The laurel of the nineteenth century is on Darwin's brow. This
century has been the greatest of all. The inventions, the discoveries,
the victories on the fields of thought, the advances in nearly
every direction of human effort are without parallel in human
history. In only two directions have the achievements of this
century been excelled. The marbles of Greece have not been equalled.
They still occupy the niches dedicated to perfection. They sculptors
of our century stand before the miracles of the Greeks in impotent
wonder. They cannot even copy. They cannot give the breath of
life to stone and make the marble feel and think. The plays of
Shakespeare have never been approached. He reached the summit,
filled the horizon. In the direction of the dramatic, the poetic,
the human mind, in my judgment, in Shakespeare's plays reached its
limit. The field was harvested, all the secrets of the heart were
told. The buds of all hopes blossomed, all seas were crossed and
all the shores were touched.
With these two exceptions, the Grecian marbles and the Shakespeare
plays, the nineteenth century has produced more for the benefit of
man than all the centuries of the past. In this century, in one
direction, I think the mind has reached the limit. I do not believe
the music of Wagner will ever be excelled. He changed all passions,
longing, memories and aspirations into tones, and with subtle
harmonies wove tapestries of sound, whereon were pictured the past
and future, the history and prophecy of the human heart. Of course
Copernicus, Galileo, Newton and Kepler laid the foundations of
astronomy. It may be that the three laws of Kepler mark the highest
point in that direction that the mind has reached.
In the other centuries there is now and then a peak, but through
ours there runs a mountain range with Alp on Alp--the steamship
that has conquered all the seas; the railway, with its steeds of
steel with breath of flame, covers the land; the cables and
telegraphs, along which lightning is the carrier of thought, have
made the nations neighbors and brought the world to every home;
the making of paper from wood, the printing presses that made it
possible to give the history of the human race each day; the reapers,
mowers and threshers that superseded the cradles, scythes and
flails; the lighting of streets and houses with gas and incandescent
lamps, changing night into day; the invention of matches that made
fire the companion of man; the process of making steel, invented
by Bessemer, saving for the world hundreds of millions a year; the
discovery of anesthetics, changing pain to happy dreams and making
surgery a science; the spectrum analysis, that told us the secrets
of the suns; the telephone, that transports speech, uniting lips
and ears; the phonograph, that holds in dots and marks the echoes
of our words; the marvelous machines that spin and weave, that
manufacture the countless things of use, the marvelous machines,
whose wheels and levers seem to think; the discoveries in chemistry,
the wave theory of light, the indestructibility of matter and force;
the discovery of microbes and bacilli, so that now the plague can
be stayed without the assistance of priests.
The art of photography became known, the sun became an artist, gave
us the faces of our friends, copies of the great paintings and
statues, pictures of the world's wonders, and enriched the eyes of
poverty with the spoil of travel, the wealth of art. The cell
theory was advanced, embryology was studied and science entered
the secret house of life. The biologists, guided by fossil forms,
followed the paths of life from protoplasm up to man. Then came
Darwin with the "Origin of Species," "Natural Selection," and the
"Survival of the Fittest." From his brain there came a flood of
light. The old theories grew foolish and absurd. The temple of
every science was rebuilt. That which had been called philosophy
became childish superstition. The prison doors were opened and
millions of convicts, of unconscious slaves, roved with joy over
the fenceless fields of freedom. Darwin and Haeckel and Huxley
and their fellow-workers filled the night of ignorance with the
glittering stars of truth. This is Darwin's victory. He gained
the greatest victory, the grandest triumph. The laurel of the
nineteenth century is on his brow.
_Question_. How does the literature of to-day compare with that
of the first half of the century, in your opinion?
_Answer_. There is now no poet of laughter and tears, of comedy
and pathos, the equal of Hood. There is none with the subtle
delicacy, the aerial footstep, the flame-like motion of Shelley;
none with the amplitude, sweep and passion, with the strength and
beauty, the courage and royal recklessness of Byron. The novelists
of our day are not the equals of Dickens. In my judgment, Dickens
wrote the greatest of all novels. "The Tale of Two Cities" is the
supreme work of fiction. Its philosophy is perfect. The characters
stand out like living statues. In its pages you find the blood
and flame, the ferocity and self-sacrifice of the French Revolution.
In the bosom of the Vengeance is the heart of the horror. In 105,
North Tower, sits one whom sorrow drove beyond the verge, rescued
from death by insanity, and we see the spirit of Dr. Manette
tremblingly cross the great gulf that lies between the night of
dreams and the blessed day, where things are as they seem, as a
tress of golden hair, while on his hands and cheeks fall Lucie's
blessed tears. The story is filled with lights and shadows, with
the tragic and grotesque. While the woman knits, while the heads
fall, Jerry Cruncher gnaws his rusty nails and his poor wife "flops"
against his business, and prim Miss Pross, who in the desperation
and terror of love held Mme. Defarge in her arms and who in the
flash and crash found that her burden was dead, is drawn by the
hand of a master. And what shall I say of Sidney Carton? Of his
last walk? Of his last ride, holding the poor girl by the hand?
Is there a more wonderful character in all the realm of fiction?
Sidney Carton, the perfect lover, going to his death for the love
of one who loves another. To me the three greatest novels are "The
Tale of Two Cities," by Dickens, "Les Miserables," by Hugo, and
"Ariadne," by Ouida.
"Les Miserables" is full of faults and perfections. The tragic is
sometimes pushed to the grotesque, but from the depths it brings
the pearls of truth. A convict becomes holier than the saint, a
prostitute purer than the nun. This book fills the gutter with
the glory of heaven, while the waters of the sewer reflect the
stars.
In "Ariadne" you find the aroma of all art. It is a classic dream.
And there, too, you find the hot blood of full and ample life.
Ouida is the greatest living writer of fiction. Some of her books
I do not like. If you wish to know what Ouida really is, read
"Wanda," "The Dog of Flanders," "The Leaf in a Storm." In these
you will hear the beating of her heart.
Most of the novelists of our time write good stories. They are
ingenious, the characters are well drawn, but they lack life,
energy. They do not appear to act for themselves, impelled by
inner force. They seem to be pushed and pulled. The same may be
said of the poets. Tennyson belongs to the latter half of our
century. He was undoubtedly a great writer. He had no flame or
storm, no tidal wave, nothing volcanic. He never overflowed the
banks. He wrote nothing as intense, as noble and pathetic as the
"Prisoner of Chillon;" nothing as purely poetic as "The Skylark;"
nothing as perfect as the "Grecian Urn," and yet he was one of the
greatest of poets. Viewed from all sides he was far greater than
Shelley, far nobler than Keats. In a few poems Shelley reached
almost the perfect, but many are weak, feeble, fragmentary, almost
meaningless. So Keats in three poems reached a great height--in
"St. Agnes' Eve," "The Grecian Urn," and "The Nightingale"--but
most of his poetry is insipid, without thought, beauty or sincerity.
We have had some poets ourselves. Emerson wrote many poetic and
philosophic lines. He never violated any rule. He kept his passions
under control and generally "kept off the grass." But he uttered
some great and splendid truths and sowed countless seeds of
suggestion. When we remember that he came of a line of New England
preachers we are amazed at the breadth, the depth and the freedom
of his thought.
Walt Whitman wrote a few great poems, elemental, natural--poems
that seem to be a part of nature, ample as the sky, having the
rhythm of the tides, the swing of a planet.
Whitcomb Riley has written poems of hearth and home, of love and
labor worthy of Robert Burns. He is the sweetest, strongest singer
in our country and I do not know his equal in any land.
But when we compare the literature of the first half of this century
with that of the last, we are compelled to say that the last, taken
as a whole, is best. Think of the volumes that science has given
to the world. In the first half of this century, sermons, orthodox
sermons, were published and read. Now reading sermons is one of
the lost habits. Taken as a whole, the literature of the latter
half of our century is better than the first. I like the essays
of Prof. Clifford. They are so clear, so logical that they are
poetic. Herbert Spencer is not simply instructive, he is charming.
He is full of true imagination. He is not the slave of imagination.
Imagination is his servant. Huxley wrote like a trained swordsman.
His thrusts were never parried. He had superb courage. He never
apologized for having an opinion. There was never on his soul the
stain of evasion. He was as candid as the truth. Haeckel is a
great writer because he reveres a fact, and would not for his life
deny or misinterpret one. He tells what he knows with the candor
of a child and defends his conclusions like a scientist, a philosopher.
He stands next to Darwin.
Coming back to fiction and poetry, I have great admiration for
Edgar Fawcett. There is in his poetry thought, beauty and philosophy.
He has the courage of his thought. He knows our language, the
energy of verbs, the color of adjectives. He is in the highest
sense an artist.
_Question_. What do you think of Hall Caine's recent efforts to
bring about a closer union between the stage and pulpit?
_Answer_. Of course, I am not certain as to the intentions of Mr.
Caine. I saw "The Christian," and it did not seem to me that the
author was trying to catch the clergy.
There is certainly nothing in the play calculated to please the
pulpit. There is a clergyman who is pious and heartless. John
Storm is the only Christian, and he is crazy. When Glory accepts
him at last, you not only feel, but you know she has acted the
fool. The lord in the piece is a dog, and the real gentleman is
the chap that runs the music hall. How the play can please the
pulpit I do not see. Storm's whole career is a failure. His
followers turn on him like wild beasts. His religion is a divine
and diabolical dream. With him murder is one of the means of
salvation. Mr. Caine has struck Christianity a stinging blow
between the eyes. He has put two preachers on the stage, one a
heartless hypocrite and the other a madman. Certainly I am not
prejudiced in favor of Christianity, and yet I enjoyed the play.
If Mr. Caine says he is trying to bring the stage and the pulpit
together, then he is a humorist, with the humor of Rabelais.
_Question_. What do recent exhibitions in this city, of scenes
from the life of Christ, indicate with regard to the tendencies of
modern art?
_Answer_. Nothing. Some artists love the sombre, the melancholy,
the hopeless. They enjoy painting the bowed form, the tear-filled
eyes. To them grief is a festival. There are people who find
pleasure in funerals. They love to watch the mourners. The falling
clods make music. They love the silence, the heavy odors, the
sorrowful hymns and the preacher's remarks. The feelings of such
people do not indicate the general trend of the human mind. Even
a poor artist may hope for success if he represents something in
which many millions are deeply interested, around which their
emotions cling like vines. A man need not be an orator to make a
patriotic speech, a speech that flatters his audience. So, an
artist need not be great in order to satisfy, if his subject appeals
to the prejudice of those who look at his pictures.
I have never seen a good painting of Christ. All the Christs that
I have seen lack strength and character. They look weak and
despairing. They are all unhealthy. They have the attitude of
apology, the sickly smile of non-resistance. I have never seen an
heroic, serene and triumphant Christ. To tell the truth, I never
saw a great religious picture. They lack sincerity. All the angels
look almost idiotic. In their eyes is no thought, only the innocence
of ignorance.
I think that art is leaving the celestial, the angelic, and is
getting in love with the natural, the human. Troyon put more genius
in the representation of cattle than Angelo and Raphael did in
angels. No picture has been painted of heaven that is as beautiful
as a landscape by Corot. The aim of art is to represent the
realities, the highest and noblest, the most beautiful. The Greeks
did not try to make men like gods, but they made gods like men.
So that great artists of our day go to nature.
_Question_. Is it not strange that, with one exception, the most
notable operas written since Wagner are by Italian composers instead
of German?
_Answer_. For many years German musicians insisted that Wagner
was not a composer. They declared that he produced only a succession
of discordant noises. I account for this by the fact that the
music of Wagner was not German. His countrymen could not understand
it. They had to be educated. There was no orchestra in Germany
that could really play "Tristan and Isolde." Its eloquence, its
pathos, its shoreless passion was beyond them. There is no reason
to suppose that Germany is to produce another Wagner. Is England
expected to give us another Shakespeare?
--_The Sun_, New York, March 19, 1899.