"Great tamer of all human art!
First in my care and ever at my heart;
Dullness whose good old cause I still defend.
* * * * *
O ever gracious to perplex'd mankind,
Still shed a healing mist before the mind;
And lest we err by wit's wild dancing light,
Secure us kindly in our native night."
I would not call any one a gentle reader who does not now and then take
up a dull book, and enjoy it in the spirit in which it was written.
Wise old Burton, in the Anatomy of Melancholy, advises the restless
person to "read some pleasant author till he be asleep." Many persons
find the Anatomy of Melancholy to answer this purpose; though Dr.
Johnson declares that it was the only book that took him out of bed two
hours before he wished to rise. It is hard to draw the line between
stimulants and narcotics.
This insistence on the test of the enjoyment of the dullness of a dull
book is not arbitrary. It arises from the characteristic of the Gentle
Reader. He takes a book for what it is and never for what it is not. If
he doesn't like it at all he doesn't read it. If he does read it, it is
because he likes its real quality. That is the way we do with our
friends. They are the people of whom we say that "we get at them." I
suppose every one of us has some friend of whom we would confess that as
thinker he is inferior to Plato. But we like him no less for that. We
might criticise him if we cared,--but we never care. We prefer to take
him as he is. It is the flavor of his individuality that we enjoy.
Appreciation of literature is the getting at an author, so that we like
what he is, while all that he is not is irrelevant.
There are those who endeavor to reduce literary criticism to an exact
science. To this end they would eliminate the personal element, and
subject our admirations to fixed standards. In this way it is hoped
that we may ultimately be able to measure the road to Parnassus by
kilometers. All this is much more easily said than done. Personal
likings will not stay eliminated. We admire the acuteness of the critic
who reveals the unsuspected excellence of our favorite writer. It is a
pleasure like that which comes when a friend is received into a learned
society. We don't know much about his learning, but we know that he is a
good fellow, and we are glad to learn that he is getting on. We feel
also a personal satisfaction in having our tastes vindicated and our
enjoyment treated as if it were a virtue, just as Mr. Pecksniff was
pleased with the reflection that while he was eating his dinner, he was
at the same time obeying a law of the Universe.
But the rub comes when the judgment of the critic disagrees with ours.
We discover that his laws have no penalties, and that if we get more
enjoyment from breaking than from obeying, then we are just that much
ahead. As for giving up an author just because the judgment of the
critic is against him, who ever heard of such a thing? The stanchest
canons of criticism are exploded by a genuine burst of admiration.
That is what happens whenever a writer of original force appears. The
old rules do not explain him, so we must make new rules. We first enjoy
him, and then we welcome the clever persons who assure us that the
enjoyment is greatly to our credit. But--
"You must love him ere to you
He shall seem worthy of your love."
I asked a little four-year-old critic, whose literary judgments I accept
as final, what stories she liked best. She answered, "I like Joseph and
Aladdin and The Forty Thieves and The Probable Son."
It was a purely individual judgment. Some day she may learn that she has
the opinion of many centuries behind her. When she studies rhetoric she
may be able to tell why Aladdin is better than The Shaving of Shagpat,
and why the story of "The Probable Son" delights her, while the
half-hour homily on the parable makes not the slightest impression on
her mind. The fact is, she knows a good story just as she knows a good
apple. How the flavor got there is a scientific question which she has
not considered; but being there, trust the uncloyed palate to find it
out! She does not set up as a superior person having good taste; but she
says, "I can tell you what tastes good."
The Gentle Reader is not greatly drawn to any formal treatises. He does
not enjoy a bare bit of philosophy that has been moulded into a fixed
form. Yet he dearly loves a philosopher, especially if he turns out to
be a sensible sort of man who doesn't put on airs.
He likes the old Greek way of philosophizing. What a delight it was for
him to learn that the Academy in Athens was not a white building with
green blinds set upon a bleak hilltop, but a grove where, on pleasant
days, Plato could be found, ready to talk with all comers! That was
something like; no board of trustees, no written examinations, no
text-books--just Plato! You never knew what was to be the subject or
where you were coming out; all you were sure of was that you would come
away with a new idea. Or if you tired of the Academy, there were the
Peripatetics, gentlemen who were drawn together because they imagined
they could think better on their legs; or there were the Stoics, elderly
persons who liked to sit on the porch and discuss the "cosmic weather."
No wonder the Greeks got such a reputation as philosophers! They deserve
no credit for it. Any one would like philosophy were it served up in
that way.
All that has passed. Were Socrates to come back and enter a downtown
office to inquire after the difference between the Good and the
Beautiful, he would be confronted with one of those neatly printed
cards, intended to discourage the Socratic method during business hours:
"This is our busy day."
The Gentle Reader also has his business hours, and has learned to submit
to their inexorable requirements; but now and then he has a few hours to
himself. He declines an invitation to a progressive euchre party, on the
ground of a previous engagement he had made long ago, in his college
days, to meet some gentlemen of the fifth century B. C. The evening
passes so pleasantly, and the world seems so much fresher in interest,
that he wonders why he doesn't do that sort of thing oftener. Perhaps
there are some other progressive euchre parties he could cut, and the
world be none the worse.
How many people there have been who have gone through the world with
their eyes open, and who have jotted down their impressions by the way!
How quickly these philosophers come to know their own. Listen to Izaak
Walton in his Epistle to the Reader: "I think it fit to tell thee these
following truths, that I did not undertake to write or publish this
discourse of Fish and Fishing to please myself, and that I wish it may
not displease others. And yet I cannot doubt but that by it some readers
may receive so much profit that if they be not very busy men, may make
it not unworthy the time of their perusal. And I wish the reader to take
notice that in the writing of it I have made a recreation of a
recreation; and that it might prove so to thee in the reading, and not
to read dully and tediously, I have in several places mixed some
innocent mirth; of which if thou be a severe, sour-complexioned man,
then I here disallow thee to be a competent judge.... I am the willinger
to justify this innocent mirth because the whole discourse is a kind of
picture of my own disposition, at least of my disposition on such days
and times as I allow myself--when Nat and I go fishing together." How
cleverly he bows out the ichthyologists! How he rebukes the sordid
creature who has come simply to find out how to catch fish! That is the
very spirit of Simon Magus! "Thou hast neither part nor lot in this
matter!"
The Gentle Reader has no ulterior aims. All he wants to know is how
Izaak Walton felt when he went fishing, and what he was thinking about.
"A kind of picture of a man's own disposition," that is literature. Even
the most futile attempt at self-revelation evokes sympathy. I remember,
as a boy, gazing at an austere volume in my grandfather's library. It
was, as far as I could ascertain, an indigestible mixture of theology
and philology. But my eye was caught by the title, The Diversions of
Purley. I had not the slightest idea who Purley was, but my heart went
out to him at once.
"Poor Purley!" I said. "If these were your diversions, what a dog's life
you must have led!" I could see Purley gazing vaguely through his
spectacles as he said: "Don't pity me! It's true I have had my
trials,--but then again what larks! See that big book; I did it!" Only
long after did I learn that my sympathy was un-called for, as Purley
was not a person but a place.
* * * * *
Of all the devices for promoting a good understanding the old-fashioned
Preface was the most excellent. It was not an introduction to the
subject, its purpose was personal. In these days the Preface, where it
survives, is reduced to the smallest possible space. It is like the
platform of an electric car which affords the passenger a precarious
foothold while he strives to obey the stern demand of the conductor that
he move forward. But time was when the Preface was the broad hospitable
porch on which the Author and Reader sat for an hour or so and talked
over the enterprise that was before them. Sometimes they would talk so
long that they almost forgot their ostensible subject.
The very title of Sir William Davenant's "Preface before Gondibert"
suggests the hospitable leisure of the seventeenth century. Gondibert is
a poetical masterpiece not to be lightly adventured upon. The mind must
be duly prepared for it. Sir William, therefore, discourses about poetry
in general, and then takes up special instances.
"I will (according as all times have applied their reverence) begin with
Homer."
"Homer is an admirable point of departure, and I have no doubt but that
you will also tell what you think of Virgil," says the Gentle Reader,
who when he is asked to go a mile is glad to go twain.
Then follows discourse on Lucan, Statius, Tasso, and the rest.
"But I feel (sir) that I am falling into the dangerous Fit of a hot
writer; for instead of performing the promise which begins this Preface,
and doth oblige me (after I had given you the judgement of some upon
others), to present myself to your censure, I am wandering after new
thoughts; but I shall ask your pardon and return to my undertaking."
"No apologies are necessary, I assure you. With new thoughts the rule is
first come, first served, while an immortal masterpiece can wait till
such time as we can enjoy it together."
After some reflections on the fallibility of the clergy and the state of
the country, the author proceeds to describe the general structure of
his poem.
"I have now given you an account of such provisions as I have made for
this new Building, and you may next please, having examined the
substance, to take a view of the form." He points out the "shadowings,
happy strokes, and sweet graces" of his work. This is done with an
intimacy of knowledge and fullness of appreciation that could not be
possible in a stranger.
"'Tis now fit, after I have given you so long a survey of the Building,
to render you some account of the Builder, that you may know by what
times, pains, and assistance I have already proceeded."
The time passes with much pleasure and profit until at last the host
says: "And now (sir) I shall after my busy vanitie in shewing and
describing my new Building, with great quietness, being almost as weary
as yourself, bring you to the Back-dore."
It is all so handsomely done that the reader is prepared to begin upon
the poem itself, and would do so were it not that the distinguished
friend of the author, Mr. Hobbes, has prepared An Answer to the
Preface--a point of politeness which has not survived the seventeenth
century. Mr. Hobbes is of the opinion that there is only one point in
which Gondibert is inferior to the masterpieces of antiquity, and that
is that it is written in English instead of in Greek or Latin. The
Preface and Answer to the Preface having been read, the further
discovery is made that there is a Postscript.
The Author, it appears, has fallen on evil days, and is in prison
charged with High Treason.
"I am arrived here at the middle of the Third Book which makes an equal
half of the Poem, and I was now by degrees to present you (as I promised
in the Preface) the several keys to the Main Building, which should
convey you through such short walks as give you an easie view of the
whole Frame. But 'tis high time to strike sail and cast anchor (though I
have but run half my course), when at the Helme I am threatened with
Death, who though he can trouble us but once seems troublesome, and even
in the Innocent may beget such gravitie as diverts the Musick of Verse.
I beseech thee if thou art as civill as to be pleased with what is
written, not to take it ill that I run not till my last gasp.... If thou
art a malicious Reader thou wilt remember my Preface boldly confessed
that a main motive to this undertaking was a desire of Fame, and thou
maist likewise say that I may not possibly live to enjoy it.... If thou
(Reader) art one of those who has been warmed with Poetick Fire, I
reverence thee as my Judge, and whilst others tax me with Vanitie as if
the Preface argued my good Opinion of the Work, I appeal to thy
Conscience whether it be much more than such a necessary assurance as
thou hast made to thyself in like Undertakings."
The Gentle Reader feels that whatever may be the merits of Gondibert,
Sir William Davenant is a gallant gentleman and worthy of his lasting
friendship.
* * * * *
The Gentle Reader has a warm place in his heart for those whom he calls
the paradisaical writers. These are the unfallen spirits who reveal
their native dispositions and are not ashamed. They write about that
which they find most interesting--themselves. They not only tell us what
happens, but what they think and how they feel. We are made partners of
their joys and sorrows. The first person singular is glorified by their
use.
"But," says the Severe Moralist, "don't you frequently discover that
these persons are vain?"
"Precisely so," answers the Gentle Reader, "and that's what I want to
find out. How are you going to discover what an author thinks about
himself if he hides behind a mask of impersonality? There is no getting
acquainted with such hypocrites. In five hundred pages you may not have
a glimpse of the man behind the book, though he may be bubbling over
with self-conceit. There was Alexander Cruden, one of the most eccentric
persons of the eighteenth century. Fully persuaded of his own greatness,
he called himself Alexander the Corrector and announced that he was
destined to be 'the second Joseph and a great man at court.' He haunted
the ante-chambers of the nobility, but found only one nobleman who would
listen to him, Earl Paulett, 'who being goutish in his feet could not
run away from the Corrector as other men are apt to do.' Cruden appears
to have spent his leisure moments in going about London with a large
piece of sponge with which he erased any offensive chalk marks on the
walls. 'This employment,' says his biographer, 'occasionally made his
walks very tedious.' Now one might consult Cruden's 'Concordance of the
Holy Scriptures' in vain for any hint of these idiosyncrasies of the
author. Perhaps the nature of the work made this impossible. But what
shall we say of writers who, having no such excuse, take pains to
conceal from us what manner of men they were. Even David Hume, whose
good opinion of himself is a credit to his critical sagacity, assumes an
apologetic tone when he ventures upon a sketch of his own life. 'It is
difficult,' he says, 'for a man to speak long about himself without
vanity; therefore I shall be brief.' What obtuseness that shows in a
philosopher who actually wrote a treatise on human nature! What did he
know about human nature if he thought anybody would read an
auto-biography that was without vanity? Vanity is one of the most
lovable of weaknesses. If in our contemporaries it sometimes troubles
us, that is only because two bodies cannot occupy the same space at the
same time. But when it is all put in a book and the pure juices of
self-satisfaction have been allowed to mellow for a few centuries,
nothing can be more delicious."
His heart was won by a single sentence in one of Horace Walpole's
letters: "I write to you as I think." To the writer who gives him this
mark of confidence he is as faithful as is the Arab to the guest who has
eaten salt in his tent. The books which contain the results of thought
are common enough, but it is a rare privilege to share with a pleasant
gentleman the act of thinking. If the thoughts are those which arise
spontaneously out of the incidents of the passing day, so much the
better. He therefore warmly resents Wordsworth's remark about "that cold
and false-hearted, frenchified coxcomb, Horace Walpole."
"What has Horace Walpole done except to give us a picture of his own
disposition and incidentally of the world he lived in? It is an instance
of the ingratitude of Republics--and the Republic of Letters is the most
ungrateful of them all--that this should be made the ground of a railing
accusation against him. Walpole might answer as Timoleon did, when,
after having restored the liberties of Syracuse, a citizen denounced him
in the popular assembly. The Liberator replied: 'I cannot sufficiently
express my gratitude to the gods for granting my request in permitting
me to see all the Syracusans enjoy the liberty of saying what they think
fit.' A man who could write letters for sixty-two years revealing every
phase of feeling for the benefit of posterity earns the right of making
as magnanimous a retort as that of any of Plutarch's men. He might well
thank the gods for permitting him to furnish future generations with
ample material for passing judgment upon him. For myself, I do not agree
with Wordsworth. I have summered and wintered with Horace Walpole and he
has never played me false; he has shown himself exactly as he is. To be
sure, he has his weaknesses, but he is always ready to share them with
his friends. I suppose that is the reason why he is accused of being
frenchified. A true born Englishman would have kept his faults to
himself as if they were incommunicable attributes. I am not going to
allow a bit of criticism to come between us at this late day. The
relation between Reader and Author is not to be treated so lightly. I
believe that there is no reason for separation in such cases except
incompatibility of temper."
Then he makes his way to Strawberry Hill and listens to its master
describing his possession. "It is set in enameled meadows with filigree
hedges,--
'A small Euphrates through the piece is rolled
And little finches wave their wings of gold.'
Two delightful roads, that you would call dusty, supply me continually
with coaches and chaises; barges as solemn as barons of the exchequer
move under my window; Richmond Hill and Ham Walks bound my prospects;
but thank God! the Thames is between me and the Duchess of Queensberry.
Dowagers as plenty as flounders inhabit all around; and Pope's ghost is
just now skimming under my window by a most poetical moonlight."
It is pleasant to sit in the Gothic villa on Strawberry Hill and see the
world pass by. The small Euphrates, the filigree hedges, and the
gossiping dowagers, being in the foreground, appear more important than
they do in the formal histories which have no perspective. But the great
world does pass by, and the master of the house is familiar with it and
recognizes every important person in the procession. Was he not a Prime
Minister's son, and were not his first letters written from Downing
Street?
How rapidly the procession moves, giving only time for a nod and a word!
The reader is like a country cousin in the metropolis bewildered by a
host of new sensations. Now and then he smiles as some one whose name
has been long familiar is pointed out. The chief wonder is that there
are so many notabilities of whom he has never heard before. What an
unconscionable number of Duchesses there are, and each one has a
history! How different the Statesmen are from what he had imagined; not
nearly so wise but ever so much more amusing. Even the great William
Pitt appears to be only "Sir William Quixote," and a fantastic figure he
is! Strawberry Hill has its prejudices. It listens incredulously to the
stories illustrative of incorruptible political virtue. They are tales
to be told to Posterity.
In regard to the historical drama that unfolds there is a pleasant
ambiguity. Which is it that sees behind the scenes,--the writer or the
present-day reader? The reader representing Posterity has a general
notion of the progress of events. He thinks he knows how things actually
came out and which were the more important. He is anxious to know how
they strike a contemporary. But he is chastened by the discovery of the
innumerable incidents which Posterity has forgotten, but which made a
great stir in their day. "The Tower guns have sworn through thick and
thin that Prince Ferdinand has entirely demolished the French, and city
bonfires all believe it." Prince Ferdinand "is the most fashionable man
in England. Have not the Tower guns and all the parsons in London been
ordered to pray for him?"
The Gentle Reader is almost tempted to look up Prince Ferdinand, but is
diverted from this inquiry by a bit of gossip about the Duke of
Marlborough and the silver spoons.
When he comes to the glorious year 1775 he is eager to learn the
sensations of Walpole when the echoes of the "shot heard round the
world" come to him. The shot is heard, but its effect is not so
startling as might have been imagined. "I did but put my head into
London on Thursday, and more bad news from America. I wonder when it
will be bad enough to make folks think it so, without going on?" Then
Walpole turns to something more interesting. "I have a great mind to
tell you a Twickenham story."
It is about a certain Captain Mawhood who had "applied himself to learn
the classics and free-thinking and was always disputing with the parson
of the parish about Dido and his own soul."
It is not just what the Gentle Reader was expecting, but he adapts
himself cheerfully to the situation.
"I was about to inquire what you thought about the American war, but we
may come to that at some other time. Now let us have the Twickenham
story."
* * * * *
The Gentle Reader loves the writers who reveal their intellectual
limitations, but he does not care for those who insist upon telling him
their physical ailments. He is averse to the letters and journals which
are merely contributions to pathology. Indeed, he would, if he had his
own way, allow the mention of only one malady, the gout. This is
doubtless painful enough in the flesh, but in a book it has many
pleasant associations. Its intervals seem conducive to reminiscence, and
its twinges are the occasions of eloquent objurgations which light up
many an otherwise colorless page.
With all his tolerance of vanity he dislikes that inverted kind which
induces certain morbid persons to write out painful confessions of their
own sins. He is willing to believe that they are far from perfect, but
he is sceptical in regard to their claims to be the chief of sinners. It
is hard to attain distinction in a line where there is so much
competition.
When he finds a book of Life and Letters unreadable, he does not bring a
railing accusation against either the biographer or the biographee.
They may both have been interesting persons, though the result in cold
print is not exhilarating. He knows how volatile is the charm of
personality, and how hard it is to preserve the best things. His friend,
who is a great diner-out, says: "Those were delightful people I met at
dinner yesterday, and what a capital story the judge told! I laugh every
time I think about it."
"What story?" asks the Gentle Reader, eager for the crumbs that fall
from the witty man's table.
"I can't remember just what it was about, or what was the point of it;
but it was a good story, and you would have thought so, too, if you had
heard the judge tell it."
"I certainly should," replies the Gentle Reader, "and I shall always
believe, on your testimony, that the judge is one of the best
story-tellers in existence."
In like manner he believes in interesting things that great men must
have done which unfortunately were not taken down by any one at the
time.
* * * * *
The Gentle Reader himself is not much at home in fashionable literary
society. He is a shy person, and his embarrassment is increased by the
consciousness that he seldom gets round to a book till after people are
through talking about it. Not that he prides himself on this fact; for
he is far from cherishing the foolish prejudice against new books.
"'David Copperfield' was a new book once, and it was as good then as it
is now." It simply happens that there are so many good books that it is
hard to keep up with the procession. Besides, he has discovered that the
books that are talked about can be talked about just as well without
being read; this leaves him more time for his old favorites.
"I have a sweet little story for you," says the charming authoress. "I
am sure you like sweet little stories."
"Only one lump, if you please," says the Gentle Reader.
In spite of his genial temperament there are some subjects on which he
is intolerant. When he picks up a story that turns out to be only a
Tract for the Times, he turns indignantly on the author.
"Sirrah," he cries, under the influence of deep feeling, relapsing into
the vernacular of romance, "you gained access to me under the plea that
you were going to please me; and now that you have stolen a portion of
my time, you throw off all disguise, and admit that you entered with
intent to instruct, and that you do not care whether you please me or
not! I've a mind to have you arrested for obtaining my attention under
false pretenses! How villainously we are imposed upon! Only the other
day a man came to me highly recommended as an architect. I employed him
to build me a Castle in Spain, regardless of expense. When I suggested a
few pleasant embellishments, the wretch refused on the ground that he
never saw anything of the kind in the town he came from,--Toledo, Ohio.
If he had pleaded honest poverty of invention I should have forgiven
him, but he took a high and mighty tone with me, and said that it was
against his principles to allow any incident that was not probable. 'Who
said that it should be probable?' I replied. 'It is your business to
make it _seem_ probable.'"
He highly disapproves of what he considers the cheese-paring economy on
the part of certain novelists in the endowment of their characters.
"Their traits are so microscopic, and require such minute analysis, that
I get half through the book before I know which is which. It seems as if
the writers were not sure that there was enough human nature to go
around. They should study the good old story of Aboukir and Abousir.
"'There were in the city of Alexandria two men,--one was a dyer, and his
name was Aboukir; the other was a barber, and his name was Abousir. They
were neighbors, and the dyer was a swindler, a liar, and a person of
exceeding wickedness.'
"Now, there the writer and reader start fair. There are no unnecessary
concealments. You know that the dyer is a villain, and you are on your
guard. You are not told in the first paragraph about the barber, but you
take it for granted that he is an excellent, well-meaning man, who is
destined to become enormously wealthy. And so it turns out. If our
writers would only follow this straightforward method we should hear
less about nervous prostration among the reading classes." He is very
severe on the whimsical notion, that never occurred to any one until the
last century, of saying that the heroine is not beautiful.
"Such a remark is altogether gratuitous. When I become attached to a
young lady in fiction she always appears to me to be an extraordinarily
lovely creature. It's sheer impertinence for the author to intrude,
every now and then, just to call my attention to the fact that her
complexion is not good, and that her features are irregular. It's bad
manners,--and, besides, I don't believe that it's true."
Nothing, however, so offends the Gentle Reader as the trick of
elaborating a plot and then refusing to elucidate it, and leaving
everything at loose ends. He feels toward this misdirected ingenuity as
Miss Edgeworth's Harry did toward the conundrum which his sister
proposed.
"This is quite different," he said, "from the others. The worst of it is
that after laboring ever so hard at one riddle it does not in the least
lead to another. The next is always on some other principle."
"Yes, to be sure," said Lucy. "Nobody who knows how to puzzle would give
two riddles of the same kind; that would be too easy."
"But then, without something to guide one," said Harry, "there is no
getting on."
"Not in your regular way," said Lucy.
"That is the very thing I complain of," said Harry.
"Complain! But my dear Harry, riddles are meant only to divert one."
"But they do not divert me," said Harry; "they only puzzle me."
The Gentle Reader is inclined to impute unworthy motives to the writer
whose work merely puzzles him.
"The lazy unscrupulous fellow takes a job, and then throws it up and
leaves me to finish it for him. It's a clear breach of contract! That
sort of thing would never have been allowed in any well-governed
community. Fancy what would have happened in the court of Shahriar,
where story-telling was taken seriously."
Sheherazade has got Sindbad on the moving island.
"How did he get off?" asks the Sultan.
"That's for your majesty to find out," answers Sheherazade archly.
"Maybe he got off, and maybe he didn't. That's the problem."
"Off with her head!" says the Sultan.
When sore beset by novelists who, under the guise of fiction, attempt to
saddle him with "the weary weight of all this unintelligible world," the
Gentle Reader takes refuge with one who has never deceived him.
"What shall it be?" says Sir Walter.
"As you please, Sir Walter."
"No! As _you_ please, Gentle Reader. If you have nothing else in mind,
how would this do for a start?--
'Waken! Lords and Ladies gay!
On the mountain dawns the day.'
It's a fine morning, and it's a gallant company!
Let's go with them!"
"Let's!" cries the Gentle Reader.