had more than the author of _Euphranor_ and (as we have had to say
before) the "translator or paraphrast" not merely of Persian but of
Spanish and Greek masterpieces. It is indeed notorious that it was in
this latter capacity that he showed the individuality of his genius most
strongly. It is a frequently but perhaps idly[38] disputed question how
much is Omar and how much FitzGerald, while the problem might certainly
be extended by asking how much is Aeschylus and how much Calderon in his
versions of those masters: but it does not concern us here. What does
concern us is the fact that he has contrived to make his most famous
exercise in translation signally, and the others to some extent, not
dead "versions," but as it were reincarnations of the original, the
spirit or the flesh (whichever anyone pleases) being his own, or both
being blended of his and the author's. To do this requires a "strong
nativity" though not in the equivocal sense in which another great
translator of FitzGerald's own type[39] used that term. It shows in his
scanty "original" work: but it shows also and perhaps more strongly in
his letters. Everyone who has studied the history of the English
Universities in connection with that of English literature knows, even
if he has not been fortunate enough to experience it, the remarkable
fashion in which, at certain times, colleges and coteries at Oxford and
Cambridge have seemed to throw a strange and almost magical influence
over a generation (hardly more) of undergraduates. There was
unmistakably such an _aura_ or atmosphere about in Trinity College,
Cambridge, during the last of the twenties and the first of the thirties
of the nineteenth century--a spirit of literature and humour, of
seriousness and jest, of prose sense and half mystical poetry--which
produced things as diverse as _The Dying Swan_ and Clarke's _Library of
Useless Knowledge_, _Vanity Fair_ and the English _Rubaiyat_.
Of this curiously blended mood-combination--of which in their different
ways Tennyson and Thackeray, as universally known, Brookfield, W. B.
Donne, G. S. Venables, as less known, but noteworthy instances suggest
themselves as examples--FitzGerald was certainly not the least
remarkable. He had, as eccentrics usually and almost necessarily have,
not a few limitations, some of which possibly were, though others
certainly were not, deliberately assumed or accepted. He would not allow
that Tennyson had ever in his later work (not latest by any means) done
anything so good as his earlier. In that unlucky though quite blameless
observation on Mrs. Browning which was referred to above, he ignored or
showed himself unable to appreciate the fact that the poetess had never
done anything better than, if anything so good as, some of her very
latest work.[40] It cannot be considered an entirely adequate cause for
ceasing to live with your wife,[41] that her dresses rustle; and many
other instances of what may be called practical and literary
_non-sequiturs_ might be alleged against him. But all these
"queernesses" are evidence of a temperament and a mode of thinking which
are likely to produce very satisfactory letters. They are sure not to be
dull: and when the queerness is accompanied by such literary power as
"Fitz" possessed they are not likely to be merely silly, as some things
are which attempt not to be dull. As a matter of fact they are
delightful: and their variety is astonishing. Odd stories and odd
experiences seem, despite his almost claustral life, to have had a habit
of flying to FitzGerald like filings to a magnet--as for instance the
irresistible anecdote of the parish clerk who insisted on giving out for
singing casual remarks of the parson above him as if they were verses of
a hymn, and who was duly echoed by the congregation. Even when he does
not make you laugh he satisfies you: even when you do not agree with him
you are obliged to him for having expressed his heresy.
[Sidenote: FANNY KEMBLE]
One of FitzGerald's special correspondents was, for reasons then
imperative, not a member of the Cambridge group itself, but as closely
connected with it as possible: being the sister of one of its actual
members. John M. Kemble, one of our earliest and best Anglo-Saxon
scholars in modern times, was, like others of his famous family (so far
as is generally known) a person of varied talents, though he showed
these neither in letter writing nor in the direction which Tennyson
incorrectly augured in the "Sonnet to J. M. K." His sister Frances
(invariably, like most though by no means all ladies of her name, called
"Fanny"[42]) was a very remarkable person indeed. After taking early and
with brilliant success to the stage which might almost be said to be
hers by inheritance,[43] she married an American planter with even worse
results (they were actually divorced) than her friend FitzGerald's
marriage brought about later: and for many years returned to public
life, not as an actress but as a reader. She wrote and published both
prose and verse of various kinds: but her best known work and that which
places her here, is a voluminous series of "Records," etc., much of
which is composed of actual letters, while practically the whole of it
is what we have called "letter-stuff." It has perhaps been published
_too_ voluminously: and it is certain that, as indeed one might expect,
its parts are not equal in interest. But experienced and balanced
judgment must always sum up in her favour as possessing, in letter- and
even other writing, more than ordinary talent, perhaps never quite
happily or fully developed. Merely as a person she seems to have
exercised an extraordinary attraction without being exactly amiable[44]:
and from the intellectual and artistic sides as a writer (we have
nothing here to do with her histrionic powers) to have been what has
sometimes in others been called "inorganic," "ill-regulated," "not
brought off," etc., but of extraordinary capacity.
This may have had something to do with her sudden and exceptional
success, when at barely twenty, and with no training except what
heredity might give her, she "took the town [and the country] by storm"
as Juliet, and very soon afterwards "carried" America likewise. But her
"records" of these and other things are of almost the first quality: and
this power of "recording" continued and was perhaps stimulated by the
less as well as the more fortunate events of her life. It may be said
indeed that in her time a young woman of full age (she was five and
twenty), unusual experience of the world, and still more unusual wits,
had no business to marry a planter in the Southern States, knowing that
she was to live there, unless she had reconciled herself to the
institution of slavery. Nor can anybody without prejudice deny this. But
the inconsistency and the troubles it developed gave occasion to some
very remarkable "recording," and the same had been the case earlier with
her life, whether at home, on the stage, or in society, and was the case
later whether she lived in England, in the Northern States, or on the
Continent of Europe. Perhaps you never exactly like her: an unusual
experience in the reading of letters, which for the most part are
singularly reconciling from the mere fact of their explanatory quality.
There is indeed no better confirmation of the well-known French saying
_tout comprendre c'est tout pardonner_. Here, however, there are, as
elsewhere, exceptions--Gray being perhaps one[45] as our present subject
is another. But there are few things more interesting, though their
interest may be somewhat tragic, than the spectacle of the way "things
go wrong" so easily, so finally, so fatally. Fanny Kemble had a sister
Adelaide, afterwards Mrs. Sartoris, with whom everything appears to have
gone right: but with herself it "seemed otherwise to the Gods." And her
letters or memoirs, or whatever they are to be called, are the record
thereof, as well as of other things.
[Sidenote: THE CARLYLES]
The letters and "letter-stuff" of the Carlyles, husband and wife,
according to the inevitable misfortune attending so much of our
subject--supplied the occasion of volumes of that disgusting and most
idle controversy which has made many people of taste pray that nothing
biographical may ever be published about them. Far be it from us to take
part in a game which if it does not always, like the unpleasant
personage in the old ballad,
Come for ill and never for good,
certainly comes for the former much oftener than for the latter purpose
and result. _Sunt lacrimae rerum_ is--once more and as so often--the
best and the sufficient observation. But there remains in the letters of
both, and especially in those of the lady, plenty of wholesome interest
and of justifiable--not spying or eavesdropping--information as to
character. Judged comparatively, they certainly do not contradict the
notion formerly referred to, that in some respects letter-writing is a
specially feminine gift. Carlyle's own letters[46] have plenty of merit
and attraction--some of the descriptive ones especially: and they
demonstrate, in the infallible way which letters and letters alone can
supply in the absence of long personal familiarity, that the general
tone and key of his writings was no falsetto but a perfectly genuine
thing--that the often urged contrast of the _Life of Schiller_, instead
of evidencing affectation in the later work, only proves constraint in
the earlier. At the same time, except for what may be called
side-illustration of the works, and completion of the biography for
those who want it, there is not very much in Carlyle's letters which
would be a serious loss.
With his wife the case is different. Without her "Letters and Memorials"
we might (it is rather improbable that we _should_, owing to the
misdemeanours of more persons than one and the blow-fly appetite of a
part of the public for sore places) have escaped a good deal of the
ignoble wrangling above referred to. But we should not only have failed
to appreciate a very remarkable character, but have missed some of the
very best of our now existing contributions to epistolary literature.
Personally Mrs. Carlyle was by no means a general favourite. She had a
fearfully sharp tongue, and a still sharper wit in directing it upon her
victims; her experiences were not very likely to edulcorate her acids
and mollify her asperities. The letters show that, as so often happens,
there was plenty of sweetness within the sharp exterior, and that her
strength was the strength of passion, not of obduracy. But this is not
all. There might have been biographical whitewashing of this kind
without much gain to pure literature. But the letters showed likewise a
power of expression, both lighter and more serious, which is hardly
inferior to that found in any correspondence of man or woman, genuine or
fictitious. Some people, not given to rash superlatives and pretty
extensively acquainted with literature, have held that the letter
describing her visit after many years to Haddington, and the
reminiscences it called forth, has no superior in the vast range of our
subject for pure pathos perfectly expressed, without constraint on
nature yet without loss of dignity.[47] On the other hand, the half
comic accounts of her domestic troubles etc. are worthy of Fielding or
Thackeray. The fact is that Mrs. Carlyle possessed what is rare in
women--humour. And she exemplified, as few other women and not so very
many men have done, Anne Evans's matchless definition of it as "thinking
in jest while feeling in earnest." Moreover while, as all true
humourists can, she could drop the jest altogether when necessary, she
could, as is the case with them likewise, never quite discard the
earnest.
[Sidenote: MACAULAY AND DICKENS]
Some of the most distinguished of Carlyle's contemporaries, the great
men of letters of the mid-nineteenth century, have left letters more or
less copious and more or less valuable from one or both of the two
sides, biographical and literary, but not eminently so. Macaulay's
letters and diaries suit biography excellently, and have been
excellently used in his. They lighten and sweeten the rather boisterous
"cocksureness" of the published writings: and help his few but very
remarkable poems other than the _Lays_ (which are excellent but in a
different kind) to show the soul and heart of the man as apart from his
mere intellect. But they are not perhaps intrinsically very capital. So
also in Dickens's case the "Life-and-Letters" system is excellently
justified, but one does not know that the letters in themselves would
always deserve a first class in this particular school of _Literae
Humaniores_. Letter-writing admits--if it may not even require--a
certain kind of egotism. But it must be what the French call an _Egoisme
a plusieurs_--a temper which takes, if only for the moment, other people
into itself and cares for them there. "The Inimitable" was perhaps too
generally thinking of that Inimitable himself or of the fictitious
creations of his marvellous genius. If, like his own Mr. Toots, he could
have written some letters to or from _them_ it would have been a very
different thing. In this respect he does not, as in others he does,
resemble Balzac, whose egotism was in a way as intense as his own and
like it extended to his creations, but could extend farther: while the
contrast with Thackeray is even more salient than in other cases from
this same point of view. At the same time it must not be supposed that
there is any intention here of belittling Dickens, either as a
letter-writer or in any other way. It is only suggested that he lacks
one of the things necessary to perfect letter-writing. Perhaps his most
noteworthy productions in the style are his editorial criticisms--rather
limited in taste and purview, but singularly shrewd within other limits.
And many of the others tell their substance with that faculty of
"telling" which he possessed as few have ever done, while the comedy of
those given here is "the true Dickens."
[Sidenote: SOME NOVELISTS]
Mention of the three greatest novelists (English and French) of the
mid-nineteenth century naturally suggests the rest of a class so
predominant in that century's literary production. Their record in the
matter is rather chequered, for reasons, in some respects and cases at
any rate, not difficult to discover. Reference is elsewhere made to the
disappointment experienced (perhaps not too reasonably) by some readers
of the letters of George Eliot. A not dissimilar feeling had been
expressed earlier in regard to those of Miss Austen: which, however,
were intrinsically far superior. Except to her sister, and it may be
even to her, Jane Austen was not at all likely to indulge in what is
called in French _epanchement_: it was not in the least her line,
whether in writing for publication or otherwise. Only one full year
passed between the death of Miss Austen and the birth of Miss Evans, and
the two illustrated very fairly the comfortable if not invariably
accurate idea that when one human being dies another is born to succeed
him or her in their special functions. But, as in other respects, they
differed here remarkably; and though in neither case was the nature of
the writer exactly expansive, this want of expansiveness was very
differently conditioned. Miss Austen no doubt could, if she had chosen,
(she has done something like it as it is) have written most delightful
letters. A hundred scenes in the novels from Catherine Morland's tremors
and trials, or John Dashwood's progressive limitations of generosity for
his sisters, to some of the best things in _Persuasion_, would take
letter form with the happiest results. But she did not choose that it
should be so. George Eliot, on the other hand, after her earlier days,
had ensconced herself in such a chrysalis of quasi-philosophical and
quasi-scientific thought and speech that she could hardly have recovered
the freedom of expression which is almost the soul of letter-writing.
Some of Bulwer's (the first Lord Lytton's) letters are remarkable in
ways, especially that of literary criticism, which might hardly be
expected by anyone who had insufficiently taken the measure of his
strangely unequal and imperfect, yet as strangely varied, talent. But as
the century went on a new prohibitory influence arose in the enormous
professional production which began to be customary with
novelists--principally tempted no doubt by the corresponding gain of
money, but perhaps also by the nobler desire of increasing, or at least
living up to, their reputations. Even short of the unbroken drudgery
which, it is said, compelled one lady novelist, of high rank for a time,
to scribble her novels as she was actually receiving and talking to
morning callers, the production of three or four novels a year--and
those not the cock-boats we often see now but attempts at least at "the
old three-decker" in its fullest dimensions--could leave little time or
inclination for extensive letter-writing. There were, however, some
exceptions. Charles Kingsley--who, though his novels were not very
numerous, supplemented them with all sorts of miscellaneous writing for
publication, was a diligent sportsman, an active cleric, and a busy man
in many kinds and ways--wrote certainly good and probably many letters.
The two brighter stars in the Bronte constellation, especially
Charlotte, were scarcely less remarkable with the pen in this way than
in others: and Mrs. Gaskell, Charlotte's biographer, has been put high
by some. The unconquerable personality of Charles Reade showed itself
here as elsewhere[48]: and others might be mentioned.[49] But perhaps
the most distinguished novelist next to Thackeray of the nineteenth
century, who was also a most distinguished letter-writer, was one who
died in middle age not long before its end--Robert Louis Stevenson.
[Sidenote: STEVENSON]
Stevenson had in fact practically all the qualifications necessary for a
good practitioner of our art. He had, eminently, that gift which the
Romans called _facundia_ and the French can translate, if with a slight
degradation of meaning, by _faconde_; but for which we, though the
adjective "facund" has, one believes, been tried, possess no noun,
"Eloquence" being too much specified to "fine" writing or speaking.
"Facility of expression" perhaps comes nearest. Whether he corrected or
corrupted this native gift by his famous "sedulous aping" of stylists
before him is a debated question: but one quite unnecessary to touch
here. It is sufficient to say that he never aped anyone in his letters,
unless playfully and in a sort of concert with his correspondent. Indeed
he possessed, quintessentially, that "naturalness" of matter and form on
which so much stress has been laid. He had a disposition equally
favourable to the business--if business we may call it. A person who is
habitually gloomy may write capital letters of an impressive character
now and then: but is likely to produce little but boredom if he extends
his practice. Louis Stevenson did not habitually "regard the world
through a horse collar" (as it was once put), but he certainly did not
pass through it gnashing his teeth or holding his handkerchief to his
eyes. Although he did a good deal of work, sometimes under no small
difficulties, he had very little if any of that _collar_-work--that
grinding "in Gaza at the mill with slaves" which takes the spring out of
all but the springsomest of men. He had widely varied experience of
scene, occupation, personal society. He knew plenty of books without
being in the least bookish; had, as the old saying goes, "wit at will,"
and, though he never made deliberate and affected efforts to _get_ out
of ruts, _kept_ out of them without the least trouble. He was as little
of a "poser" or of a "rotter" as he was of a prig, and there was not a
drop of bad blood in his veins. If these things could not make a good
letter-writer nothing could; and there is little doubt that he will hold
his place as such as long as English literature lasts. It is a great
pleasure to me to give, as I hope to do, one unpublished letter of his
to myself as a sort of _bonus_ to the reader of this little book--a
letter of rather unusual interest in literary as in other respects.
At this point, perhaps, actual survey may, and indeed had best, stop:
not merely because space is closing in. Lovers of letters will of course
detect what seem to them omissions in what has gone before and what
comes after. Some of these, no doubt, will have been real oversights.
Others, for this or that reason deliberate, such as Gibbon and
Newman--the latter not merely for his re-statement of the
character-value of correspondence, but for his exemplifications of
it--might certainly have been more fully noticed. But in regard to later
writers there are several obstacles in the path. Of some it would not be
easy to speak on account of their own lives being too recent: in regard
of nearly all the same fact must have occasioned exercise of
"censorship" to a degree which makes absolute judgment of their
competence as epistolers rash, and comparative judgment almost
impossible. To take up once more one example of men who were born a full
or almost a full century ago, Mr. Paul,[50] speaking apparently with
intimate knowledge of the originals, speaks also of the "severe process
of excision and retrenchment to which these [_the letters of Mr. Matthew
Arnold_] have been exposed." And he thinks that very few letters "could
have endured" it. Those who remember the appearance of these letters
will also remember that some critics doubted whether even "these" had
exactly "endured it"--that is to say, whether the expected salt of the
author of so much published _persiflage_ had not been left out or had
singularly lost its savour. To take another from the next generation, it
is pretty certain that Mr. Swinburne's letters, though we have judicious
selections from them, must have needed much more excision or
retrenchment than Mr. Arnold's, unless he wrote them in a manner
remarkably different both from his conversation and from his published
works. In such cases it is best, the evidence being not fully before us,
not to anticipate either the privileges or the decisions of posterity.
VI
SOME SPECIAL KINDS OF LETTER
A few more general remarks, however, on _kinds_ of letter-writing--as
distinguished from personality and accomplishment of letter-writers--may
not improperly be added.
[Sidenote: LETTERS AND THE NOVEL]