“---- Mission,
“Madras,
“South India.
“DEAR SIR,
“As you are not unwilling to receive letters from strangers,
perhaps this from a distant land might not be unacceptable to
you. I am a missionary and have not read two novels during the
last five years (but thousands before then), but a friend of
mine having read your _When it was Dark_ persuaded me to read
it.
“I was greatly interested in the first few pages describing the
scenes of my birth and young manhood. I suppose Walktown is
meant for ----, if so, I was born in that part of Salford, and
although I belonged to St. ---- Church, I attended very
frequently St. ---- as the senior church of the district.
“I enclose an account of my conversion which will no doubt
interest you. I have thought many a time that it would be an
admirable theme for a novel. There are many other incidents in
my life that would lend interest, especially my association
with some of the most notorious anarchists of England and the
Continent, and America, I was also a journalist on the
_Clarion_, and a bosom friend of Robert Blatchford for fourteen
years, John Burns, the new Cabinet Minister, slept at my house
when he was an unemployed mechanic in 1885. I was personally
acquainted with Mrs. Annie Besant for many years, and now she
is here in Madras, the head-quarters of the Theosophical
Society. I have renewed my acquaintance with her.
“I have come to think that much good might be done by treating
of sacred subjects in the form that you have done, as you can
by this means reach the minds and souls of those millions whom
the Church cannot reach.
“The University here is turning out educated Hindus who, having
parted with their heathenism have taken up Western scepticism
in its place, and our Christian Missionaries are helpless to
avert it, the youth here are swamped by the cheap Rationalist
reprints. Could we but supply them with novels of Western life
showing up the folly of Haeckel, Blatchford, Spencer and Co.,
in the manner you have done, it would be a powerful
counter-attraction.
“Yours in Him we love.
“P.S.--The British people also need a novel that will show up
‘Blatchfordism,’ and you now have the ear of the reading
public.”
It is curious that in many of the letters I receive Mr. Robert
Blatchford’s name is mentioned. With some minds his writings have
great power and influence, probably I imagine because of their real
sincerity of purpose. It is the more cheering to know that an honest
effort to render the Incarnation increasingly credible to the man in
the street is not without reward. It is as difficult for me to
disbelieve in the fact that Christ was God as it is difficult for Mr.
Blatchford to believe it. Where one man sees a landscape the other
sees only a map. But there are, nevertheless, a great many people who
deny the Catholic Faith because, while they desire to retain the name
of Christians, they are unwilling to accept the obligations of
Christianity. And while looking about for something to believe, a
necessity of the human soul, they either find it in Mrs. Eddy and
other false prophets, or finally join issue with the editor of the
_Clarion_.
An author’s letter-bag is always full of surprises, and such a
correspondence as I am privileged to receive often entails a vast
amount of extra work. But it is almost impossible not to reply to at
least two-thirds of the letters that reach one, and though reply
sometimes leads to a lengthy interchange of letters all are helpful
and encourage one to continue, while some are full of the most
illuminating suggestions.
Of this the following letter from one of the Canons of Durham
Cathedral is a typical example:--
“DEAR SIR,
“In your coming story I hope you will lay stress on the fact
that our ‘higher’ education is practically a Pagan one. All
University honours, fellowships, scholarships, prizes are for
proficients in Pagan literature; interesting (for some people).
Beautiful in language as this literature is, it lacks the
spirit and power of the Christian Faith. The common rooms smell
of Plato and Aristotle. There is no cross in a Don’s life, as
such, though a few rise above the normal standard.
“This system filters through the public schools down to the
smallest private schools, in most of which the daily bread, the
upholding of Christ as Saviour, teacher, master, example and
king is left out.
“At Eton, where I was myself, religious teaching did not exist.
We had Sunday questions of which one specimen will suffice,
given to my nephew the other day.
“‘Of what judge is a curious incident recorded and what was the
incident?’ The result of this is far-reaching and deplorable.
“In Parliament the members assemble by troops to hear about
some personal scandal, but when the happiness of English
girlhood is in question there is hardly a ‘house.’ And so with
other questions that concern the personal holiness and
happiness of our men and women and children.
“Forgive me for this taking up of your time, but your pen may
do what I feel myself unable to do.”
I have received a good many letters from clergymen endorsing the views
I expressed in my book called _First it was Ordained_, views which I
have consolidated in the previous essay, “The Fires of Moloch.” I give
only one example owing to reasons of space. In view, however, of the
strong opposition which exists, and of which I have had plenty of
evidence, to any attempt to tell the truth, the following short
letter, which is typical of many others, was a great pleasure to
get:--
“The Clergy House,
“---- E.C.
“May I say how much I have enjoyed your last book? _First, &c_.
It was hard to put it down without finishing it straight off.
“I hope it will do a power of good to stop the fearful and
widespread sin.
“I do not think it at all too outspoken. The Bishop of London
is quite plain on the matter. I believe a learned gynæcologist
has an article supporting the statements made in his speech, in
last month’s _Nineteenth Century_.”
I began by complaining that my post-bag often contained distressing
letters asking for help which I was generally unable to supply. When I
read over the correspondence which I have printed here I feel that I
ought to regard my letter-box as a coffer of treasure, that my postman
is indeed that same Hermes who brought the magic herb to Odysseus, my
letters--
“--Wing’d postilions that can fly
From the Atlantic to the Arctic sky--
The heralds and swift harbingers that move
From East to West on embassies of love.”
I only made what at the time I thought was a very small collection to
print here--just a thin bundle taken from hundreds. Yet already I find
that a third of the little pile has nearly filled my space and I fear
that my readers will weary, even if they have read so far.
“The man is printing his testimonials like a pill-maker!” I can hear
Meletus snarl. “Who cares whether a few stupid people _do_ like his
twaddle!” Lycom answers. Yet bear with me a little, brethren; you need
not have read this paper, you know. Laugh if you will; laughter is the
great agent that preserves a sense of proportion among us, and the man
who laughs sounds the keynote of tolerance. But laugh kindly,
remembering the vanity of authors and the wish of all of us to stand
well with the world.
My post-bag day by day contains a certain missive which is not a
letter. It is a little green, printed wrapper which most authors,
painters, players, and musicians are in the habit of receiving--it is
the batch of press-cuttings which show how the critics regard my books
and what the paragraphists have to say. The critics are always being
criticized by authors. Mr. Jones gravely points out the duty of
appreciating his work that the reviewer owes to literature. Nor is it,
as Mr. Birrell pointed out, in the days when he wrote delightful
essays and had not been forced to dance to the dictates of political
dissent, the unsuccessful author who is the loudest in complaint. The
beginner, the men and women who cannot say as yet that they have
achieved a definite position, these seem to have digested the poet
laureate’s neat advice--
“Friend, be not fretful if the voice of fame,
Along the narrow way of hurrying men,
Whereunto echo echo shouts again,
Be all day long not noisy with your name.”
But others are not so reticent. For my part I cannot understand the
attitude of the novelist who publishes shouts of resentment at
criticism which is not to his liking--remember, in view of what I am
going to say later, that I use the word _criticism_. The other day,
while on a journey to the Riviera, I bought a copy of Miss Marie
Corelli’s last book of essays, in Paris. I read it through the night
until I fell asleep, and when the sun flooded the olive trees I took
it up once more, and finished it just as we ran into Marseilles. I
suppose that this lady is the most popular writer of the day. She is a
great modern force; she reaches an enormous audience, and speaks
straight to their hearts. I have heard dozens of men and women say
that they prefer her to any author alive or dead. Now this is surely
to be in a very splendid position, is it not? Why, then, should a
woman whose talents have won for her such place and power, print an
angry, comprehensive, and I am afraid sometimes, spiteful indictment
of all critics? I can’t see her reason.