day. Lists of the best American authors, lists of the best foreign
authors, lists of the best ten books published within a decade, have
appeared occasionally in our journals, while a list of books which
prominent people intended or hoped to read “in the near future” filled
us with respect for such heroic anticipations. Ten-volume works of the
severest character counted as trifles in these prospective studies. For
the past year, it is true, the World’s Fair has given a less scholastic
tone to newspaper discussions. We hear comparatively little about the
Analects of Confucius, and a great deal about the White City, and the
Department of Anthropology. Perhaps it is better to tell the public your
impressions of the Fair than to confide to it your favorite authors. One
revelation is as valuable as the other, but it is possible, with
caution, to talk about Chicago in terms that will give general
satisfaction. It is not possible to express literary, artistic, or
national preferences without exposing one’s self to vigorous reproaches
from people who hold different views. I was once lured by a New York
periodical into a number of harmless confidences, unlikely, it seemed to
me, to awaken either interest or indignation. The questions asked were
of the mildly searching order, like those which delighted the hearts of
children, when I was a very little girl, in our “Mental Photograph
Albums.” “Who is your favorite character in fiction?” “Who is your
favorite character in history?” “What do you consider the finest
attribute of man?” Having amiably responded to a portion of these
inquiries, I was surprised and flattered, some weeks later, at seeing
myself described in a daily paper--on the strength, too, of my own
confessions--as irrational, morbid, and cruel; excusable only on the
score of melancholy surroundings and a sickly constitution. And the
delightful part of it was that I had apparently revealed all this
myself. “Do not contend in words about things of no consequence,”
counsels St. Teresa, who carried with her to the cloister wisdom enough
to have kept all of us poor worldlings out of trouble.
The system by which opinions of little or no value are assiduously
collected and generously distributed is far too complete to be baffled
by inexperience or indifference. The enterprising editor or journalist
who puts the question is very much like Sir Charles Napier; he wants an
answer of some kind, however incapable we may be of giving it. A list of
the queries propounded to me in the last year or so recalls painfully my
own comprehensive ignorance. These are a few which I remember. What was
my opinion of college training as a preparation for literary work? What
was my opinion of Greek comedy? Was I a pessimist or an optimist, and
why? What were my favorite flowers, and did I cultivate them? What books
did I think young children ought _not_ to read? At what age and under
what impulses did I consider children first began to swear? What
especial and serious studies would I propose for married women? What did
I consider most necessary for the all-around development of the coming
young man? It appeared useless to urge in reply to these questions that
I had never been to college, never read a line of Greek, never been
married, never taken charge of children, and knew nothing whatever about
developing young men. I found that my ignorance on all these points was
assumed from the beginning, but that this fact only made my opinions
more interesting and piquant to people as ignorant as myself. Neither
did it ever occur to my correspondents that if I had known anything
about Greek comedy or college training, I should have endeavored to turn
my knowledge into money by writing articles of my own, and should never
have been so lavish as to give my information away.
That these public discussions or symposiums are, however, an occasional
comfort to their participants was proven by the alacrity with which a
number of writers came forward, some years ago, to explain to the world
why English fiction was not a finer and stronger article. Innocent and
short-sighted readers, wedded to the obvious, had foolishly supposed
that modern novels were rather forlorn because the novelists were not
able to write better ones. It therefore became the manifest duty of the
novelists to notify us clearly that they were able to write very much
better ones, but that the public would not permit them to do it. Like
Dr. Holmes, they did not venture to be as funny as they could.
“Thoughtful readers of mature age,” we were told, “are perishing for
accuracy.” This accuracy they were, one and all, prepared to furnish
without stint, but were prohibited lest “the clash of broken
commandments” should be displeasing to polite female ears. A great deal
of angry sentiment was exchanged on this occasion, and a great many
original and valuable suggestions were offered by way of relief. It was
an admirable opportunity for any one who had written a story to confide
to the world “the theory of his art,” to make self-congratulatory
remarks upon his own “standpoint,” and to deprecate the stupid propriety
of the public. When the echoes of these passionate protestations had
died into silence, we took comfort in thinking that Hawthorne had not
delayed to write “The Scarlet Letter” from a sensitive regard for his
neighbors’ opinions; and that two great nations, unvexed by “the clash
of broken commandments,” had received the book as a heritage of infinite
beauty and delight. Art needs no apologist, and our great literary
artist, using his chosen material after his chosen fashion, heedless
alike of new theories and of ancient prejudices, gave to the world a
masterpiece of fiction which the world was not too stupid to hold dear.
The pleasure of imparting opinions in print is by no means confined to
professionals, to people who are assumed to know something about a
subject because they have been more or less occupied with it for years.
On the contrary, the most lively and spirited discussions are those to
which the general public lends a willing hand. Almost any topic will
serve to arouse the argumentative zeal of the average reader, who rushes
to the fray with that joyous alacrity which is so exhilarating to the
peaceful looker-on. The disputed pronunciation or spelling of a word, if
ventilated with spirit in a literary journal, will call forth dozens of
letters, all written in the most serious and urgent manner, and all
apparently emanating from people of rigorous views and limitless
leisure. If a letter here or there--a _u_, perhaps, or an _l_--can only
be elevated to the dignity of a national issue, then the combatants don
their coats of mail, unfurl their countries’ flags, and wrangle merrily
and oft to the sounds of martial music. If, on the other hand, the
subject of contention be a somewhat obvious statement, as, for example,
that the work of women in art, science, and literature is inferior to
the work of men, it is amazing and gratifying to see the number of
disputants who promptly prepare to deny the undeniable, and lead a
forlorn hope to failure. The impassive reader who first encounters a
remark of this order is apt to ask himself if it be worth while to state
so explicitly what everybody already knows; and behold! a week has not
passed over his head before a dozen angry protestations are hurled into
print. These meet with sarcastic rejoinders. The editor of the journal,
who is naturally pleased to secure copy on such easy terms, adroitly
stirs up slumbering sentiment; and time, temper, and ink are wasted
without stint by people who are the only converts of their own
eloquence. “Embrace not the blind side of opinions,” says Sir Thomas
Browne, who, born in a contentious age, with “no genius to disputes,”
preached mellifluously of the joys of toleration, and of the discomforts
of inordinate zeal.
Not very long ago, I was asked by a sprightly little paper to please say
in its columns whether I thought new books or old books better worth the
reading. It was the kind of question which an ordinary lifetime spent in
hard study would barely enable one to answer; but I found, on examining
some back numbers of the journal, that it had been answered a great many
times already, and apparently without the smallest hesitation.
Correspondents had come forward to overturn our ancient idols, with no
sense of insecurity or misgiving. One breezy reformer from Nebraska
sturdily maintained that Mrs. Hodgson Burnett wrote much better stories
than did Jane Austen; while another intrepid person, a Virginian,
pronounced “The Vicar of Wakefield” “dull and namby-pamby,” declaring
that “one half the reading world would agree with him if they dared.”
Perhaps they would,--who knows?--but it is a privilege of that half of
the reading world to be silent on the subject. Simple preference is a
good and sufficient motive in determining one’s choice of books, but it
does not warrant a reader in conferring his impressions upon the world.
Even the involuntary humor of such disclosures cannot win them
forgiveness; for the tendency to permit the individual spirit to run
amuck through criticism is resulting in a lower standard of correctness.
“The true value of souls,” says Mr. Pater, “is in proportion to what
they can admire;” and the popular notion that everything is a matter of
opinion, and that one opinion is pretty nearly as good as another, is
immeasurably hurtful to that higher law by which we seek to rise
steadily to an appreciation of whatever is best in the world. Nor can we
acquit our modern critics of fostering this self-assertive ignorance,
when they so lightly ignore those indestructible standards by which
alone we are able to measure the difference between big and little
things. It seems a clever and a daring feat to set up models of our own;
but it is in reality much easier than toiling after the old
unapproachable models of our forefathers. The originality which
dispenses so blithely with the past is powerless to give us a correct
estimate of anything that we enjoy in the present.
It is but a short step from the offhand opinions of scientific or
literary men to the offhand opinions of the crowd. When the novelists
had finished telling us, in the newspapers and magazines, what they
thought about one another, and especially what _they_ thought about
themselves, it then became the turn of novel-readers to tell us what
they thought about fiction. This sudden invasion of the Vandals left to
the novelists but one resource, but one undisputed privilege. They could
permit us to know and they have permitted us to know just how they came
to write their books; in what moments of inspiration, under what benign
influences, they gave to the world those priceless pages.
“Sing, God of Love, and tell me in what dearth
Thrice-gifted Snevellicci came on earth!”
After which, unless the unsilenced public comes forward to say just how
and when and where they read the volumes, they must acknowledge
themselves routed from the field.
_La vie de parade_ has reached its utmost license when a Prime Minister
of England is asked to tell the world--after the manner of old Father
William--how he has kept so hale; when the Prince of Wales is requested
to furnish a list of readable books; when an eminent clergyman is
bidden to reveal to us why he has never been ill; when the wife of the
President of the United States is questioned as to how she cooks her
Thanksgiving dinner; when married women in private life draw aside the
domestic veil to tell us how they have brought up their daughters, and
unmarried women betray to us the secret of their social success. Add to
these sources of information the opinions of poets upon education, and
of educators upon poetry; of churchmen upon politics, and of politicians
upon the church; of journalists upon art, and of artists upon
journalism; and we must in all sincerity acknowledge that this is an
enlightened age. “The voice of the great multitude,” to quote from a
popular agitator, “rings in our startled ears;” and its eloquence is
many-sided and discursive. Albertus Magnus, it is said, once made a head
which talked. That was an exceedingly clever thing for him to do. But
the head was so delighted with its accomplishment that it talked all the
time. Whereupon, tradition holds, St. Thomas Aquinas grew impatient, and
broke it into pieces. St. Thomas was a scholar, a philosopher, and a
saint.
THE CHILDREN’S AGE.
If adults are disposed to doubt their own decreasing significance, and
the increasing ascendency of children, they may learn a lesson in
humility from the popular literature of the day, as well as from social
and domestic life. The older novelists were so little impressed by the
ethical or artistic consequence of childhood that they gave it scant
notice in their pages. Scott, save for a few passages here and there, as
in “The Abbot” and “Peveril of the Peak,” ignores it altogether. Miss
Austen is reticent on the subject, and, when she does speak, manifests a
painful lack of enthusiasm. Mary Musgrave’s troublesome little boys and
Lady Middleton’s troublesome little girl seem to be introduced for no
other purpose than to show how tiresome and exasperating they can be.
Fanny Price’s pathetic childhood is hurried over as swiftly as possible,
and her infant emotions furnish no food for speculation or analysis.
Saddest of all, Margaret Dashwood is ignored as completely as if she
had not reached the interesting age of thirteen. “A good-humored,
well-disposed girl,” this is all the description vouchsafed her; after
which, in the absence of further information, we forget her existence
entirely, until we are reminded in the last chapter that she has
“reached an age highly suitable for dancing, and not very ineligible for
being supposed to have a lover.” In other words, she is now ready for
treatment at the novelist’s hands; only, unhappily, the story is told,
the final page has been turned, and her chances are over forever.
I well remember my disappointment, as a child, at being able to find so
little about children in the old-fashioned novels on our bookshelves.
Trollope was particularly trying, because there were illustrations which
seemed to promise what I wanted, and which were wholly illusive in their
character. Posy and her grandfather playing cat’s-cradle, Edith Grantly
sitting on old Mr. Harding’s knee, poor little Louey Trevelyan furtively
watching his unhappy parents,--I used to read all around these pictures
in the hope of learning more about the children so portrayed. But they
never said or did anything to awaken my interest, or played any but
purely passive parts in the long histories of their grown-up relatives.
I had so few books of my own that I was compelled to forage for
entertainment wherever I could find it, dipping experimentally into the
most unpromising sources, and retiring discomfited from the search.
“Vivian Grey” I began several times with enthusiasm. The exploits of the
hero at school amazed and thrilled me--as well they might; but I never
comprehensively grasped his social and political career. Little Rawdon
Crawley and that small, insufferable George Osborne, were chance
acquaintances, introduced through the medium of the illustrations; but
my real friends were the Tullivers and David Copperfield, before he went
to that stupid school of Dr. Strong’s at Canterbury, and lost all
semblance of his old childish self. It was not possible to grow deeply
attached to Oliver Twist. He was a lifeless sort of boy, despite the
author’s assurances to the contrary; and, though the most wonderful
things were always happening to him, it never seemed to me that he lived
up to his interesting surroundings. He would have done very well for a
quiet life, but was sadly unsuited to that lively atmosphere of burglary
and housebreaking. “Aladdin,” says Mr. Froude, “remained a poor
creature, for all his genii.” As for Nell, I doubt if it would ever
occur to a small innocent reader to think of her as a child at all. I
was far from critical in those early days, and much disposed to agree
with Lamb’s amiable friend that all books must necessarily be good
books. Nell was, in my eyes, a miracle of courage and capacity, a
creature to be believed in implicitly, to be revered and pitied; but she
was not a little girl. I was a little girl myself, and I knew the
difference.
It was Dickens who first gave children their prestige in fiction.
Jeffrey, we are assured, shed tears over Nell; and Bret Harte, whose own
pathos is so profoundly touching, describes for us the rude and haggard
miners following her fortunes with breathless sympathy:
“While the whole camp with ‘Nell’ on English meadows,
Wandered and lost their way.”
At present we are spared the heartrending childish deathbeds which
Dickens made so painfully popular, because dying in novels has rather
gone out of style. The young people live, and thrive, and wax scornful,
and fill up chapter after chapter, to the exclusion of meritorious
adults. What a contrast between the incidental, almost furtive manner in
which Henry Kingsley introduces his delightful children into
“Ravenshoe,” and the profound assurance with which Sarah Grand devotes
seventy pages to a minute description of the pranks of the Heavenly
Twins. Readers of the earlier novel used to feel they would like to know
a little--just a little more of Gus, and Flora, and Archy, and the
patient nursery cat who was quite accustomed to being held upside down,
and who went out “a-walking on the leads,” when she was needed to
accompany her young master to bed. Readers of “The Heavenly Twins” begin
by being amused, then grow aghast, and conclude by wondering why the
wretched relatives of those irrepressible children were not driven to
some such expedient as that proposed by a choleric old gentleman of my
acquaintance to the doting mother of an only son. “Put him in a
hogshead, madam, and let him breathe through the bunghole!”
Two vastly different types of infant precocity have been recently given
to the world by Mrs. Deland and Mrs. Hodgson Burnett, the only point of
resemblance between their respective authors being the conviction which
they share in common that children are problems which cannot be too
minutely studied, and that we cannot devote too much time or attention
to their scrutiny. Mrs. Deland, with less humor and a firmer touch,
draws for us in “The Story of a Child,” a sensitive, highly strung,
morbid and imaginative little girl, who seems born to give the lie to
Schopenhauer’s comfortable verdict, that “the keenest sorrows and the
keenest joys are not for women to feel.” Ellen Dale suffers as only a
self-centred nature can. She thinks about her self so much that her poor
little head is turned with fancied shortcomings and imaginary wrongs.
Most children have these sombre moods now and again. They don’t overcome
them; they forget them, which is a better and healthier thing to do. But
Ellen’s humors are analyzed with a good deal of seriousness and
sympathy. When she is not “agonized” over her tiny faults, she is
“tasting sin with the subtle epicurean delight of the artistic
temperament;” a passage which may be aptly compared with George Eliot’s
tamer description of Lucy Deane trotting by her cousin Tom’s side,
“timidly enjoying the rare treat of doing something naughty.” The
sensations are practically the same, the methods of delineating them
different.
Mrs. Burnett, on the other hand, while indulging us unstintedly in
reminiscences of her own childhood, is disposed to paint the picture in
cheerful, not to say roseate colors. “The One I Knew the Best of All”
was evidently a very good, and clever, and pretty, and well-dressed
little girl, who played her part with amiability and decorum in all the
small vicissitudes common to infant years. No other children being
permitted to enter the narrative, except as lay figures, our attention
is never diverted from the small creature with the curls, who studies
her geography, and eats her pudding, and walks in the Square, and dances
occasionally at parties, and behaves herself invariably as a nice little
girl should. It is reassuring, after reading the youthful recollections
of Sir Richard Burton, with their irreverent and appalling candor, to
be gently consoled by Mrs. Burnett, and to know with certainty that she
really was such a delightful and charming child.
For Sir Richard, following the fashion of the day, has left us a
spirited record of _his_ early years, and they furnish scant food for
edification. There was a time when unfledged vices, like unfledged
virtues, were ignored by the biographer, and forgotten even by the more
conscientious writer, who compiled his own memoirs. Scott’s account of
his boyhood is graphic, but all too brief. Boswell, the diffuse, speeds
over Johnson’s tender youth with some not very commendatory remarks
about his “dismal inertness of disposition.” Gibbon, indeed, awakens our
expectations with this solemn and stately sentence:--
“My lot might have been that of a slave, a savage, or a peasant; nor can
I reflect without pleasure on the bounty of nature which cast my birth
in a free and civilized country, in an age of science and philosophy, in
a family of honorable rank, and decently endowed with the gifts of
fortune.”
After which majestic preamble, we are surprised to see how little
interest he takes in his own sickly and studious childhood, and how
disinclined he is to say complimentary things about his own precocity.
He writes without enthusiasm:--
“For myself I must be content with a very small share of the civil and
literary fruits of a public school.”
Burton, unhappily, had no share at all, and the loss of training and
discipline told heavily on him all his life. His lawless and wandering
childhood, so full of incident and so destitute of charm, is described
with uncompromising veracity in Lady Burton’s portly volumes. He was as
far removed from the virtues of Lord Fauntleroy as from the brilliant
and elaborate naughtiness of the Heavenly Twins; but he has the
advantage over all these little people in being so convincingly real. He
fought until he was beaten “as thin as a shotten herring.” He knocked
down his nurse--with the help of his brother and sister--and jumped on
her. He hid behind the curtains and jeered at his grandmother’s French.
He was not pretty, and he was not picturesque.
“A piece of yellow nankin would be bought to dress the whole family,
like three sticks of barley sugar.”
He was not amiable, and he was not polite, and he was not a safe child
on whom to try experiments of the “Harry and Lucy” order, as the
following anecdote proves:
“By way of a wholesome and moral lesson of self-command and self-denial,
our mother took us past Madame Fisterre’s (the pastry cook’s) windows,
and bade us look at all the good things; whereupon we fixed our ardent
affections on a tray of apple puffs. Then she said: ‘Now, my dears, let
us go away; it is so good for little children to restrain themselves.’
Upon this we three devilets turned flashing eyes and burning cheeks on
our moralizing mother, broke the window with our fists, clawed out the
tray of apple puffs, and bolted, leaving poor Mother a sadder and a
wiser woman, to pay the damages of her lawless brood’s proceedings.”
It is the children’s age when such a story--and many more like it--are
gleefully narrated and are gladly read. Yet if we must exchange the
old-time reticence for unreserved disclosures, if we must hear all
about an author’s infancy from his teething to his first breeches, and
from his A B C’s to his Greek and Latin, it is better to have him
presented to us with such unqualified veracity. He is not attractive
when seen in this strong light, but he is very much alive.
A FORGOTTEN POET.