or certain obvious issues deliberately shirked. Some compromise may be arrived at between the two alternatives when we consider the overwhelming evidence of this author's sincerity and his inflexible allegiance to his art. Here the reader cannot fail to ask himself—what would I do—what could I say, if my mother had run off with someone?—well knowing that in an enormous preponderance of cases such a question is comfortably absurd. It is even indecent to put such a question to yourself, is it not? It is the defilement of a sacred place? Exactly. So is the book condemned at the very outset because its theme is "disagreeable" or "delicate" or "unusually unpleasant"? That is where one's first doubts of Mr. Beresford's complete fearlessness are bred. In his treatment of that disagreeable idea there is nothing disagreeable. You feel that there should be. Mr. Beresford has gilded his pill with a sugar of a too vigorous refinement. He has been at pains too great to disguise the fact of its nastiness.

What did these children think and do? The boy Stephen, just leaving school, is the only one that counts for much, though his two sisters, sketchy as is their appearance in the story, are excellently considered. Before the actual crash comes they whisper together about their mother's goings on, try to make their father speak of what they believe should be uppermost in his mind, and insist on a full discussion with Stephen. One of them was a school teacher, the other subsequently married an elderly chemist. In a way they enjoy the scandal; you feel that some excitement has come into their dull lives, with the piquancy of self-righteousness added to outraged innocence. They want to make the most of it. They are not genuinely ashamed.

Emily turned the embarrassment of her steady gaze immovably upon her father.

"I don't know what's come to mother lately," she said.

Mr. Kirkwood began to fidget with his sparse little beard. "She's a little out of sorts, perhaps," he hazarded feebly.

"Well, oughtn't we to do something, father?" Emily continued, still pinning him with her stare.

"Oh! What can you do?" put in Stephen irritably....

Emily turned herself about and focused her attention upon her brother. "If she's out of sorts she ought to see a doctor," she said.

"That wouldn't be any good," Stephen returned without hesitation.

"Well, but why wouldn't it?" Emily inquired, with a meaning in her tone that could not be mistaken.

"No good asking me," was Stephen's evasion.

"Well, I think it's time something was done," Emily said, sharpening the point of her now obvious intention.

"I don't know what you mean, Emily," little Kirkwood put in nervously.

Emily knew, they all three knew, that their father's remark had been intended as a reminder that any open discussion of a mother's failings was impossible between father and children; but Emily had made up her mind that the time had come when they must, in her own phrase, "face the facts."

"I don't think it's right for us to let things go on and not make any effort to stop them," she said in a low but determined voice. "I don't see the good of our going on pretending, when we all know perfectly well what's happening. Do you, Hilda?"

"No, I don't," Hilda emphatically agreed.

But with Stephen it is different. He really cares very little about appearances, though he dreads facing his schoolfellows. He is wounded because his mother prefers another man to his father and himself. And there is an occasion when he might have changed his mother's decision had he known. Does he really want her, does he need her? she asks herself. And just on that very day Stephen had been smiled upon by the little daughter of his headmaster. She is fourteen, he seventeen. Impossible dreams fill his mind. He has said nothing to his mother, but she knows. As though she had seen the whole of the little trifling play enacted—for it was no more than one bright smile cast over a dainty shoulder; no word had been spoken—she knew that another interest had come, since yesterday, into the boy's life. He doesn't need her any more. His protestations would have been passionate had they been genuine. She goes.

The view of the children towards the problem must depend entirely upon their upbringing and the degree of sensitiveness in their relation to their mother. In regard to Cecilia Kirkwood's family, Mr. Beresford has expected a good deal of our faith in him. They were born and bred in a small cathedral town, their father was a bookseller, their degree was humble but respectable. Yet from beginning to end Stephen can only find it in his heart to think of his mother's flight as a callous desertion. He appears to be completely oblivious of the moral involved and of all that is implied by his mother's running away with the handsome organist. A closer scrutiny would have been horrible! Yes: but would not Stephen have made it, and, unpleasant or not, should there not be in the story some indication that he did make it?

To speak of a "handsome organist" is, in passing, liable to misconstruction, for Dr. Threlfall was not only good-looking but clever and accomplished in manner; not only an organist, for when he left Medboro' he gave up playing the organ for the composition of light opera, and became an emphatic success. Taking Cecilia for granted, we can well imagine that she would run away with Threlfall, and would do all the other things that Mr. Beresford makes her do, and talk as she does. But it is hard for the reader to take her for granted, just as it was hard for her neighbours in Medboro'. Cecilia's father was a philosophic tuner of pianos. He had been against her marriage in the first instance, but he rather approves of her adultery ... but it is understood that the nature of piano-tuners is warped.

Cecilia was an amazing wife for a country bookseller, and she tries, one sometimes thinks, to be grande dame in conversation, setting the whole of the little provincial town by the ears with her outlandish brilliance and daring, making it grovel at her feet because of her beauty and amiability.

Can a lady kiss her toe?

Yes; she might—she might do so—sang another novelist, who indulged in rhyme. So it is with Cecilia; she might, she might have done so, but Mr. Beresford has failed to make it inevitable of her.

Old Kirkwood, the father, dies insane, and Stephen, adopted by a rich builder who was sympathetic because his own wife was a little difficult, works hard and finally superintends the erection of a big newspaper office in London. There he falls in with his mother once more, and with the schoolmaster's daughter who had smiled upon him long ago. The old tussle is re-enacted. The mother is jealous of the girl. She sees her son blundering in his courtship, and she only has to hold her tongue to keep him by her side, a devoted slave. She is not happy. Her organist-composer is jovial, but unfaithful. She longs for the fealty of Stephen. At this point Mr. Beresford introduces a little Freudian interest in the explanation of what was, for all he says about it, a matter of secondary importance to Stephen—his disgust at his mother's hysterical and untimely laughter, and we feel that, whilst he was about it, he might have examined Cecilia's psyche a little more thoroughly. There were one or two dark places in her character and disposition upon which a more searching light might, with some profit to the story, have been thrown. There is much enjoyable reading in An Imperfect Mother, but on the whole, coming from Mr. Beresford, it is a little disappointing.

In Eli of the Downs Mr. C. M. A. Peake introduces himself to the public with a distinguished piece of work. He has been content to make his own variation of the archetype of great stories—the joys and sorrows at home, the adventures, and, finally, the return of the wanderer. This is the story of Eli Buckle, as gleaned by the teller from Eli himself, and from his old friend and neighbour Anne Brown, and it is the story of a perfectly simple and sincere man, a shepherd, who is perfectly happy in the remote solitudes which his calling entails upon him, with the wild flowers which arouse feelings his creator does not try to make him express. He is proud and happy when as a boy of twenty-one he has saved five pounds. These facts are simply stated, and yet there is not the least hint of sentimentality or of bathos. He marries the girl of his heart, and unexpectedly the knowledge comes to him of what he has been in need. "Oh, Mary, my dear, my dear!" he whispered. "You won't never know how lonely I've a-been." A little while goes by and he is lonely again, for while he is out in the night in the lambing season Mary falls from a chair, and by the time Eli gets home she and the child that should have been born to them are dead.

After that, in sheer desperation, Eli leaves his old home and goes away to sea. His is the old quest of a wounded man for the purpose which lies behind all events. Once before, when Mary had told him that he could be a preacher if he had the ambition, he had for a moment found his voice.

"... I believe I could study fast enough, and I know I could preach. I could make them listen to me; aye, have 'em all gaping after me like a nest of young thrushes, if I chose. But I'd have to tell 'em what they wanted to hear, an' dress it up the way they likes, which is what they mean by the Gospel and the Truth. But that I won't do, for I'm not sure that their Gospel is my Gospel, or their Truth any Truth at all for the matter o' that. And about God, my dear. Whether He is, or whether He isn't, what folks say, I can't testify till I know, know of my own knowledge, and not because I read it in a book or someone told me."

Occasionally the narrator of the story makes a little confidence to the reader which, apart from its humorous candour, serves a definitely useful purpose.

Now the scenes of Eli's childhood were the scenes I lived among when I too was a child, and the land where he spent the years of his middle age I knew and loved, as youth and man, but though I have crossed many waters, I am no sailor, and I cannot see the ocean as a mariner sees it.

In the course of his life as a sailor Eli has many adventures, which are wonderfully told, dramatic without one word of melodrama. Here the author who can lovingly describe the wild flowers in the lost corners of the Downs excels again, for in a few words he can truthfully describe how a particular species of liar describes himself, or how nervousness passes into wild terror in the eyes of a San Francisco crimp who is discovered trying to drug his victims. But well as Mr. Peake describes the rascalities of the adventurous life, he is more at home with the kindlinesses of the countryside and the gentle wisdom of Cathay. This is a novel, uneven in quality to be sure, but touching at certain points real beauty.

Mr. Hugh F. Spender in The Banner describes a revolution in England, organised by the League of Youth, backed by the People's Army, and inspired by Helen Hart, daughter of a millionaire, who has a bias against the landed gentry. Most elderly people in the book come in for a good deal of facetiousness directed against their ponderously old-fashioned views. One young lordling, deaf and dumb from shell shock, has his senses restored by the mere sight of the new Joan of Arc, and falls in love with her. She refuses him at first because she is vowed to The Cause.... "For a moment she resisted, resisted almost fiercely, and then she lay passively like a child in his arms." Mr. Spender has invented a young man who willingly throws up both title and title-deeds at the call of the People and becomes plain Citizen; but it is a pity that the author in creating another peer should have given him an existing name. Regarded either as fiction or as propaganda this is a poor book.

Roast Beef, Medium is the curious title that Miss Edna Ferber has given to the Business Adventures of Emma McChesney. This American authoress, who writes vivaciously in her own language, gives bright and cheerful expression to her belief that people should be earnest and good and that Roast Beef (not too underdone is conveyed by "medium") should as a staple diet take precedence of flaked crab meat with Russian sauce. These business adventures are certainly not caviare. Emma McChesney is a bagwoman, representing T. A. Buck's Featherloom Petticoats. Rivals make love to her and try to get the better of her alternately, and she has a young cub of a son to support. Very sick of hotel life, she longs for a house of her own—especially a kitchen. In the last chapter she gets them. The book is full of homely advice. Emma was fresh and wholesome in appearance, though not so young as the picture on the wrapper deceitfully indicates. But she was a good sort and refused to Marry T. A. Buck himself because she didn't love him. She was, in fact, a "worth-while" woman.

BELLES-LETTRES AND CRITICISM

AN INTERPRETATION OF KEATS'S "ENDYMION." By H. CLEMENT NOTCUTT. Printed for the Author by the S.A. Printing Co., Capetown.

Mr. Notcutt, who is professor of English in the University of Stellenbosch, believes that Endymion enshrines an allegory, or at least that it contains, in a clear unbroken stream beneath the surface, a meaning that corresponds with the ideas that filled the poet's mind. The alternative can hardly be impugned; it is as true of Keats as of most poets, and in the interpretation of Professor Notcutt it appears to mean little more than that there is a general reflection of the ardour of the poet's mind and his desire of beauty and beauty's immortality. If it is a question of allegorising to a greater extent than that vague generality, then Keats is surely the last poet who can be taxed with it. Professor Notcutt recognises some of the objections and says that the reason why Keats did not explain his allegory was that he was dissatisfied with the poem and discouraged by its reception; but that does not explain why, in the intimacy of his letters (many of which allude to Endymion) he did not give a hint to anybody that there was an allegory to explain. The letters, indeed, with which Professor Notcutt shows an excellent familiarity, speak freely of imagination and invention, in reference to Endymion, but of recondite suggestions and esoteric gospelling there is nothing. Nor can we regret this. A heavenly meaning attached to the earthly story would not have made Endymion a better but a worse poem. It is one of the most beautiful, if one of the most faulty, poems in the language. It was Keats's privilege to see and create beauty and present it as a finer reality in the midst of the crude and half-unreal realities of common life. Had he lived he might have enlarged even this office in fulfilling it, but it is sufficient that Endymion shows that he could fulfil it.

CERVANTES. BY RUDOLPH SCHEVILL. Murray. 7s. 6d. net.

TOLSTOY. By G. RAPALL NOYES. Murray. 7s. 6d. net.

For most of us Cervantes is Don Quixote: even if we are familiar with The Exemplary Novels and the Journey to Parnassus, we do not get from them any idea of personality which infringes on the overwhelming effect produced by the Knight of La Mancha. Even Mr. Schevill, who is a Professor of Spanish Literature in the University of California, in his effort to give us an idea of Cervantes only succeeds in producing an idealised portrait of Don Quixote. How odd this is can be realised if we try to think of other imaginative authors in the terms of their characters. If we are tempted to think of Shakespeare as Hamlet, we immediately correct ourselves by recollections of Falstaff, of Prospero, of Coriolanus, or Juliet. No one, however much he may be persuaded that the Papers of the Club are the author's best book, begins to compare Dickens with Pickwick; nor, to take an author nearer Cervantes in time, has one any inclination to identify Rabelais with Pantagruel.

Two explanations of this odd fact about Cervantes are possible: one is that he had exhausted his capacity for creative, imaginative work in the writing of Don Quixote—but this view cannot be upheld by anyone who loves the Exemplary Novels. The other is the simple one that Cervantes was Don Quixote. It is a commonplace of psychology, especially of Catholic psychology, that men of fine temperament will always be severer on faults which are their own. Cervantes found in himself the exaggerated chivalry which he starts to mock, but still loves in Don Quixote. He had the Crusader's heart, but he lived in a time when—pace Mr. Chesterton—the Crusading spirit was dead, or knew the uglier ends. So in his immortal story Cervantes presents the last knight with tonic humour and loving laughter. Ultimately nothing can make anyone ridiculous but success and prosperity; and from these Cervantes preserves his hero. Mr. Schevill's book is not very lively reading. He gives us the facts of Cervantes' life, and his treatment of Cervantes' art in comparison with other Spanish popular works of the period has no like value for English readers. At one time Spanish literature was well known in England, but to-day we have no doubt that Mr. Schevill's detailed accounts of La Lazarillo and La Celestino are necessary.

Tolstoy himself might have been imagined by Cervantes. That is the thought that occurs in reading Mr. Noyes's book directly after Mr. Schevill's. Apart from that, no two great artists could be more dissimilar. Tolstoy is always uneasy. It is his uneasiness which caused his quarrel with Turgenev. It is his uneasiness which makes it impossible for him to remain steadfast to his own convictions. For years there was a false idea of Tolstoy, which is only gradually yielding to the facts. He was neither saint nor prophet; but an ordinary man with a capacity for self-analysis enormously magnified—so magnified that he seems a giant. It is this huge quality which makes so many critics, as Mr. Noyes, class him far beyond Turgenev and Dostoevsky, and put him in a position which he is willing to occupy in the future. Of direct personal criticism Mr. Noyes gives us little. He is overcome by the amount of his material, and is too fond of approaching his subject through the books of other critics. For instance, he quotes Mereshkovsky's comment on the end of War and Peace, as if it was a locus classicus on Natasha's psychology, instead of a piece of ill-natured criticism on a great artist by a showman. The end of War and Peace, which shows us Natasha absorbed in Cervantes' life, is the same criticism on wars, grandeurs, and world-spooks as is made by Hardy's poem on The Breaking of Nations; and neither has any cynicism in it. Mr. Noyes's picture of Tolstoy the man adds nothing to Aylmer Maude's exhaustive volumes; and he values too seriously and literally a great deal of Tolstoy's detailed religious writing. His book is, however, worth having, even if only for the superb lines written by Tolstoy to some abject person who objected to Resurrection as "smutty." We will not give his name, but he was, alas! English. Tolstoy, writing in English, defends himself and then says:

When I wrote the book I abhorred with all my heart the lust, and to express this abhorrence was one of the chief aims of the book. If I have failed in it I am very sorry, and I am pleading guilty if I was so inconsiderate in the scene of which you write that I could have produced such a bad impression on your mind. I think that we will be judged by our consciences and by God, not for the results of our ideas, which we cannot know, but for our intentions, and I hope my intentions were not bad.

Did ever great artist humble himself so generously? His attacker, with his unpleasant mind, will be numbered with the excellent Mr. Hyde, who inspired Stevenson to his defence of Damien.

BOOKS IN THE WAR. By THEODORE WESLEY KOCH. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company.

VILLAGE LIBRARIES. By A. SAYLE. Richards. 5s.

Mr. Koch's amply illustrated book is, in the main, a record of the achievements in the war of the American Library Association. As such it is exhaustive, if rather wanting in variety. The soldiers' demand for books, after all, and gratitude for their bestowal, were much the same in America as in France, in the trenches as in hospitals, so that by the time he has finished this book the reader is somewhat wearied by the repetition of feats of distribution, surveys of the vast literary field covered, instances of literary recalcitrance overcome by deft suggestion and so forth. Nevertheless, it is a book of considerable interest and will bear permanent witness to the fact that, in all future wars, libraries will have to be mobilised with the armies. Over and over again the fact, which we have all learned, is insisted on that food for the mind is one of the most important sustainers of moral. Not only is reading an anodyne, but it is a disinfectant and a prophylactic, as necessary in war as chloroform, lysol, and anti-typhoid vaccine. In all that vast organisation of intense welfare—work which, spasmodic and fragmentary in peace, was by a supreme irony perfected in war—the supplying of books to soldiers and sailors held a high place. Every taste had to be catered for, every degree of education given its appropriate food. To some the Army was an elementary school, to others it almost fulfilled the functions of a university, especially after the Armistice, when ambitious educational schemes were set on foot to calm idle and chafing warriors, and when our own War Office deluged France and Germany with piles of lofty literature, very little of which, we believe, was read.

The belligerent nations learned at last that it was just as worth while to tempt a soldier to read as to teach him to shoot. The question now remains what fruit this discovery is going to bear in peace, where the problem, apparently simpler, is really harder. Soldiers at war had not the opportunity of using their leisure as they wished; they were circumscribed in place and opportunity. The free citizen is less fettered, and, being more scattered, is less amenable to propaganda. Yet for citizens at peace, no less than for soldiers at war, propaganda, tactful and patient, is necessary if they are to be induced to apply the medicine of reading to their minds. From a quite different point of view this truth is made clear by Miss Sayle's little book, which is a development of an attractive article in the New Statesman describing the beginning and development of a library in a small Hampshire village. It is a book which all who have similar ambitions for their villages should read, for it will save them many natural and fatal errors, besides telling them all they need know about organisation, finance, book-buying and book-housing, in plain words with plenty of humour.

Miss Sayle very strongly insists on it that a village library must be simply and solely a circulating library, stocking the books which its members want to read and no others. More ambitious efforts may be made wherever the Public Libraries Act is applied, but a village library will almost always be supported by voluntary subscriptions, and can only afford books which pay their way. She shows how much propaganda is needed to start even such a library and to keep it going—a library from which practically every book that was not agreeable fiction had to be ruthlessly weeded. In twelve years the one visible sign of progress has been the tendency of Mrs. Alfred Sidgwick to replace Mrs. Henry Wood as the favourite. Yet she holds that it has been worth while, and we agree. A small agricultural community has been induced to own, manage, and take a pride in a library, and even the fact that "father went less often to the 'Anchor' as the result" is a solid testimony to its value. If life of villages in the future regains its old vigour without becoming entirely urban in character, enterprises of this kind will be a duty incumbent on their more enlightened members. And they will only be successful if Miss Sayle's maxims are followed. Her "dont's" are admirable, and the biggest one of all is "don't get slack." She might have added the lesson of Mr. Koch's book and of the whole war: "don't forget that any reading is better than a vacant mind."

FROM FRIEND TO FRIEND. By LADY RITCHIE. Murray. 6s. net.

Perhaps the most distinguishing of the pleasant Victorian characteristics was the combination of dignity with charm, and few of the artists of the period had that combination to a greater degree than Thackeray's daughter. This last volume of hers is entirely civilised and urbane in its appeal, and yet has, with its urbanity, a warmth of affection and a genuine love for and interest in others which are often lacking in the better, more highly-coloured works of contemporary art. It is a book of memories, and what Lady Ritchie remembers is not mere gossip, not what can be had by observation, but the deeper things of friendly intercourse, and the light thrown on character by circumstance and intimacy. The title-essay is mainly concerned with that remarkable woman, Julia Margaret Cameron, who was the friend of all the great men of her day, and the first woman to attempt artistic portraiture in photography. In telling of her Lady Ritchie cannot avoid a certain kindly humour; but the Victorians' laughter was not cruel, and though Mrs. Cameron must have been at times rather a burden, one can feel sure no one of her friends let her guess it. Certainly worse fates might overcome one than to be nursed by her. Mr. Cameron was ill and his wife gave him "home care and comforts." During the crisis he had "strong beef-tea thickened with arrowroot six times a day," and when he was convalescent,

The patient has poached eggs at night, gets up at eleven, has his dinner (gravy soup and curry) at one, mulligatawny soup and meat at five, a free allowance of port wine, averaging a bottle a day. Ten drops of Jereme's opiate every morning, a dose of creosote zinc and gum arabic before his meals, and a dose of quinine after each meal.

There are essays on Mrs. Sartoris and Mrs. Kemble, a brief note on a Roman Christmas, when she saw Lockhart driving with Frederic Leighton, a few slighter pieces, and then, last of all, a tale—Binnie—belonging to the Mrs. Williamson series. Not many people, one supposes, now read Old Kensington or "Miss Thackeray's" other novels, but there should be something of a demand for them by those who first meet her lucid, gentle narrative talent in the story of Binnie.

ONE HUNDRED PICTURES FROM EDEN PHILLPOTTS. Selected by L. H. BREWITT. Methuen. 6s. net.

The snare of descriptive writing in novels is as the snare of decorative passages in an imaginative painting; the descriptions may fail to combine, remain detached from the meaning and purpose of the novel, and finally the novelist may be tempted by his skill in such writing to indulge in it at the expense of his proper task. French novels, the worst of which have as a rule a composition too often absent from ours, rarely abound in purple passages—certainly with no French novelist of equal standing could an admirer do what Mr. Brewitt has done with Mr. Phillpotts. Here are a hundred of Mr. Phillpotts's best decorations, full of observation, sensitive at times to another beauty than the merely observed, but rarely fused by that imaginative ardour which makes some of Mr. Hardy's and Mr. Conrad's descriptive passages an essential part of the novel. Sometimes, especially in his description of violence, Mr. Phillpotts's meaning is obscure: for instance, in the account of the Flood from one book you have a simile which is of no assistance to the picture—"Yelling, like some incarnate and insane manifestation of the elements massed in one, the hurricane launched itself upon the valley." He is more successful as a rule when he catches nature in softer moods, quick with spring or flushed with summer: there is a genuine charm of fancy, if no imaginative depth, in this pastel of a sleeping forest:

The trees indeed sleep, but they also dream. In the heart of every leafless oak a dryad whispers that the days are fleeting; that the icy-footed winter hours are drawing into the snow-wreaths away in their chill processions; that the fountain of the sap will soon rise again to spring's unsealing; that swiftly will the bud-sheath swell and pale and shimmer silkily down, like a cast-off veil at the feet of the vernal beeches.

Mr. Phillpotts rarely drops into that snare of the writer of picturesque prose, the rhythm of blank verse; but his style is not always equal to the demands he makes upon it. It never has the sombre, heavy-hearted gravity of Hardy's, nor the gloomy colour and triumphant ecstasy of Ruskin's. This is indeed a photograph album rather than a book of pictures.

HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY

THE STORY OF PURTON. A Collection of Notes and Hearsay gathered by ETHEL M. RICHARDSON. Bristol: Arrowsmith. 1919. 7s. 6d. net.

Mrs. Richardson, something of a new-comer to Purton, as it would appear, makes no pretensions to original research, and has contented herself so far with giving rather a guide to Purton than a history of the village, a pleasant, ample, and leisurely place in North Wilts, with a fine church and an unusually fine stone-built manor house to its name. Her explanatory sub-title, "Notes and Hearsay," prevents the expectation of anything exhaustive. The notes, though excellent as far as they go, might have been considerably extended with advantage to the book; and as to the hearsay, it must be owned that, so far, she has not heard of much—nothing, we will engage, to what she will hear if she lives in Purton long enough to be accepted by the natives. There is abundant material in every old village in England for a good and useful contribution to history, and, if Mrs. Richardson looks forward (as it is to be hoped she may) to a new edition of her little book, we would recommend to her notice Kingham Old and New, by W. Warde Fowler, which was published by Mr. Blackwell, of Oxford, in 1913, and is a model for any such work. Another which might help her is How to Write the History of a Parish, by the Reverend John Charles Cox, of which a fifth edition was published in 1909. Her first care should be to get hold of the Enclosure Award and Tithe Commutation Map, which ought to be in the vestry. One will give her the names of the Common Fields; the other, compared with the large-scale Ordnance map and helped by local knowledge, should enable her to find them all. Then, with the Parish Registers and, with luck, some Court Rolls, she should be able to get well back in the centuries, and might then make arrangements for a prolonged stay in London and daily attendance at the Public Record Office. What she might find there, or fail to find, there's no telling. If she were fortunate she would light upon some great old Chancery or Exchequer suit—better than the one in the Star-chamber, good as that is, which concerns the adventures of the image of Saint George, and is one of her happiest discoveries—in which the pleadings would be written in pure Shakesperean prose, and the depositions of witnesses record very often the ipsissima verba of the peasantry of its time. Behind all that—since Purton belonged to Malmesbury Abbey—she would find very much more than she has found so far concerning the economy, temporal and spiritual, of her parish and manor. She should undoubtedly find Subsidy Rolls which would record the names and status of the villagers back to the day of the Poll Tax. Some of the early Court Rolls may be there, and possibly also a Survey or Extent, which would give her the services and "boon-works" due from the bondsmen to their lords. There is no limit to be set to what diligence, and help from Mrs. Story-Maskelyne (whose chapter on Braden Forest and the parish boundaries is the best in the book), may recover from the Mausoleum in Fetter Lane. To that adventure we heartily commend Mrs. Richardson, that of a good book she may make a better.

THE MANNERS OF MY TIME. By C. L. HAWKINS DEMPSTER. Richards. 1920. 10s. 6d.

Miss Dempster, who died in 1913, was authoress in her day of certain novels, of which one, called Vera, was translated into Russian, and another, Blue Roses, was to be found on every bookstall in America. It met, she tells us here, with the favour of the late Duke of Albany. "Ah," said his Royal Highness, "that is a wonderful book! But why did you make it so sad? Please to make your next one end well." "The next one will be all right, sir. It is a Scotch story, and it does end well." That was at Cannes, where Miss Dempster lived and moved in a society of exiled kings, Russian grand dukes, princes, statesmen, high ladies and clergymen. The manners of such folk are without doubt as worthy of record as those of any other people whomsoever; but Miss Dempster, in the letters to an unnamed uncle, of which her book chiefly consists, contents herself for the most part with recording their names, entrances and exits upon the scene of the Riviera. We are irresistibly reminded of Captain Sumph in Pendennis.

"I remember poor Byron, Hobhouse, Trelawny, and myself dining with Cardinal Mezzocado at Rome," Captain Sumph began, "and we had some Orvieto wine for dinner, which Byron liked very much. And I remember how the Cardinal regretted that he was a single man. We went to Aix-la-Vecchia two days afterwards, where Byron's yacht was—and, by Jove, the Cardinal died within three weeks; and Byron was very sorry, for he rather liked him."

Incidentally, one may call attention to the letterpress. On page 148 a lady is referred to in a note as "a grandchild of Mr. Nassau, senior, now married to Mr. St. Loe Strachey." It is not, we believe, even true of that particular grandchild of Nassau senior's. We read of "the great coups de logis" of a castle in Normandy, of "the causus belli of the Franco-Prussian War." On page 213 we have an epitaph which is worth preservation:

LIC JACIT

CASPARUS HAÜSER

ÆNIGMA

PIÙ LEMPORIS

IGNOTO NATIVITAS

OCCULTA MORS

1883.

Sic, or lic, at any rate jacit, or lies, the record of the unfortunate Caspar in this work.

THE BRITISH ACADEMY: SEALS AND DOCUMENTS. By REGINALD L. POOLE. Oxford University Press, 2s. 6d. net.

Recently an important transaction was nearly stopped because one of the parties saw on an official document what he took to be the initials of a particular person. The letters were, however, only an indication where the seal should be affixed. Dr. Poole's Seals and Documents, an offprint from the Transactions of the British Academy, deals with earlier days, and may induce similar ignorance. It is but twenty odd pages long, but full of matter which the judicious reader will value as from a master of diplomatic. It summarises much learning, and suggests, by the way, several inquiries, e.g., as to the displacement of papyrus by parchment; the period at which a seal to close a secret letter—like our modern sealing-wax—went out of fashion; and the use of the diminutive sigillum instead of the classical signum for seal. Dr. Poole shows how easy it was for a seal to be lost, and mentions that a unique document in the Bodleian has been "irreparably mutilated" under the direction of the late Librarian. When parchment was used, thin pieces of the actual material could be stripped from it to tie it up with a seal affixed. It is odd that this simple practice has not been carried further back. Much of interest is given concerning the Papal bull, a bulla of lead used in warm countries where wax would not retain its distinctness. Bulls employed by the universal "Papa" remind us of the classical "bulla" worn by boys. The most ancient in existence is that of Pope Deusdedit (615-8). In England the bull is earlier than the wax seal, but the double-pendent seal which led to the Great Seal is an English invention. The whole subject is confused by the existence of forgeries, which need erudition like Dr. Poole's to dismiss.

THE STONES AND STORY OF JESUS CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE. Traced and told by IRIS and GERDA MORGAN. Cambridge: Bowes & Bowes, 21s. net.

Jesus College, Cambridge, has a unique beginning, as it grew out of a Benedictine Nunnery, and Bishop Alcock, of Ely, its founder, when he did away with the discredited sisterhood, adapted their ruined buildings instead of destroying them. The college was erected to the honour of the Blessed Virgin, St. John, and St. Radegund, but Alcock added the new title which it still bears. The names of Prioresses are preserved from Letitia, circa 1213, to Joan Fulbourne, 1493. Though we do not know precisely when the nuns began, there is an unusual amount of records left concerning them which tend to show that they were distinguished in family rather than learning, and given to hospitality as well as good works. They owed their butcher £21 at a time when a sheep cost a shilling. Let us hope that the good man's daughters learnt something as boarders in the St. Radegund Guest House. What can be gathered concerning early days is told pleasantly. It may seem odd that a nunnery should exist in Cambridge, quite near the site of the famous Sturbridge Fair; but the ladies started before the colleges began, and they were some way off the nucleus of academic buildings. The excellent sketches are a great addition to the book. The beautiful piscina figured on page 286 has long been familiar to lovers of Cambridge architecture, but new discoveries have been made since Le Keux published his Memorials in 1845. Jesus has been lucky in its antiquaries and historians, also in escaping the full fervour of that debased Gothic which flourished in the nineteenth century. The discovery of the Chapter Arches by the Rev. Osmond Fisher in 1893 is quite a romance. He was able to supplement many years earlier the indolence of a Master and save the Tower from falling.

The notes, other than architectural, chronicle the varying fortunes of the foundation, with details of the plague, plays in English and Latin, militant and destructive commissioners, and worthies like Tobias Rustat, Yeoman of the Robes to Charles II. Cranmer's is the first name in the college lists, and it has always been distinguished in theology, though for most people its main modern reputation is for athletics. This side of the college is, however, not touched by the authors, who deal with reverend signiors and men famous in literature.

The college can boast of Sterne, whose grandfather was one of its masters; but nothing is known of his academic behaviour. This is just as well, since his associate Hall-Stevenson can hardly have been a model young man. Coleridge, the only poet, we think, who ever won an academic prize for a Greek Ode, was decidedly eccentric, and had a reputation for saying good things, as we learn from the lively pages of Gunning. He was treated with great leniency by the dons of Jesus, and left through his own perversity. His poetry at this time is negligible, and his lines "to a young Jackass on Jesus Piece," whom he wished to take with him,

in the Dell

Of Peace and mild Equality to dwell,

reveal the coming exponent of Pantisocracy. We do not think that his rowdiness at the trial of Frend in the Senate House is to his credit, in spite of his explanations.

The work of both writer and artist shows a genuine enthusiasm for the college and its memories. Both illustrations and print gain by the ample page; but a book weighing well over two-and-a-half pounds will hardly do as a "handbook."

COMRADES IN CAPTIVITY. By F. W. HARVEY. Sidgwick & Jackson. 10s. 6d. net.

Mr. Harvey's book strikes one immediately as amazingly truthful. He not only gives one facts about his prison life in Germany, he avoids giving too many facts. Deliberately he refuses to be preoccupied with the mere horrors, or the beastliness of some of his captors, or the nervous strain on the prisoners. And this surely is artistically right, if one is to get a picture of what prison life meant to the average normal prisoner. The men who wished to retain sanity had to keep out of their minds, so far as they could, the things which Mr. Harvey leaves out of his book. They endeavoured by work, by lectures, by concerts, by games, by theatrical performances to recall continuously to themselves that normal life still prescribed in spite of their untoward fate. And nobly most of them succeeded. Perhaps some of their efforts were a little uncalled-for. For instance, Mr. Harvey tells us that on their first arrival at Guterslob new prisoners were treated quite formally by their fellow-countrymen:

New arrivals were not ignored by the British. There was a system whereby they even fed (German food being totally inadequate) until their own parcels began to arrive. Clothes, too, were served out to those who seemed in need. And there were invitations to tea with senior officers and officials. Such preliminaries accomplished, however, one was dropped like a hot coal—for a time, that is, until one had proved oneself.

And he also states that when at Crefeld all prisoners other than British were turned out. "We thought it damnable." The truth is our Allies had been, far more than we realised, an interest and diversion in captivity. Certainly it must have seemed odd to be made welcome by Russians and French rather than by one's fellow-countrymen, and we think it is due not, as Mr. Harvey, "to the national tradition," but to the public school and university tradition of the new boy and the freshman. Mr. Harvey enlivens his book with specimen lectures—including an excellent one of his own on Shaw—poems and anecdotes; and there are amusingly rough sketches by Mr. C. G. B. Bernard.

WILLIAM SMITH, POTTER AND FARMER, 1790–1858. By GEORGE BOURNE. Chatto. 1920. 6s. net.

Mr. Bourne has written a beautiful and sensitive little book about his grandfather, and his own memories of his grandfather's village. It has in it that deep and still appreciation of English country and of the ways of English peasants, which is so common to all who know and love them, and so very rarely expressed. It has the quality of Jefferies at his best, and of Mr. Hudson too. The scenes which he evokes—the broad green spaces, the silence, the interminable round of tasks, the handling of the earth and its store—will never come again in the places of which he tells us. Farnborough, Frimley, Camberley, Yateley are suburbs of London, over-run by the spawn of Aldershot and the railway. Nowadays one must go further afield to realise the presence of Saint Use; and a term seems to be set even there. It is not that, in the Roman poet's phrase, Nos patriæ fines et dulcia linquimus arva: rather that those fair fields are flying further from us—as well they may, seeing what we make of them. Such a book as Mr. Bourne's will be treasured hereafter for the sake of the quiet beauty and homely virtues which it records, but very much also for the tenderness and fidelity with which it does its work.

POLITICS AND ECONOMICS

COAL MINING AND THE COAL MINER. By H. F. BULMAN, M.I.Min.E., Assoc. M. Inst. C.E., F.G.S. Methuen. 15s.

NATIONALISATION OF THE MINES. By FRANK HODGES, Secretary of the Miners' Federation of Great Britain. With Foreword by the Right Hon. J. R. CLYNES, M.P. Leonard Parsons. 4s. 6d.

Mr. Bulman is a mining engineer who has been a colliery manager and a director of colliery companies, and he has a wide knowledge of the subject. He has much of interest and value to say about the getting of coal, the technical processes and the machinery, the work of the miners and their dangers. But he does not confine himself to these matters; he deals with many of the controversial questions that are exercising the public mind at the moment. His book was written unfortunately—or fortunately—before the Coal Commission, as he puts it, "commenced its novel proceedings," and his allusions to the evidence it took and the reports it issued are confined to a note or two here and there. There is no doubt, however, which side he is on. Though sympathetic enough to the miners, he has plenty of hard words to say of their Trade Unions. He deplores the prevalence of ca'canny, of absenteeism, of the aggressive spirit shown towards the employers. Over Government interference he waxes very bitter; many of the rules and regulations imposed on the management for the safety of the miners rouse his ire, whilst the Minimum Wage Act he regards as utterly mischievous, since it "encourages the indolence which is so prominent a characteristic of human nature." The longest chapter in the book discusses in considerable detail—and with many attractive plans and pictures—the housing of the miners. Mr. Bulman thinks that it is very unfair to throw the blame for bad housing conditions on the colliery owners, who, he says, have done more than most employers to provide houses for those they employ. But many, we think, who have read the evidence given to the Royal Commission, whatever may be their views on the proper method of running the coal industry, will find themselves at issue with Mr. Bulman on that point.

Mr. Hodges makes a direct and ably-reasoned appeal for the nationalisation of the mines. He is, we think, at rather needless pains to disclaim "politics" in his book. His main emphasis is certainly on the economic aspect of the problem; but he cannot avoid being "political" in the largest sense. He exposes, with a good deal more stress than Mr. Bulman, the wasteful methods of coal production by the 3300 British collieries operated by 1452 companies, and subject to the "dead-hand" of 4000 royalty owners, as well as its wasteful methods of consumption at the collieries and further afield. He discusses the decrease of output, the main reason for which he will by no means admit to be the naughtiness of the miners. And he directs the notice of the unhappy general public to the fact that we are faced at the same time with a decline in production and a large increase in profits. What, then, does Mr. Hodges want? He sees "no other remedy except that of National ownership of the entire industry, with joint control by the full personnel of the industry and representatives of the whole community." The miners, he avers, are as much opposed to bureaucracy as the most extreme of "anti-nationalisers." Both the Sankey scheme and the original scheme of the miners ("The Nationalisation of Mines and Minerals Bill," which is printed as an Appendix to the book) guard against this. The State is to own the industry, but the machinery of Pit and District Committees and a National Mining Council would mean management by those engaged in the industry, together with representatives of the consumers. This last part is important, for the Syndicalist idea of the "Mines for the Miners" is, in Mr. Hodges' view, antisocial and "repugnant to our communal instincts." Nor will he allow that there is any substance in the fear that the initiative secured by private ownership will be lost. If this initiative really exists to-day, it will be increased a hundredfold, he argues, when scope is given to the brain-workers who are responsible for the running of the industry. Altogether the book is one which is worthy of the most careful study by nationalisers and anti-nationalisers alike.

SOCIAL THEORY. By G. D. H. COLE. Methuen. 5s.

It is a commonplace of our sceptical and disillusioned age that all our cherished institutions are in the melting-pot. The old economic order is tottering; the finger of scorn is pointed at the hollowed principle of Parliamentary Government. Eager reformers preach Democracy and yet more Democracy. But the discontented citizen finds himself getting ever a larger portion of the shadow of Democracy and ever less of the substance. To him in his perplexity comes Mr. Cole, offering a new social theory, to explain the causes of the evil and its true remedy. What is wrong, he asserts, is the false doctrine that endows the State with sovereign attributes and makes it supreme in every sphere. His treatment of Leviathan is drastic. He is not merely for curbing it, nor, on the other hand, for its complete destruction. What he wants is to deflate the monster, so to speak, and reduce it to the status of a decent domestic animal with a carefully limited sphere of usefulness.

The democratic society which Mr. Cole foresees will be a co-ordinated system of functional associations, guilds of producers, co-operative societies of consumers, and many others. The State will no longer be sovereign, it will merely be one of those associations, confined to its own specific functions. For each function in society there must be found an association and method of representation, and for each association and body of representatives a function. "Representative democracy," as we see it to-day in a "single omnicompetent Parliament," is a mockery; for "no man can represent another man, and no man's will can be treated as a substitute for, or representative of, the wills of others." This does not mean that Mr. Cole denies the validity of all representative government, only that he wants it put in a truer form. And that form is functional representation. The elected representatives of the future, of whom clearly there will be many—and "Why not?" says Mr. Cole—are not to be mere delegates, but each will have a more limited rôle, subject to more constant and closer criticism and advice from their constituents and, in the last resort, to "recall" by them. It is in this functional organisation that Mr. Cole centres his hopes of social and economic peace and progress, of political justice, of liberty and happiness for the individual. It is a theory that is open to criticism at several points, and no final judgment of it can, of course, be passed on the basis of this book. But Mr. Cole at least argues his case very clearly and trenchantly, and he has made a notable contribution to political science.

THEOLOGY

FIRST CHRISTIAN IDEAS. By E. C. SELWYN. Murray, 9s. net.

The late Dr. Murray was of that type of scholar which England produces to perfection, and of whom Dr. Abbott is our most notable and distinguished example. An untiring patience, a close attention to detail, a rather over-dogmatic manner, and at times a simple felicity are the chief marks of the school. In this posthumous volume Dr. Selwyn continues his argument, advocated in previous books, that the writers of the New Testament were familiar with the Septuagint rather than the Hebrew, and that a great deal of the New Testament is Midrash—that is, hortatory comment—on Old Testament stories. That he proves this thesis it would be too much to affirm; but he certainly strengthens his case by the careful handling he gives here to selected passages, especially the narratives of the Infancy and the Temptation. At times one meets sentences in which one recognises the old headmaster rather than the student. For instance, "The origin of the term Mass is Mazzoth, the cakes of unleavened bread, and no other etymology is worth a moment's consideration"; but generally Dr. Selwyn's points are made carefully, modestly, and carry conviction. This is especially true of a really startling piece of exegetical translation in Chapter III. The upholders of the Helvidian view that the brethren of Jesus were the children of Mary are fond of quoting the phrase of St. Luke, "She brought forth her first-born son." Dr. Selwyn, with a simplicity that seems unaware of its force, removes this argument in the following passage:

Here we may notice two points which show his [Luke's] close observance of Scripture. The first is one that opens a just complaint against R.V., which renders "She brought forth her first-born son" (τὸν υἱὸν αὐτῆς τὸν Πρωτότοκον {ton huion autês ton Prôtotokon}). Luke is not speaking of uterine children of Mary, but he is declaring a solemn title, on which St. Paul had already dwelt. The title is based upon Ps. 89—"I will make him my First-born, higher than the sons of the earth." Which renders the Greek best, the R.V. or "She brought forth her son, the First-born"? There can be no question.

It is unfortunate that Dr. Selwyn wrote an extremely unattractive style, and is singularly unmethodical in the arrangement of his material. We have little doubt that this and his other books will be pillaged by popular preachers and theologians who have none of his scholarship. After all, such a fact is not an unworthy conclusion to the life of a great schoolmaster, who belongs to a profession which is fated to give ideas to those who will but rarely admit or even remember their source.

PAGAN AND CHRISTIAN CREEDS. By EDWARD CARPENTER. Allen & Unwin. 10s. 6d. net.

No one would deny the correspondence between much of the theology and ceremonial of the Christian religion and previous creeds. What significance is to be attached to that correspondence will depend on the bias of the student. The Christian historian will see in the facts of anthropology evidence that Christianity is a natural as well as a revealed religion, and that its claims are greatly strengthened just because of pagan premonitions. The sceptic may be inclined to dismiss all Christian refinement of older myths as so much rubbish, of which the world must be rid before it can live coldly in the bleak light of a scientific materialism. Anyhow, there seems little advantage in anyone writing elaborately on the subject who is not a scholar. Mr. Carpenter is amiable, occasionally interesting, more often merely garrulous, but he seems to have no claims to scholarship, nor, what is ever fatal, to be able to estimate the value of previous scholars' works. One instance will suffice. He names the few eccentrics, Drews, Robertson, Bossi, Jensen, who deny the historicity of Jesus Christ; calls it a "large and learned body of opinion," and adds that "a still larger (but less learned) body fights desperately for the actual historicity of Jesus." The statement is really absurd. Not to mention orthodox scholars, Harnack alone could swallow his "learned body" without feeling discomfort.

His own method shows too great an eagerness to produce parallels at all costs. He notes that many gods, Dionysus, Mithra, Osiris were born in caves; Jesus Christ was born in a stable. But why call a stable an underground chamber? The facts are twisted to suit his theory; indeed, the whole book reminds one of those strained allegorical treatises which were common in the Middle Ages. The principal flaw in his book, as in all similar essays, is that he never approaches the records of the different religions, to which he is comparing Christianity, with a hundredth part of the severity he applies to Christian documents. He does not even discuss the age of manuscripts, a question of the first importance in the problem of religious origins. How many religions can show pre-Christian manuscript authority for the traits which, in the absence of that evidence, we may have believed were borrowed from Christianity itself?

ANTHROPOLOGY

MAN—PAST AND PRESENT. By A. H. KEANE. Revised and largely rewritten by A. HINGSTON QUIGGIN and A. C. HADDON. Cambridge University Press. 36s.

What are the chief natural divisions of mankind, and how did they come to be formed? Such is the specific problem of ethnology, and it is one on which the whole body of the anthropological sciences may be said to converge. In a sense physical anthropology—that is to say, the study of the bodily characters of man—has the most direct bearing on the subject. The members of the human family are distinguished by marked differences of physique, which are clearly to a large extent the product of heredity. On the other hand, adaptation to environment must tend to confine each variety to the most suitable area; so that geography, in the specialised form known as anthropo-geography, will be required to help the argument out. Moreover, the history of culture, as variously comprising ideas, institutions, arts, and languages, provides important evidence of those movements and clashings of peoples whereby our ever-shifting balance has been maintained between the forces making severally for a differentiation and for a fusion of types. Nor is it enough for the ethnologist to keep his eye fixed on the existing distribution of these types over the wide surface of the globe. His outlook as it turns towards the past must embrace a tract of time even more formidably wide, inasmuch as we can never hope to explore it as thoroughly. Altogether, the speculative problem is as baffling as it is alluring. On the practical side, too, there is the question to be faced how far civilisation can afford to experiment in the direction of race-amalgamation—whether, in short, physical diversity is or is not compatible with moral unity within the kingdom of man.

Dr. A. H. Keane, for some time Professor of Hindustani at University College, London, was born in 1833 and died in 1912. He was the only Englishman in post-Darwinian times to attempt a grand synthesis of the facts relating to the origin and interrelation of the main human groups. In Ethnology (1896) and Man—Past and Present (1899) he put forward what is in effect the same theory—one to which he adhered for the rest of his days, as may be gathered from his article on Ethnology in Hastings' Dictionary of Religion and Ethics, published in the year of his death. This theory amounted to a vindication on evolutionary grounds of Linnæus' genealogical tree of the human family, with its four branches, the Æthiopian, Mongolian, American, and Caucasian. Keane postulated that these primary groups were independently derived from a common primeval ancestry, first the negro family branching off, then somewhat later the Caucasian and Mongolo-American splitting out of the main stem. Thereupon he brought geography into play, supposing each type to develop in an isolated "cradle-land" where its fundamental characters became fixed, so that no subsequent intermingling could wholly obliterate them. Nor is it for him simply a question of physical differentiation. There are mental and moral peculiarities likewise that go with the race, and these are reflected in markedly divergent outgrowths of culture. On the strength of these assumptions it was possible to construct a highly systematic account of mankind in the mass. For the big differences were taken as established at the outset once for all; whereas the myriad smaller differences that actually distinguish the peoples of the earth were regarded as mere aberrations from these primary norms.

Twenty-one years, however, of further discovery do not confirm this bold explanation of the genesis of human diversity, but even militate against it in a negative way, in so far as some of Keane's most trusted proofs are shown to be invalid. The great antiquity, for instance, of certain fossil men found in America turns out to be by no means so certain as he was ready to believe, and the claim of the New World to rank as an area of primary characterisation is correspondingly weakened. Again, a great deal more is now known about the racial types of Pleistocene Europe, and their multiplicity is hard to reconcile with the view that in early times a given geographical province would foster a single well-marked variety. Thus, so far as regards the prehistoric evidence, the bottom is pretty well knocked out of the theory; and thereupon the genetic significance of the attempted classification of types disappears, unless a new theory of origin can be substituted.

Now to attempt such a reconstruction of the whole argument is a task which no editor as such could well undertake, for he must in that case assume responsibility for every word that appears, the original author being reduced to a mute shade in the background. On the other hand, if the explanation of the present heterogeneity of mankind has become more difficult than ever, the description of it may be improved by incorporating the results of the latest field work. Hence the questionable pedigree is withdrawn; but the list of the surviving members of the human family is carefully revised. A systematic appearance is imparted to the catalogue by dividing up the groups according to the nature of their hair. This leaves Keane's classification almost unaltered in its surface appearance, since his Æthiopians form the woolly-haired division, his Caucasians the wavy-haired, the only difference being that the Australians who count as wavy-haired must now come across from the negroids, of whose characters they otherwise appear to possess a share. As for the Mongolians and Americans, since both alike are straight-haired, they need no longer be kept apart. It is a clever feat of substitution, yet is one that is of little use to the student of the evolutionary problem. The systematist gets on very well with hair as his differentia until the question of development is raised. He thereupon finds, first, that to relate present types to former ones is impossible by this means, since prehistoric skulls have lost their hair entirely; secondly, that the interrelations of present types are not made any clearer, since no one has worked out the effects of cross-breeding on the hair of the offspring. Thus it is a scandalous fact that despite the copious interbreeding of whites with woolly-haired negroes and straight-haired aborigines in America, no trustworthy data are available from this or any other quarter in regard to the physical results of such miscegenation. Is waviness of hair a pure or a mixed form, or sometimes one and sometimes the other? Our authorities do not seem to know; yet, so long as the matter is left undecided, relationships based on similarity of hair can have no genetic significance.

Another consequence of the suppression of the theory of a radical division of the human stocks brought about by their development in isolation is that the assignment of a special kind of mentality to the different races loses most of its point. This never was a very convincing side of Keane's work, for he seemed to lack the delicacy of touch needed in order to bring out the subtler shades of meaning in primitive religion, and hence could hardly do justice to the surest diagnostic of the mental life. As it is, one is inclined to smile at the drastic characterisations of peoples that survive, without the excuse of a genetic explanation, in the revised text. Thus the former edition summed up the Papuasian as "even more cruel than the African Negro." This goes out in the present edition; but as we read immediately below that the Tasmanian, another branch of the stock, was "far less cruel," we have lingering doubts about the Papuasian character as regards the habit of "seeing red." Without altogether denying the possibility of an ethnic psychology, one may ask what scientific basis is provided for one here. Whether Keane was right or wrong, he did mean that temperament went with ancestry. But the present work does not intend us to deduce a man's morality from his hair; so that the bearing of mental traits on the problem of classification can no longer be regarded as essential.

In conclusion, it is only fair to state that no pains have been spared to secure the utmost accuracy in the statement of facts. As an ethnology the book may be disappointing, because it amounts to an admission that Keane's original attempt to construct a genealogy of the human race outran the evidence. On the other hand, as an ethnographic conspectus it will be very serviceable to the student. The idealist, too, who is in a hurry to establish a uniform civilisation for all may here come upon a useful reminder of the actual diversity of mankind, though he may console himself with the thought that, as Heracleitus long ago observed, "opposite friction knits the world together."

SCIENCE

SCIENCE AND LIFE. By FREDERICK SODDY. Murray. 10s. 6d. net.

This is a collection of addresses and articles indicative of the author's activities as a chemist and as one of the leading figures of Aberdeen University. A proportion of the addresses may be grouped together as representing successive expressions of one leading thought, the social advantages which may accrue from an intelligent application of the method and results of scientific research to the utilisation of natural sources of energy. "Scientific research is capable of raising the general standard of life, without limit, by the solution it affords of the material and physical problems that prevent progress"—this is one of Professor Soddy's chief themes. The disadvantage, largely inherent in a collection of such addresses, delivered to different types of audience, is that, instead of having before us a clearly reasoned and cumulative treatment of the problems involved, we take up the matter afresh, from a slightly different aspect, in each separate address and run over very much the same ground, at one time as a member of the Independent Labour Party, at another as a member of the Aberdeen Chamber of Commerce, and so on.

There is much overlapping, and a certain feeling is aroused that we are not much further than we were in the preceding address. Nevertheless, the problems which Professor Soddy handles are of such importance that, while we regret that he has not judged fit to embody the matter of several of his separate addresses in one consecutive essay, we believe that it is right that his opinion should be placed permanently on record. Besides these addresses on the place of science in society, we have two popular expositions of the march of science, in which Professor Soddy has himself made such notable advances—one on the Evolution of Matter and one on Radioactive Change. The views on the transmutations of the elements, which attracted much attention in the daily Press, are not, of course, new, but the account is remarkably clear and affords an excellent summary of the present state of the science of radioactivity, which can be understood by the average reader. Elsewhere in the book, both in separate articles and in addresses, there is much criticism, of more or less parochial interest, of the administration of the Carnegie Trust for the Universities of Scotland.

A TEXT-BOOK OF HYGIENE FOR TRAINING COLLEGES. By MARGARET AVERY. Methuen. 7s. 6d. net.

This little book has apparently been written chiefly to help students at training colleges through their examinations, and suffers from many of the usual faults of cram books. The information is scrappy, and the style so condensed that in many parts the book reads more like a series of notes than a connected treatise. A more serious fault is that the scientific information is not always correct—for instance, the examination of recruits and pensioners during the war has disproved the common assertion that the cause of short sight is reading small print, doing fine sewing, and so on, and has tended to show that excessive physical exertion of certain types, such as lifting heavy weights, is in many cases the inducing cause. This is a point of importance to school teachers, as short sight is aggravated by many of the physical exercises now in vogue. In other cases, the most recent work is not quoted. But the book is largely redeemed by the very sane way in which wide social topics, such as temperance and eugenics, are discussed. The latter subject is handled with a desire to get at the facts, uncoloured by prejudice, which is to be commended, and Miss Avery seems for the time to get away from the haunting thought of the examination syllabus. The book will appeal to all interested in primary school education, for it contains a good deal of information as to actual conditions in various centres.

HERSCHEL. By HECTOR MACPHERSON. Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge. 2s. net.

This short biography is the latest addition to the "Men of Science" section of the series "Pioneers of Progress" now being published by the S.P.C.K. It gives an excellent little account of the life of the older Herschel, and, necessarily, tells us something of his devoted sister Caroline, probably the first woman to do work of importance in the exact sciences. A poor German musician, who left—some say deserted from—the band of the Hanoverian Guards to come to England, Herschel built up for himself a considerable position in the English musical world before he turned his attention to the science in every branch of which he made magnificent advances. His theory of the stellar system opened a fresh field for observation and speculation; his studies of Saturn and Mars gave us our first detailed information about these planets; he discovered Uranus—loyally named "Georgium Sidus"—and binary stars, and contributed important observations in every department of observational astronomy then known. His theory of the sun, if ludicrous in the light of our present knowledge, was the first attempt at a general treatment of solar problems. Considering the small size of the book, Mr. Macpherson's treatment is remarkably comprehensive, and provides a graphic and sympathetic sketch of the life and works of the great astronomer.

DISCOVERY. A Monthly Popular Journal of Knowledge. No. 1. January, 1920. 6d. net. No. 2. February. John Murray.

This new periodical appears under distinguished auspices, the trustees of the deed by which it is maintained being Sir J. J. Thomson, Sir F. G. Kenyon, Professor A. C. Seward, and Professor R. S. Conway. The object is to give a popular presentation of advances made "in the chief subjects in which investigation is being actively pursued," and it is announced that the articles will be written in plain, simple language. An imposing list of writers who have made or promised contributions assures us that they will be authoritative. The purpose of the promoters of this journal is worthy of all praise, and the articles in the first number range over a wide field of interest, and include The Secret of Philæ (Professor Conway), The Modern Study of Dreams (Professor T. H. Pear), and Discovery and Education, written by the Master of Balliol, with his usual forcefulness and insight. While paying tribute to the spirit of the undertaking, we venture, with some diffidence, to offer the opinion that in many points the paper might be much improved by more informed editing. In the first place it does not seem that any clear idea has been formulated as to the class of reader to whom appeal is to be made; every author appears to have a different standard of erudition in view. For instance, is it assumed that to the average reader of the Times, say, the vocabulary of Dr. Slater Price's article on Smoke Screens at Sea—chlorinated hydrocarbons, kieselguhr, thermite, oleum, and so on, offered without a word of explanation—is plain, simple language? This article might have been written for professional chemists who want to know what chemicals have proved suitable for producing smoke screens; that on Sound Ranging, on the other hand, with its forced breeziness, reads as if intended for a school magazine. The make-up is not very attractive, not vastly superior to that of the average parish magazine. The single illustration which adorns the pages is a crude and amateurish pen-drawing far better omitted, if nothing better could be found. In short, the paper seems to suffer, at present, from lack of policy as regards public, and lack of high standards as regards production and illustration. We have no doubt that experience will rapidly rectify these minor points, and we sincerely hope that the paper will find its public and develop its sphere of usefulness.

BOOK-PRODUCTION NOTES

By J. H. MASON

THE Gazette du Bon Ton, now beginning its third year, is so extraordinarily clever that it sets one thinking about the typographical importance of magazines. It is in them that typography is seen at its liveliest, and it is a pity that after a comet-like career we frequently lose sight of them. Why do not British publishers and printers establish an exhibition hall on the lines of that at the Buchgewerbehaus in Leipzig? The exhibitions should be varied, not permanent, although there should always be an exhibition connected with this all-important group of trades. The book-production of one nation after another, their magazines, their book illustration, their types and posters, their paper, their colour printing and newspapers would provide ample material. Printing in its many forms is an almost omnipresent element of our lives, and for this reason the forms it takes are more important than the much-canvassed forms of modern pictorial art. In the series of exhibitions there should be one of magazines, particular care being taken to include those with a limited circulation, or those which were experimental and ran only for a short period. Gordon Craig's Mask, the Neolith, the Hobbyhorse, the Manchester Playgoer, the Russian Apollon, the Imprint, the Game, are just a few that occur to me as certainly not well known, and yet they are all suggestive attempts to deal with magazine typography, format, paper, and illustration.

The Gazette du Bon Ton would certainly be included in such an exhibition or section of an exhibition. Its two most important features typographically are its type, a revived old style based on a design of Nicolas Cochin, and its coloured illustrations. Three sizes of type are used, in the Avant-Propos a large 18-point, and in the body of the magazine 14-point and 10-point (I give the nearest equivalents in British sizes). The 14-point is an excellent choice, both in point of weight and scale. I should prefer using it all through the magazine to form a stable background to the very varied illustrations and the capricious choice of initials and captions. The fine line illustrations of page 10 are too light to keep the page together as they are meant to do. The drawings were probably made without being tested by comparison with the strong line of the type. The illustrations, in black with one or two flat tints or full colours, give a real colour value that is never obtained by the three-colour process. Take any book illustrated by this process and test it by comparison with these Bon Ton colours, and if the colour sense has not been vitiated by a wrong standard for coloured letterpress illustrations—such as oil paintings—the superiority of the flat colour will be obvious. Even the chiaroscuro block prints are capable of very pleasing effects, a hint of them appearing in the tail-piece on page 4.

The "Gazette du Bon Ton continuera d'être ... le lieu où les couturiers et les peintres collaborent pour composer la silhouette de leur temps." That sentence from the Avant-Propos sums up what I have to say of the type, the illustration, and the work as a whole. The large type attracts attention at once, it spreads itself a little—a shade wide—it slightly emphasises its idiosyncrasies (see the y with its terminal serif, or the s, or the capital G, they have the very accent of our own time); it is elegant, but not content with elegance; it is on a good model, but perfection, the golden mediocrity, is felt as constraint; it attains—reaches something a little outré.

NOTE.—Last month I inadvertently wrote Luckombe for Stower, although the latter's Printer's Grammar was on my table at the time.

BIBLIOGRAPHIES OF MODERN AUTHORS

ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES (Poet Laureate)

Verse

POEMS. Pickering. 1873.

THE GROWTH OF LOVE. Poem in Twenty-four Sonnets. 1876. [Reprinted with omissions and additions, 1890.]

CARMEN ELEGIACUM ROBERTI BRIDGES: IMPENSIS EDUARDI BUMPUS. 1877.

POEMS. By the Author of The Growth of Love. Bumpus. 1879.

POEMS. By the Author of The Growth of Love. 3rd Series. Bumpus. 1880.

PROMETHEUS, THE FIREGIVER. Drama in Verse. Daniel Press. 1883.

[Reprinted by Bell, 1884.]

PLAYS: NERO, PALICIO, ULYSSES, CAPTIVES, ACHILLES, HUMOURS OF THE COURT, FEAST OF BACCHUS, Second Part of NERO. Bumpus. 1885-94.

EROS AND PSYCHE. Poem in twelve measures. From Apuleius. Bell. 1885. Again Revised 1894.

THE FEAST OF BACCHUS. A Poem. Privately printed, Oxford. 1889.

THE SHORTER POEMS OF ROBERT BRIDGES. Four books. Bell. 1890.

[Frequent reissues, the later have five books.]

SELECTIONS OF THE SHORTER POEMS OF ROBERT BRIDGES. Contemporary Poets. 1891. (Edited by A. H. Miles.)

ACHILLES IN SCYROS. Reprinted. Bell. 1892.

HUMOURS OF THE COURT. A Comedy and other Poems. Bell and Macmillan. Copyright for America. 1893.

ODE FOR THE BICENTENARY COMMEMORATION OF HENRY PURCELL AND OTHER POEMS. The Shilling Garland. Elkin Mathews. 1896.

POETICAL WORKS. Smith, Elder. 1898.

HYMNS FROM THE YATTENDON HYMNAL. Daniel's Private Press. 1899.

NOW IN WINTRY DELIGHTS. A Poem with a Note on Prosody. Daniel Press. 1903.

DEMETER, A MASQUE. Clarendon Press. 1905.

AN INVITATION TO THE PAGEANT. Ode. The Oxford Pageant Book. 1907.

POETICAL WORKS, excluding the Eight Dramas. Clarendon Press. 1912.

POEMS WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1913. Privately printed by St. John Hornby. Ashendene Press. 1914.

IBANT OBSCURI. An experiment in the classical hexameter. Oxford. Clarendon Press. 1916.

ODE ON THE TERCENTENARY COMMEMORATION OF SHAKESPEARE. 1916.

Prose

ON THE ELEMENTS OF MILTON'S BLANK VERSE IN PARADISE LOST. Clarendon Press. 1887. (Revised, with additions, 1893.)

ON THE PROSODY OF PARADISE REGAINED AND SAMSON AGONISTES. Clarendon Press. 1889.

JOHN KEATS. A Critical Essay. Privately printed. 1895. [Originally published as Introduction to the Muses' Library Keats.]

MILTON'S PROSODY AND CLASSICAL METRES IN ENGLISH VERSE. W. J. Stone. Oxford. 1901.

ON THE INFLUENCE OF THE AUDIENCE. Vol. 10, Shakespeare's Works. 1907.

ON THE PRESENT STATE OF ENGLISH PRONUNCIATION. English Association. 1910. (Reprinted, with three plates, 1913.)

ESSAY ON KEATS. Revised in Poetical Works of John Keats. Hodder and Stoughton. 1916.

POETICAL WORKS OF JOHN KEATS, with Critical Essay. Clarendon Press. 1916.

AN ADDRESS TO THE SWINDON BRANCH OF THE WORKERS' EDUCATIONAL ASSOCIATION. Clarendon Press. 1918.

THE NECESSITY OF POETRY. An Address. Clarendon Press. 1918.

ON ENGLISH HOMOPHONES. Oxford. 1919. (S.P.E. Tract No. 2.)

He has also edited the Poems of R. W. Dixon, Digby Dolben (with Memoirs), and Gerard Hopkins.

ALICE MEYNELL

Verse

PRELUDES. 1875. H. S. King.

POEMS. 1893. Lane.

OTHER POEMS. 1900. Privately Printed.

LATER POEMS. 1902. (Printed in U.S.A.)

POEMS. Burns & Oates. 1913.

[A Collected Edition.]

POEMS ON THE WAR. 1915. Privately Printed.

A FATHER OF WOMEN AND OTHER POEMS. Burns & Oates. 1917.

Prose

THE POOR SISTERS OF NAZARETH. 1889. Burns & Oates.

THE RHYTHM OF LIFE AND OTHER ESSAYS. 1893. Lane.

THE COLOUR OF LIFE AND OTHER ESSAYS. 1896. Lane.

THE CHILDREN. 1896. Lane.

LONDON IMPRESSIONS. 1898. Constable.

JOHN RUSKIN. 1899. (Modern English Writers.) Blackwood.

THE SPIRIT OF PLACE AND OTHER ESSAYS. 1899. Lane.

CHILDREN OF THE OLD MASTERS. 1903. Duckworth.

CERES' RUNAWAY AND OTHER ESSAYS. 1909. Constable.

MARY, THE MOTHER OF JESUS. 1912. Medici Society.

ESSAYS. Burns & Oates. 1914.

[A "Collected-Selected" edition.]

HEARTS OF CONTROVERSY. Burns & Oates. 1917.

She has also written Introductions to numerous reprints.

She has also selected or edited the following: Poems of T. G. Hake; Extracts from Samuel Johnson (with G. K. Chesterton); Poems of J. B. Tabb; The Flower of the Mind.

DRAMA

THE THREE SISTERS (Tchekhov   )

C      OURT THEATRE

MEDEA (Euripides); CANDIDA (Shaw   )

H      OLBORN EMPIRE

PYGMALION (Shaw   )

A      LDWYCH THEATRE

THE YOUNG VISITERS (Daisy Ashford   )

C      OURT THEATRE

JOHN FERGUSON (St. John Ervine   )

L      YRIC THEATRE,

HAMMERSMITH

MINIATURE BALLET—RUSSIAN MINIATURE THEATRE

D      UKE OF YORK'S

GRIERSON'S WAY (H. V. Esmond   )

A      MBASSADORS

THE list of plays which I have selected from those I have seen during the last month is not without interest. It contains one play which is not Tchekhov's finest work, but which nevertheless has no rival among the others on the list, and it was performed for exactly one afternoon by the Art Theatre under Madame Donnet. The plays next in merit—Euripides' Medea and Shaw's Candida—were given by Mr. Lewis Casson and Mr. Bruce Winston at matinées at the Holborn Empire for exactly one week each. Shaw's Pygmalion and Daisy Ashford's The Young Visiters may be expected to run—the former in proportion to its merits, the latter in no equality at all, either with its notoriety or its charm—for a couple of months. At a considerable distance comes Mr. Ervine's John Ferguson, a play which, if considered by the side of those I have already named, must be ranked very low, but if considered with all those I have not named—now being played at London theatres—must be ranked as respectably good, neither very much better nor very much worse than the average West-End theatrical entertainment. For John Ferguson, like Tea for Three at the Haymarket, is an entertainment, only it does not make you laugh; it entertains you as a street accident does—a very bloody street accident. Finally—leaving out the Russian Miniature Theatre, which is really Ballet—we come to Grierson's Way, the resuscitated by-product of Mr. H. V. Esmond. Here we come to a play that—if, as our tabulation almost suggests, plays run in inverse proportion to their merit—should run for ever.

Of Tchekhov's The Three Sisters I shall not attempt to say much. Like all Tchekhov's plays, it must be extraordinarily difficult to act, and I did not think that, on the whole, it was acted very well, although Miss Dorothy Massingham (Irina), Miss Helena Millais (Natasha), Mr. Tom Nesbitt (Audrey), Mr. Leyton Cancellor (Chebutikin), Mr. William Armstrong (Kuligin), and others made praiseworthy and not altogether unsuccessful efforts to present the characters they were playing. There was also something very plausible and real about Mr. Harcourt Williams's Vershinin, and Mr. Williams has a great advantage in his voice. It was the production rather than the acting that was at fault, but, inadequate as it may have been, it could not prevent the extraordinary force of the play making itself felt.

There are some people who would call Tchekhov a realist and The Three Sisters realism, but it is Mr. Ervine in John Ferguson who is the realist, if by that one means reproducing on the stage as closely as practicable what might be happening off it, with the action and language rendered as faithfully as possible. It was probably Mr. Ervine's knowledge of this fact, and the serious deficiency which it indicates, that made him introduce the village idiot to talk about "wee" stars, and give the audience what is always the realist's idea of a little poetry. As a man of letters, and not a mere theatrical hack, he knows of the utter barrenness of the photographic reproduction method in art. He probably knows also that it is not even enough to select, that the artist must create. Unfortunately this is just what the mere intellectual, the merely clever man can never do, and when he is clever enough to know that he must make an attempt at it he produces something like Mr. Ervine's village idiot, something that is borrowed and extraneous to the real matter power of the play. The poetry, the creative power of Tchekhov, on the other hand, is immanent and infuses the whole conception of The Three Sisters. So true is this that when we saw the play in the auditorium of the Court Theatre we felt that it was our lives we were watching, our destinies we were seeing played out; and this in spite of the fact that every detail of the scene was strange, every custom unfamiliar, and the wealth of local colour such as to produce a sensuous impression as strong as music.

Nothing extraordinary happens in Tchekhov's play. The characters meet, talk, fall in love, part, die in the casual way in which we all do these things—the actual events in Mr. Ervine's play are far less usual, just as a street accident is an occurrence less frequent than afternoon tea; but the whole play is an imaginative expression of the inner feelings of three human beings—the three sisters. It is extraordinarily imaginative, that is the point I want to make, and it is useless to ask me why it is imaginative—that is Tchekhov's secret. You never feel this is what actually happened three hundred miles from Moscow in the year 1892; you feel, on the contrary, that this never happened at all, but that it is what goes on inside us, millions of us, all the years of our lives, although it may never or very rarely come up to the surface of our consciousness and fill us with the spiritual agony of The Three Sisters. In Mr. Ervine's play, on the other hand, although, as I have said, the actual events are in themselves of less common occurrence, we meet with something that we feel certain must have happened yesterday and will happen to-morrow, and its significance, somehow, seems to be nil. What artistic or spiritual significance has a collision in the Strand between a taxi-cab and a lamp-post? Whatever significance it has, it is that kind of significance that Mr. Ervine's play possesses.

If The Young Visitors had been produced by that Russian Society called Zahda, or by the Russian Miniature Theatre, it would have been hailed as a wonderful masterpiece of bizarre and original art, and all the young freaks of London who frequent the Russian Ballet and sneer at Gilbert and Sullivan would have flocked to see it and talked of nothing else for months. As it is a product, however, of the despised English—the English who have produced the greatest imaginative literature of the world—and as also it has the misfortune to have been in its book form enormously popular, there is little likelihood of its being adequately appreciated. I must confess, however, that by the side of Mr. J. V. Bryant's production of Miss Daisy Ashford's The Young Visiters, the productions I have so far seen of the Zahda Art Council, which includes men of ambitious mind, and of the Russian Miniature Theatre have been distinctly jejune and unexhilarating. The Young Visiters is the later Victorian world looked at from the eyes of a child. It is, therefore, a fantasy, and the note of fantasy has been admirably struck in the stage production. Those who have read the book will naturally imagine that it is spoiled upon the stage, but they will be wrong. It is even conceivable that some—there are such people—who have not liked the book will enjoy the play immensely. They should, at all events, not let any distaste of the book's vogue prevent their seeing the play, if they have the opportunity. They will be rewarded by Mr. Harold Anstruther's marvellous presentment of that wonderful creation Bernard Clark. He is a masterpiece in costume, voice, gesture, and make-up, and I expect I shall have to wait a good many years before our Russian friends give us anything comparable for excellence with him. Another perfect—the word perfect is accurate—presentment is Mr. John Deverell's Earl of Clincham—the earl who thought that the glories of this world were but "piffle before the wind." Mr. Lawrence Hanray's Procurio is also perfect. I have never used the word perfect about any acting before, so there is obviously some magic about The Young Visiters to have three parts played perfectly. I wish I could say the same of that delightful person Mr. Salteena. Mr. Ben Field's effort is by no means without merit, but he does not satisfy our preconceived notion of what Mr. Salteena ought to be, as the others do for Bernard Clark, Clincham, and Procurio. Nevertheless, as we get more used to Mr. Field's Salteena we get more satisfied with him. We never, unfortunately, became satisfied with Miss Edyth Goodall's Ethel Morticue, clever as Miss Goodall undeniably is. Miss Goodall's Ethel is sophisticated, Ethel was not. The Prince of Wales at the Levee was excellent, and the Duchess's singing of Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay superb. It was an inspiration to think of it.

Of Mr. Esmond's play, Grierson's Way, I should say no more if it were not that it has been praised by the same critics who have written of the "filth" of Dryden's Marriage à la Mode. Those of us who pride ourselves on a somewhat catholic taste, who can see the good points of a revue, a musical comedy, a melodrama, a farce, and a tragedy, who find that, although we may prefer Webster, Dryden, and Tchekhov to Shaw, and Shaw to Arnold Bennett, and Arnold Bennett to Oscar Asche, we are none the less able to be amused by the Pounds sisters in Pretty Peggy, and to enjoy Alfred Lester in The Eclipse—those of us, let me add, who do not turn scarlet at the sight of a bare back are still—strange as it may appear to the pharisaical and the prudish—not without moral sense. And Grierson's Way is a play that offends our moral sense. It is, I would venture to add—using the word with its true but not its current popular meaning—a thoroughly immoral play. That is to say its ideas are false, its sentiment slobbery, and thoroughly rotten with the rottenness of bad fruit. It is worth discussing the play because so few people know a bad thing when they see it. They judge by externals, not by the spirit, for the simple reason that it is so very much easier. Their idea of morality is like that of the old lady who overheard her gardener say "Damn" and said "What a bad wicked man!" and dismissed him, although he was an honest, good-hearted fellow, to put in his place a smooth-tongued, insincere rogue who cheated her for the rest of her life. Of course it served her right; men and women have no excuse to throw up the task of feeling and thinking after real righteousness and beauty in Art or Life for the easy rule-of-thumb method of judging everything by rote or formula. No doubt it is terribly difficult for many of them to feel either beauty or ugliness, good or evil, but without that sensitiveness of the intelligence they can never hope to criticise the productions of the human mind. The foot-rule, whether it is a rule for measuring "damns" or split infinitives, or rapes or murders, or the number of bare backs in a play, is useless for measuring its artistic quality, and a play can have no other quality, provided its murders are not real and its indecencies not practised before our eyes.

In Grierson's Way we have the story of a girl who is loved by a middle-aged bachelor who has a maundering delight in bad music, and also by a once famous violinist, who has lost an arm in an accident, and now is a doddering drunkard, who talks of Art and his soul in the approved manner of the sentimentalist who does not realise what an offence his sickly, insincere slobber is to any profoundly-feeling, austere, and clear-brained artist. The girl has fallen in love with an Army man of the conventional novelette type, who is already married; she is about to have a child by him when she gets a letter from him to say that he is going away and will never see her again. The middle-aged bachelor offers to marry her as a way out of the difficulty; she accepts. The man she loves returns, his wife having died, and the husband, at the instigation of the violinist, commits suicide. The curtain falls leaving this creature expressing with sickly gusto his opinion that the dead husband will now stand for ever between her and her happiness. This account of the play's theme can give no idea of the false sentiment, the maudlin splutter of fine words, and the melodramatic rant with which the play is loaded. Miss Cathleen Nesbitt strove to preserve some personal dignity in the foul mush of words that flowed from the invertebrate jelly-fish around her, but nothing she could do could redeem the play, which is, frankly, disgusting.

DRAMATIC LITERATURE

PROBLEMS OF THE PLAYWRIGHT. By CLAYTON HAMILTON. Allen & Unwin. 7s. 6d.

This is a book by an American critic, and it ranges over almost the whole field of dramatic art. Although it consists mainly of articles reprinted from American magazines, it is on a much higher general level of intelligence and taste than we are accustomed to expect from work of this kind. Mr. Hamilton discusses all the modern English dramatists, and, although he is not free from his countrymen's tendency to exaggerated praise—for instance, few English critics of reputation would endorse his opinion that Hindle Wakes is "a great work"—yet he is far from being undiscriminating, and his criticism of Mr. Shaw and Mr. Galsworthy is penetrating and fresh. Mr. Hamilton has the great merit of thinking for himself instead of merely repeating the current catchwords of the day. He is not afraid to argue that Henry Arthur Jones and Pinero are finer dramatists than Mr. Bernard Shaw, but, on the other hand, he can appreciate Mr. Chesterton and Lord Dunsany. Again, he is full of ingenious suggestions on the subject of dramatic construction, but he is far more conscious of the foolishness of dogmatising and laying down hard-and-fast rules than such a good critic even as Mr. William Archer, to whom his book is dedicated. On the subject of American plays, as represented by the work of Mr. George M. Cohan, he is scathingly severe, and that is a good omen for the future of the drama in America.

W. J. TURNER

THE FINE ARTS

AUGUSTE RENOIR

RENOIR is admired by almost all schools of taste, both conservative and radical, and naturally each school endeavours to claim him as its own. The impressionists, for instance, emphasise his adoption of the impressionist palette, his studies in the manner of Monet and Pisarro, his general preoccupation with atmosphere and sunlight; the anti-impressionists point out his deviation from the stippled technique, with its juxtaposition of the colours of the spectrum, his increasing interest in form and composition as contrasted with atmosphere, and his own disclaimer of adherence to the naturalistic principle: "Avec la Nature on fait ce qu'on veut et on aboutit necessairement a l'isolement. Moi, je reste dans le rang"; also the famous reply to the question, where one should learn painting: "Au musée, parbleu!"

The reflections upon art of even the greatest artist are not necessarily correct, and though an artist preaches one theory he may actually practise another. Nor are these brief and pithy utterances of Renoir's altogether unambiguous. In order to appreciate the real meaning of any statement of theory it is necessary to bear in mind the opposite view which it is combating. We cannot infer from Renoir's objection to the indiscriminate realism of the later impressionist doctrine that he was in favour of Cubism, for Cubism was not at the time under discussion. Nor does his reference of students to the old masters (au musée) imply in the least that he would abolish painting from nature. There is, in fact, not the slightest need to read into Renoir's simple, somewhat irritated replies any abstruse semi-metaphysical meaning. They will bear a very normal interpretation, which seems to me to be not only the true one, but also the truth. Renoir did not believe in the chaotic and uninspired painting of anything and everything, nor in the pretended complete severance with tradition and the past. He knew that the study of the old masters had assisted him in giving expression to his emotion, and he left the matter at that. Actually all his life long he painted from nature, and it is said that he hardly ever worked without a model. Indeed many of the intellectualists have been compelled to class Renoir as a "naïf," who was content with the unmediated charms of the external world, and never aspired to more deliberate abstract construction.

The Meaning of Impressionism

This distinction, however, between the realistic impressionist (Monet), the naïf (Renoir and the douanier Rousseau), and the intellectually constructive artist, such as Cézanne, is apt to be thoroughly misleading. It is true that the theory of impressionism, in its later developments, was a scientific formula calculated to fetter rather than help the artist, but it does not follow, nor is it by any means true, that Monet and Pisarro were not sometimes very fine artists. They elaborated a style which expressed admirably their own brisk and vivacious sentiment, and the result was neither photographic nor discontinuous with the past. Surely nothing but prejudice and the new pedantry of hybrid abstract design could deny æsthetic value to Monet's "Gare St. Lazare," and Pisarro's "Red Roofs," in the Luxembourg. Often, however, Monet's work is distinctly laboured and only differentiated from a photograph by the worried surface of the paint. He is more monotonous and uninspired than his contemporaries, but he is none the less the author of some remarkably good prose descriptions.

In short, impressionism has come to stand for two quite distinct things: one a genuine attempt to articulate an emotion connected with light and atmosphere, the other a scientific theory of colour and light. With the latter, few of the important impressionists were concerned. Seurat is the only one who seems to have been influenced to any noticeable extent and yet to have remained an artist. But with the former the whole group were more or less concerned, including Renoir and Cézanne. They all revolted from the old sombre colours, expressive of the worship of hoary antiquity, and astonished their contemporaries by plunging into the brightness of the present. Their different modes of reacting to this general tendency were the natural result of eminently desirable differences in temperament. This is the essence of the divergence between, say, Monet, Renoir, and Cézanne. For the very reason that they each possessed a personal vision their work differed, both technically and in its content. It simply is a misrepresentation to say that Cézanne indulged in Cubist deformations. To quote a biographer of Cézanne:—"Ce sont ses disciples, ses plagiaires qui raconte qu'il deforme. Ses deformations, que des cuistres voient si bien, eux qui ne sont pas peintres, ce sont des gestes, des attitudes, des contours vrais pour Cézanne. Il ne voyait pas autrement."

Of course it is possible to soak oneself in Cézanne to such an extent that almost everything else will seem uninteresting. But this is not a magnetism peculiar to Cézanne; it is common to all artists of any comprehensive range, not excepting Renoir. Pass quickly after enjoying a collection of Renoir's completest and most lucid work to some of Cézanne's paintings. Most probably they will appear wooden and unattractive. But this will be a psychological illusion, due to a sudden contrast and the fact that the whole of one's emotional consciousness has been shaped to a certain form, and will not immediately reshape itself. Our minds at any single moment are unable to contain more than a few powerful conceptions and impressions, and there must therefore be times of clashing and transition.

But there is a sense in which Renoir might very well be described as naïf and ingenuous. This would refer not to his method or technique, but to the spiritual content of his work, what he means and has to say. The centre of his enjoyment lay always in something charming, radiant, opulent, and, if you like, sensuous. And so those who are ascetically disposed, if not in their life, in their tastes, condemn Renoir as pretty and sentimental. But often they go further and conclude that he was facile, that he painted without difficulty or trouble, as the birds sing. It may, however, have been as difficult for him to attain a satisfactory expression of his emotion, which was of facility, as it was for Cézanne to express his intense consciousness of beauty struck out of conflicting opposites. Indeed, very often there are distinct indications of a struggle in Renoir, of inability to get exactly what he was aiming at. A superficial glance might put this down to bad elementary draughtsmanship. But one has only to consider the technical proficiency of his earlier work (see "Le Cabaret de la Mere Antony, Diane Chasseresse") to realise that the cause of this apparent ineptitude must be deeper. It is the honesty of the artist who is always developing and refuses to overcome difficulties by resort to the camouflage of the obvious and the hackneyed. Consequently the very failure has its appeal.

Different Periods

There is a great deal of difference of opinion as to the respective value of Renoir's earlier and his later work, and this has afforded an excellent opportunity for the conflicting schools, who all join in admiring Renoir, to set up within this ostensible "union sacrée" their old party divisions. The conservatives adhere, of course, to the first great period from 1870–1881; that is to say between Renoir's thirtieth and fortieth years. In the rest they see a gradual decline of inspiration, an increasing predilection for rotund and almost coarse sensuousness, a pathetic loss of technical power until, when tortured by gout and hopelessly paralysed, the old master could only apply chaotic dabs of hot and hotter colour, his work became worthless. The extremists, on the other hand, see a steady, though uneven, development. They admit readily the enchantment of the period of early maturity when Renoir was at the height of his physical powers, but they have an uncomfortable feeling that this kind of art is a trifle too normal, it is something that practically anyone can enjoy with a little effort. The later work is more difficult. Renoir never lost his peculiar charm, even when painting the fattest of models (his model, I think, just grew fatter), but he experimented in different directions, passing from the study of light more and more to that of form. Latterly, when an invalid, he was compelled to confine himself within narrower bounds, and the appeal of his work has less volume in it. Nevertheless, it is maintained these last are the two greatest periods, if not in positive achievement, at any rate in intention.

I am disposed, if anything, to favour the work done in the first two phases, between his thirtieth and sixtieth years, and I am not sure that some of his most perfect pictures do not belong to the earlier of the two. For he did not produce many perfect pictures; it is nearly always possible to trace some defect. For instance, there has recently been exhibited at the Eldar Gallery one of the remarkable series of "Baigneuses." This particular canvas was painted in 1888. There is a great deal that is very beautiful in it, but it is not a whole. It is a "studio" picture, the nude and the landscape have no inevitable connection, and little interest is displayed in the face. Further, the body is cut off, or rather smoothed off, from its environment by a swish of paint, which signifies nothing, except that Renoir became too excited by the actual touch and feel and putting on of the paint, and also that he had an idée fixe about the gradual merging of the outline into its surroundings. This was the sentimental echo of his former genuine enthusiasm for plein-air effects. In many of his otherwise admirable figure studies this spongy film (especially affecting the hands) spoils the precision of his rendering. Sometimes, however, it is appropriate; for instance, in the famous picture, "La Moulin de la Galette" (1876). Here the flowing atmospheric technique and the significance coincide. The radiant coolness of the dappled light and shade is expressed with a freedom and spontaneity which is often lacking in Monet and Pisarro. Yet in spite of the unalloyed delight of this dancing scene I always feel a lurking criticism. This is not because of the kind of sentiment which might be mistaken for sentimentality; it is due to something else, a sameness and repetition. There is an absence of diversity in these light-hearted revellers; in fact they are just one man and one woman duplicated many times over, and flushed with exactly the same translucent emotion. Renoir did not possess great constructive imaginative power, and he had very little interest in character. This general limitation, however, only became a concrete limitation (that is to say, a defect observable inside a picture, instead of one of the infinite things that the picture is not) when he was actually portraying some scene necessitating a variety of individual characters.

It is in some of his landscapes, or in portrait heads such as that of Madame Charpentier, or studies such as "La Loge," and some of the later nudes that there is the completest fusion of the content and the form, of the technique and the emotion. It is frequently said that Renoir was not a landscape painter, but was par excellence a painter of women or of woman. The latter statement undoubtedly has some truth in it, although the interest was not so much in woman as in a particular roseate emotion, more evident in women than in men. But he was also a very considerable landscape painter, and his figures of women are usually placed in the open air, amid scenery possessing the same soft and sweeping texture. Even when an invalid he still painted out of doors, in a specially constructed glass house, while his model posed, often naked, in his garden.

About 1881 he seems to have exhausted his direct interest in the plein-air movement. Incidentally, he took a journey to Italy, but there is no evidence of any influence of this visit upon his work, except that it may have served to throw into stronger relief the peculiarities of the French school and his own kinship with it—that school which (in his own phrase) "est si gentille, si clair, de si bonne compagnie."

This, however, is least applicable to the artist towards whom his own inner development seems to have guided him, namely Ingres. To put it in the usual superficial and rather unsatisfactory way, he was passing from the study of light to that of two dimensional form. The actual result was a synthesis in which brilliant colour and light played a part never dreamt of by Ingres. At first his work showed an unusual hardness and lack of skill. He never possessed the sureness of touch of Manet, which often was mere virtuosity; nor does one ever feel behind his hand the overwhelming impetuosity of Van Gogh. He feels his way gradually, producing a great deal, in fact too much, and succeeding only in certain moments. The culmination was reached in the large composition of the four bathers (which I have not seen) in the collection of M. J. E. Blanche. Opinion seems to differ as to its value, but, whatever defects it may possess, it is clearly of a monumental character, and probably represents the highest point that Renoir was able to attain in the attempt to bring together the sculpturesque qualities of one of his first large compositions, "Diane Chasseresse," and the luminosity and richness of the "Moulin de la Galette."

Between the years 1885 and 1897 there followed a whole succession of remarkable pictures, including "Les Enfants Benard," "Mère et Enfant," "Les Filles de Catulle Mendès," "Les Parapluies," and "Au Piano," of which there are two examples, one being at the Luxembourg. Although Renoir was moving away from his former softness and mistiness, as if in dissatisfaction with the youthful joy in mere sensation, he never left it right behind, he remained on the borderland and looked back on it, contemplating it with maturer insight.

About 1900 to 1919

The last stage constituted a partial return to the first; he reverted to his former freedom and suppleness of touch. But the method is more direct and the content more realistic and crude, although there is still the same lyrical tenderness. His colours are bolder and hotter, and it is alleged that he strengthened them purposely with a view to their being modified by time. This appears to me a most dangerous doctrine. How could one ever be certain that the present wrong tones would be altered by exposure to exactly the correct tones? And why put oneself to such pain in the present for the sake of an uncertain future? For it must be very painful to a sensitive artist to create something out of tone, even on purpose. For these reasons (and without the backing of any authority) I rather doubt whether there is much truth in this intended excuse. And I doubt whether any excuse is necessary. I believe that in the majority of cases Renoir meant something by this hotter colour, and that in this respect the pictures are their own justification. It is impossible to hail all of them as masterpieces. Many definitely betray loss of vitality and imagination. But I cannot agree that the work of this period is that of an invalided old man who is living sentimentally on his past.

There has recently been on view, at the Chelsea Book Club, a collection of oil paintings and pastels by Renoir. Some of them were relatively unimportant earlier works, but the majority belonged to the later period. None of them, with the exception, perhaps, of a flower piece and a small head of a woman, can be ranked very high; but they indicate the limits and at the same time the mellow charm of the work of this time. This charm is not perhaps immediately felt; it grows upon one, but it is quite real. In his old age Renoir remained as much as ever a poet, only his poetry is thinner and more fragile.

Renoir was born in 1841 and died in 1919. Of his famous contemporaries only Claude Monet is still alive.

HOWARD HANNAY

MUSIC

THE NATURALIZATION OF OPERA IN ENGLAND

IN Italy opera is a tree which has sprung from a seed and grown swiftly in the course of centuries to an exuberant, perhaps an over-exuberant, maturity. It has been fertilised from other countries, but its trunk has kept one firm straight line by its own perfectly natural development. In England that tree has not flourished. Various attempts have been made to naturalize it, but for the most part the English cultivators never produced more than stunted and distorted growths. Even when they seemed to do well for a time they bore curiously little resemblance to their original parent. Other gardeners, observing how meagrely the tree prospered in the open ground, transplanted opera full-grown from Italy, and did their best to provide it artificially with its own soil and its own climate. It was an expensive amusement, and the more expensive it was the more successful its promoters proclaimed it to be. But it could not be called naturalization. The only course which has shown any signs of being practicable was to graft the foreign shoot on to a sturdy native growth, if a suitable stock could be found. But it is a process requiring careful handling and careful watching, for the tree takes a long time to become thoroughly acclimatized.

It is pretty generally agreed that English opera must be preceded by opera in English. Our public—our real public, that is to say, not the handful of people who concentrate a special attention on opera, both English and foreign—will not be ready to take new native operas to their hearts until they have got thoroughly into the habit of enjoying those popular works which form the international repertory. Those operas—Faust, Carmen, Il Trovatore, and the rest—are popular in England already, it will be said. Yes, as operas go, they are indeed popular; but only among those people, in whatever section of society, who have developed the opera habit. For even in what are called the popular theatres, where they are played in English to cheap and crowded audiences, they are almost always exotic still. If it were not that a large majority of operas are called by the names of their principal characters, we should see more significance in the fact that we speak of the others in nearly every case by their native titles, and do not translate them. We have learnt to talk of The Magic Flute and The Flying Dutchman; but even at the "Old Vic." they keep the names of Il Trovatore, La Traviata, and Cavalleria Rusticana.

Wherever they are played by English singers in English theatres they remain, as it were, extra-territorial. To begin with, the translations of nearly all popular operas are abominable. This has been said many times before. But what has not been said so often is that, abominable as they are, there is hardly an opera-singer who is willing to learn a new translation, even when it is candidly admitted that the new translation is easier to sing than the old one. There are plenty of sound reasons for this apparent obstinacy. It is not due merely to laziness or to the vested interests of publishers. What is far more important is that a new translation, if it is really good, involves a new style of singing, a new style of acting, a new scheme for the entire production of the opera. The average opera-singer learns his parts in a spirit of routine. He cannot waste time over trying to find out the plot of the opera or to analyse the personalities of the characters. He learns the traditions and is ready to step into his part without rehearsal in any operatic company that may happen to engage him. It may sound very shocking to the reader that operas should be put on the stage without any rehearsal whatever; but it is nothing unusual in the world of actual fact. After all, it is not much more unreasonable that an opera company should sing Maritana without rehearsing than that an orchestra of professionals should give an unrehearsed performance of the overture to William Tell or the ballet music from Rosamunde.

The Function of the Audience

Sir Thomas Beecham, when he first formed his opera company, sought out youth, intelligence and enthusiasm. He began in a brave and gallant spirit, and in his company there is still something of that spirit left. At the beginning it was hardly expected that he would do much better than the well-known provincial companies which used occasionally to give a season in London. But he aimed at storming Covent Garden. Covent Garden was inaccessible during the war, partly because no foreign singers were available to fill it, and partly because it was already filled with furniture. The war ended, the old Covent Garden exotic opera reappeared. Sir Thomas, however, did not leave its territory inviolate, and he is now in complete possession. But Covent Garden has been too strong for the invaders. Like the barbarians who invaded Italy, they are becoming Romanised. At Covent Garden there are boxes and box-holders who adore Melba, Caruso, and the rest. There is a splendid orchestra, there are fine singers, there is magnificent scenery. But the longer the company stays there the less chance there seems to be of their preparing the way for the real English opera of the future.

What English opera wants is an audience. And the best audience that I have ever seen in any opera-house in Europe is the audience at the "Old Vic." Italian audiences are reputed to be appreciative; but they are interested primarily in singing and in little else. They are critical of this only, and they have a certain tendency to be cruel. The "Old Vic." audience, if it is bored, lets the actors know it; but it is never cruel, and it is ready to appreciate other things besides mere singing. Once its attention has been secured there is no audience to equal it for quick intelligence and responsiveness to both tragedy and comedy. But Covent Garden has no pit, and its gallery is too small and too distant to assert itself.

Half-way between the "Old Vic." and Covent Garden stands the new enterprise of Messrs. Miln and Fairbairn, at the Surrey. The Surrey has secured its audience. It has begun with the old familiar favourites, but it has also included in its repertory The Flying Dutchman and Don Giovanni, both of which have drawn full houses. Very wisely the management has not wasted its money on elaborate scenery, though it is in a position to stage the Flying Dutchman quite adequately, and that is no small matter. There is an orchestra which, if not large, is at least complete. It began by being rather rough, and even in Don Giovanni, for which it is just exactly balanced in proportion of wind and strings, it only too forcibly recalled the criticisms made by Mozart's contemporaries on his overpowering orchestration. It is in their singers that Messrs. Miln and Fairbairn have been peculiarly successful. Youth, intelligence, and enthusiasm are certainly well represented here.

The Surrey's Opportunity

Mr. Fairbairn, who is responsible for the production of the operas, has in this company a wonderful opportunity, if he will only seize it. Here is a splendid house that combines the dignity of an eighteenth-century design with the practical convenience of an interior recently remodelled; an audience with no critical and social pretensions to keep up, but unsophisticated, appreciative, and alert; and a company of young singers keen to learn and ready to throw themselves generously into their work. Starting on such a basis, the Surrey has every chance to develop into a great and flourishing school of English opera. But to develop such a school needs more than average courage, initiative, intelligence, and hard work. It means that gradually, one by one, the translations of all the standard operas must be thoroughly revised. Along with this revision there must be a thorough-going revision and reconsideration from the beginning of the system on which each opera is produced. Tradition must be abandoned if it cannot be justified by common sense. Each opera must be worked out afresh from the beginning, as if it had never been put on the stage before. And the director of such a school must be prepared to face possible hostility towards his revisions. There will always be some among his audience who prefer the old tradition, good or bad, simply because they like to hear what they have always heard. Such people have got to be convinced and converted. That is not impossible. Even operatic audiences have a certain amount of common sense, and it is to common sense that an operatic producer must not be afraid of appealing. The plots of most operas are generally admitted to be nonsense, but that is no reason why one should not make a vigorous effort to put sense into them. Few plots could be more absurd than that of Il Trovatore; but if Verdi succeeded in writing music that, by virtue of its persistent directness, its unswerving pursuit of its dramatic end, has made Il Trovatore one of the greatest operas ever composed, surely it is worth a producer's while to concentrate attention on making the libretto as clear and as sure of its dramatic intention as the music is. The translator of an opera must not rest satisfied with merely translating each line as singably and as reasonably as he can, just as it happens to come along. He must regard the libretto as a literary whole, must endeavour to attain some unity of style, and still more to achieve a cumulative dramatic effect by little touches, significant phrases to fit important musical phrases; he must in each recitative or aria see at once where the climax is and fit it with a telling point, to which the rest of the movement will lead up. He must differentiate his characters, giving each its own literary individuality. If his original text is a bad one he must improve upon it. There are many cases in which a librettist has had a good idea but has failed to express it adequately. Sometimes the composer has understood the idea and has clothed the wretched words with music that lifts them on to a higher plane. The translator here finds his opportunity, and must do his best to find English words which may express the poet's intention rather than his actual achievement.

The singer who meets with a good translation is no longer uncomfortable, nervous, and ashamed about his part. He finds that he can bring home his songs to his audience in a way that he never could before; he learns to realise his part as a personality, he may even get as far as beginning to imagine what the character in question might have said or done when he was not on the stage. In this way the double appeal to the audience can be made, the appeal that is irresistible, the appeal to their own common sense, coupled with the overwhelming appeal of real personality in the actor.

If all operatic directors insisted resolutely on good translations and insisted that their singers should sing them like real natural English, we might develop a really English school of opera. Our own poets and composers could watch and listen, and possibly learn something which would guide them in the construction of their own original librettos and music. They would gradually come to find out what even our song-writers have only very partially discovered, namely, what are the true dramatic possibilities of English voices singing English poetry.

EDWARD J. DENT

SELECT LIST OF PUBLICATIONS

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Transcribers' Notes

Greek transliterations provided by transcribers are enclosed in {curly braces}. Greek letters and special symbols that cannot be displayed with simple text have been omitted from some versions of this eBook, and may be displayed as question marks on some mobile devices.

Footnotes have been moved to immediately follow the paragraphs or headings that refer to them.

Since this eBook contains text written by many authors, inconsistencies in spelling and punctuation have not been changed.

Simple typographical errors were corrected; occasional unbalanced quotation marks retained.

Inconsistent hyphenation and ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained.

Text uses both "Newdigate" and "Newdegate".

Page 53: "God bless your Majesty" is missing ending punctuation.

Page 65: "the corn of the crocus" perhaps should be "corm".

Page 201: "rallying-point or the new" perhaps should be "of".

Page 202: "an" was added by Transcribers to "a familiar thing from an unfamiliar angle", as there was empty space where a short word belonged.

Page 243: "Les Précieuses Ridicules" was printed without the acute accent.

Page 262: "Keatsiam" probably should be "Keatsian".

Page 367: Unclear whether the punctuation after "Ramsay Macdonald" is a comma or period.

Page 388: "rake-hells" was printed that way.

Page 388: "with a priceless gift" had blank space where the "a" has been added in this eBook.

Page 560: "as the authors' record" was printed with the apostrophe.

Page 608: "deeplier" was printed that way.

Page 714: The printing of "twenty more he lover's" was defective.

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Table of Contents

THE LONDON MERCURY

INDEX TO VOLUME I

THE LONDON MERCURY

EDITORIAL NOTES

Going and Staying

It's Not Going to Happen Again

The Search for the Nightingale

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

Early Chronology

The Rock Pool

The Evening Sky in March

Love's Caution

The House That Was

Suppose ...

THE SMILE OF THE SPHINX

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

GEORGE ELIOT

THE FUTURE POET AND OUR TIME

Horace Walpole

THE TEACHING OF ENGLISH

AN ARTICLE ON PARTICLES

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES AND NEWS

GENERAL NOTES

RECENT ADDITIONS TO LIBRARIES

ITEMS FROM THE BOOKSELLERS' CATALOGUES

CORRESPONDENCE

BOOKS OF THE MONTH

POETRY

REYNARD THE FOX. By John Masefield. Heinemann. 5s. net.

THE SUPERHUMAN ANTAGONISTS. By Sir William Watson. Hodder & Stoughton. 6s. net.

MORE TRANSLATIONS FROM THE CHINESE. By Arthur Waley. Allen & Unwin. 3s. and 4s. 6d. net.

COLLECTED POEMS OF LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS. Secker. 7s. 6d. net.

FORGOTTEN PLACES. By Ian Mackenzie. Chapman & Hall. 3s. 6d. net.

A CHALLENGE. By Maitland Hardyman, Lt.-Col., D.S.O., M.C. Allen & Unwin. 2s. 6d. net.

POEMS OF THE DAWN AND THE NIGHT. By Henry Mond. Chapman & Hall. 3s. 6d. net.

NAPOLEON. By Herbert Trench. Oxford University Press. 2s. 6d. net.

ATHENIAN DAYS. By F. Noël Byron. Elkin Mathews. 2s. 6d. and 1s. 6d. net.

ANY SOLDIER TO HIS SON. By George Willis. Allen & Unwin. 1s. net.

THE STATION PLATFORM AND OTHER POEMS. By Margaret Mackenzie. Sands, 2s. 6d. net.

ECHOES FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. By J. G. Legge. Constable. 2s. 6d. net.

NOVELS

JEREMY. By Hugh Walpole. Cassell. 7s. net. THE YOUNG PHYSICIAN. By F. Brett Young. Collins. 7s. net. POOR RELATIONS. By Compton Mackenzie. Secker. 7s. 6d. net. THE TENDER CONSCIENCE. By Bohun Lynch. Secker. 7s. net. SEPTEMBER. By Frank Swinnerton. Methuen. 7s. net. TIME AND ETERNITY. By Gilbert Cannan. Chapman & Hall. 7s. net. RICHARD KURT. By Stephen Hudson. Secker. 7s. net.

OVER AND ABOVE. By J. E. Gurdon. Collins. 7s. 6d. net.

THE NEW DECAMERON. By Various Authors. Blackwell. 6s. net.

THE REVOLT OF YOUTH. By Coralie Hobson. Werner Laurie. 6s. net.

BELLES-LETTRES AND CRITICISM

SOME DIVERSIONS OF A MAN OF LETTERS. By Edmund Gosse, C.B. Heinemann. 7s. 6d. net.

A CRITIC IN PALL MALL. By Oscar Wilde. Methuen. 6s. 6d. net.

CONTEMPORARIES OF SHAKESPEARE. By Algernon Charles Swinburne. Heinemann. 7s. 6d. net. THE PROBLEM OF HAMLET. By the Rt. Hon. J. M. Robertson. Allen & Unwin. 5s. net.

APPRECIATIONS OF POETRY. By Lafcadio Hearn. Heinemann. 15s. net.

HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY

THE EXPANSION OF EUROPE (1415–1789): A History of the Foundations of the Modern World. By W. C. Abbott, Professor of History in Yale University. Bell. Two vols. 30s. net.

BOCHE AND BOLSHEVIK. By Hereward T. Price. Murray. 6s. net.

TO KIEL IN THE "HERCULES." By Lewis R. Freeman. Murray. 6s. net.

MY KINGDOM FOR A HORSE! By William Allison. Richards. 21s. net.

POLITICS AND ECONOMICS

HOW THE WAR CAME. By the Earl Loreburn. Methuen. 7s. 6d. net.

THE MASTERY OF THE FAR EAST. By A. J. Brown. Bell. 25s. net.

RACE AND NATIONALITY. By John Oakesmith, D.Litt., M.A. Heinemann. 10s. 6d. net.

WAR-TIME FINANCIAL PROBLEMS. By Hartley Withers. Murray. 6s. net.

THE GREAT UNMARRIED. By Walter M. Gallichan. Werner Laurie. 6s. net.

ULSTER AND IRELAND. By James Winder Good. Maunsel. 6s. net.

THE GUILD STATE: ITS PRINCIPLES AND POSSIBILITIES. By G. R. Stirling Taylor. Allen & Unwin. 3s. 6d. net.

RECONSTRUCTORS AND RECONSTRUCTION: A PLEA FOR COMMON-SENSE. By Oxon. B.H. Blackwell. 1s. net.

A PRIMER OF NATIONAL FINANCE. By Henry Higgs, C.B. Methuen. 5s. net.

THEOLOGY

THE SUPREME ADVENTURE. By Mercedes Macandrew. Chapman & Hall. 7s. 6d. net.

SCIENCE

CATALYSIS IN THEORY AND PRACTICE. By Eric K. Rideal and Hugh S. Taylor. Macmillan & Co. 17s. net.

TEN BRITISH PHYSICISTS. By Alexander Macfarlane. John Wiley & Sons, and Chapman & Hall. 7s. 6d. net.

A LETTER FROM FRANCE

THE PRESENT STATE OF THE FRENCH NOVEL

LEARNED SOCIETIES, ETC.

SOCIETY OF ANTIQUARIES

SOCIETY FOR THE PROTECTION OF ANCIENT BUILDINGS

THE ROYAL NUMISMATIC SOCIETY

THE LIBRARY ASSOCIATION

THE BIBLIOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY

THE FOLKLORE SOCIETY

THE SOCIETY OF PURE ENGLISH

DRAMA

A LIVING CORPSE

The Calvinists of the Drama

Influence of the Existing Theatre

DRAMATIC LITERATURE

HEARTBREAK HOUSE, etc. By Bernard Shaw. Constable. 7s. 6d.

FIRST PLAYS. By A. A. Milne. Chatto & Windus. 6s,

THE FINE ARTS

ARTISTIC PUBLICATIONS

Art and Letters

The Poetry Bookshop

MUSIC

THE PROMENADE CONCERTS

Bibliographies of Modern Authors

THOMAS HARDY

WALTER DE LA MARE

Verse

Prose

W. H. DAVIES

Verse

Prose

RUPERT BROOKE

Verse

Prose

SELECT LIST OF PUBLICATIONS

ANTHROPOLOGY

ART

BELLES-LETTRES

BIOGRAPHY AND MEMOIRS

CLASSICAL

DRAMA

FICTION

GASTRONOMIC

HISTORY

LAW

MEDICAL

MILITARY

PHILOSOPHY

POETRY

POLITICS, ECONOMICS, Etc.

RELIGION

THE LONDON MERCURY

EDITORIAL NOTES

LITERARY INTELLIGENCE

POETRY

Ishak's Song5

The Buzzards

The Moon

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

MISADVENTURES

At Solemn Music

The Platitude

The Communion of Souls

Disenchantment

The Listener

Shrinkage

The Lift

The Danger of Going to Church

The Wrong Word

Interruption

The Rationalist

Justification

Day-dream

EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY POETRY

Samuel Butler

THE CRYSTAL VASE

Ben Jonson

STEPHEN CRANE

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES AND NEWS

GENERAL NOTES

ITEMS FROM THE BOOKSELLERS' CATALOGUES

CORRESPONDENCE

THE TEACHING OF ENGLISH

MACARONIC POETRY

VOLTAIRE'S CANDIDE

PARTICLES

BOOKS OF THE MONTH

POETRY

GEORGIAN POETRY, 1918–1919 Edited by E. M. The Poetry Bookshop 6s. net.

NEW POEMS. By Iolo Aneurin Williams. Methuen. 3s. 6d. net.

THE WAR POEMS OF SIEGFRIED SASSOON. Heinemann. 3s. 6d. net.

ARGONAUT AND JUGGERNAUT. By Osbert Sitwell. Chatto & Windus 5s. net.

CARMINA RAPTA. By Griffyth Fairfax. Elkin Mathews. 3s. 6d. and 2s. 6d. net.

THE CLOWN OF PARADISE. By Dormer Creston. Heath Cranton. 3s. net.

NOVELS

COUSIN PHILIP. By Mrs. Humphry Ward. Collins. 6s. net. SAINT'S PROGRESS. By John Galsworthy. Heinemann. 7s. 6d. net. IF ALL THESE YOUNG MEN. By Romer Wilson. Methuen. 7s. net. MADELEINE. By Hope Mirrlees. Collins. 6s. net. LEGEND. By Clemence Dane. Heinemann. 6s. net. THE MASK. By John Cournos. Methuen. 6s. net.

BELLES-LETTRES AND CRITICISM

SEVEN MEN. By Max Beerbohm. Heinemann. 7s. net.

DONNE'S SERMONS: SELECTED PASSAGES WITH AN ESSAY. By Logan Pearsall Smith. Milford. 6s. net.

SOUTH SEA FOAM. By A. Safroni-Middleton. Methuen. 6s. net.

RUPERT BROOKE AND THE INTELLECTUAL IMAGINATION: A LECTURE. By Walter de la Mare. Sidgwick & Jackson. 2s. 6d. net.

SOME SOLDIER POETS. By T. Sturge Moore. Grant Richards. 7s. 6d. net.

A BOOK OF R. L. S. By George Brown. Methuen. 7s. 6d. net.

HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY

FIFTY YEARS OF EUROPE, 1870–1919. By C. D. Hazen. Bell. 14s. net.

THE TANK CORPS. By Major Clough Williams-Ellis, M.C., and A. Williams-Ellis. With an Introduction by Major-General H. J. Elles, C.B., D.S.O. Country Life. 10s. 6d. net.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN: THE PRACTICAL MYSTIC. By Francis Grierson. With an introduction by John Drinkwater. John Lane. 5s. net.

MEN AND MANNERS IN PARLIAMENT. By Sir Henry Lucy. Fisher Unwin. 10s. 6d. net.

THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF LADY DOROTHY NEVILL. By Ralph Nevill. Methuen. 18s. net.

POLITICS AND ECONOMICS

INDUSTRY AND TRADE. By Alfred Marshall. Macmillan. 18s. net.

INFLATION. By J. Shield Nicholson, M.A., Sc.D., LL.D., F.B.A. (Professor of Political Economy in the University of Edinburgh). King. 3s. 6d. net.

IRISH IMPRESSIONS. By G. K. Chesterton. Collins. 7s. 6d. net.

THE HANDMAIDEN OF THE NAVY. By G. S. Doorly. Williams & Norgate. 6s. net.

POLAND AND THE POLES. By A. Bruce Boswell. Methuen. 12s. 6d. net.

SPORT

SUCCESS IN ATHLETICS AND HOW TO OBTAIN IT. By F. A. M. Webster, T. J. Pryce Jenkins, and R. Vivian Mostyn. Sidgwick & Jackson, 10s. 6d. net.

PHILOSOPHY

AN INVISIBLE KINGDOM. By W. S. Lilly. Chapman & Hall. 15s. net.

EMERSON AND HIS PHILOSOPHY. By J. Arthur Hill. W. Rider. 3s. 6d. net.

SCIENCE

A TREATISE ON GYROSCOPIC AND ROTATIONAL MOTION. By Andrew Gray, F.R.S. Macmillan. 42s. net.

EVERYDAY EFFICIENCY: A PRACTICAL GUIDE TO EFFICIENT LIVING. By Forbes Lindsay. W. Rider & Son. 4s. 6d. net.

ANAPHYLAXIS AND ANTI-ANAPHYLAXIS. By Dr. A. Besredka. English Edition by S. Roodhouse Gloyne. Heinemann. 6s. net.

THE NEW TEACHING SERIES OF PRACTICAL TEXT-BOOKS: APPLIED BOTANY. By G. S. M. Ellis. FOUNDATIONS OF ENGINEERING. By W. H. Spikes. CHEMISTRY FROM THE INDUSTRIAL STANDPOINT. By P. C. L. Thorne. Hodder & Stoughton. 4s. 6d. net each.

PROJECTIVE VECTOR ALGEBRA. By L. Silberstein. G. Bell & Sons. 7s. 6d. net.

BOOK-PRODUCTION NOTES

A LETTER FROM AMERICA

LEARNED SOCIETIES, Etc.

THE SOCIETY OF ANTIQUARIES

THE PHILOLOGICAL SOCIETY

THE SOCIETY FOR THE PROTECTION OF ANCIENT BUILDINGS

THE EGYPT EXPLORATION FUND

THE ROYAL NUMISMATIC SOCIETY

THE GEOLOGISTS' ASSOCIATION

BIBLIOGRAPHIES OF MODERN AUTHORS

GEORGE SAINTSBURY

JAMES ELROY FLECKER

Verse

Prose

DRAMA

THE POETIC DRAMA

The Intellectual Drama

Materialism and Poetry

DRAMATIC LITERATURE

BEN JONSON'S EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR. Edited by Percy Simpson. Clarendon Press. 6s.

SACRED AND PROFANE LOVE. By Arnold Bennett. Chatto & Windus. 3s. 6d.

THE FINE ARTS

Group Making and Group Breaking

Mr. Nevinson's Exhibition at the Leicester Galleries

The London Group

ARTISTIC PUBLICATIONS

THE LIFE OF JOHN THOMSON OF DUDDINGSTON. By R. W. Napier, F.R.S.A. Oliver & Boyd. Price 42s.

MUSIC

THE BEECHAM OPERA

SELECT LIST OF PUBLICATIONS

ART

BELLES-LETTRES

BIOGRAPHY AND MEMOIRS

CLASSICAL

DRAMA

FICTION

HISTORY

LAW

NAVAL AND MILITARY

POETRY

POLITICS, ECONOMICS, Etc.

RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY

SCIENCE

TRAVEL

THE LONDON MERCURY

EDITORIAL NOTES

LITERARY INTELLIGENCE

POETRY

A Glimpse from the Train

Tarantella

Lines Written in Gallipoli8

November

Draft for "A First and Last Song"

A Country Mood

Scirocco

THE CREATURES

ON BLAKE AS A PROPHET

SHELLEY AND HIS PUBLISHERS

To CHARLES OLLIER.

PHOTOGRAPHY AND ART

I

II

III

IV

PROSE AND MORTALITY

A COLLECTION OF AUTOGRAPHS

1

2

3

4

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES AND NEWS

GENERAL NOTES

ITEMS FROM THE BOOKSELLERS' CATALOGUES

CORRESPONDENCE

SURTEES

AMERICAN POETRY

TAM HTAB

SENSIBLE AT BOTTOM

SOME CORRECTIONS

JOHN THOMSON OF DUDDINGSTON

THE MOON

BOOKS OF THE MONTH

POETRY

POEMS, 1916–1918. By Francis Brett Young. Collins. 5s. net.

COLLECTED POEMS OF THOMAS HARDY. Macmillan. 8s. 6d. net. RUDYARD KIPLING'S VERSE: INCLUSIVE EDITION, 1885–1918. Three vols. Hodder & Stoughton. 63s. net.

WHEELS 1919: A FOURTH CYCLE. Blackwell. 6s. net.

GENERAL WILLIAM BOOTH ENTERS INTO HEAVEN, AND OTHER POEMS. By Nicholas Vachel Lindsay. With an Introduction by Robert Nichols. Chatto & Windus. 5s. net.

A TREASURY OF WAR POETRY, BRITISH AND AMERICAN POEMS OF THE WORLD WAR: 1914–1919. Edited by George Herbert Clarke. Hodder & Stoughton. 10s. 6d. net.

NOVELS

CHILDREN OF NO MAN'S LAND. By G. B. Stern. Duckworth. 7s. net, SIR LIMPIDUS. By Marmaduke Pickthall. Collins. 7s. net. NIGHT AND DAY. By Virginia Woolf. Duckworth. 7s. net. THE POWER OF A LIE. By Jonas Bojer. Hodder & Stoughton. 7s. net. GOLD AND IRON. By Joseph Hergesheimer. Heinemann. 7s. net.

BELLES-LETTRES AND CRITICISM

THE LETTERS OF CHARLES SORLEY. Cambridge University Press. 12s. 6d. net.

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UNHAPPY FAR-OFF THINGS. By Lord Dunsany. Elkin Matthews. 5s. net.

THE ROMANTIC ROUSSILLON. By Isabel Savory. T. Fisher Unwin. 25s. net.

JACOPONE DA TODI. By Evelyn Underhill. Dent. 16s. net.

HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY

THE RIDDLE OF THE RUTHVENS AND OTHER STUDIES. By William Roughead. With thirteen Illustrations. William Green & Son Ltd., Edinburgh. 25s. net.

GEORGE BUBB DODINGTON: PATRON AND PLACE-HUNTER. By Lloyd Sanders. John Lane. 1919. 16s. net.

AN OXFORD SCHOLAR: INGRAM BYWATER, 1840–1914. By W. W. Jackson, D.D. Clarendon Press. 1917. 7s. 6d. net.

SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY LIFE IN THE COUNTRY PARISH. By Eleanor Trotter, M.A. Cambridge University Press. 10s. net.

POLITICS AND ECONOMICS

BALKAN PROBLEMS AND EUROPEAN PEACE. By N. Buxton and C. L. Leese. Allen & Unwin. 4s. 6d. net.

THE SKILLED LABOURER, 1760–1832. By J. L. Hammond and Barbara Hammond. Longmans. 12s. 6d. net.

IN THE SIDE SHOWS: OBSERVATIONS BY A FLIER ON FIVE FRONTS. By Captain Wedgwood Benn, M.P., D.S.O., D.F.C. Hodder & Stoughton. 12s. net.

IRELAND A NATION. By Robert Lynd. Grant Richards. 7s. 6d. net.

AGRICULTURE AND RURAL LIFE

COTTAGE BUILDING IN COB, PISÉ, CHALK, AND CLAY: A Renaissance. By Clough Williams-Ellis, with an Introduction by Mr. St. Loe Strachey. Published by Country Life, London. 6s. net.

ANTHROPOLOGY

THE MYSTERY OF EASTER ISLAND: THE STORY OF AN EXPEDITION. By Mrs. Scoresby Routledge. Sifton, Praed, & Co. 31s. 6d. net.

SCIENCE

SOME WONDERS OF MATTER. By the Right Reverend J. E. Mercer. Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge. 5s. net. CHEMISTRY AND ITS MYSTERIES. By Charles R. Gibson. Seely, Service & Co. 5s. net. THE REALITIES OF MODERN SCIENCE. By John Mills. The Macmillan Company. 10s. 6d. net.

BOOK-PRODUCTION NOTES

A LETTER FROM FRANCE

THE FRENCH POETRY OF TO-DAY

LEARNED SOCIETIES, Etc.

THE SOCIETY OF ANTIQUARIES

THE SOCIETY OF GENEALOGISTS OF LONDON

THE VASARI SOCIETY

THE BIBLIOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY

DISCOVERY

BIBLIOGRAPHIES OF MODERN AUTHORS

ARTHUR CLUTTON-BROCK

HILAIRE BELLOC

Prose

Verse

DRAMA

THE DUCHESS OF MALFI

THE FINE ARTS

British Comic Drawing

M. Henri Matisse

Goupil Gallery Salon

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ILLUSTRATION

MUSIC

COVENT GARDEN

CONCERTS

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ATHLETICS

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TRAVEL

THE LONDON MERCURY

EDITORIAL NOTES

LITERARY INTELLIGENCE

POETRY

Fortunatus Nimium

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

To E. G.

The Shadow

Bryan, Bryan, Bryan, Bryan!

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

BLIND THAMYRIS

THE ROMANCE OF RHYME

PSYCHO-ANALYSIS AND THE NOVEL

I

II

JOHN DONNE

THE NOVELS OF MR. COMPTON MACKENZIE

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ITEMS FROM THE BOOKSELLERS' CATALOGUES

CORRESPONDENCE

A PROTEST

"THE DUCHESS OF MALFI"

TAM HTAB

THE LAMBKIN MSS. AND MR. BELLOC

ONED

CANDIDE

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POETRY

FLORA. By Pamela Bianco. Verses by Walter de la Mare. Heinemann. 25s. net.

SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY ENGLISH VERSE, 1616–1660. Edited by H. J. Massingham. Macmillan. (Golden Treasury Series.) 3s. 6d. net.

A MISCELLANY OF POETRY—1919. Edited by William Kean Seymour. Palmer & Hayward. 5s. net.

NOVELS

INTERIM. By Dorothy Richardson. Duckworth. 7s. net. VALMOUTH. By Ronald Firbank. Grant Richards. 7s. net. FULL CIRCLE. By Mary Agnes Hamilton. Collins. 7s. net. INVISIBLE TIDES. By Beatrice Seymour. Chapman & Hall. 7s. net.

THE CHORUS GIRL AND OTHER STORIES. By Anton Tchehov. Chatto & Windus. 3s. net.

BELLES-LETTRES AND CRITICISM

THE LONDON VENTURE. By Michael Arlen. Heinemann. 4s. net.

IN THE GARRET. By Carl Van Vechten. Knopf.

AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS. By Tony Cyriax. Collins. 12s. 6d. net.

SUSSEX IN BYGONE DAYS: Reminiscences of Nathaniel Paine Blaker, M.R.C.S. Hove, Combridges. 1919. 5s.

A PILGRIM IN PALESTINE AFTER ITS DELIVERANCE. By John Finley. Chapman & Hall. 10s. net.

ADDRESSES IN AMERICA. By John Galsworthy. Heinemann. 6s. net.

THOUGHTS IN MIDDLE LIFE. By G. Locker Lampson. Humphreys. 3s. 6d. net.

DOMUS DOLORIS. By W. Compton Leith. The Bodley Head. 7s. 6d. net.

A CHILDHOOD IN BRITTANY EIGHTY YEARS AGO. By Anne Douglas Sedgwick. Arnold. 10s. 6d. net.

HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY

THE LIFE OF THOMAS COUTTS, BANKER. By Ernest Hartley Coleridge. 2 Vols. Lane. 42s. net.

THE TURKS IN EUROPE. By W. E. D. Allen. Murray. 10s. 6d. net.

ST. CATHERINE OF SIENA. By Alfred W. Pollard. Sidgwick & Jackson. 3s. net.

VICTORIAN RECOLLECTIONS. By J. H. Bridges. Bell. 7s. 6d. net.

THE LIFE OF LIZA LEHMANN. By Herself. T. Fisher Unwin. 10s. 6d. net.

THE GLORY OF THE COMING. By Irvin S. Cobb. Hodder & Stoughton. 7s. net. THE 25TH DIVISION IN FRANCE AND FLANDERS. Harrison. 4s. net.

THE PARAVANE ADVENTURE. By L. Cope Cornford. Hodder & Stoughton. 7s. 6d. net.

SUBMARINES AND SEA POWER. By Charles Domville-Fife. Bell. 10s. 6d. net.

POLITICS AND ECONOMICS

BEFORE THE WAR. By Viscount Haldane. Cassell. 7s. 6d. net. THE ECONOMIC CONSEQUENCES OF THE PEACE. By John Maynard Keynes, C.B., Fellow of King's College, Cambridge. Macmillans. 8s. 6d. net.

A HANDBOOK OF THE LEAGUE OF NATIONS. By Sir Geoffrey Butler. With an Introduction by Lord Robert Cecil. Longmans. 5s. net. THE RESPONSIBILITIES OF THE LEAGUE. By Eustace Percy. Hodder & Stoughton. 6s. net.

THE GOVERNMENT OF INDIA. By J. Ramsay Macdonald. Swarthmore Press. 10s. 6d. net.

SCIENCE

THEORETICAL AND APPLIED COLLOID CHEMISTRY. By Wolfgang Ostwald. John Wiley & Sons and Chapman & Hall. 11s. 6d. net. THE CHEMISTRY OF COLLOIDS. By Richard Zsigmondy. John Wiley & Sons and Chapman & Hall. 13s. 6d. net.

MODERN SCIENCE AND MATERIALISM. By Hugh Elliot. Longmans. Green & Co. 7s. 6d. net.

ACCOUNTS RENDERED OF WORK DONE AND THINGS SEEN. By J. Y. Buchanan. Cambridge University Press. 21s. net.

BOOK-PRODUCTION NOTES

BIBLIOGRAPHIES OF MODERN AUTHORS

G. K. CHESTERTON

Verse

Prose

JOHN FREEMAN

Verse

Prose

DRAMA

CHILDREN'S PLAYS

The Change in the Pantomime

Demand and Supply

DRAMATIC LITERATURE

PROBLEMS OF THE ACTOR. By Louis Calvert. Simpkin. 7s.

THE FINE ARTS

War-pictures at Burlington House

The New English Art Club

MUSIC

MR. ARTHUR RUBINSTEIN'S RECITAL

MODERN SPANISH MUSIC

A SCRIABIN RECITAL

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POETRY

The Senses

The Coming of Green

The Modern Hippolytus

Nature's Fruitfulness

Almswomen

Intimacy

The Soldier Addresses His Body

Night Rapture

Elsie Inglis

Sorrowing for Childhood Departed

SERVANTS

W. N. P. Barbellion

The Icons.

A Little Classic of the Future

FORGOTTEN SATIRISTS

ARCHITECTURE AS FORM IN CIVILISATION

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PROSE AND MORTALITY

TAMHTAB

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THE VERB TO DO

JOHN DONNE

DOGS

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BOOKS OF THE MONTH

POETRY

MANSOUL, OR THE RIDDLE OF THE WORLD. By Charles M. Doughty. Selwyn & Blount. 7s. 6d. net.

IMAGES OF WAR. By Richard Aldington. Allen & Unwin. 3s. 6d. net. WORMS AND EPITAPHS. By H. W. Garrod. Blackwell. 3s. 6d. net.

SELECTED POEMS. By Lady Margaret Sackville. Constable. 6s. net. VERSES. By Viola Meynell. Secker. 2s. 6d. net.

DUCKS AND OTHER VERSES. By F. W. Harvey. Sidgwick & Jackson. 3s. net.

NOVELS

THE CLINTONS AND OTHERS. By Archibald Marshall. Collins. 7s. net. PETER JACKSON, CIGAR MERCHANT. By Gilbert Frankau. Hutchinson. 7s. 6d. net. PRELUDE. By Beverley Nichols. Chatto & Windus. 7s. net. LIMBO. By Aldous Huxley. Chatto & Windus. 5s. net.

BELLES-LETTRES AND CRITICISM

THE MEASURES OF THE POETS. By M. A. Bayfield, M.A. Cambridge University Press. 5s. net. A STUDY OF SHAKESPEARE'S VERSIFICATION. By M. A. Bayfield, M.A. Cambridge University Press. 16s. net. LESSONS IN VERSE-CRAFT. By S. Gertrude Ford. Daniel. 3s. 6d. net.

ROUSSEAU AND ROMANTICISM. By Irving Babbitt. Houghton Mifflin Company. 17s. net.

SPRINGTIME AND OTHER ESSAYS. By Sir Francis Darwin. Murray. 7s. 6d. net.

DICKENS, READE, AND COLLINS, SENSATION NOVELISTS: A STUDY IN THE CONDITION AND THEORIES OF NOVEL WRITING IN VICTORIAN ENGLAND. By Walter C. Phillips, Ph.D. New York: Columbia University Press. 8s. 6d. net.

HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY

A GALLOPER AT YPRES. By Lieut.-Col. P. R. Butler, D.S.O. Unwin. 15s. net. A KUT PRISONER. By H. C. W. Bishop. Lane. 6s. 6d. net. THE ROMANCE OF THE BATTLE LINE IN FRANCE. By J. E. C. Bodley. Constable. 7s. 6d. net.

RECORDS. By Admiral of the Fleet Lord Fisher. Hodder & Stoughton. £1 1s. net.

HENRY FOX, FIRST LORD HOLLAND, HIS FAMILY AND RELATIONS. By the Earl of Ilchester. In two volumes. Murray. 32s. net.

RECOLLECTIONS OF LADY GEORGIANA PEEL. Compiled by her Daughter, Ethel Peel. London: Lane. 1920. 16s. net.

POLITICS AND ECONOMICS

THE HISTORY OF TRADE UNIONISM. (Revised Edition, Extended to 1920.) By Sidney and Beatrice Webb. Longmans. 21s.

MY SECOND COUNTRY (FRANCE). By Robert Dell. Lane. 7s. 6d.

RUSSIA IN RULE AND MISRULE. By Brigadier C. R. Ballard, C.B., C.M.G., with a Foreword by General Sir William Robertson. Murray. 6s. net.

THE PEACE IN THE MAKING. By H. Wilson Harris. Swarthmore Press. 6s. net.

LEAGUES OF NATIONS. By Elizabeth York. Swarthmore Press. 8s. 6d. net.

THE NEW OUTLOOK. By Lord Robert Cecil, M.P. Allen & Unwin. 1s. net.

EMPIRE AND COMMERCE IN AFRICA. By L. Woolf. Labour Research Department and Allen & Unwin. 20s. net.

ANTHROPOLOGY

ARCHAIC ENGLAND. By Harold Bayley. London: Chapman & Hall. 1919. Medium 8vo. pp. 894. 25s. net.

SCIENCE

IONS, ELECTRONS, AND IONISING RADIATIONS. By J. A. Crowther. Arnold. 12s. 6d. net.

ENGINES OF THE HUMAN BODY. By Arthur Keith, F.R.S. Williams & Norgate. 12s. 6d. net.

PROBLEMS OF COSMOGONY AND STELLAR DYNAMICS. By J. H. Jeans. Cambridge University Press. 21s. net.

ARCHIVES OF RADIOLOGY AND ELECTROTHERAPY FOR DECEMBER. Heinemann.

BOOK-PRODUCTION NOTES

A LETTER FROM FRANCE

THE YOUNG REVIEWS

BIBLIOGRAPHIES OF MODERN AUTHORS

MAURICE HEWLETT

Verse

Prose

MAX BEERBOHM

DRAMA

MARRIAGE À LA MODE

THE FINE ARTS

The National Gallery

Recent Sculpture by Jacob Epstein: Leicester Galleries

Paintings by Duncan Grant: Wm. B. Paterson and Carfax & Co. Ltd., 5 Old Bond Street

The Black Country. Drawings by Edward Wadsworth: The Leicester Galleries. (January.)

MUSIC

THE RESURRECTION OF AN OPERA

Purcell and Shakespeare

Purcell and His Orchestra

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EDITORIAL NOTES

LITERARY INTELLIGENCE

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"Skindle's" in Poperinghe

Nobis cum Pereant

Beechwood.

Shobeensho

Storm and Stars

THE FORESHORE OF LONDON

OF PROSE

A FRAGMENT30

HENRY JAMES

I

A CASE FOR RECORDS

ON INTERPRETATION IN MUSIC

Robert Bridges's Lyrical Poems

I

II

III

IV

V

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES AND NEWS

MR. YATES THOMPSON'S ILLUMINATED BOOKS

GENERAL NOTES

CORRESPONDENCE

AMERICAN COPYRIGHT

FLAUBERT AND MR. STURGE MOORE

"MANSOUL"

JOHN DONNE

A POINT IN SHERIDAN

LEARNED SOCIETIES, ETC.

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POETRY

FLOWERS IN THE GRASS. By Maurice Hewlett. Constable. 5s. net.

COUNTRY SENTIMENT. By Robert Graves. Martin Secker. 5s.

LINES OF LIFE. By Henry W. Nevinson. Allen & Unwin. 3s. 6d. THE PEDLAR, AND OTHER POEMS. By Ruth Manning-Sanders. Selwyn & Blount. 3s. 6d. SKYLARK AND SWALLOW. By R. L. Gales. Erskine Macdonald. 5s.

KOSSOVO: HEROIC SONGS OF THE SERBS. Translated from the original by Helen Rootham. Introduction by Maurice Baring. Historical Preface by Janko Lavrin. Frontispiece by Toma Rosandić. Blackwell. 4s. 6d. net.

FLEURS-DE-LYS. A Book of French Poetry freely translated into English verse. By Wilfrid Thorley. Heinemann. 6s. net.

THE PATHS OF GLORY. A Collection of Poems written during the War, 1914–1919. Edited by Bertram Lloyd. Allen & Unwin. 4s. 6d. and 3s.

NOVELS

AN IMPERFECT MOTHER. By J. D. Beresford. Collins. 7s. 6d. net. ELI OF THE DOWNS. By C. M. A. Peake. Heinemann. 7s. net. THE BANNER. By Hugh F. Spender. Collins. 7s. net. ROAST BEEF, MEDIUM. By Edna Ferber. Methuen. 6s. net.

BELLES-LETTRES AND CRITICISM

AN INTERPRETATION OF KEATS'S "ENDYMION." By H. Clement Notcutt. Printed for the Author by the S.A. Printing Co., Capetown.

CERVANTES. BY Rudolph Schevill. Murray. 7s. 6d. net. TOLSTOY. By G. Rapall Noyes. Murray. 7s. 6d. net.

BOOKS IN THE WAR. By Theodore Wesley Koch. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company. VILLAGE LIBRARIES. By A. Sayle. Richards. 5s.

FROM FRIEND TO FRIEND. By Lady Ritchie. Murray. 6s. net.

ONE HUNDRED PICTURES FROM EDEN PHILLPOTTS. Selected by L. H. Brewitt. Methuen. 6s. net.

HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY

THE STORY OF PURTON. A Collection of Notes and Hearsay gathered by Ethel M. Richardson. Bristol: Arrowsmith. 1919. 7s. 6d. net.

THE MANNERS OF MY TIME. By C. L. Hawkins Dempster. Richards. 1920. 10s. 6d.

THE BRITISH ACADEMY: SEALS AND DOCUMENTS. By Reginald L. Poole. Oxford University Press, 2s. 6d. net.

THE STONES AND STORY OF JESUS CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE. Traced and told by Iris and Gerda Morgan. Cambridge: Bowes & Bowes, 21s. net.

COMRADES IN CAPTIVITY. By F. W. Harvey. Sidgwick & Jackson. 10s. 6d. net.

WILLIAM SMITH, POTTER AND FARMER, 1790–1858. By George Bourne. Chatto. 1920. 6s. net.

POLITICS AND ECONOMICS

COAL MINING AND THE COAL MINER. By H. F. Bulman, M.I.Min.E., Assoc. M. Inst. C.E., F.G.S. Methuen. 15s. NATIONALISATION OF THE MINES. By Frank Hodges, Secretary of the Miners' Federation of Great Britain. With Foreword by the Right Hon. J. R. Clynes, M.P. Leonard Parsons. 4s. 6d.

SOCIAL THEORY. By G. D. H. Cole. Methuen. 5s.

THEOLOGY

FIRST CHRISTIAN IDEAS. By E. C. Selwyn. Murray, 9s. net.

PAGAN AND CHRISTIAN CREEDS. By Edward Carpenter. Allen & Unwin. 10s. 6d. net.

ANTHROPOLOGY

MAN—PAST AND PRESENT. By A. H. Keane. Revised and largely rewritten by A. Hingston Quiggin and A. C. Haddon. Cambridge University Press. 36s.

SCIENCE

SCIENCE AND LIFE. By Frederick Soddy. Murray. 10s. 6d. net.

A TEXT-BOOK OF HYGIENE FOR TRAINING COLLEGES. By Margaret Avery. Methuen. 7s. 6d. net.

HERSCHEL. By Hector Macpherson. Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge. 2s. net.

DISCOVERY. A Monthly Popular Journal of Knowledge. No. 1. January, 1920. 6d. net. No. 2. February. John Murray.

BOOK-PRODUCTION NOTES

BIBLIOGRAPHIES OF MODERN AUTHORS

ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES (Poet Laureate)

Verse

Prose

ALICE MEYNELL

Verse

Prose

DRAMA

DRAMATIC LITERATURE

PROBLEMS OF THE PLAYWRIGHT. By Clayton Hamilton. Allen & Unwin. 7s. 6d.

THE FINE ARTS

AUGUSTE RENOIR

The Meaning of Impressionism

Different Periods

About 1900 to 1919

MUSIC

THE NATURALIZATION OF OPERA IN ENGLAND

The Function of the Audience

The Surrey's Opportunity

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Transcribers' Notes

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