[_3 Dec. '08_]
The judgments of men who have the right to judge are not as other
judgments. According to Mr. Yeats "the finest comedian of his kind on the
English-speaking stage" is not Mr. George Alexander, but Mr. William Fay!
And who, outside Dublin, has ever heard of Mr. J.M. Synge, author of "The
Playboy of the Western World?" For myself, I have heard of him, and that
is all. Mr. Yeats calls him "a unique man," and puts him above all other
Irish creative artists in prose. And very probably Mr. Yeats is correct.
For the difference between what informed people truly think about
reputations, and what is printed about reputations by mandarins in popular
papers, is apt to be startling. The other day I had a terrific pow-wow
with one of the most accomplished writers now living; it occurred in the
middle of a wood. We presently arrived at this point: He asked
impatiently: "Well, who _is_ there who can write tip-top poetry to-day?" I
tried to dig out my genuine opinions. Really, it is not so easy to put
one's finger on a high-class poet. I gave the names of Robert Bridges and
W.B. Yeats. He wouldn't admit Mr. Yeats's tip-topness. "What about T.W.H.
Crosland?" he inquired. At first, with the immeasurable and vulgar tedium
of Mr. Crosland's popular books in my memory, I thought he was joking. But
he was not. He was convinced than an early book by the slanger of suburbs
contained as fine poetry as has been written in these days. I was formally
bound over to peruse the volume. "And Alfred Douglas?" he said further.
(Not that he had shares or interest in the _Academy_!) Of course, I had to
admit that Lord Alfred Douglas, before he began to cut capers in the
hinterland of Fleet Street, had been a poet. I have an early volume of his
that, to speak mildly, I cherish. I should surmise that scarcely one
person in a million has the least idea of the identity of the artists by
which the end of the twentieth century will remember the beginning. The
vital facts of to-day's literature always lie buried beneath chatter of
large editions and immense popularities. I wouldn't mind so much, were it
not incontestable that at the end of the century I shall be dead.