splendid self-esteem, a complacency, a confidence which passes all
bounds of the golden mean. “I am engrossed in calmly contemplating the
grandeur of my native country and her miraculous growth,” writes to me
an old literary friend. The feeling normally breaks out in the grossest
laudation of everything American. The ultra-provincial twang which we
still hear amongst the servant-classes of Lancashire and Yorkshire, and
which is so notable in the _nouveau riche_, modified by traditional
nasalisation and, as in Australia, by climatic influences, is American
and, therefore, the purest of English utterances. The obsolete
vocabulary—often obsolete in England without just reason—contrasting
with a modern disfigured etymology which strips vocables of their
genealogy and history, is American and _ergò_ admirably progressive. The
spurious facetiousness which deals mainly in mere jargon, words
ill-spelt and worse pronounced; in bizarre contrast of ideas, and in
ultra-Rabelaisian exaggeration, is American wit and humour—therefore
unsurpassable. The Newspaper Press, that great reflector of
nationalities, that prime expression of popular taste, too often of an
_écœurant_ vulgarity, personal beyond all bounds of common decency,
sensational as a transpontine drama, is American; America is the
greatest nation upon earth’s face; _ergò_ the daily sheet is setting-up
the standard of English speech and forming the language of the Future,
good and too good for all the world. This low standard of the Press is
the more regretable as its exalted duty is at present to solve the
highest problems social and industrial, such as co-operation in labour,
the development of fisheries, direct taxation versus indirect and a host
of enigmas which the young world, uncumbered by the burdens of the Old
World, alone shall unravel.
The second result is still more prejudicial and perilous. This is the
glorification of mediocrity, of the average man and woman whose low
standard must be a norm to statesman and publicist. Such cult of the
common and the ignoble is the more prejudicial because it “wars against
all distinction and against the sense of elevation to be gained by
respecting and admiring superiority.” Its characteristic predominance in
a race which, true to its Anglo-Saxon origin, bases and builds the
strongest opinions upon the weakest foundations, hinders the higher
Avatars of genius and interferes with the “chief duty of a nation which
is to produce great men.” It accounts for the ever-incroaching reign of
women in literature—meaning as a rule cheap work and second-rate. And
the main lack is not so much the “thrill of awe,” which Goethe
pronounces to be the best thing humanity possesses, but that discipline
of respect, that sense of loyalty, not in its confined meaning of
attachment to royalty, but in a far higher and nobler signification, the
recognising and welcoming elevation and distinction whatever be the
guise they may assume. “The soul lives by admiration and hope and love.”
And here we see the shady side of the educational process, the diffusion
of elementary and superficial knowledge, of the veneer and polish which
mask, until chipped-off, the raw and unpolished material lying hidden
beneath them. A little learning is a dangerous thing because it knows
all and consequently it stands in the way of learning more or much.
Hence it is sorely impatient of novelty, of improvement, of originality.
It is intolerant of contradiction, irritable, thin-skinned, and
impatient of criticism, of a word spoken against it. It is chargeable
with the Law of Copyright, which is not only legalised plunder of the
foreigner, but is unfair, unjust and ungenerous to native talent for the
exclusive benefit of the short-sighted many-headed. I am far from
charging the United States with the abomination called “International
Copyright;” the English publisher is as sturdy an enemy to “protection”
as the Transatlantic statesman; but we expect better things from a new
people which enjoys the heritage of European civilisation without the
sufferings accompanying the winning of it. This mediocrity has the
furious, unpardoning hatred of _l’amour propre offensé_. Even a word in
favour of my old friends the Mormons is an unpardonable offence: the
dwarfish and dwarfing demon “Respectability” has made their barbarous
treatment a burning shame to a so-called “free” country: they are
subjected to slights and wrongs only for practising polygamy, an
institution never condemned by Christ or the early Christians. The calm
and dispassionate judgments of Sir Lepel Griffith and the late Matthew
Arnold, who ventured to state, in guarded language, that the boasted
civilisation of the United States was not quite perfect, resulted in the
former being called a snob and the latter a liar. English stolidity
would only have smiled at the criticism even had it been couched in the
language of _persiflage_. And when M. Max O’Rell traverses the
statements of the two Englishmen and exaggerates American civilisation,
we must bear in mind first that _la vulgarité ne se traduit pas_, and
secondly, that the foes of our foemen are our friends. Woe be to the man
who refuses to fall down and do worship before that brazen-faced idol
(_Eidolon Novi Mundi_), Public Opinion in the States; unless, indeed,
his name be Brown and he hail from Briggsville.
Some years ago I proposed to write a paper upon the reflex action of
Anglo-America upon England, using as a base the last edition of Mrs.
Trollope, who was compelled to confess that almost every peculiarity
which she had abused in her first issue had become naturalised at home.
Yankee cuteness has already displaced in a marvellous way old English
rectitude and plain-dealing; gambling on the Stock Exchange, cornering,
booms and trusts have invaded the trading-classes from merchant-princes
to shopkeepers and threaten, at their actual rate of progress, not to
leave us an honest man. But now the student’s attention will be called
to the great and ever-growing influence of the New World upon the Old,
and notably upon Europe. Some 50,000 Americans annually visit the
continent, they are rapidly becoming the most important item of the
floating population, and in a few years they will number 500,000.
Meanwhile they are revolutionising all the old institutions; they are
abolishing the classical cicerone whose occupation is gone amongst a
herd which wants only to see streets and people: they greatly increase
the cost of travelling; they pay dollars in lieu of francs, and they are
satisfied with inferior treatment at superior prices:—hence the American
hotel abroad is carefully shunned by Englishmen and natives. At home the
“well-to-do-class” began by regarding their kinsmen d’outre mer with
contemptuous dislike; then they looked upon them as a country squire
would regard a junior branch which has emigrated and has thriven by
emigration; and now they are welcomed in Society because they amuse and
startle and stir up the duller depths. But however warm may be private
friendship between Englishmen and Anglo-Americans there is no public
sympathy nor is any to be expected from the present generation. “New
England does not understand Old England and never will,” the reverse
being equally the fact. “The Millennium must come” says Darwin (ii. 387)
“before nations love each other:” I add that first _Homo alalus_ seu
_Pithecanthropus_ must become _Homo Sapiens_ and cast off his moral
slough—egoism and ignorance. Mr. Cleveland, in order to efface the foul
stigma of being the “English President,” found it necessary to adopt the
strongest measures in the matter of “Fisheries;” and the “Irish vote”
must quadrennially be bought at the grave risk of national
complications. Despite the much-bewritten “brotherhood of the two great
English-speaking races of the world,” the old leaven of cousinly
ill-feeling, the jealousy which embitters the Pole against his Russian
congener, is still rampant. Uncle Sam actively dislikes John Bull and
dispraises England. An Anglo-American who has lived years amongst us and
in private intimacy must, when he returns home, speak disparagingly of
the old country unless he can afford the expensive luxury of telling
unpopular truths and of affronting Demos, the hydraheaded.
But there are even now signs of better things in the Great Republic. Mr.
James R. Lowell, an authority (if there be any) upon the subject of
Democracy, after displaying its fine points and favourable aspects in
his addresses to English audiences, has at length had the uncommon
courage to discuss family affairs, and to teach Boston and New York what
“weaknesses and perils there may be in the practical working of a system
never before set in motion under such favourable circumstances, nor on
so grand a scale.” He is emboldened to say firmly and aloud, despite the
storming of false and hollow self-praise, that American civilisation, so
strong on the material side, is sadly wanting on the other, and still
lacks much to make it morally acceptable or satisfactory. And we have
home truths concerning that Fool’s Paradise the glorification of the
“average man.” Every citizen of the world must wish full success to the
“Independents” (in politics) who sit at the feet of so wise and
patriotic a teacher.
And here I feel myself bound to offer some explanation concerning
THE HOUSEHOLD EDITION OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS,
lest any subscriber charge me, after contracting not to issue or to
allow the issue of a cheaper form, with the sharp practice which may be
styled
To keep the word of promise to our ear
And break it to our hope.
Hardly had my third volume of “The Nights” (proper) been issued to my
patrons when a benevolent subscriber, whose name I am bound to conceal,
apprised me that he had personal and precise information concerning a
project to pirate the production. England and Anglo-America, be it
observed, are the only self-styled civilised countries in the world
where an author’s brain-work is not held to be his private property: his
book is simply no book unless published and entered, after a cost of
seven presentation copies, at “Stationers’ Hall”—its only ægis. France,
Italy and Austria treat such volumes as private MSS.: here any dishonest
house may reproduce them in replica without the slightest regard to the
writer’s rightful rights. In my case this act of robbery was proposed by
a German publisher domiciled in London, supported by a Frenchman equally
industrious, who practises in Paris, and of whose sharp doings in
money-matters not a few Englishmen have had ample reason bitterly to
complain. This _par nobile_ agreed to print in partnership an issue of
handier form and easier price than my edition, and their plan if carried
out would have seriously damaged the property of my subscribers: the
series which cost them £10 10s. would have fallen probably to one-half
value. The two pirates met by agreement in Paris, where the design was
duly discussed and determined; but, fortunately for me, an unexpected
obstacle barred the way. The London solicitor, professionally consulted
by the dishonest firm, gave his opinion that such a work publicly issued
would be a boon to the Society for the Suppression of Vice, and would
not escape the unsavoury attentions of old Father Antic—the Law.
But, although these two men were deterred by probable consequences, a
bolder spirit might make light of them. I had never intended to go
beyond my original project; that is, of printing one thousand copies and
no more; nor did I believe that any cunning of disguise could make “The
Nights” presentable in conventionally decent society. It was, however,
represented to me by many whose opinions I valued that thus and thus
only the author and his subscribers could be protected from impudent
fraud, and finally an unwilling consent was the result.
Mr. Justin Huntley McCarthy, a name well known in the annals of
contemporary literature, undertook the task of converting the grand old
barbarian into a family man to be received by the “best circles.” His
proofs, after due expurgation, were passed on to my wife, who I may say
has never read the original, and she struck out all that appeared to her
over-free, under the promise that no mother should hesitate in allowing
the book to her daughters. It would, perhaps, surprise certain “modest
gentlemen” and blatantly virtuous reviewers that the amount of raw
material excised from the text and the notes, chiefly addressed to
anthropologists and Orientalists, amounts to only 215 pages out of a
grand total numbering 3,156.
Between 1886 and 1888 appeared the revision in six pretty volumes,
bearing emblematic colours, virgin-white adorned with the golden lilies
of St. Joseph and the “chaste crescent of the young moon.” The price
also was reduced to the lowest (£3 3s.) under the idea that the work
would be welcome if not to families at any rate to libraries and
reading-rooms, for whose benefit the older translations are still being
reproduced. But the flattering tale of Hope again proved to be a snare
and a delusion; I had once more dispensed with the services of Mr.
Middleman, the publisher, and he naturally refused to aid and abet the
dangerous innovation. The hint went abroad that the book belonged to the
category which has borrowed a name from the ingenious Mr. Bowdler, and
vainly half a century of reviewers spoke bravely in its praise. The
public would have none of it: even innocent girlhood tossed aside the
chaste volumes in utter contempt, and would not condescend to aught save
the thing, the whole thing, and nothing but the thing, unexpurgated and
uncastrated. The result was an unexpected and unpleasant study of modern
taste in highly respectable England. And the fact remains that of an
edition which began with a thousand copies only 457 were sold in the
course of two years. Next time I shall see my way more clearly to suit
the peculiar tastes and prepossessions of the reading world at home.
Before dismissing the subject of the Household Edition, I would offer a
few words of explanation on the part of the Editress. While touching-up
and trimming the somewhat hurried work of our friend, Mr. McCarthy, she
was compelled to accompany me abroad, and to nurse me through a
dangerous illness, which left but little time for the heavy claims of
business. Unable to superintend, with the care required, the issue of
her six volumes she entrusted the task to two agents in whose good will
and experience she had and still has the fullest confidence; but the
results were sundry letters of appeal and indignation from subscribers
touching matters wholly unknown and unintelligible to her. If any
mistakes have been made in matters of detail she begs to express her
sincerest regret, and to assure those aggrieved that nothing was further
from her intention than to show discourtesy where she felt cordial
gratitude was due.
* * * * *
Nothing now remains for me but the pleasant task of naming the many
friends and assistants to whom this sixteenth and last volume has been
inscribed. The late Reverend G. Percy Badger strongly objected to the
literal translation of “The Nights” (_The Academy_, December 8, ’81);
not the less, however, he assisted me in its philology with all
readiness. Dr. F. Grenfell Baker lent me ready and valuable aid in the
mechanical part of my hard labour. Mr. James F. Blumhardt, a practical
Orientalist and teacher of the Prakrit dialects at Cambridge, englished
for me the eight Gallandian tales (Foreword, Supp. vol. iii.) from the
various Hindostan versions. To Mr. William H. Chandler, of Pembroke
College, Oxford, I have expressed (Supp. vol. iii.) the obligations due
to a kind and generous friend: his experiments with photography will
serve to reconcile the churlishness and retrograde legislation of the
great Oxford Library with the manners and customs of more civilised
peoples. Mr. W. A. Clouston, whose degree is high in “Storiology,”
supplied my second and third Supplemental volumes with valuable
analogues and variants. Mr. Alexander J. Cotheal, Consul-General for
Nicaragua at New York, sent a valuable MS. to me across the water, and
was persuaded to translate, for my sixth Supplemental volume, a novel
version of the “Tale of Attáf.” Mr. A. G. Ellis, of the British Museum,
amongst other favours kindly revised the Foreword of my sixth volume.
Mr. E. J. W. Gibb, an Orientalist of the modern and realistic school,
who is not deterred by literal translation, permitted me to print his
version of the Turkish Zayn al-Asnám (Supp. vol. iii.) and translations
of three tales which he judged inexpedient to publish (Supp. vol. iv.).
M. O. Houdas, _Professeur d’Arabe Vulgaire à l’école des langues
Orientales vivantes_, Paris, copied for me the Arabic text of Zayn
al-Asnám and the whole MS. used by MM. Chavis and Cazotte: he also
obligingly assisted me in overcoming the various difficulties of a
crabbed and imperfect text. My friend, Mr. W. F. Kirby appended to
volume x. 471 of “The Nights” (proper) his most valuable contributions
to the bibliology of the work with its various imitations and a table
showing the contents of the principal editions and translations of “The
Nights”: he also enriched my Supplemental volumes v. and vi. with his
excellent annotations. Mr. Kingsbury (and Notcutt) photographed for my
use 400 and odd pages of the Wortley-Montague MS., and proved how easy
it was to produce a perfect fac simile of the whole. Mr. George Lewis
gave me the soundest advice touching legal matters and Mr. Philip M.
Justice was induced to take an active interest in the “Household
Edition.” The eminent Orientalist, Dr. Pertsch, Librarian of the
Grand-Ducal Collection, Saxe-Gotha, in lively contrast to my countrymen
of the Bodleian, offered to send me the two volumes of a valuable MS.
containing the most detailed texts of Judar and his brethren (vol. vi.
213) and of Zahir and his son Ali. Dr. Reinhold Rost, Librarian of the
Indian Office, took much trouble about the W. M. MS. but all in vain.
Mr. Alexander W. Thayer, of Trieste, who has studied for years the
subject of the so-called Jewish “Exodus,” obliged me with a valuable
note detailing his original views. His Excellency Yacoub Artin Pasha,
Minister of Public Instruction, Cairo, a friend of many years standing,
procured for me the decorations in the Cufic, Naskhí and other
characters, which add to much of novelty and ornament to the outer
semblance of my sixteen volumes. Mr. Hermann Zotenberg, Keeper of
Oriental MS. at the Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris, lent me his own
transcription of the “Alaeddin,” and generously supplied me with exact
bibliographical notes and measurements of sundry tomes in that admirable
collection.
I am also deeply indebted to Mrs. Victoria L. Maylor, of Trieste, who,
during the past three years (1885–1888) had the energy and perseverance
to copy for me sixteen bulky volumes written in a “running-hand,”
concerning which the less said the better. And, lastly, I must
acknowledge peculiar obligations to my Shaykh, Dr. Steingass, Ph. D.
This well-known Arabist not only assisted me in passing the whole work
through the press, he also added a valuable treatise on Arabic Prosody
(x. 270–300) with indexes of various kinds, and finally he supervised
the MSS. of the Supplemental volumes and enriched the last three, which
were translated under peculiar difficulties in unalphabetic lands, with
the results of his wide reading and lexicographical experience.
* * * * *
And now, Alhamdolillah, the play is ended, and while the curtain drops,
I take the final liberty of addressing my kindly and appreciative
audience in the following words, borrowed from a Persian brother of the
pen:—
Now hear my hope from men of liberal mind,
Faults, that indulgence crave, shall seek and find;
For whose blames and of despite decries,
Is wight right witless, clean reverse of wise.
To which let me add the following gentle reminder from Ibn Khaldún:—
All that we can we do, and who ne’er swerves
From best endeavour much of praise deserves.
FAREWELL!
RICHARD F. BURTON.
UNITED SERVICE CLUB,
_September 30, ’88_.
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS
MORNING ADVERTISER, _September 15th, 1885_.
As the holiday season draws to a close the publishers’ announcements of
“new books” fill column after column of the organs chosen from these
special _communiqués_, But there is one work which is not entered in
these lists, though for years scholars, and many people who are not
scholars, have been looking for it with an eagerness which has left far
behind the ordinary curiosity which is bestowed on the greatest of
contributions to current literature. And to-day the chosen few who are
in possession of the volume in question are examining it with an
interest proportionate to the long toil which has been bestowed on its
preparation. We refer to Captain Burton’s translation of _The Arabian
Nights Entertainments_, now entitled _The Book of The Thousand Nights
and a Night_, of which the first tome has just been issued. * * * *
Captain Burton scorns any namby-pambyism. In the Arabic a spade is
usually called a spade, and in the latest English translation it is
never designated an agricultural implement. Moreover the endless
foot-notes which the editor appends speak with much freedom of many
things usually avoided as themes for conversation in polite society,
though they throw a flood of light on hundreds of features of Oriental
life on which, since travellers have been compelled to write for
“refined” audiences, the student has failed to be informed. * * * * * *
Yet, admitting that _The Nights_ are often coarse and indelicate, and
sometimes even gross, it is a mistake to suppose that they are
demoralising in the same way that a French novel of the Zola type is, or
might be. Indeed, what we would call its impropriety is only a
reflection of the _naïve_ freedom with which talk is to this day carried
on in the family circles of the East. They see no harm in what we should
regard as indecency. So that when Captain Burton prefaces his
unbowdlerised version with the Arab proverb, “To the pure in heart all
things are pure,” he presents perhaps the best defence he could against
the attack which it is quite possible may be made on him for devoting
many years of his life to what he terms a “a labour of love.” * * *
Captain Burton, thirty-three years ago, went in the disguise of an
Indian pilgrim to Mecca and Al-Medinah, and no one capable of giving the
world the result of his experience has so minute, so exhaustive a
knowledge of Arab and Oriental life generally. Hence the work now
begun—only a limited number of students can ever see—is simply priceless
to any one who concerns himself with such subjects, and may be regarded
as marking an era in the annals of Oriental translation.
ST. JAMES’ GAZETTE, _September 12th, 1885_.
One of the most important translations to which a great English scholar
has ever devoted himself is now in the press. For three decades Captain
Burton has been more or less engaged on his translation of the _Arabian
Nights_, the latest of the many versions of that extraordinary story
which has been made into English, the only one at all worthy of a great
original.
WHITEHALL REVIEW, _September 17th, 1885_.
The publication of the first volume of Captain Burton’s translation of
the _Alif Laïla_, enriches the world of Oriental investigation with a
monument of labour and scholarship and of research. The book is
advisedly, and even inevitably, printed for private circulation, and is
intended, as Captain Burton says in his preface, only for the eyes of
such persons as are seriously students of Oriental life and manners, and
are desirous of making a more complete acquaintance with the great
masterpieces of Eastern literature than has hitherto been possible,
except to finished Arabic scholars. * * * * * In the name of the whole
world of Oriental scholarship, we offer our heartfelt thanks and
congratulations to Captain Burton upon the appearance of this first
volume: and we look forward with the keenest interest for its
successors.
HOME NEWS, _September 18th, 1885_.