II

I think it is a horrible thing to have such a good memory as that. I

recollect, now that you remind me, that I did lay down "Pickwick" _v._

"Vanity Fair" as a sort of test case of my theory of literature; but you

surely do not expect me to work out the arguments in detail? Of course

if I were giving a series of lectures I should "set a paper" after each

one; but I expect you to content yourself with the suggestion, with the

skeleton map, as it were. Besides, if we take that special case of two

eminent Victorian novels as a concrete instance of the abstract

argument, don't you see that we are answering the particular question

all the while that we are investigating the general proposition? Surely

if you recollect all that we said about fine literature in general, you

won't have much difficulty in adjudicating on the claims of Thackeray.

Don't you see that he never withdraws himself from the common life and

the common consciousness, that he is all the while nothing but a

photographer; a showman with a set of pictures. A consummately clever

photographer, certainly, a showman with a gift of amusing, interesting

"patter" that is quite extraordinary, an artificer of very high merit.

But where will you find Ecstasy in Thackeray? Where is his adoration?

You may search, I think, from one end of his books to the other, without

finding any evidence that he realised the mystery of things; he was

never for a moment aware of that shadowy double, that strange companion

of man, who walks, as I said, foot to foot with each one of us, and yet

his paces are in an unknown world. And (unless you have got any fresh

arguments) I think we decided last week that the book which lacks the

sense of all this is not fine literature.

I hope you don't think I am abusing Thackeray. I am always reading him,

and I chose his "Vanity Fair" because it strikes me as such a supremely

clever example of its class. I suppose there is nothing more amusing

than the society of a brilliant, observant man of the world. Well,

Thackeray was brilliant and observant _in excelsis_, and besides that,

he understood the artifice of story-telling, and he could write a terse,

clean-cut English which was always sufficient for his purpose. He

contrives the corporal overthrow of the Marquis of Steyne, he shows you

that bald old nobleman sprawling on the floor, and the words that he

uses are his brisk, willing, and capable servants. He has observation,

and artifice, and "style" in that secondary sense which we distinguished

from the real style; from those "melodies unheard" which I called (I

think rather picturesquely) the glorified body of the highest literary

art. But these qualities, we found out, are not, separately or

conjointly, the differentia of fine literature as we understand the

term; and consequently, with all our admiration and all our interest we

are compelled to place Thackeray in the lower form, simply because he is

clearly and decisively lacking in that one essential quality of ecstasy,

because he never leaves the street and the highroad to wander on the

eternal hills, because he does not seem to be aware that such hills

exist.

Of course I have only taken Thackeray as the representative of his

class, and I chose him, as I remarked, because, for me, he is the most

favourable representative of it. I am thinking, really, of the "plain

man" whom we have engaged in so many forms, and of his "plain" argument

which comes to this--"for me a great book is a book that amuses me

greatly and that I enjoy reading." And I say that Thackeray amuses me

greatly and that I enjoy reading his books immensely, but that, with due

respect to "common sense," such an argument fails to prove that "Vanity

Fair" is fine literature. Other people would, no doubt, have chosen

other books; many would have selected Miss Austen, and I daresay they

would have a good deal to say for their choice. Undoubtedly there is a

severity, a self-restraint, a fineness of observation, a delicacy of

irony in "Pride and Prejudice" which are unmatched of their kind (the

Thackeray of the caricatures, of those queer woodblocks, comes out now

and then in the books, and digression occasionally goes beyond due

bounds); but I named "Vanity Fair" because, personally, I find it more

amusing than "Pride and Prejudice." In neither of these books is there

art in our high sense of the word, and in preferring the one over the

other I am simply saying that I prefer the company of a brilliant and

witty cosmopolitan to that of a very keen and delicate, but very limited

maiden lady, who lives in a remote country town and understands

thoroughly the reason why the vicar bowed so low when a certain

carriage rolled up the high street, and why that pretty, prim girl

crossed over the way when the handsome gentleman from the Hall came out

of the chymist's. Yes, the cosmopolitan at the club window certainly

fails a little in his manners now and then, and the country

gentlewoman's breeding is perfect of its kind, but the circles in which

Pendennis moved are (to me) so infinitely the more entertaining of the

two.

You see, I think that the question of liking a book or not liking it has

nothing whatever to do with the consideration of fine art. Art is

_there_, if I may say so, just as the Tenth Commandment is there; and if

we don't like them, so much the worse for us. I may find Homer very dull

reading, I may covet your ox and your ass and everything that is yours,

but my limited and somewhat commonplace brains, and my envy of your

prosperity won't alter the fact that the "Odyssey" is fine literature

and that covetousness is wicked. But when we once leave the utterances

of the eternal, universal human ecstasy, which we have agreed to call

art, and descend to these lower levels that we are talking of now, it

seems to me that the question of liking or not liking counts for a good

deal. Not for everything, of course. We must still distinguish: between

plots stupid or ingenious, between observation that is close and keen

and observation that is vague and inaccurate, between artifice and the

want of it, between sentences that are neatly constructed and mere

slipshod. All these things naturally reckon in the account, but when

they have been estimated and allowed their value, you will usually find

that you are influenced still more by your mere liking or disliking of

the subject-matter, and it seems to me quite legitimately. For, if you

look closely into the whole question, you will find that you are judging

these secondary books as you judge of life, as you choose the scene of

your holiday, as you read the newspaper. One man may say that he prefers

to talk to artists, another, quite legitimately, may love the society of

brewers; you may think Norway perfection, I am going to Constantinople;

A. turns at once to the quotation for Turpentine at Savannah, B. folds

down the sheet at the Police News. It is not a question of art, but of

taste, that is of individual humour and constitution; you frequent the

company that suits you, you go to the place you like, you read the news

that happens to be most interesting from your special standpoint. And in

the same way, if I find the conversation of Miss Becky Sharpe, as

reported by Mr W. M. Thackeray, more amusing than the conversation of

Miss Elizabeth Bennett as reported by Miss Jane Austen; it seems to me

that there is no more to be said. Elizabeth's remarks are more skilfully

reported? Very likely, but, granting that, I had rather listen to the

record, imperfect, if you please, of the other lady's conversation. Here

is a speech on Bimetallism, given at great length, and (let us presume)

with great accuracy; here is a short summary of Professor L.'s "Lecture

on the Eleusinian Mysteries," very badly "sub-edited." But, you see, I

happen not to care twopence about Bimetallism, so I turn away from the

careful report, growling; while I cut out that wretched summary of the

Lecture with the purpose of pasting it in my scrap-book, since every

word about the Eleusinian Mysteries has a vivid interest for me.

It often amuses me to hear people quarrelling about the rival "artistic

merit" of books which have, in most cases, no artistic merits at all. A.

writes a book about greengrocers, and you, who find something

singularly piquant and entertaining in the manners, speech, and habits

of the class in question, pronounce A. to be a "great artist" who has

written a masterpiece. I love dukes, and B's. novel of the peerage

strikes me as a marvel of artistic accomplishment, while I pronounce the

work that has charmed you to be as stupid and tiresome as the class it

represents. Each of us is talking nonsense; there is no art in the

question, which is purely a matter of individual taste. The Stock

Exchange column interests one man, while the latest football news

absorbs the other. That is all.

Of course, as I said, artifice counts for something: there is a pleasure

in seeing the thing neatly done, and I suppose it is this pleasure that

has secured Miss Austen her fervent admirers. It is a little difficult

to treat this form of pleasure quite fairly; a musician perhaps would

find it difficult to answer the question whether he would rather hear

Palestrina badly rendered or Zingarelli executed to perfection. In the

latter case there would certainly be the charm of exquisite voices in

perfect order and accord, though the music were nothing or worse than

nothing; still, our musician might say, on the other hand, that

Palestrina martyred was better than Zingarelli triumphant. I am afraid

I can imagine myself saying: "Limited country-people, as seen by Jane

Austen, are so 'slow' that they rather bore me, though the author has

portrayed them with wonderful skill," but I can hardly fancy myself

affirming that Becky Sharpe is such an interesting personage that she

would still delight me, even if the author of "Ten Thousand a Year" had

written her history. On the other hand I believe that the plot of

"Jekyll and Hyde" would still have had some fascination, though it had

been treated by the veriest dolt in letters. But that is not a good

example, since "Jekyll and Hyde" is certainly in its conception, though

not in its execution, a work of fine art. Let us take the "Moonstone"

again as an example; I believe then, that if the events related in it

had caught our eyes in a brief newspaper paragraph they would still have

interested.

It seems to me that, after all, this question of artifice, of "how the

thing is done," comes under the same category as liking and disliking. I

mean it is largely a matter of the personal equation, about which no

very strict laws can be laid down. You might say, for example, that

Becky would entertain you in any hands, however indifferent, provided

that her "facts" were preserved, and I don't see that I could argue the

point with you. It reminds me again of the way in which men choose their

friends; one lays stress on pleasant manners, another on sterling

goodness of character, a third on wit, a fourth on distinction of some

kind; and argument is really voiceless. "Here is a book-case," you may

say, "look how exquisitely it is made." Yes, but I don't want a

book-case; whereas that table, ricketty as it is, will be really useful.

But if you were to say: "Look at Westminster Abbey," you can hardly

imagine my answering: "Bother Westminster Abbey; I want a pig-sty." You

see how, here again, we come to the generic difference between fine

literature and interesting reading matter. We read the "Odyssey" because

we are supernatural, because we hear in it the echoes of the eternal

song, because it symbolises for us certain amazing and beautiful things,

because it is music; we read Miss Austen and Thackeray because we like

to recognise the faces of our friends aptly reproduced, to see the

external face of humanity so deftly mimicked, because we are natural.

The question of our preference for one over the other, is, making due

allowance for analogy, the question of our preference for a table over a

bookcase or _vice versâ_, and the workmanship in each case is largely a

matter of detail. And the great poem may be equated with the great

church: each is made for beauty, the one is ecstasy in words, the other

ecstasy in stone. But the church and the pig-sty, on the other hand, are

not to be compared together: incidentally, no doubt, the former is

rainproof or in ill repair, has good or bad acoustic properties, while

the latter may be either an æsthetic pest in the back-yard, or an

agreeable looking little shed enough. Still, the essence of the church

is beauty, ecstasy; of the sty utility, the safe keeping of pigs. It

would be absurd, you see, to say: "I prefer an abbey to a pig-sty," and

it would be equally absurd to say: "I prefer the 'Œdipus' to 'Pride and

Prejudice'" or "I prefer the Venus of the Louvre to the wax-figures in

the exhibition." Of course these are only analogies, and you mustn't

press them, but they may help to make my meaning clearer, to enforce the

vast distinction between art and artifice. Please don't think that I

wish to establish a proportion: as a pig-sty is to an abbey, so is Jane

Austen to Sophocles. In her case you would have to substitute a neat

Georgian house for "pig-sty" and then I think you would have a very fair

proportion. But all that I wanted to do was to draw the line between

things made for use, to occupy some definite place in relation to our

common daily life; and things made by ecstasy and for ecstasy, things

that are symbols, proclaiming the presence of the unknown world.

And I chose "Pickwick" as the antithesis to "Vanity Fair" deliberately.

Thackeray (in my private judgment) is the chief of those who have

provided interesting reading-matter; Dickens is by no means in the first

rank of literary artists. I think he is golden, but he is very largely

alloyed with baser stuff, with indifferent metal, which was the product

of his age, of his circumstances in life, of his own uncertain taste.

Just contrast the atmosphere which surrounded the young Sophocles, with

that in which the young Dickens flourished. Both were men of genius, but

one grew up in the City of the Violet Crown, the other in Camden Town

and worse places, one was accustomed to breathe that "most pellucid

air," the other inhaled the "London particular." The wonder is, not

that there are faults in Dickens, but that there is genius of any kind.

I am not going to analyze "Pickwick" any more than I analyzed "Vanity

Fair," but of course you see that, in its conception, it is essentially

one with the "Odyssey." It is a book of wandering; you start from your

own doorstep and you stray into the unknown; every turn of the road

fills you with surmise, every little village is a discovery, a something

new, a creation. You know not what may happen next; you are journeying

through another world. I need not remind you how glorious all this is in

the Odyssey, which of course is so much more beautiful than "Pickwick,"

as that glowing Mediterranean Sea, whose bounds on every side were

mystery, is more beautiful than the muddy, foggy Thames, as those

rolling hexameters are more beautiful than Dickens's prose; and yet in

each case the symbol is, in reality, the same; both the heroic song of

the old Ionian world and the comic cockney romance of 1837 communicate

that enthralling impression of the unknown, which is, at once, a whole

philosophy of life, and the most exquisite of emotions. In varying

degrees of intensity you will trace it all through fine literature in

every age and in every nation; you will find it in Celtic voyages, in

the Eastern Tale, where a door in a dull street suddenly opens into

dreamland, in the mediæval stories of the wandering knights, in "Don

Quixote," and at last in our "Pickwick" where Ulysses has become a

retired city man, whimsically journeying up and down the England of

sixty years ago. You talk of the "grotesquerie" of "Pickwick," but don't

you see that this element is present in all the masterpieces of the

kind? Remember the Cyclops, remember the grotesque shapes that decorate

the "Arabian Nights," remember the bizarre element, the almost wanton

grotesquerie of many of the "Arthur" romances. In all these cases as in

"Pickwick" the same result is obtained; an overpowering impression of

"strangeness," of remoteness, of withdrawal from the common ways of

life. "Pickwick," is, in no sense, or in no valuable sense, a portrayal,

a copy, an imitation of life in the ordinary sense of "imitation," and

"life"; Pickwick, and Sam, and Jingle, and the rest of them are not

clever reproductions of actual people, (is there any more foolish

pursuit than that of disputing about the "original" of Mr Pickwick?);

the book is rather the suggestion of another life, beneath our own or

beside our own, and the characters, those queer grotesque people, are

queer for the same reason that the Cyclops is queer and the dwarfs and

dragons of mediæval romance are queer. We are withdrawn from the common

ways of life; and in that withdrawal is the beginning of ecstasy. There

are sentences in "Pickwick" that give me an almost extravagant delight.

You remember the lines about the Lotus-Eaters.

τῶν δ' ὅστις λωτοῖο φάγοι μελιηδέα καρπὸν,

οὐκέτ' ἀπαγγεῖλαι πάλιν ἤθελεν οὐδὲ νέεσθαι

ἀλλ' αὐτοῦ βούλοντο μετ' ἀνδράσι Λωτοφάγοισιν

λωτὸν ἐρεπτόμενοι μενέμεν νόστου τε λαθέσθαι.

Well, do you know there is a brief dialogue in "Pickwick" that seems

almost as enchanted, to me. The scene is the manor-farm kitchen, on

Christmas eve.

"'How it snows,' said one of the men, in a low voice.

"'Snows, does it?' said Wardle.

"'Rough, cold night, sir,' replied the man, 'and there's a wind got up

that drifts it across the fields, in a thick white cloud.'

"'What does Jem say?' inquired the old lady. 'There ain't anything the

matter, is there?'

"'No, no, mother,' replied Wardle; 'he says there's a snow-drift, and a

wind that's piercing cold.'"

You know this is the introduction to the Tale of Gabriel Grub, an

admirable legend which Dickens "farsed" with an obtrusive moral. But I

confess that the atmosphere (which to me seems all the wild weather and

the wild legend of the north) suggested by those phrases "a thick white

cloud," and "a wind that's piercing cold" is in my judgment wholly

marvellous. But Dickens, of course, is full of impressions which never

become expressions. You remember that chapter about the lawyer's clerks

in the "Magpie and Stump"? It is always quite pathetic to me to note how

Dickens _felt_ the strangeness, the mystery, the haunting that are like

a mist about the old Inns of Court, and how utterly unable he was to

express his emotion--to find a fit symbol for his meaning. He takes

refuge, as it were, behind Jack Bamber, who tells two very insignificant

legends as to the mystery of the Inns. Dickens feels that these legends

are insignificant, and throws in one that is pure burlesque, and then

changes the subject in despair; the vague impression has refused to be

put into words; probably, indeed, it had stopped short of becoming

thought. But I am afraid that if I once begin to talk about the defects

and faults of Dickens I shall run on for ever, and I think you will be

able to find out his laches quite well for yourself. What I want to

insist on is his sense of mystery, his withdrawal from common life, and,

finally, his ecstasy. I have not proved my case up to the hilt by a

thorough-going analysis of "Pickwick," but I think I have suggested the

"heads" of such an analysis. There is ecstasy in the main idea, in the

thought of the man who wanders away from his familiar streets into

unknown tracks and lanes and villages, there is ecstasy in the

conception of all those queer, grotesque characters, reminders each one

of the strangeness of life, there is ecstasy in the thought of the wild

Christmas Eve, of the fields and woods scourged by "a wind that's

piercing cold," hidden by the thick cloud of snow, there is ecstasy in

that vague impression of the old, dark, Inns, of the "rotten" chambers

that had been shut up for years and years. In a word: "Pickwick" is fine

literature.

Well, you've got what you wanted; some sort of analysis of my case:

"'Pickwick' _v._ 'Vanity Fair'"; but it must be clearly understood that

I'm not going to "work out" every example. However, I am not sorry that

I have been led to go into this particular case rather fully, because it

is a typical one, and we shall not be obliged to go over the same ground

again. I mean, that having witnessed the dissection of Thackeray, you

will have no need to come to me for my judgment of George Eliot, or of

Anthony Trollope, or--to make a very long list a very short one--of

about ninety-nine per cent of our modern novels. Yes, you have mentioned

a great name, and I, like you, take off my cap to the man who has gone

on his way, without caring for the "public," or the "reviewers," or

anything else, except his own judgment of what is right. But, frankly,

if you pass from the man and come to his work, my plain opinion is this:

that he has written about ordinary life, regarded from an ordinary

standpoint, in a style which is extraordinary certainly, but very far

from beautiful. It is not a beautiful style, since a fine style, though

it may carry suggestion beyond the bourne of thought, though it may be

the veil and visible body of concealed mysteries, is always plain on the

surface. It may be like an ingeniously devised cryptogram, which may

have an occult sense conveyed to initiated eyes in every dot and line

and flourish, but is outwardly as simple and straightforward as a

business letter. But in the works of the writer whom we are discussing

obscurities, dubieties of all kinds are far from uncommon; and in many

of his books there are passages which hardly seem to be English at all.

The words are familiar--most of them--the grammatical construction often

offers no very considerable difficulties--it is rarely, I mean, that one

has to search very long for the nominative of the sentence--but when one

has read the words and parsed them, one feels inclined to think that

after all the passage is not in English but in some other language with

a superficial resemblance to English. Style is not everything? Certainly

not; a book may fail in style, and yet be fine, though not the finest

literature. You have only to open Sir Walter Scott to have highly

conclusive evidence on that point. But the writer we are considering not

only fails in the body of art but even more conspicuously in the soul of

it. Just think for a moment of his story of the very earnest Jew who

fell in love with the baroness who was not very earnest. There was a

false female friend, you remember, and social complications perturbed

the hearts of the curiously assorted lovers, and finally the Jew was

shot in a duel by another, less "detrimental," courtier. Can you

conceive anything more trivial than this? Don't you see that from such a

book as that the _idea_, the soul of fine literature, is completely

lacking? Great books may always be summed up in a phrase, often in a

single word, and that phrase or that word will always signify some

primary and palmary idea. To me the only "idea" suggested by the plot I

have outlined is unimportance; and, as in the case of Thackeray, ecstasy

is entirely absent both from this and from all other of the author's

books. You say that, after all, the plot in question is a plot of the

love of a man for a woman, and that _that_ is an idea in the highest

sense of the word, and an idea which is the most of all fit for the

purpose and the making of the finest literature. I agree with you in the

latter clause of your sentence, but I must point out that the book is

_not_ the story of the love of a man for a woman, it is the story of the

flirtation of a baroness with a German Jew Socialist--a very different

matter. In a word, it is a tale of the accidental, of the particular,

of the inessential; it is completely the play of Hamlet with the part of

Hamlet omitted, and the greatest stress laid on the minor characters.

It is quite true that when an author writes a romance containing a hero

and a heroine he must tell you who they are, he must give, briefly and

succinctly, the necessary details--names, ages, conditions and so

forth--but if he is a great author he will do this incidentally and make

us feel that such details are incidental. In short, he must poise his

feet on earth, but his way is to the stars. Think of the "Scarlet

Letter," open it again and see how admirably Hawthorne has omitted a

world of unessential details that a lesser man would have put in. He has

left out a whole encyclopædia of useless and tedious information; there

is the dim, necessary background of time and place, but in reality the

scene is Eternity, and the drama is the Mystery of Love and Vengeance

and Hell-fire. Of course fine literature must have its gross and carnal

body, we must know "who's who," for I don't think an old-fashioned

receipt that I remember was ever very successful. Oh, you must have read

some of the tales I mean; they used to flourish in the old "Keepsakes,"

and the hero was boldly labelled "Fernando" for all distinction and

description. One might surmise that Fernando was domiciled on the

continent of Europe, but that was all. It was not successful, this

well-meaning school of fiction, and I repeat that the finest literature

must have its accidents--it cannot exist as shining substance alone. It

is just the same with the art of sculpture, with the art of painting.

You cannot look at a Greek Apollo without looking at that part of the

body which conceals the bowels, but I imagine you don't want to treasure

this thought or to insist on it? And I suppose a geologist, looking at a

picture, could tell you whether those wild and terrible rocks were

volcanic or carboniferous; but really one doesn't want to know. Bowels,

geological formation, in sculpture and painting, the social position of

the characters and all other such details in fine literature are

inessential; and the great artist will, as I said, make us feel that

they are inessential. If you want an instance of what I mean read a book

which is very comparable with the German-Jew-Baroness tale that we were

talking about. I mean "Two on a Tower" by Mr Hardy. In that you have

the contrast of social ranks: the "two" are the Lady of the Manor and an

educated peasant, but how utterly all thought of "society" (in any sense

of the word) disappears from those wonderful pages, as you advance and

find that the theme is really Love. Why even the accidents are glorified

and are made of the essence of the book. The old tower standing in the

midst of lonely, red ploughlands far from the highway, is at first only

the convenient place where the young peasant studies astronomy; but as

you read you feel the change coming, the tower is transmuted, glorified;

every stone of it is aglow with mystic light; it is made the abode of

the Lover and the Beloved, it is seen to be a symbol of Love, of an

ecstasy, remote, and passionate, and eternal, dwelling far from the ways

of men. Compare these two books, I say again, and you will know the

chief distinction between fine literature and reading matter. To me, I

confess, the "Jew-book" has not even interest of the lower sort, not by

any means the interest of Thackeray, or Jane Austen or even of poor,

dreary, draggle-tailed George Eliot; but if you are amused by it, I have

no objection to make. You may be amused by the plates of the "Spring

and Summer Novelties" in the lady's paper, if you please; but for

heaven's sake don't come here and tell me that on the whole you prefer

Botticelli's Primavera! Nay, but the fashion-plates are sometimes very

nicely done, and they put in backgrounds, and they are trying to give

the faces some character. Do get it into your head--firmly and

fixedly--that the camera and the soul of man are two entirely different

things.

You think the "photographic" comparison unfair, in this and other

instances, because of the mechanical element in photography, because of

that camera I have just mentioned? Well, I suppose that it _is_ a little

misleading. The sun and the camera between them certainly do your

picture for you, and as you urge, there is more of artifice in the

merest Sunday-school tale than in the best of photographs. Still, you

must remember that photography too has its artifice, its choice of the

right and the wrong way, and its exercise of judgment; there is a great

deal in it that is not mechanical; and in its essence it is of the same

class as the books I have been alluding to. The means employed are

different, and a higher and finer artifice is required for making books

than for taking photographs, but the end of each is the same, and that

end is to portray the surface of life, to make a picture of the outside

of things. It is on this ground that I defend my use of the analogy, and

you must understand me to speak only of the object which is common to

each, when I compare the secondary writer to a photographer. The

writers, to be sure, have invention in a greater or less degree, but you

will remark that the artists in literature have the power of creation, a

totally different process. Invention is the finding of a thing in its

more or less obscure hiding-place; creation is the making of a new

thing, the invocation of Something from Nothingness. Don Quixote is a

creation; the clergyman in "Pride and Prejudice" is an invention,

Colonel Newcome is, in all probability, a composite portrait, while the

Jew-Socialist who fell in love with the Baroness is simply a portrait of

Ferdinand Lassalle.

You must remember that while the two classes--fine literature and

reading matter--differ the one from the other generically, the

individuals of each class differ from each other only specifically. Thus

the difference in merit between the "Odyssey" and "Pickwick" is

enormous, but it is a specific difference. In the same way it is hard to

measure with the imagination the difference between "Madame Bovary" and

that famous Sunday-school story "Jackie's Holiday": the former is

immensely clever, the latter is immensely silly; but the two are,

emphatically, of the same genus. In each case the effort of the author

is to "describe life," the aim of Flaubert is absolutely identical with

the aim of Miss Flopkins, and their results differ only as the Frenchman

differs from the Englishwoman, the one being a serious and patient

artificer while the other is a bungling idiot, who obtrudes her very

empty personality and her very trashy ethics instead of studiously

concealing them. Still: a photograph taken in the most famous studio in

London is still a photograph equally with the spotted and misty effort

of the amateur, and no amount of "touching-up" or "finishing," however

patient it may be, will turn a photograph into a work of art. And, in

like manner, no labour, no care, no polishing of the phrase, no patience

in investigation, no artifice in plot or in construction will ever make

"reading-matter" into fine literature.