Surely environment is the sister of heredity? Mr. Gladstone once said to
me that "The longer he lived the more he thought of heredity." Next to
heredity is environment--the moulder of mankind. My first passion was to
be a prize-fighter. Nature, however, had not made me that way. I had
no animosity of mind, and that form of contest was not to my taste. But
prize-fighting was part of the miasma the Napoleonic war had diffused in
England. It was in the air; it was the talk of the street "Hammer" Lane,
so called from the iron blow he could deliver, was the local hero of the
Ring in the Midlands in my youth. He was a courtier of my eldest sister,
and created in me a craving for fistic prowess. I fought one small
battle, but found that a lame wrist, which has remained permanent, cut
me off from any prospect of renown in that pursuit Next, to be a circus
jester seemed to me the very king of careers. My idea was to leap into
the arena exclaiming:--
"Well, I never! Did you ever? I never did."
"Never did what?" the clown was to ask me, when my reply was to be:--
"I could only disclose that before a Royal Commission"--alluding to a
political artifice then coming into vogue in Parliament When a Minister
did not know what to say to a popular demand, or found it inconvenient
to say it if he did know, he would suggest a Commission to inquire into
it, as is done to this day.
Then the clown would demand, "What is the good of a Royal Commission?"
when the answer would be: "Every good in the world to a Ministry, for
before the Commission agreed as to the answer to be given, the public
would forget what the question was." Under this diversion of the
audience, no one noticed that no answer was given to the original
question put to the jester. Whether I could have succeeded in this
walk was never decided. It was found that I lacked the loud, radiant,
explosive voice necessary for circus effects, and I ceased to dream of
distinction there.
I suppose, like many others who could not well write anything, I thought
poetry might be my latent--very latent--faculty. So I began. For all I
knew, my genius, if I had any, might lie that way. To "body forth things
unknown," which I was told poets did, must be delightful. To "build
castles in the air"--as my means did not enable me to pay ground
rent--was at least an economical project. So I began with a question, as
new Members of Parliament do, until they discover something to say. My
first production, which I hoped would be mistaken for a poem, was in the
form of a "Question to a Pedestrian":--
"Saw you my Lilian pass this way?
You would know her by the ray
Of light which doth attend her.
Her eye such fire of passion hath,
That none who meet her ever pass,
But they some message send her."
The critics said to me, as they said to Keats, to whom I bore no other
resemblance, "This sort of thing will never do. It is an imitation
of Shenstone, or of one of the Shepherd and Shepherdess School of the
Elizabethan era"--of whom I knew nothing. So I was lost to the Muses,
who, however, never missed me.
But my career was not ended. I was told there might be an opening for me
in criticism, especially of poetry, as there were many persons great in
the critical line, who could not write a verse themselves--and yet lived
to become a terror to all who could. My first effort in this direction
was upon the book of a young poet whom I knew personally. Not venturing
upon longer pieces at first, I selected two sonnets--as the author,
Emslie Duncan, called them. The opening was very striking, and was thus
expressed:--
"Great God: What is it that I see?
A figure shrimping in the sea."
How natural is the exclamation, I began. The poet invokes the Deity on
the threshold of a great surprise. Luther did the same in his famous
hymn beginning--
"Great God! What do mine eyes behold!"
Our sonneteer may be said to have borrowed the exclamation from Luther.*
But we have no doubt the exclamation of our poet is purely original.
He next demands an interpretation of his vision. It is early morning,
though the poet does not mention it (great poets are suggestive, and
stoop not to detail). An evasive grey mist spreads everywhere, like the
new fiscal policy of the Bentinckian type (then in the air), obscuring
the landmarks of long-time safety. Still there is one object visible.
The poet's eye in "fine frenzy rolling" sees something. He is not sure
of the personality that confronts him, and with agnostic precaution
worthy of Huxley, he declines to say what it is--until he knows--and so
contents himself with telling the reader it is a "figure" out shrimping.
The scene is most impressive. As amateurs say, when they do not
understand a picture they are praising, "It grows upon you." So this
marvellous sonnet grows upon the
* The opening of Luther's fine hymn:--
"Great God! What do mine eyes behold!
The end of things created"--
which long imposed on my imagination and does so still.
reader. If there be not imagination and profundity here, we do not know
where to look for it.
Next our poet returns to town, and in White-chapel meets with the statue
of a lady attired only in a blouse. Notwithstanding his astonishment he
varies his abjuration, and exclaims--
"Judge ye gods, of my surprise,
A lady naked in her chemise!"
This is unquestionably very fine. True, there is some contradiction in
nudity and attire; but splendid contradiction is an eternal element of
poetry. What would Milton's "Paradise Lost" be without it? The reader
cannot tell whether the surprise of the poet is at the lady or her
drapery. There is no use in asking a great poet what he meant in writing
his brilliant lines. If as candid as Browning, he would answer as
Browning did, that "he had not the slightest idea what he meant."
Nothing remains for us but to congratulate the public on the advent of a
new poet who is equally great on subjects of land or sea.
There is a good deal of reviewing done on this principle, and
reputations made by this sort of writing as fully without foundation,
and I looked forward to further employment.
The editor to whom I sent these primal specimens of my new vocation
seemed undecided what to do with them--throw them into his waste-paper
basket or submit them to his readers. I assured him I had seen a number
of criticisms less restrained than mine, on performances quite as
slender as the sonnets I had described. With kindly consideration, lest
he might be repressing a rising genius in me, he asked me to give my
opinion upon a charming little poem by Longfellow--to commend, as he
hoped I could, as a new edition in which he was interested was about to
be published.
The object of the poet, I found, was to awaken certain young ladies,
whose only fault consisted in getting up late in the morning. The lines
addressed to them, if I rightly remember, began thus:--
"Awake! Arise! and greet the day.
Angels are knocking at the door.
They are in haste and may not stay,
And once departed come no more."
This verse reminds the readers of Omar Khayyam. Two ideas in it are his,
and the terms used are his; but I resisted this temptation to imitate
those popular critics, whose aim is not to discover the graces of a new
poet, but his plagiarisms, and to show that everybody reproduces the
ideas of everybody else, and prove that--
"Nothing is, and all things seem
And we the shadows of a dream"--
and of old, antediluvian dreams. Disdaining this royal road to critical
renown, I commenced by praising the enchanting invocation of the poet,
who when the ladies heard it would leap out of bed and dress. I observed
that to the reader who did not look below the surface--did not "read
between the lines," is the favourite phrase--the poem presented some
mysteries of diction. Instead of appearing as the angel in Leigh Hunt's
"Abou Ben Adhem" did, who diffused himself in the room like a vision,
these peripatetic visitants presented themselves like celestial postmen
"knocking at the door." Then why were they out so early themselves?
Had they more calls to make than they could well accomplish in the time
allowed them? Why were they "in haste"? No wonder mankind lack repose
if angels are in a hurry. The Kingdom of the Blest is supposed to be
the land of rest Manifestly these morning angels had to be back by a
stipulated time, and like a tax-collector could make no second call.
Apparently Longfellow's angels are like Mr. Stead's favourite spirit
Julia. They are harassed with appointments, commissions, and cares.
It is of no use being a spirit if you cannot move about with regal
leisureliness, such as was displayed by the first Shah of Persia who
visited us. The writer has seen nothing like it in any European monarch.
While in the lines now in question supernatural misgivings of angelic
perturbation are awakened. But as an example of poetry, irrespective of
its meaning and suggestions, every reader will covet a new edition of
the American poet, and no library could be complete without a copy upon
its shelves.
I had visited the poet at his Cambridge home, and was proud of the
opportunity of adding ever so small an addition to the pyramid of regard
raised to his memory.
The editor looked dubious on reading this review, and said the higher
criticism might be entertaining in theology, but the higher criticism
of poetry, which dealt with its meaning, was a different thing and
might not be well taken. In vain I suggested that a poet ought to mean
something, as Byron did, whose fascination is still real, and there was
pathos and beauty, tragedy, tenderness and courtesy enough in the
world to employ more poets than we have on hand. I received no more
commissions in the way of criticisms, and had to think of some other
vocation.
Some of the happiest evenings of younger days were spent in the rooms of
university students. It was pleasant to be near persons who dwelt in the
kingdom of knowledge, who could wander at will on the mountain tops
of science and literature, and have glimpses of unknown lands of light
which I might never see. Who has seen London under the reign of the sun,
after a sullen, fitful season, knows how wondrous is the transformation.
Like the sheen of the gods the glittering rays descend, dispelling and
absorbing the sombre clouds. A radiance rests on turret and roof. Then
hidden creatures that crawl or fly come forth and put on golden tints.
The cheerless poor emerge from their fireless chambers with the grateful
emotions of sun worshippers.
How like is all this to the change which comes over the realm of
ignorance! Light does not change vegetation more than the light of
knowledge changes the realm of the mind. The thirsty crevices of thought
drink in, as it were, the refreshing beams. Once conscious of the
liberty and power which comes of knowing--ignorance itself becomes
eager, impatient--covetous of information. Faculties unsuspected
disclose themselves. Qualities undreamed-of appear. So it came to be my
choice to enter the field of instruction. It seemed to me a great
thing to endow any, however few, in any way, however humble, with the
cheeriness and strength of ideas. True, I began to teach what I did not
know--or knew but partially--yet not without personal advantage, since
no one knows anything well until he has tried to teach it to another.
The dullest pupil will make his master sensible of defects in his own
explanation. Formerly, the dulness of a learner was supposed to discover
the necessity of a cane, whereas all it proved was incapacity or
unwillingness to take trouble--on the part of the teacher. The result
was that I wrote several elementary books of instruction. All owed their
existence, or whatever success attended them, to the experience of the
class-room.
All things have an end, as many observant people know, and before long
I turned my attention to journalism. I had read somewhere a saying of
Aristotle--"Now I mean to speak conformably to the truth." That seems
every man's duty--if he speaks at all. Anyhow, Aristotle's words
appeared to constitute a good rule for a journalist I had never heard or
never heeded the injunction of Byron:--
"Let him who speaks beware
Of whom, of what, and when, and where."
The Aristotelian rule I had adopted soon brought me into difficulties,
probably from want of skill in applying it. It was in propagandist
journalism that I had ventured, which I mention for the purpose of
saying that it is not, as many suppose, a profitable profession. It is
excellent discipline, but it is not thought much of by your banker. Its
securities are never saleable on the Stock Exchange. Nevertheless, the
Press has its undying attraction. It is the fame-maker. Without it noble
words, as well as noble deeds, would die. Day by day there descend from
the Press ideas in fertilising showers, falling on the parched and
arid plains of life, which in due season become verdant and variegated.
Difficulties try men's souls, but true ideas expand them. And they have
done so. Literature is a much brighter thing than it was when I first
began to meddle or "muddle" in it, as Lord Salisbury would say.
Nothing was thought classical then that was not dull No definition of
importance was found to be utterly unintelligible until a University man
had explained it. All is different now--let us hope.
Instances of the progress of literary opinion are perhaps more
instructive and better worth remembering. In 1850, when George Henry
Lewes and Thornton Hunt included my name in their published list of
contributors to the _Leader_, it cost the proprietors, I had reason to
know, L2,000. It set the Rev. Dr. Jelf, of King's College, on fire,
and caused an orthodox spasm of a serious kind in Charles Kingsley and
Professor Maurice, as witness their letters of that day.
One journal projected by me in 1850 is still v issued--_Public Opinion_.
Mr. W. H. Ashurst asked me to devise a paper I thought the most needed.
As Peel had said, "England was governed by opinion," I suggested that
this opinion should be collected. I wrote the prospectus of the new
journal, specifying that each article quoted should be prefixed by a
few words, within brackets, setting forth what principles, party, or
interest it represented--whether English or foreign. Mr. Ashurst put the
prospectus into the hands of Robert Buchanan, father of the late Robert
Buchanan, and the earlier issues followed the plan I had defined. The
object was to collect intelligent and responsible opinion.
In 1866 the _Contemporary Review_ announced that it would "represent
the best minds of the time on all contemporary questions, free from
narrowness, bigotry, and sectarianism." It professed "to represent those
who are not afraid of modern thought, in its varied aspects and demands,
and scorn to defend their faith by mere reticence, or by the artifices
commonly acquiesced in." This manifesto of 1866 far surpassed in
liberality any profession then known in the evangelical world. It was at
the time a bold pronouncement. When it is considered that Samuel Morley
was the most influential of the supporters of the _Contemporary_,
it shows that intellectual Nonconformity was abreast of the age--as
Nonconformity never was before.
In 1877 I was taken by Thomas Woolner, the sculptor, to dine at Mr.
Alfred Tennyson's (Lord Tennyson later). I believe my invitation was
owing to Mrs. Tennyson's desire to make inquiries of me concerning
the advantages of Co-operation in rural districts, in which, like the
Countess of Warwick, she was interested. The Poet Laureate gave me a
glass of sack, the royal beverage of poets, of more exquisite flavour
than I had tasted before. I did not wonder that it was conducive to
noble verse--where the faculty of it was present Mr. Knowles, now Sir
James, founder of the _Nineteenth Century and After_, was of the party,
and the new review--then projected--being mentioned, it came to pass
that my name was put down among possible contributors. The _Nineteenth
Century_ proposed to go further, and include a still wider range
of subjects, with free discussion on personal responsibility. Its
prospectus said "it would go on lines absolutely impartial and
unsectarian." The Prefatory Poem, written by Tennyson twenty-seven
years ago, which may not be in the memory of many now, was this:--
"Those that of late had fleeted far and fast,
To touch all shores, now leaving to the skill
Of others their old craft, seaworthy still,
Have chartered this; where, mindful of the past,
Our true co-mates regather round the mast;
Of diverse tongues, but with a common will,
Here in this roaming moor of daffodil
And crocus, to put forth and brave the blast.
For some, descending from the sacred peak
Of hoar, high-templed Faith, have leagued again
Their lot with ours to rove the world about,
And some are wilder comrades, sworn to seek
If any golden harbour be for men
In seas of Death and sunless gulfs of Doubt."
Tennyson, with all his genius, never quite emerged from the theologic
caves of the conventicle. The sea of pure reason he took to be "the sea
of Death." Doubt was a "sunless gulf." He did not know that "Doubt" is
a translucent valley, where the light of Truth first reveals the
deformities of error--hidden by theological mists. The line containing
the words "wilder comrades" was understood to include me. Out of the
"One Hundred Contributors," whose names were published in the
_Athenaeum_ (February 10, 1877), there were only-six:--Professor Huxley,
Professor Tyndall, Professor Clifford, George Henry Lewes, myself,
and possibly Frederic Harrison, to whom the phrase could apply. If the
remaining ninety-four had any insurgency of opinion in them, it was
not then apparent to the public, who are prone to prefer a vacuum to
an insurgent idea. New ideas of moment have always been on hand in the
_Nineteenth_ if not of the "wilder" kind.
After issuing fifty volumes of the _Nineteenth Century Review_, the
editor published a list of all his contributors, with the titles of
the articles written by them, introduced by these brief but memorable
words:--
"More than a quarter of a century's experience has sufficiently tested
the practical efficacy of the principle upon which the _Nineteenth
Century_ was founded, of free public discussion by writers invariably
signing their own names.
"The success which has attended and continues to attend the faithful
adherence to this principle, proves that it is not only right but
acceptable, and warrants the hope that it may extend its influence
over periodical literature, until unsigned contributions become quite
exceptional.
"No man can make an anonymous speech with his tongue, and no brave man
should desire to make one with his pen, but, having the courage of his
opinions, should be ready to face personally all the consequences of all
his utterances. Anonymous letters are everywhere justly discredited in
private life, and the tone of public life would be raised in proportion
to the disappearance of their equivalent--anonymous articles--from
public controversy."
Than the foregoing, I know of no more admirable argument against
anonymity in literature. There is nothing more unfair in controversy
than permitting writers, wearing a mask, to attack or make replies to
those who give their names--being thereby enabled to be accusative or
imputative without responsibility. There is, of course another side to
this question. Persons of superior and relevant information, unwilling
to appear personally, are thereby excluded from a hearing--which is so
far a public loss.
But this evil is small compared with the vividness and care which would
be exercised if every writer felt that his reputation went with the
work which bore his name. Besides, how much slovenly thinking, which is
slovenly expressed--vexing the public ear and depraving the taste and
understanding of the reader--would never appear if the writer had to
append his signature to his production? Of course, there is good writing
done anonymously, but power and originality, if present, are never
rewarded by fame, and no one knows who to thank for the light and
pleasure nameless writers have given. The example of the _Nineteenth
Century and After_ is a public advantage.