ROBERT WILLIAMS BUCHANAN (1841 - 1901)

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OTHER ESSAYS (3)

 

1. Literary Bohemia

2. Dining with Trollope

3. Review of Ballads and Poems. By Members of the Glasgow Ballad Club.

4. W. E. Forster: a Personal Reminiscence

5. Mr. Ruskin and Mr. Froude

6. A Note on Emile Zola

7. The Muses In England

8. Robert Buchanan’s Preface to The Truth about the Game Laws by J. Connell

9. An Author’s Struggles: Robert Buchanan’s Autobiography

 

From the New-York Daily Tribune - 12 July, 1885 - p.8.

 

LITERARY BOHEMIA.
_____

THE OLD WAYS AND THE NEW.
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Copyright, 1885.

     “I have lived too long,” said old Jack Farringford, leaning back in his chair and puffing from time to time at the long “churchwarden” pipe he held in his right hand. “I have survived all my hallucinations. I am a poor, frayed, worn-out morsel, on the ragged edge of your accursed gentility. One consolation alone remains to me, that Bohemia once existed, and that I belonged to it. Humph! won’t you try a pipe? No, of course you prefer a cigar! What will I drink? Champagne? Not if I know it! John, give me a pint of your very best ale in the pewter. . . That, sir, was the liquor we used to drink in the old days. It was good enough for Thackeray and Jerrold, and it’s good enough for me!
     Old Jack (who still exists, and long may he remain, to brighten the sunshine!) was in one of his retrospective, not to say grumbling, moods. His rubicund, weatherbeaten face, rough as a pippin, shone angrily under his hair of frosty silver; his neck moved impatiently within its old-fashioned stock; his double-breasted waistcoat was half open, revealing glimpses of somewhat questionable linen. On the table beside him lay his wideawake hat, and by the side of the fire stood his well-known gingham umbrella. He was seated in the smoking room of the old “Cheshire Cat,” in Fleet-st., with its grime-encrusted windows, its well-worn mahogany tables, and its boarded floor strewn with clean sand. Before him blazed a good old English fire, for the month was December and the weather without bitterly cold.
     Facing him was a young man of about thirty, with sandy hair and whiskers, and a pinche-nez on his nose. He was attired in the height of fashion, in clothes of West-End cut and irreproachable linen. He looked rather ill-at-ease in that old-fashioned room, and glanced from time to time solicitously at the sawdust clinging to his patent leather boots. This was the well-known Mr. Franklyn Phipps, novelist, journalist, essayist, and leader-writer, who was known to the public as a ferocious Radical, and who dated his correspondence from the Reform Club.
     “You must dine with me some day soon at the club,” said Mr. Phipps, selecting a cigar from an elegant case emblazoned with his initials.
     “No, dear boy, I’d rather not,” responded the old Bohemian. “Your modern clubs are too genteel for old Jack Farringford. Even the Garrick, they tell me, is now given over to the snobs. In the old days we used to dine together here, or at the Pig and Whistle. Chops and potatoes were good enough for us; such chops! such potatoes! Then pipes and grog to follow, with plenty of free-and-easy talk, and now and then a song. There were giants in those days, and they didn’t live on kickshaws.
     “Come, Jack, be honest,” said Phipps when the waiter had left them. “In the days you speak of, the old Bohemian days, the literary man was not—a gentleman.”
     “You mean he was not a snob, sir,” growled Jack, after a long pull at the pewter quart.
     Phipps.—I mean nothing of the kind. I mean that he was a loafer and a night-bird with many disreputable proclivities. To begin with, he never washed.
     Jack (thumping the table.)—That’s a libel!—
     Phipps.—Well, he lived chiefly on borrowed money, and never paid his debts.
     Jack.—Humph! What are you driving at, youngster?
     Phipps.—Why, this, old man. The literary man of the last generation was impecunious and disreputable for several reasons: (1) because he was improvident and too fond of scenes like this; (2) because his want of caste made him lose self-respect; thirdly and chiefly, because, unless he had by some miracle achieved a great reputation, he was badly paid for his work. Just take your prime favorite, Douglas Jerrold, as an example. He never earned an absolute independence, and one of his plays brought him in—something under ten pounds sterling.
     Jack.—And that ten-pounder is worth all the thousand-pounders you modern duffers have ever written! Men worked for fame, then, sir, not money.
     Phipps—Let us keep to the point, if you please. Your extinct Bohemian (for I grant you he is extinct) being of convivial habits generally, knew nothing of business. Instead of taking his goods to the best market, and insisting on an adequate remuneration, he was perpetually discounting his future, and borrowing money (from the publisher in the shape of advances) at ruinous interest. What was the result? He could not or would not buy decent clothes, he could not or would not meet his pecuniary obligations, he neglected all sanitary precautions by turning night into day, and so he became a social outlaw. Now, social outlawry means impecuniosity, for society is invariably liberal in giving money to the individuals whose work commands its respect. In fact, the standard of a profession is, after all, the extent of its pecuniary emoluments. . . .
     Jack—I heard Sterling Coyne once say (“Filthy Lucre,” Jerrold called him, punning on his name and alluding to his general appearance) that literature would become merely a vulgar trade as soon as literary men ceased to be a class apart, with a freemasonry of its won. And by the Lord Harry, what the dear old boy said was true!
     Phipps—Try and follow me to the end of my argument.
     Jack—O d—n your argument! John, bring me another pint of beer and another screw of tobacco.
     Phipps—If you will carefully examine the literature of your so-called Bohemia, one peculiarity will strike you forcibly—that, with all its cleverness, it was remarkably “shoppy.” A great deal, for instance, of what Reach and the Broughs left behind them is written in a sort of Fleet-st. argot, only to be comprehended by the adept. Each little unwashed Bohemian wrote, in fact, as if Fleet-st. were the centre of the universe, and he himself one of the suns of the only actual solar system. Consequently, the literature of Bohemia is narrow with all its pretence of broadness, affected and selfish with all its good-humored swagger. Nowadays, on the other hand, we literary men perceive that there is a world beyond the little one in which we work, and when we go into society we take off our working clothes and avoid talking “shop.”
     Jack (hotly)—The literary man who is ashamed of his profession is a cad, sir! I know the precious animalculæ. Met one of them at a dinner the other day; was beguiled into going, and found myself among nobs and snobs. Little Brown, who wrote the “Adventures of a Younger Son” and composed those fiery poems about Italy, was there. I was ass enough to congratulate him. “O yaas,” he drawled fixing his eyeglass,” I do a little of that sort of thing occasionally. They tell me you’re a Suffolk man, Mr. Farringford? I was down there last year, staying with Lord Mangold-Wurzel. Doosid good shooting, I assure you!”
     Phipps (laughing)—Brown is a snob, I grant you. Still, society honors literature, even in him. Turn now to the modern newspaper man, and see how he has emerged into affluence and influence. A modern editor, instead of writing his “copy” in a debtor’s prison like Shandon of immortal memory, may be the companion and confidant of princes. A prosperous newspaper man meets at his club—a club of gentlemen—the great leaders of his party, and is recognized as their equal, and in some cases, as their superior. Why, I have seen even John Bright, who is not the most approachable of politicians, dropping into The Spectator office, to consult with Townsend, and just before Lord Beaconsfield died, I met him on the parade at Brighton, with Monty Corry hanging on one arm and the editor of The Eagle leaning on the other.
     Jack—And you call that advancement for the literary profession! Why, damme sir, not one of the men I am lamenting would have touched Dizzy with a pair of tongs!
     Phipps—Come, come, Jack, he used to be one of yourselves; that is to say, he hung about the purlieus of Grub Street, and scribbled for a living.
     Jack—He was never a true Bohemian. From first to last, the Jews took care of him, and supplied him with plenty of money. Leigh Hunt (one of us, sir!) once told me a story of how Lady Blessington, going into Hookham the librarian’s on the arm of Count d’Orsay, met the younger Dizzy sailing forth, covered with furs and resplendent in jewelry. Entering the shop they found the father, old Isaac, shabbily dressed, poking among the shelves. “We have just passed your son,” said the countess. “O indeed!” grunted Isaac. “How charming he is,” proceeded the lady, “and one meets him everywhere. You must give him a very liberal allowance, to make so great a show!” “Me, madam?” cried the old man. “I never give him a shilling! Where he gets his money God only can tell; but the rascal knows better than to come to me!”
     Phipps—I was not championing Lord Beaconsfield. I was merely saying—
     Jack (interrupting)—But you might do worse than champion him, after all, sir. Dizzy had his good points, which you confounded Radicals generally look over. He never forgot the literary class, and that he once belonged to it. The Grand Old Man, on the other hand, is too scrupulous to be generous, and too high minded to be grateful. If a man helped Dizzy or Dizzy’s cause along, no matter how modestly, Dizzy remembered that man. He was a snob, sir, but with the soul of a Bohemian. Gladstone is a Reformer,—with the soul of a snob!
     Phipps—That’s hard hitting, but so far as Lord Beaconsfield is concerned, there is truth in what you say. I think all we literary men have reason to be grateful to the litterateur who stood up for the rights of the members of his class as “gentlemen.” But to return to the point from which we started, you cannot deny that authors, artists, and hoc genus omne are much better off in a worldly sense than they used to be in your old Bohemia.
     Jack—They have more money, and less personal influence; more versatility, and less talent; more politeness of manners, and less good nature. The freemasonry of the craft, of which I have already spoken, is extinct. They don’t care a brass farthing for each other. Why, sir, when one of the old set was ill, and had no one to nurse him, I have known us bearded men take turns about in the sick room; and if he wanted money, we sent round the hat, and every man gave what he could afford. Now, if an author is in trouble, you refer him to the Literary Fund.
     Phipps—No author of any talent, if he has proper business habits, has any right to need such assistance.
     Jack—That’s your cant!—Then again, your modern literary cad is required to be a moral person, who respects all the social proprieties!
     Phipps (smiling)—Would you wish him to be an immoral person, who doesn’t?
     Jack—No, sir! You know very well what I mean. Society has no concern with a literary man’s private life, or his little personal weaknesses.
     Phipps—Now you’re inconsistent. Old Bohemians used to parade all that.
     Jack—Nothing of the sort, sir. At any rate, they bore and forbore. They didn’t measure a fellow’s genius by the cut of his coat, by his domestic relations, or by his financial troubles. They reverenced the divine spark, even in a rapscallion. Not many years ago, when the author of “Orion”—Richard Hengist Horne, sir, a literary giant—wanted a beggarly pension, Gladstone declined to give one to him. On what grounds, do you ask? Because it was said that Horne, when he went to Australia, deserted his wife and left her behind him! What the deuce had Gladstone to do with Horne’s wife? Would Peel have acted like that? or Dizzy? No, sir; because Peel was a man with a big Bohemian heart, and Dizzy had at least acquired the rudiments of a Bohemian education!
     Mr. Phipps looked at his watch, and rose to his feet.
     “It is no use talking,” he said; “I see I shan’t convert you. I must go now. I’ve got to dine with Millais and Sir Garnet Wolseley, at the club.”
     The two men walked down stairs, and out of the court in which the tavern was situated into Fleet-st. There Mr. Phipps found his brougham waiting.
     “Good bye, Jack,” he said. “After all, Bohemia must have been a pleasant place when such good fellows as you made merry in it.”
     “You may swear to that, dear boy,” returned the other. “Literary men were happy then, and honest, and noblehearted, and truly independent. By the way,” he added sinking his voice to a whisper, “you might lend me a couple of sovereigns, till we meet again.”
     Mr. Phipps laughed, and slipped the money into his friend’s hand; then stepping into his brougham, he was driven rapidly away. Jack watched the vehicle till it disappeared, then shook his head thoughtfully as if regretting the degeneracy of the modern literary class, and jingling the sovereigns in his pocket, turned back to the “Cheshire Cat.”

                                                                                                                               ROBERT BUCHANAN.

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From the New-York Daily Tribune - 23 August, 1885 - p.4.

 

DINING WITH TROLLOPE.
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A RICHMOND FESTIVAL.
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ROBERT BUCHANAN RECALLS SOME LITERARY CONVERSATION.
Copyright, 1885.

     It was nearly twenty years ago, in the early days of the famous Review, which had already stultified its title, and been announced, to the huge satisfaction of Hibernian thinkers, as “The Fortnightly Review, published monthly.” Lewes and George Eliot had devised it (on the plan of the Revue des Deux Mondes), Lewes himself was editing it, a limited company with Trollope and Fred Chapman as chief directors was backing it, and things just then looked so fresh and sunny, capital being still abundant, that somebody’s suggestion of a little fortnightly dinner of the staff, to take place at the “Star and Garter,” was eagerly accepted and carried out.
     Few of my American readers, perhaps, knew the famous “Star and Garter” at Richmond, or if they know it now, it is in the days of its decadence. Twenty years ago it was the most charming suburban retreat in the great metropolis, the place par excellence for merry wedding breakfasts, cosey dinners, friendly gatherings, and sweet flirtations. The merry place is changed now altogether; or, perhaps, it is I, who write, am changed!
     Be that as it may, I was the youngest of the regular contributors to The Fortnightly Review, and in due time I was invited to dine with the wise company of authors at Richmond. Thither I went, a young savage in complete modern war-paint—dress-suit, gibus hat, lavender kid gloves; and the whole affair was so pleasant that, even after this space of time, it is still fresh in my memory.
     It was quite an informal gathering. Lewes, who usually occupied the chair, was too ill to come down that day, and Anthony Trollope took his place. I saw Trollope for the first time in the dressing-room, rubbing his face on a jack-towel; a bluff, thick-set, rubicund John Bull of a man, with a pugilistic manner of coming up to time. He was then in the zenith of his fame, as the author of “Framley Parsonage” and the “Small House at Allington.” I met him frequently afterward, and it was always a puzzle to me how so completely unideal a man was capable of producing the delicate touches to be seen in some of his books. He was saturated through and through with commonplace, and was perhaps the one writer in the world who could write a book about the “West Indies and the Spanish Main” without putting into it one poetical passage, one imaginative line. A sound, hearty, honest, good fellow for all that, he won a name in current literature by keen observation, business tact and hard work.
     Trollope, then, was in the chair, square-shouldered, belligerent, and as the Greeks phrased it, “dish-and-all swallowing.” Facing him, Fred Chapman, the publisher, to be carefully distinguished from the propagandist John Chapman, for whom Marian Evans translated Leben Jesu. Among the others present were Russell, the famous Times correspondent, agile “Jack” Russell, shrewd, worthy, witty and refined, as became a person who had bob-and-nob’d with generals and kings; John Dennis, the essayist, a delicate, gentle, fragile man, born rich and dowered with a love for literature as well as worldly goods; Doyle, the artist; Richard Hutton, known as Spectator Hutton, being co-editor of the well-known Broad Church journal, then rapidly coming to the front as an organ of the higher criticism; and others whose names and persons I have now forgotten.
     Much of the talk, too, has now quite faded from my memory; but I remember distinctly how, at one portion of the evening, over the walnuts and the wine, Trollope, port-warmed and bellicose, loudly proclaimed his belief that one modern poet, and one only, was fit to be read by sane strong men and to be hailed as a modern Homer. That one was Walter Scott.
     Warm as was my admiration for the famous border minstrel’s prose, I smiled, I believe, at the idea of calling him a great poet. Our chairman caught my smile and squared his shoulders.
     “Are you reading Scott?” he asked, with a good-humored scowl.
     “Not at present,” I answered, somewhat superciliously, adding, “I got over the Scott complaint and the Shelley fever, with other infantine maladies, long ago.”
     Trollope.—Scott was a great poet, young man. Boys do not understand him. Boys read twaddle. Men require strong meat, sir, not lollipops. Scott is the first poet of the century, and whoever doubts it is either a boy or a fool.
     Hutton (a grim, deep-voiced man, gently glancing up through his eyeglass).—I should certainly not call Scott the first poet of the century.
     Trollope (gruffly).—You wouldn’t eh! Humph!
     Hutton.—At the same time, I think he has been underrated by modern criticism. His descriptive power, and his skill in weaving action into narrative, were extraordinary.
     Trollope.—I should think they were! Just look at those lines descriptive of the battle of Flodden. You see the fight, you hear the clash of swords, you sweep up and down with the surge of brawny fighting men. There is nothing like it out of Homer! Russell here is not more realistic in describing a modern shindy.
     Russell (quoting, with a little military bow).—But lacking the accomplishment of verse, etc.
     Trollope.—Most poetry is mere jingle. Scott jingles, but he swings you along at a trot like one of his own moss-troopers. His health! Walter Scott’s health! Drink it, young man, and pray for the years of discretion, when you will think as I do!
     We drank the toast merrily, and presently the chairman exclaimed:
     “Horace is another supreme poet! And why? Because he is the prince of sane, healthy, gentlemen, witty as Horace Walpole, but sound as a fox-hunting squire, totus teres atque rotundus.
     John Dennis.—Is not Horace essentially the poet of commonplace?
     Trollope (thundering).—No, sir. “Are you reading Horace?” he demanded, again addressing me.
     Myself.—Why, no; I infinitely prefer Catullus.
     Trollope.—Catullus was a trifler, an erotic noodle!
     Myself.—Surely he was something more! His Atys and his ode on the nuptials of Julia and Manlius are poems, not extracts from a book of truisms.
     Russell (slyly).—He was dreadfully improper, wasn’t he? I think I remember something about a certain Lesbia and the descendants of Remus!
     Myself.—The poems about Lesbia are the completest and supremest record of absolute personal passion in all literature. They reach the very depths of self-abasement and touch the very heaven of love.
     Trollope.—Somebody said that the best of a poet was the number of quotable passages afforded by his works. Judged in this way, Catullus is a mere poetaster, and Horace a great genius.
     Dennis.—Such a test would place Pope a head and shoulders above Shelley or even Milton!
     Trollope.—As he was, sir! Poetry is common sense, or nothing. The great poets are Homer, Horace, Shakespeare, Pope, Goethe, Scott, Burns. Popular opinion, which is generally right about such matters, decided the question long ago.
     Trollope.—Pass  the decanter!
     The stream of talk flowed in other directions, but whither I cannot now remember. What most remains with me of the occasion is the recollection of Trollope’s extraordinary, but very characteristic, deliverances on the subject of poets and poetry. Afterward, when I became intimate with another very popular novelist, one infinitely Trollope’s superior in all the higher graces of literature, I found that his opinions were very much in accord with those of Trollope. He, too, accepted Homer as the ideal singer, and admired Scott infinitely. In his view, indeed, poetry was simply rhymed fiction. “The pœtæ majores,” he once wrote to me, ”were the poets who united to all the other gifts of the Muses the power of telling a great story; the pœtæ minores could do everything else quite as well, but could not tell a great story.” Trollope, I am sure, would have echoed this judgment cordially. In point of fact, neither Anthony Trollope nor Charles Reade possessed that kind of imagination which goes to the understanding of what is and what is not great poetry. The first had extraordinary industry, the second absolute genius, exerted in each case under uninspired conditions.
     Trollope was already much talked about, apart from his popular reputation, as a man of letters with a prodigious power of hard work. Curious to know how he managed to produce so much, I took occasion before we parted to question him about his system; delicately insinuating the flattery that the advice of Sir Oracle might be of infinite service to me, who was as yet merely an apprentice in literature. The good rough fellow growled and laughed.
     “Some years ago,” he said, “when I too was beginning literature as a trade, I put the same question to an old literary worker. His advice was simple and succinct. ‘Before you sit down to write, my boy, put a piece of cobbler’s wax on the seat of your chair!’”
     “I see. In other words, stick fast and write away!”
     “Just so,” he answered merrily. “Depend upon it, it is the only way. Fix certain hours for work, and do not alter them for any one; fix a certain number of lines to be written daily, and never stop working till you reach that number. That is my plan. A thousand words a day is my minimum; I never fall below it.”
     “But is it possible? Must not an author sometimes wait for inspiration?”
     “Inspiration is rubbish. It is a cant word, like the word genius. Both genius and inspiration are merely other words for cobbler’s wax, sir! Ever since I began writing I have done my given quantum daily; it is after all only two or three hours’ work, and I never touch a pen after my 1 o’clock lunch. At home or abroad, on board ship, in railway trains, with all the work of a Post Office Department on my shoulders, I have never neglected to reach my minimum number of lines. Depend upon it, it is the only way.”
     I could not help smiling to myself at the easy way in which this burly, pertinacious field-laborer in the furrows of literature reduced all literary work to the level of hard work and honest wage. He was no mere talker for the sake of talking, and meaning precisely what he said, he illustrated it practically in his life. A strange contrast indeed was Anthony Trollope, with his faithful and untiring labor and his somewhat arid ideas of duty, to the good old mellow type of literary Bohemian just then dying out,—who drank and loafed and borrowed, and when he earned a pound spent it royally in a tavern, and could never be relied upon for the performance of any kind of contract whatever. Doubtless Trollope was the more praiseworthy character; but, I confess, with a blush, that I loved the good old Bohemian best.

                                                                                                                                 ROBERT BUCHANAN.

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From The Academy - 12 September, 1885 - No. 697, pp. 160-161.

 

Ballads and Poems. By Members of the Glasgow Ballad Club. (Blackwood.)

AFTER this, let immortal Paisley, the city of twenty thousand weavers, every one of whom is a poet, yield up the laurel to her smoky sister, Glasgow! Here, in this literary pie of singing blackbirds, is a wonderful sample of what the Glasgow Muse can do. Here are a round dozen full-fledged local poets, with not one callow cheeper among them, forming the daintiest of dishes to set before St. Mungo the King. And these are only a few singers out of an immense musical choir! Well may we exclaim, with the Dominie, “Prodigions!”
     Seriously, a quite remarkable little book, edited with great cunning, so as to show the local song-loving circle at its best. There is really no mistake about its literary quality, and though few of the pieces read like inspirations, none of them sink to the level of the poetaster. The writers are, for the most part, “newspaper men.” Stoddart is the editor of the Glasgow Daily Herald, Freeland occupies an important post on the same journal, Canton edits the Weekly Herald, and the other members of the ballad club are, I believe, closely connected with journalism. It is positively refreshing, in these anti-poetical days, to find a nest of toilers amusing itself so innocently under the wings of the merry Muses; touching harmless notes of tenderness and pathos, and quite unaffected by the predominant literary vices of the period. The keynote of the whole business is sounded in William Freeland’s delightful verses on “The Peeseweep Inn,” which narrate how the balladists meet from time to time o’er the moor among the heather, and fleet the time carelessly, with whiskey, oatmeal bannocks, and scraps of song. Freeland is, in fact, the king of the little company. Many of my readers will remember him as the faithful friend who stood by the sick-bed of David Gray. A year or two ago he published his first and only volume of verse, A Birth-Song, and other Poems; a book strong, simple, and true, which met, I fear, with but scant appreciation from the world, yet pleased the leal lover of song with sundry pieces which passed right on into literature. No one can become acquainted with Freeland’s poems without loving the man, and admiring his sweet yet sententious style, in which every word hits the mark, and not a syllable is thrown in for the sake of mere ornamentation. His “Birth-Song” is a lovely piece of work; soft as summer wind and innocent as a naked baby. In several of his contributions to the present volume he is seen at his very best. What can be better in its way, for instance, than this closely wrought bit of “morality,” worthy of Sir Henry Wotton?

A FALLING BLOW.

“The blow is falling! Let it fall,—
     Even death were no calamity:
God wot, why should we whine or call?
It cannot hurt our souls at all,
               Since we are free.

“A little less of earthly things,
     Less favour of the world have we:
What then, proud man? The rede still rings—
’Tis not the crown that maketh kings,
               But being free.

“Then let the blow fall ! What if it
     Should lay us prone, both you and me?
O Lord of wings, give us the wit
To soar heaven-high, though low we sit,
               Content and free.

“To toil, to suffer, live unknown,—
     What matter, if brave men we be?
Why, we can live and make no moan,
And, dying, feel the grave a throne,
               Divinely free.”

And here is a song with a refrain which haunts the memory like soft chimes heard over a green upland dell:

THE RING.

“O blythesomc ring, O winsome ring,
     That Willie gied to me,
As down thy glen, dear Monymore,
     We wondered to the sea.
For we had come by Drumodune,
     The rills o’ Toranree,
That croon amang the green breckan
     And the blacberrie.

“And saft and couthie were the words
     He coo’d into my ear,
Like wafts o’ heavenly wind that blaw
     When nane but love can hear.
And sweet and sweeter grew the kiss
     For miles he gied to me,
As we gaed through the green breckan
     And the blacberrie.

“Then in the Glen o’ Monymore,
     Where the brown waters sing,
He took my hand, and fondly bound
     My finger wi’ a ring.
O bonnie ring, O faithfu’ ring,
     O ring that trysted me,
As we gaed through the green breckan
     And the blacberrie!

“I wear the ring, my Willie’s ring;
     It clasps me like his arms;
His heart beats in it warm and sweet,
     And keeps my life frae harms.
And still it shines, and sae I ken
     That he’ll come hame to me,
And kiss me ’mang the green breckan
     And the blacberrie.”

     More effluence and verbal facility, more of the tricks of modern style, are to be found in the contributions of William Canton, a young poet whose fine poem, “Through the Ages” (reprinted here), won, some few years ago, an enthusiastic article from the editor of the Examiner. Canton has a larger reach, if a less self-contained manner, than his friend Freeland; he is more conscious of literary form, and more susceptible to meretricious influences; but he is a lively and a vigorous singer for all that, and climbs now and then far higher than any of his compeers. His “Kozma the Smith” is a  first-rate performance, at once pathetic and picturesque. I note, moreover, as a sample of this writer’s cunning in workmanship, the pretty verses to “The Robin,” where unrhymed stanzas are so cleverly woven together as quite to disguise at a first reading the fact that rhyme is absent—

THE ROBIN.

“When ice is black upon the pond,
And woods and lanes are choked with snow
     The robin flutters in!
The little maids, with wide glad eyes,
Stand spellbound, lest a breath or sign
     Shall scare him from his crumbs.

“Oft when the fire is keen with frost,
And blinds are drawn and candles lit—
     (O robin, flutter in!)
They sit around the cosie hearth,
And hear with wondering love and awe,
     How robin’s breast grew red.

“Fond little maids! each fancies now
That somewhere in the great white snow—
     (O robin, flutter in!)
That somewhere, lost in wastes of snow,
An icy cross forsaken stands,
     And Christ hangs pale and dead!

“A childish fancy! Be it so,
And let me ever be a child,
     With robin fluttering in,
Than grow into the man who sees
In wintry wastes of unbelief
     A phantom cross and Christ.”

     Strong, simple, and manly are the contributions of Mr. Stoddart; naively quaint and humorous his stanzas about the Devil. He is the author of an anonymous poem published a short while ago, and entitled “The Village Life,” the happy touches of character and frank simplicity in which would have delighted Thomas Aird. Among those who sing habitually in the good broad Doric, David Wingate is pre-eminent; his manner pleasantly recalls Whistle-Binkie, that charming collection of the minor minstrelsy of the Scottish Lowlands; but quite as good as anything of the sort in the present collection is, despite certain verbal infelicities, William Allan’s bright little brooklet of melody, “The Burn.”

THE BURN.

     “Dreepin’, creepin’
     Frae the hills;
     Joinin’, twinin’
     Into rills;
     Loupin’, coupin’
     Owre the linns;
     Purlin’, curlin’
     ’Mang the whins;
     Lauchin’, daffin’,
     Dimplin’, wimplin’,
     Tumblin’, wumblin’,
     Rattlin’, prattlin’
Wi’ a bairnie’s glee.

     “Meetin’, greetin’
     Ither streams;
     Swellin’, tellin’
     Lovers’ dreams.
     Hissin’, kissin’,
     Fu’ o’ pranks;
     Toddlin’, cuddlin
     ’Tween the banks;
     Twirlin’, swirlin’,
     Glancin’, dancin’,
     Blinkin’, jinkin’,
     Ringin’, singin’,
Wanton, blythe, an’ free.

     “Roamin’, foamin’
     On its way;
     Turnin’, spurnin’
     Bank and brae;
     Length’nin’, strength’nin’
     Prood an’ bauld,
     Ripplin’, cripplin’,
     Growin’ auld;
     Nearin’, fearin’,
     Ocean hearin’,
     Sighin’, dyin’,
     Ever lyin’
In the silent sea.”

     Even after my ad captandum quotations, no one will require to be told that the book contains, not merely clever verses, but absolute poetry. As I write, I see that it is described contemptuously in a contemporary (the critical vagaries of which are past praying for) as a collection of poetical essays by Scottish antiquarians! I can imagine how such a description will amuse the genial ballad-singers, when they next gather to compare notes at the Peeseweep Inn; for in truth, the only “antiquarian” quality about their work is its simple manliness, heartiness, and independence of silly and ephemeral modern fashions. The Glasgow ballad-book is an honour to Glasgow, and well worthy of the district which has long been famous as a nesting-place of sweet and kindly singers.

                                                                                                                                   ROBERT BUCHANAN.

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From The Pall Mall Gazette - 9 April, 1886.

 

W. E. FORSTER: A PERSONAL REMINISCENCE.

BY MR. ROBERT BUCHANAN.

IT was at Fryston Hall, in Yorkshire, the seat of the late Lord Houghton, that I first met the eminent statesman who is the subject of this slight personal sketch. He was staying there with his wife, when, one wild and windy night, I arrived to join a pleasant party of guests. Through some mistake, I had gone to the wrong railway station, thus missing the carriage which had been sent elsewhere to meet me; and on alighting from the train, I found myself, late in the evening, on a forlorn and desolate roadside, with neither inn nor hostelry near, and no kind of conveyance procurable for love or money. So I had to shoulder my portmanteau, and walk on in the darkness towards the hall, some miles distant. Presently, however, I encountered a light country cart, driven by a couple of small boys, who, after some persuasion, agreed to give me a lift. But it was very late, and the night being pitch dark, the boys were very nervous. After proceeding slowly, with many pauses and consultations, for a considerable distance, they at last informed me that they had lost their way, and begged me to alight and continue my journey on foot. Impatient at their stupidity, I did so, and found myself in black darkness, I knew not where. After divers adventures, with which I need not weary the reader, I at last gained the gates of the park, and, still laden with my portmanteau, struggled in to the hall door—much to the astonishment of my host, who had given me up for the night. I dined alone, and after dinner went into the drawing-room, where one of the first persons to greet me was Mr. Forster, who had already been made acquainted with my adventures, and was ready with many a rough, good-humoured joke at my expense.
     A tall unwieldy form, a craggy face and brow, deepset piercing eyes, and a deep, not too musical, voice, were the peculiarities which first struck me in the man who stood squaring his shoulders on the hearthrug, and talking to me like an old friend. Had I not known him well by reputation, I should have taken him for some yeoman farmer or stalwart herdsman of the dales. I found, somewhat to my astonishment, that he knew me in connection with certain journalistic work which I had done, of no importance in itself, but which had attracted his attention as a politician. Before the night was out we talked on many themes—or perhaps I should rather say that he talked and I listened, eager to catch the living utterance of a man whom I had long reverenced for his simplicity of life, his independence, and his noble Christian  charity. What struck me at once were his utter freedom from affectation, his bluff, uncompromising honesty, and his grim sense of humour. Although I was so many years his junior, and a mere cipher in a world where he was a leading figure, he spoke to me as some simple and unknown farmer, with strong opinions of his own but becoming modesty, might speak to a chance visitor who was in every respect his equal. A man so eminent, and yet so modest, was a novelty to one who had lived his life among pretentious reputations. My wonder grew greater when I discovered that he was perfectly well acquainted with my own early literary life, and particularly with the pathetic episode of the life and early death of the young Scottish poet, David Gray. A new pleasure awaited me when he introduced me to Mrs. Forster, a lady who had a double title to respect in my eyes, as the daughter of Arnold of Rugby, and as the sister of Arnold the poet.
     The next day, Mr. Forster and I, accompanied by Lord Houghton and other gentlemen, rambled through the park and over the home farm. I wish I could more clearly remember our conversation that day, which confirmed me in my admiration for my new acquaintance. One point, however, recurs to me with extreme vividness. We had talked a great deal about Auguste Comte and Positivism, and Mr. Forster, while informing me that he knew Comte only through Harriet Martineau’s translation, expressed his regret that he had little or no facility in reading modern languages. “I would give half I know,” he said, emphatically, “if I could read French and German without difficulty and converse in them fluently,” adding his opinion that these two tongues should form a leading part of every man’s education. In this, as in everything else, he was completely without false pretence—never assuming a knowledge which he did not possess, and curiously categorical in criticising the knowledge of other persons. All that he did know, and it was much, he knew thoroughly and completely; where his knowledge was the least vague, he eagerly confessed it and sought information. From Comte and Positivism, we naturally passed to religion in general; when I found, as I had expected, that this rough- hewn and simple-minded man, a dalesman in appearance and in speech, had a dalesman’s simple faith in the eternal verities which sham philosophy has sought in vain to destroy. I was not the least astonished, afterwards, to find his statesmanship leaning sympathetically, much to the horror of extreme Radicals, in the direction of religious education; and I remembered in this connection that strangely pathetic exclamation of his, chronicled by Harriet Martineau—“I would rather be damned than annihilated!”
     The fearless honesty, the unassuming manliness, and the perfect independence of Mr. Forster were born of the same nature which endowed him with such great moral and physical courage. Those who know best are aware how that courage was put to the test when, with his very life in his hand, he went for the second time to Ireland—not, as on the first occasion, to acquaint himself personally with the sorrowful details of a famine, but to legislate as Chief Secretary and feel the pulse of the fever-possessed nation. Again and again he was in imminent danger of assassination; once, at least, only a miracle saved him. Yet, as is well known, he utterly discarded police protection, and went about in calm indifference to the warnings which were showered upon him.
     After our first meeting at Fryston Hall, we met again from time to time in London, and frequently corresponded. I had practical proof of his sympathy when, some years afterwards, I was under the painful necessity of prosecuting a literary journal for a series of libels, and upon other occasions. Again and again, when I needed a friend’s advice and a wise man’s guidance, I found both in Mr. Forster. Later on, when he was Chief Secretary for Ireland, he showed an eager interest and sympathy with the books on Irish themes written by my sister-in-law, and particularly in the “Priest’s Blessing;” and one of my latest communications from him was a cordial invitation for us both to visit him at the Secretary’s Lodge in Dublin.
     After the splendid but not too glowing tribute just paid to this great and good man in the House of Commons, it is pleasant to remember the terms in which he invariably spoke of Mr. Gladstone. I remember on one occasion, when we were together, expressing my wonder at the sheep-like docility with which certain politicians followed the changes of Mr. Gladstone’s somewhat chameleonic mind. Mr. Forster’s reply was an enthusiastic tribute to the powers of personal magnetism possessed by the leader of the Liberal party. No one, he said, could understand it who had not come within its direct influence, but it filled strong men with the kind of sentiment with which certain magnetic natures imbue women. His own tone towards Mr. Gladstone was one of tender and respectful affection, even when he was compelled to differ from him most, and when at last they fell asunder on Imperial questions, he felt the acutest personal pain. Events must prove very soon, once and for ever whether or not Mr. Forster erred in breaking with his master. For my own part, I believe he did not err; but let it always be remembered that the man who saw no cure for Irish discontent but sharp, swift, and unshrinking justice, was the man who, more than most, was capable of sympathy with the Irish temperament, and who had proved, by practical self-sacrifice, his deep interest in the Irish nation. Mr. Forster, though he was the very soul of human kindness, though he would have parted with his last shilling to assist the suffering, was not a sentimentalist. He had the keen, penetrating vision of a man of the world, of a man of the people. In Lincoln’s place he would have played Lincoln’s part; firm and unyielding to the end in the cause of duty, though tender throughout to the cause of sorrow. His heroic nature rebelled at the infamies done in the name of Irish nationality. He was taken from his post at the very moment when he was most needed: and all the world knows what followed.
     The keynote to Mr. Forster’s character was, as I have already suggested, its deep and constitutional natural piety. In every conversation we had together this note ever sounded uppermost; and whether the subject of discussion was politics, or philosophy, or general literature, he always spoke as one with a yeoman’s faith in practical religion. In all the great questions which modern scientific speculation has opened up for us, he took a constant interest. Books attracted him chiefly where they touched on the great mysterious issues of human life and death. Thus, though he was the most practical of politicians, he remained until the last one who breathed an atmosphere far removed from that of “angry politics never at rest.” Gentle, sane, and wise, he looked to a Light higher than the light of human intellect to guide all his thoughts, and to sanction all his acts; and we may be sure that Light shone upon him when, a few days ago, he was gathered to his rest, honoured by men of all parties save one only, and leaving behind him, in the world he brightened, troops of known and unknown friends.

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From The Pall Mall Gazette - 15 June, 1886 - p. 6.

 

MR. RUSKIN AND MR. FROUDE.

BY MR. ROBERT BUCHANAN.

IN the daily journals of last week appeared communications from two elderly gentlemen claiming to speak with authority, and not as the scribes. The Hermit of the English Lakes publishes an epistle addressed by him to somebody who had requested him to subscribe to a fund for the building of a church; and Mr. J. A. Froude, just returned from stumping the Pacific Islands, favours an American correspondent, real or mythical, with his views on the Irish question. Widely different as are the themes and manners of these two gratuitous lucubrations, they resemble each other in one thing—in their air of shabby omniscience, and in their tone of pompous irritation against human nature. Now, both Mr. Ruskin and Mr. Froude have long been known as highly cultivated disciples of the latter-day Timon of Cheyne-row. For Mr. Ruskin’s full-blooded opinions on the fine arts, even the uninstructed have a long and lingering respect, not altogether destroyed by his ghastly opinions on modern science and political economy; while to Mr. J. A. Froude the public owes an even deeper debt of gratitude, since through his zealous and mistaken efforts the gospel of hero-worship according to the printer’s devil has been once and for ever destroyed. But it is right for some person to protest, I think, when in times like these—at a crisis like the present—when good and just men are trying to sow the seeds of benevolence and justice, the public is asked to listen to the preachings of a middle-class Jeremiah and a small literary Ananias. For at least twenty years Mr. Carlyle threw the weight of his influence into the scale of the Tories, only one or two individuals, threadbare Jacobins like myself, daring to proclaim that his gospel was a sham and his prophesy for the most part fatuous and false. He died in the fulness of a false fame, and then we Jacobins were fully avenged, for Mr. Froude edited his autobiography. Meantime, the great tidal wave of public opinion had been slowly swelling. Sane teachers, with no pretension to prophetic function, had arisen. Science had spoken her fiat in the name of outraged human nature. Politicians had discovered, as they are still discovering, that the true political creed is not that of “blood and iron,” or of providential repression from above, but that of large and ever-growing human sympathy, of the rights of the majority, and, above all, of retrospective moral justice. Stern and stubborn truths, founded on scientific verification, had disintegrated the superstitions, religious, moral, social, and literary, which had ruled the world so long. No new Timon arose, for Timonism had been found out to be a fraud. Though a handful of pertinacious pessimists might curse the world with Schopenhauer, it was only in the back slums and alleys of journalism, not out in the clear sunshine of progress where great problems are solved and great deeds are done.
     All this being admitted, is it not somewhat sad and pitiful to find our two elderly gentlemen still scolding and posing as if the days of easy prophecy were still with us; to hear one railing aloud at a poor clerical beggar as if such begging affected the order of the universe, and seizing the occasion to exhibit his old-fashioned airs of moral superiority; to hear the other, untaught by the collapse of the idol he worshipped so long, talking from the tripod in the long forgotten manner of his master? Mr. Ruskin is, in spite of his eccentricities, a very good judge of pictures. Mr. Froude is a very amusing historical showman. But neither of these gentlemen has any claim whatever to the title of philosopher; both are old-fashioned and retrograde, both distinguished by a very bad temper. Publication of their views on any subject under the sun is now quite unnecessary; both love an Imperial policy in politics as well as literature, and both hate the proletariat. For many a long year they stood at the back of their master, piping where he thundered, and saying to the ocean of human progress “Thus far, no further;” but the tide rises and rises, and the world is too busy to heed the pigmies gesticulating on the sands.

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From The Pall Mall Gazette - 20 September, 1886.

(Reprinted in A Look Round Literature (London: Ward and Downey, 1887).)

 

A NOTE ON ÉMILE ZOLA.

BY ROBERT BUCHANAN.

AS one grows older, one wonders less at the proverbial philosophy of contemporary criticism. While the Saturday Review still exists, though toothless and moribund, a journalistic Dogberry proclaiming the watches of the literary night to a generation still unaware of sunrise and of Mr. Spencer, there will always be a class of readers which takes its opinions on faith and eagerly echoes the anathemas pronounced by senile watchmen against “one Deformed” and other disturbers of the public peace. We smile at Dogberry, though it is sad to reflect that never once, from the beginning of his official career, has he done a sane or a generous thing, has he recognized a new thought or a rising reputation, has he ceased to regard all men of genius as malefactors, and all mediocrities as men of genius. Among the great men of our time who are oftenest “run in” by the old-fashioned literary watch, perhaps the most phlegmatic of all is Emile Zola. Despite a chorus of uninstructed abuse he goes doggedly on his way, and even when hauled up before the magistrates he continues to assert his right of private judgment and his complete contempt for critical authority. I confess that I admire this stolid attitude, so different to that of most revolutionaries. I confess that I like to see this sublime contempt for Dogberry and Verges. Poor Thackeray was irritated when told by the watch that he was “no gentleman.” Dickens was actually angry when informed on the same authority that his “Tale of Two Cities” was idle rubbish. Nous avons changé tout cela. We are merely amused when we hear the old cry, “This is your charge: you shall comprehend all vagrom men; you are to bid any man stand, in the Prince’s name.” It is only when men who should be wiser join in the persecution that one’s amusement turns into indignation. For my own part, I am amazed as well as indignant when Mr. R. L. Stevenson, who ought to know better, accuses the author of “Une Page d’Amour” of being possessed by “erotic madness”! Then I smile again, seeing the good Mr. Howells from Boston, gentle apostle of man-millinery, interpose for the defence, and generously affirm that Zola, though a sad offender against good taste, is a severe moralist, and, at the same time, the cleverest Frenchman alive!
     The fact is, Zola is to literature what Schopenhauer is to philosophy—the preacher of a creed of utter despair. No living writer has a stronger and purer sense of the beauty of moral goodness; no living man finds so little goodness in the world to awaken his faith or enlarge his hope. But if Zola is “erotic,” then a demonstrator of morbid anatomy is a sensualist, and a human physiologist is a person of unclean proclivities. True enough, he is conscious, even morbidly conscious, of the great part which the god Priapus plays in modern life, more especially in those phases of life which are Parisian. Everywhere he diagnoses disease—

Disease and Anguish walking hand in hand
The downward slope to Death!

Naturally, too, he is a little unhealthy, for the stench of the dissecting-room does not conduce to vigour. But of all men that wield a pen, he is perhaps, the least “erotic.” A little “mad” he may be, for, after all, some of us hold pessimism to be scarcely short of madness. His hatred of sensuality, his loathing of vice in all its forms, amounts to a passion. He finds, with Schopenhauer, that human nature is corrupt to the very core, but he always remembers, with Schopenhauer, that self-sacrifice and spiritual love, where they exist, are infinitely beautiful and noble. To him, the apples of the Hesperides are merest Dead Sea fruit. To him the god Eros is a corpse, smelling of corruption. To him, nevertheless, purity is a fact, —the one grain of salt sprinkled on a putrefying world. As I write, the face of little Jeanne, gazing out of “Une Page d’Amour,” rebukes the lie which brands its creator as infamous and unclean; but even over this divine child bends the Nemesis of Sin, cruel, piteous, and hideous—the same Nemesis that leant over the disease-disfigured countenance of Nana the courtezan, and over the figure of the old woman, paralyzed in her chair, whose son married Thérèse Raquin. “Erotic,” quotha! Spirits of mutual admiration, genial souls of the Savile Club, is this your indictment? Come, Messires Dogberry and Verges, arrest this rogue “Deformed,” and haul him up for judgment; then, when Zola is sentenced to his fourteen days, go and seize Pasteur in his laboratory, suppress Huxley, stifle the physiologist and the philosopher as offenders against public decency, and put Herbert Spencer into the stocks!
     Grim moralist and stern physiologist as he is, and as such supremely justified, Zola is nevertheless all wrong. To say that, however, is neither to impute his motives nor to deny his genius. Like all Frenchmen, he is possessed by one overmastering ethical notion, which causes him to sermonize ad nauseam. Even the French Empire, with all its faults, was something more than a subject for morbid anatomy. A man may die of syphilitic caries, yet be a living soul. In reading Zola, great as he is, one has to hold one’s nose; whereas life, real life, smells wholesome, and it is a very phenomenal city whose existence can only be determined by its lupanars and its sewers. Large as is the part which sensualism plays in life, and which it must play as long as the beast’s brain subsists within the man’s, it is merely a minor part after all. To Schopenhauer, the singing of the little birds was only one among many signs of their agony; to Zola,  the music even of human love is a discord, ending in despair. Yet only a pessimist believes that the birds are utterly miserable, and that human creatures are completely vile or unhappy. So that, when all is said and done, the charge against Zola amounts to this—that he is a pessimist, and that pessimism is superficially impertinent and fundamentally wrong. As it is.
     The subject of Zola’s intellectual weakness is too long to discuss in a mere note, but it may be easily grasped by the reader who will refer to Zola’s own notes on Proudhon. Proudhon is the philosopher who solves great social and literary problems by the power of generalization. Zola is the artist who cannot generalize. “Une œuvre d’art est un coin de la création vu à travers un tempérament,” says the artist; attempting a minor definition which in no way invalidates the philosopher’s larger generalization that temperaments and works of art are the products not merely of individuals, but of the collective temperament of nations and of humanity. Naturally, Zola misconceives Proudhon altogether. Great men, he thinks, are men who permit themselves to possess genius without “consulting humanity,” who say what they have in their “entrails” (sic), and not what lies in the entrails of their “imbecile contemporaries.” But perhaps no great man that ever lived was ever so representative of his contemporaries, “imbecile” or otherwise, as Emile Zola. He is a Frenchman of the Empire, seeing the world à travers the temperaments of all his fellow Frenchmen—not seeing it clearly, not seeing it whole, not seeing anything in it but infinite corruption and infinite despair. “En un mot, je suis diamétralement opposé à Proudhon: il veut que l’art soit le produit de la nation; j’exige qu’il soit le produit de l’individu!” But that Proudhon is right, Zola himself offers the strongest literary demonstration.
     Despite all this, Zola is a great man and a great writer, and I am glad to be able to say even these few words in his justification.

 

[‘A Note on Émile Zola’ was reprinted in Buchanan’s 1887 collection of essays, A Look Round Literature. The only change in the text was Buchanan’s opinion of Zola’s ‘greatness’:

‘In reading Zola, sane as he is’ instead of ‘great as he is’.
‘But perhaps no man that ever lived’ instead of ‘great man’.
‘Zola is an earnest man and a strong writer’ instead of ‘Zola is a great man and a great writer’.

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From The Argus (Melbourne, Australia) - 1 October, 1892 - p.4.

 

THE MUSES IN ENGLAND.
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POETS, POETRY, AND POETICAL CRITICISM.
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BY ROBERT BUCHANAN.

     It is now many a long day since Byron’s shrill cry of revolt startled English propriety and ruffled the “piggish virtues” (as Mr. John Morley has christened them) of the Georges. From that time until this present year of grace, when a few amiable gentlemen have gathered together at Horsham to celebrate the centenary of Shelley, Poetry has passed through a period of national neglect, and so forlorn, so discredited has the art become that it often shows signs of dying away altogether. This may appear a startling statement in view of the popularity of writers like Lord Tennyson, and the “vogue” of writers like Robert Browning; but it would be easy to show that neither of these distinguished authors owes any measure of his success to any real love of verse on the part of general readers. The laureate has been appreciated all along for his skill in expressing the social and political sentiments of the middle classes; the late Robert Browning, after many years of absolute neglect, became the idol of a clique or coterie, and was only credited, for a few years before his death, with a serious influence over the life and thought of his generation. In neither case, however, has the pulse of the great public been stirred to any strong enthusiasm—like that which greeted the Phaethon-like flight and fall of Byron as a poet, or like that which followed, step by step, the advance of Walter Scott as a writer of prose romance.
     It may be contended, nevertheless, that Poetry, like Providence itself, “moves in most mysterious ways its wonders to fulfil;” that, in other words, Poetry is not to be judged by its broad effects upon the public, but by its subtle influence on individual minds. Doubtless this is the case, and doubtless, also, popularity is the falsest of all tests to apply to the work of any artist or thinker. But it is by examining the kind of reception which a poet does gain that we are enabled to calculate, if not the nature of his gift, at least the variety of his accomplishment.
     The career of our poet laureate, from the first appearance of the little green-bound “small octavo” volumes until the poet’s peaceful entry into the House of Lords, has been singularly characteristic. Had any other modern poet accepted a coronet there would have been a general howl of execration, so singularly out-of-place would have seemed the adornment. But, more than any poet of supreme attainment, Lord Tennyson represents English institutions. He sings of the English country, the manor-house and homestead, the park and farm, the village and the village church. If he has ever sounded a strenuous note it has been one of orthodox nationality. His poetry is as beautiful as a Surrey landscape and as elegantly laid out. A great artist in words, a noble thinker, a gentle and sympathetic soul, at peace with all established laws, the author of “In Memoriam” takes his place among those poets of the first order, whose mission it is to crystallise, not to create. If there should ever come a day when the old landmarks of society are swept away before the great wave of socialism, pictures of the old order will still survive in Tennyson’s pages—just as surely as the pastoral life of Greece survives in the idyls of Theocritus.
     At Freshwater, in the Isle of Wight, and at Hazlemere, in Surrey, Lord Tennyson has lived the life of a quiet country gentleman, surrounded by those scenes of rural beauty which charm us in his lovely verse. From first to last he has been a recluse, seldom or never going into society, and, when in company, a silent man, quiet, grave, and observant.
     Very different was his great contemporary, Robert Browning, a man so keen and alert in all company, so quick and full of knowledge of the world, that few meeting him accidentally would have taken him for a poet. Much of his time had been passed in Italy—a fact which he himself greatly regretted. During the last twenty years of his life, when fame and honour were moving slowly towards him, he was a well-known figure in London society, and no great social “function,” from the opening dinner of the Royal Academy to the closing soirée of the season, was complete without his presence. Calumny described him, therefore, as a worldling, a diner-out, and a hanger-on to the aristocracy, and he was galled at every step by the malice of the minor criticism. Thanks to the labours of a fussy little society, headed by Dr. Furnival, but consisting chiefly of ladies, he secured, just at the last, a certain measure of appreciation, and the writers who had abused him most when living hailed him among the immortals when he died. He was a great and good man, content to take the world as he found it, and a lover of humankind. Of his wife (née Elizabeth Barrett) even more may be said; she was perhaps the greatest woman who ever wrote in verse. Her novel in blank verse, Aurora Leigh, was greeted by Mr. Ruskin as the finest work of the century. To my mind it is only inferior to its prose prototype, Jane Eyre. It is characteristic, however, of the half-hearted interest taken by the public in things poetical that both Mrs. Browning and her masterpiece are already practically forgotten.
     Contemporaries of the three great poets I have named were Sir Henry Taylor, the author of “Philip van Artevelde,” and Coventry Patmore, the author of the “Angel in the House.” Sir Henry Taylor enjoyed a highly respectable reputation as a vigorous, if somewhat old-fashioned, writer of dramatic poetry. Mr. Patmore still survives, and some of his shorter poems are remarkable for their pathetic simplicity. One of them, “The Toys,” is among the most beautiful pieces in our language.
     About the time when Mr. Ruskin was sounding the praises of the new pre-Raphaelitism in painting, Mr. Dante Gabriel Rossetti and Mr. William Morris formed a school of pre-Raphaelitism (so, at least, it was called) in poetry. For a long time this school remained obscure and unknown, but suddenly, in the sixties, it achieved a certain notoriety, chiefly through the accession of a young and remarkable writer, Mr. A. C. Swinburne, whose volume of Poems and Ballads was suppressed by the self-elected custodian of public morals, Mr. Mudie the librarian. For several years the pre-Raphaelite poets enjoyed a large measure of literary attention. Their earnestness, their emphatic sympathy, and their verbal power were unquestionable. In the case of Mr. Swinburne there was added a large measure of political enthusiasm. The public, nevertheless, exhibited only the most languid interest in works which stirred the cliques and delighted the coteries, and at the present moment the pre-Raphaelite school is about as dead a thing as the “spasmodic” school of Sydney Dobell and Alexander Smith. Mr. Swinburne has openly recanted all his heresies, both moral and political, and is living quietly at Putney, near London, contributing elegiac verses to the magazines, and writing long essays on the old dramatists. Mr. Morris, a fine and noble personality, has joined the advance-guard of the army of Socialism, and has given up to mankind the powers which once achieved such fine results in poetry.
     Meantime, while Poetry has been dead or moribund, awakening no response whatever in the national thought and conscience, there have been constant epidemics of poetical criticism—indeed, the disease of this generation has been criticism of the most trivial kind. I am quite in accord with the late Mr. Matthew Arnold (a critic by temperament and a poet by strenuous application) in attributing much of our poetical decadence, or at any rate much of the loss of interest in things poetical, to the influence of Shelley. Shelley remains to this hour the god of the criticaster and the darling of the coterie. It is flat heresy to apply to him any other epithet than that of “divine.” Yet his gifts, remarkable as they were, and especially his wonderful lyrical faculty, end where poetry should begin—in verbalism. His verse has the many colours of the kaleidoscope, blended and interblended with marvellous literary cunning, but the effect is often tawdry and seldom satisfying. All his powerful imagination, all his enthusiasm of invention, does not save him from the doom of unreality. He is the poet of fancies, verbal felicities, involutions—a spectral poet, far removed from poets of flesh and blood. And what is often fine and impressive in his manner becomes absolutely tedious in his imitators—a feeble echo, and nothing more. It was a fatal day for English poetry when the noble simplicity of Wordsworth and Coleridge, not to speak of the fearless breadth of Byron, was abandoned in favour of the false methods, the coruscating conceits of the “godlike” Shelley.
     While the few readers of English verse have been enjoying themselves chiefly with the feats of verbalista, a great American poet, Walt Whitman, has passed away almost without recognition, and it has been proposed to place a monument to Mr. James Russell Lowell, an American dilettante, in Westminster Abbey. The enthusiasm of the literary class in favour of successful mediocritíes, of writers without one single virtue or prerogative of genius, would appear very wonderful, if we did not pause to remember that the literary class is always the last to understand the meaning of literature. It was the literary class which attempted to suppress Wordsworth, and had not a good word to say for either Keats or Shelley. It was the literary class which persecuted Byron. It was the literary class which, for at least thirty years, interposed between the public and Robert Browning. It is the literary class which, at the present moment, is doing its best to crush the last spark of life out of English poetry.
     I have made no attempt whatever in the above remarks to chronicle the names and works of many distinguished living writers who still employ verse as to the medium of expression. Among the most original of these are Mr. George Meredith and the Hon. Roden Noel. Mr. Meredith has written little verse of late years; that little, however, has been marked by extraordinary qualities of thought and style—indeed, 1 know of nothing more beautiful in our language than some of this writer’s nature poetry. It is curious, moreover, to observe that Mr. Meredith, whose prose is so overburthened and overweighted with the insoluted verbalism now so common, has preserved in his verse the huge simplicity of perfect expression. The Hon. Roden Noel stands quite alone as a philosophical poet and a poet of nature. When the work of this generation comes to be summed up and judged on its merits, such pieces as “Thalatta” and “Pan” will be classed among the highest achievements of modern thought and imagination.
     That Poetry should intrench itself in verbalism at the very moment when literature en masse is moving more and more towards the realistic representation of life is a fatal misfortune. It is only a crowning illustration, however, of the indifference to poetic methods of the public at large. If Poetry really appealed to the public, if it were understood and relished with anything resembling the interest given to the drama and to prose fiction, if it were not already classed as an exotic art with little influence on humanity, the outlook might be very different. It was the opinion of the late Charles Reade (expressed by him to me again and again) that a “great story” told in “great verse,” if written now, would have the old Homeric charm for thousands of readers; and although Reade’s taste in literature was simple and primitive, there is a possibility that he was right in his opinion. It is certain, at all events, that the popular ideas concerning verse-Poetry may be summed up in the words of the old German tutor who, when questioned by a pupil concerning the meaning of a certain passage, testily replied,—“Meaning? How stupid you are! It has no meaning—it is poetry!”
     But Poetry, in its supremest form, is perfect human speech, and in the whole history of literature there is no example of any great poetical work which fails when tried by the canon of simplicity. From Homer to Æschylus, from Virgil to Dante, from Catullus to Burns, from Shakspeare to Milton, from Goethe to Heine, from Wordsworth to Tennyson, all the greatest masters of verse have triumphed exactly m proportion to the fineness of their subject matter, combined with the sancta simplicitas of its expression. To paraphrase the words of our laureate—

“To have the deep poetic thought
Is more than all poetic phrases!”

And here, at last, we touch the quick of the whole matter, so far as the public appreciation of Poetry is concerned. It is because so much of our verse is barren of all intellectual purpose, of all moral enthusiasm, of all deep passion and insight, of all human interest, that it remains neglected and disregarded. It is associated in the public mind, and justly, with artifice and insincerity. Even indifferent poetry, when it condescends to be articulate, finds appreciation. The writings of the American poet Longfellow are a case in point; and in the ease of Lord Tennyson, the public has overlooked a certain excess of ornament in view of the noble thought underlying and interpenetrating every line. Now, in nine writers out of ten, the ornament destroys the thought, instead of vivifying it; the manner is fatal to the matter. A case in point occurs to me as I write. I have recently been reading Ibsen’s Scandinavian poem, Brand, a work in which the subject is not obscured, but disfigured, by a barbarous hop-step-and jump versification, tiresome, trivial, and without variety. Turning to a prose translation in English I find myself interested and even moved, where I fail to be either moved or interested in the original. Freed from a bad and slovenly style, the idea of the poem, even when reduced to simple prose, becomes attractive. Adopt this test and apply it to a really great poem, where expression and idea are in perfect harmony—the “Faust” of Goethe. I first read “Faust” in Mr. Hayward’s admirable prose translation, and I need hardly say how the splendid subject-matter, in its bare nudity, carried mc away. But when I came to read Goethe’s own poem, I realised for the first time why the world had classed it as a masterpiece. The subject-matter was wonderful, but no less wonderful was the form, and this it true, without variation, of all masterpieces.
     In a recent article contributed to a leading review, a humorous critic, calculating that the English nation possessed just now some “fifty” living Poets of more or less intellectual magnitude, amused himself by suggesting that this calculation represented a perfect plethora of poetical achievement. Just in the same way have we been reminded lately that so fashionable has novel-writing become, it is rather a distinction not to have written a novel. But the humorous critic in question, when including in his catalogue the names of all men and women who have printed and published verse, might have extended his catalogue indefinitely. To write and publish verses is not to become a Poet any more than to whistle tunes is to become a musician, or to paint on canvas is to become an artist. So far from there being fifty living English Poets, it is doubtful if there are half a dozen; indeed, the men who express great original thought in great metrical language may be counted in any generation on one’s fingers. Yet the art of verse writing is a common pursuit of literary dilettantes, and there are many writers who have, upon occasion written fervid and felicitous verse. Mr. Alfred Austin, Mr. Lewis Morris, Mr. Garnett, Lord de Tabley, Mr. Herman Merivale, Mr. Austin Dobson, Mr. Wilfrid Blunt, Mr. J. A. Symonds, Mr. Cosmo Monkhouse, and others, may be mentioned with praise in this connection.
     A careful examination of contemporary verse cannot fail to lead us to the conclusion that 90 per cent. of all so called poems are mere specimens of literary trifling, and that wherever a fine Poet has emerged from the army of verse-writers, it has been by virtue of powers which would have carried him to eminence in any form of literature. A poet, to be worthy of the name at all, must have some original thought to express, some spiritual message to deliver. When the Poet Laureate first began to secure an audience it was by qualities far transcending even his wonderful technical gifts; and the same high moral enthusiasm, the same supremacy of vision, was to be found in the writings of his less popular but equally great contemporary, Robert Browning. Mr. Swinburne won the public ear not merely by his gift of melody, but his strenuous sympathy with great political movements. His songs of Liberty were clarion-notes, long to be remembered. But of late years, thanks to the epidemic of verbalism, thanks to the monstrous assumption that the art of Poetry is the art of manufacturing verses, there has been a positive stagnation of all poetical enthusiasm. A crowning example of the degradation into which the poetic art has sunk may be found, this very moment, in the chorus of praise with which English newspapers have greeted a positive relapse into literary barbarism, as exemplified in two books of verse which have recently appeared.
     One of these books is, I believe, written by a Scotchman, the other by an Anglo-Indian. Both are Tories, and (in the worst sense of the word) “Jingoes.” Heavy on the soul of each weighs the dread that Christian sympathy is encroaching, and that men are becoming morally feeble through too much '”sentiment.” Both exhibit the same temperamental omniscience, allied to a sort of middle-aged precocity. Mr. Henley is the editor of a newspaper, the National Observer; Mr. Rudyard Kipling is, as we all know, a literary “infant phenomenon.” Now, I personally should have nothing to say to these gentlemen on literary grounds alone. To deny talent to Mr. Henley, or genius to Mr. Kipling, would be looking a gift horse in the mouth. But it is to their intellectual squalor, their moral littleness, that I beg to direct attention. They are worshippers of the god Jingo, men who fail to see any shame in cowardly and ignoble assaults committed on helpless foreign races, or to realise that Bobadilism, Bounce, and Brag are as contemptible in the nation as in the individual. Even in Mr. Kipling’s admirable sketches of Anglo-life in India there were traces of this savagery. But not until his book of Ballads appeared, simultaneously with Mr. Henley’s Song of the Sword, was the god Jingo really justified of his worshippers. Fierce and stark, strenuous and brutal, brandishing the toy Sword and foaming at the mouth, the poets of latter-day Bobadilism shriek for “gore.” It is not war, but it is terrible!

Ho! then, the sound
Of my voice, the implacable
Angel of Destiny!
I am the Sword!

croaks, in Tory Whitmanese, the awful Mr. Henley.

         Ow the loot!
         Bloomin’ loot!
That’s the thing to make the boys get up and shoot!

shrieks, in some fanciful dialect of Tommy Atkins, the sanguinary Mr. Kipling. Of the two, Mr. Henley is perhaps the more self-possessed and decent. There is a cold-blooded self-possession in the midst of his incoherence, which makes us sometimes fancy that he is only playing at brutality. But about Mr. Kipling’s hideous sincerity there can be no doubt whatever. He positively revels m the ferocity of his vocabulary. His “Barrack-room Ballads” are simply as retrograde and as brutal as mad self-conceit, fed on coarse popularity, can make any human utterance. That they present in any true sense a picture of the English soldier, I do not for one moment believe. Tommy Atkins himself would be the first to execrate them. Neither in their manner nor their matter do they do any sort of justice to their theme, coarse and debasing as the theme itself is.
     I do not think Mr. W. E. Henley need trouble us very much. His style is too impish for sincerity, and his swagger is only that of the Tory journalist semi-intoxicated with the praise of his fellow-penmen. Mr. Kipling is a bird of another feather. He possesses talents of a high order, which he is sacrificing on the altar of an obscene god, and if he goes on as he has begun he will fall to a far lower limbo than that of literary failure—the limbo of moral disgrace.
     A straw, though itself light as air, may show in what quarter the wind blows. Though Mr. Kipling’s ballads have no claim to be called poetry, they represent, in their sudden popularity, the fatal disease infecting and destroying the poetic spirit in England. To Mr. Kipling belongs the proud distinction, if it is a distinction of beginning where most men end—in the basest sort of Toryism. It goes without saying that no writer worthy of the name of Poet could have ever conceived such verses. A Poet stands singing in the vanguard of Progress; only a Versifier can squat whistling among the baggage in the extreme rear. A Poet is not behind his age or generation, but well in advance. The mission of a Poet is to keep fresh and vital all that is most spiritual and ennobling in the troubled life of Man; to sympathise with human sorrow, to denounce evil, to utter the truth fearlessly and beautifully, and to brighten and ameliorise the world. If he fails in this task; if he lends himself, consciously or unconsciously, to any truce with baseness; if he treads back on the footprints of Humanity, instead of pointing and looking forward, he may speak with the tongue of an angel, but his voice is the voice of the beasts of the field. It is because verbalism and affectation have superseded sympathy and enthusiasm; because our literature is losing all love for humanity and all faith in God, that Poetry is, just at present, moribund. The public appear to have utterly forgotten what a Poet is—to believe that he is simply a manufacturer of clever verses, of jingling rhymes, and to have assumed on that account that he is scarcely worthy of serious attention. For this contempt and indifference on the part of readers our modern writers of verse have themselves to blame.

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Robert Buchanan’s Preface
to The Truth about the Game Laws: a record of cruelty, selfishness, and oppression
by J. Connell (London: William Reeves, 1898.)

gamelawstitlepage

PREFACE.
_____

IN sitting down to write a few words of introduction to the following most trenchant and conclusive statement of the case against the Game Laws, I do not feel altogether comfortable, since I occupy, I regret to say, the moral position of the converted Clown who denounces Topsyturveydom, if not exactly that of Satan reproving Sin. For many years of my life I have been an ardent Sportsman, and some of my dearest friends have been men who habitually went out, in the manner of our people, to “kill something.” I know well the raptures of Sport, its rough delights, and its sweet temptations. Afloat and ashore, on the bleak hill-side and by the rushing river, among the heather of Scotland, the bogs of Ireland, and the swamps of Normandy, I have wandered with rod and gun. I have always held, nevertheless, that true Sport must combine a maximum of exertion and even danger with a minimum of destruction, and that, though a casuist might work out a strong argument in favour of fox-hunting, no possible ingenuity can excuse the hunting of tame animals or justify the brutalities of the battue.
     When all is said and done, however, Sport, in so far as it embraces the hunting and killing of wild animals, is invariably more or less demoralising—is, in fact, a relapse from Civilisation to Barbarism. Therein lies its real fascination for men bored with the proprieties and duties of the nineteenth century. The instincts of the primeval man—food-hunting, predatory, self-preserving—re-emerge in the modern; moral sanctions are disregarded, the rights of inferior races are forgotten, and the hunter feels himself, figuratively speaking, naked, savage, blood-thirsty, and unashamed. Sportsmen for this reason are invariably selfish and conservative. A Sportsman who is a Radical in politics, and a pioneer in social science, is an impossibility.
     It is hopeless, therefore, to expect from Sportsmen any sympathy whatever with the agitation against the cruel and iniquitous Game Laws. The agitation began, and it must continue, among the men who shrink from cruelty of any kind, and prefer the amenities of Civilisation to the coarse pleasures of Barbarism. Now, more than ever, the fight on the higher planes of life is between philanthropy and savagery, culture and brutality, the pleasures of the thinking being and the amusements of the Naked Man. To-day, under the fostering wing of Imperialism, brute force is developing more and more into a political science. There is no excess of rapacity, no extreme of selfishness, no indifference to the rights of the weak and helpless, which Christian materialism is not ready to justify. The Englishman, both as soldier and as colonist, is a typical Sportsman; he seizes his prey wherever he finds it, with the hunter’s privilege, his laureate is the bard of the bayonet and the banjo, and the idol of his idolatry is a Jingo-god, like that of Rhodesia. He is lost in amazement when men speak of the rights of inferior races, just as the Sportsman at home is lost in amazement when we talk of the rights of the lower orders. Here, as yonder, he is kindly, blatant, good-humoured, aggressive, selfish, and fundamentally savage. The earth is for him, he believes, and the fullness thereof, and he is confirmed in that belief by the Christian parson and the Christian leader-writer.
     The Game Laws are the tribute paid by the over-worked and over-taxed people of England to the Lords of the Bread—to the predatory classes who have appropriated the Land and depopulated the hills and valleys, to increase their own selfish pleasures. The spirit which created those laws, and still makes them possible, is the spirit which the prophet of Nazareth sought in vain to destroy, and which is at this moment making the name of England a byeword for hypocrisy and selfishness all over the world. The destruction of the Game Laws is as inevitable in the long run as was the destruction of Slavery, the repeal of the Corn Laws, the overthrow of an alien Church in the sister isle; but the fight will be a stiff one between the freemen of this country and our savage or only semi-civilised aristocracy and plutocracy. To those who are hesitating on which side to stand, this pamphlet should come like a voice from the blue, crying as of old, in the name of poor humanity, Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou Me?”

                                                                                                                       ROBERT BUCHANAN.

 

[The Truth about the Game Laws: a record of cruelty, selfishness, and oppression is available at the Internet Archive.]

_____

 

From the The Burrowa News (Australia) - 14 July, 1899 - p.1,
and The Edinburgh Evening News - 11 June, 1901 - p.4.

[Note: This is an edited version of an article originally published in M.A.P. (29 April, 1899). The main part is from The Burrowa News, the inserts from The Edinburgh News. At some point (when finances permit) I will get the whole thing rather than this cobbled-together version.)

 

AN AUTHOR’S STRUGGLES.
_____

ROBERT BUCHANAN'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
_____

     It was in the summer of 1860 that I, a lad still in my teens, came to London to seek my fortune. My companion in that wild search should have been a youth some years older than myself, David Gray, whose acquaintance I had made when I was a student at Glasgow University. By some fatality we missed each other and travelled apart on separate lines of railway; and it was some weeks before I discovered my friend, in a wretched lodging near the Borough. I have told—both in prose and verse—the story of poor Gray’s life, and it is unnecessary to repeat it here. Enough to say that before I met him he had received his death-blow through exposure; he had spent a night in Hyde Park, had caught cold, and received the seeds of the cruel disease from which he died soon afterwards, and to which he had an hereditary predisposition.
     At the time of our re-meeting, I myself, after weeks of curious adventure, had found anchorage in Stamford Street, Blackfriars, my lodging being “next to the sky,” in a bedroom or garret wherein I was busily invoking the Muses. Thither poor Gray gladly accompanied me, and for some little time thereafter we lived together. Strangely enough, neither Gray nor myself had any suspicion of his real physical condition, until one evening I accompanied him to the house of Richard Monckton Milnes (afterwards Lord Houghton), who had shown him much good-natured sympathy. I waited outside in the street until Gray had finished the interview with his patron; directly he re-appeared he said: “Milnes says I’m in a fever, and that I’m to go home, get to bed at once, and he’ll send his own doctor to-morrow to examine me.” Even then neither of us realised the danger, and we strolled away quite merrily through the crowded streets. Next day the physician came, and reported that Gray’s condition was grave indeed, pleurisy having suddenly set in, with indications of latent tuberculosis. I nursed him as well as I was able through the acute stages of his malady, and, fortunately, through the ministrations of Milnes and his friends, he lacked for nothing. How he would have fared otherwise I know not, for he was as poor as Lazarus, and so was I. He finally returned to his humble home in Scotland, where he died, leaving me to fight the battle of life alone.
     To me, who still survives, the recollection of these early days in London seems, at this distance of time, only a kind of wild dream; but I can see the ghastly “garret” still, and poor Gray stretched on the bed or sitting up in a fanciful old dressing-gown which I had given to him, still hopeful, still full of feverish plans and aspirations, still not realising that he was doomed to die. He had kindly visitors from time to time—Milnes himself, Laurence Oliphant, Charles Mackay, and others; so that he was not quite desolate. When he departed and I was left to my own devices, I myself was desolate indeed.
     The man who has not lived in London all alone, without a relation or a friend, scarcely knows what loneliness is. For day after day, for week after week, for month after month, I dwelt by myself in the “dear old, ghastly, bankrupt garret,” as David Gray has christened it, and the only human soul with whom I exchanged a word, with the exception of the one or two strangers on whom I called when seeking for employment, was the draggled maid-of-work who attended upon me and the other lodgers, scarcely one of whom I knew even by sight.
     I had no companions, I had not even an acquaintance, save Hepworth Dixon, of the Athenæum, from whom I carefully concealed my poverty and terrible isolation, and whom I saw at intervals in his editorial office in Wellington-street, Strand. A little later on I introduced myself to W. G. Wills, of All the Year Round, and to John Morley, then a boy like myself and editing the Literary Gazette, and still later I made the acquaintance, at the General Post Office, of Edmund Yates, who was sub-editing Temple Bar; but, in reality, these men were strangers to me—strangers to whom I could neither retail my troubles nor unburthen my ambition.
     I had to fall back on solitude, and on my fellow-outcasts in the streets. The friend of my boyhood was dying in Scotland, my mother and father were there also and in desperate straits, and the only source of human sympathy and companionship came to me in correspondence from these dear ones. I seldom went out in the daytime, except to visit the offices of the journals where I had found a little work; I wrote, thought, read, and studied from dawn to dusk; and at night, when darkness had fallen, I wandered out into the streets, down by the riverside, on the lonely Bridge immortalised in Hood’s piteous poem. I had a roof to shelter me, that was all; in other respects, I was nearly as forlorn as the weary women with whom I often stood and talked, and from whom I do not recollect ever hearing a coarse or an unkind word.
    
But high as my heart was, and sanguine as I was of winning both fame and fortune, I was lonely beyond measure; and so heavy did the sense of solitude weigh upon me that it often became almost more than I could bear. The only thing that saved me from utter despair was the thought of my mother in Scotland, praying for the time when she would again be united to her son. Her letters came daily—always loving, always divinely tender; and wherever I went her face was with me, blessing every footstep of the way. I prayed for her as I had never prayed before; and from that hour to this she has never ceased to be the loadstar of my life.
     It was early in the Sixties, remember, when men wore white hats and peg-top trousers, and women crinolines. Charles Dickens was the reigning king of literary London, and his young lions, headed by George Augustus Sala, were beginning to roar on innumerable Cockney journals. Cremorne was open nightly, and from midnight to dawn the Haymarket was as lively as a race-meeting.
     Into this Cockney world of horse-play and plum-pudding, I came, a boy in my teens, fresh from the Fairyland of the Poets and the Wonderland of picturesque Scotland; much given already to religious introspection, but haunted by thoughts of the Nature-loving singers, from Chaucer to Wordsworth and Keats. My early training among the Socialists had led me, by some kind of natural re-action, or through constitutional obstinacy, to a strong faith in things supersensual and supernatural. I suppose I was in earnest, but at the same time I had no clear conviction of any kind, except the one conviction of my own paramount right to stand square and equal with any man in the world. Even at that early period, however, I was sadly deficient in reverence for my elders and superiors, for intellectual success of any kind; the only thing capable of stirring me was what seemed to be goodness, gentleness, philanthropy, kindness of heart. I could have met Shakespeare with the completest confidence; I should have knelt down in humility before Voltaire. I am not much changed now. Now, as then, I would rather have been the deliverer of Calas than the author of “King Lear.”
     With feelings such as these, it was no wonder that I looked aghast at some of the personalities which were at that time looming large in the eyes of my own generation. To the great and good Dickens I did unfaltering homage, as I do now, since he seems to me still the brightest and most beneficent of all the Tellers of Fairy Tales, and when I first saw him in the flesh, bright and alert, yet with haggard lines already in his face, tripping along Maiden lane towards the editorial offices in Wellington-street with a little handbag full of manuscripts, I could have cried for wonder and for joy. Carlyle had never stirred me; I had been unable to forgive him for treading down the flowers in the garden of the Muses, and for his worship of physical force and what is called “success.” Thackeray seemed to me only a kindly variation of his own “Jeames Yellowplush,” a sentimental Irishman in livery; he had a message, doubtless, but it was not to me. Of Browning I then knew little, and of Whitman I had not even heard. Newman repelled me, as did all the teachers of religion at the universities; but I was not too young and ardent to misunderstand the glorious sanity, passion, and intellect at white heat, of John Stuart Mill.
     Let me be just to the spirit, even the minor spirit, of the early Sixties. With all its noisiness and vulgarity, all its abysmal ignorance of great books and great ideas, it was full of sympathy and humanity, full of kindliness and animal spirits, full of true camaraderie, and free of merely artistic affectation. Dickens had done his conjuring well, and almost slain the literary Prig. Most of the young writers of those days called themselves, and really were, Bohemians; on their ’scutcheons were a clay pipe and a quart-pot neatly graven; they were poor, yet open-handed; loose, yet kindly-hearted. Nor were they, some of them, deficient in natural gifts and a sort of free-and-easy felicity. Sometimes, indeed, they came very near the magic of the Masters. I do not wish to suggest for a moment that I, the bumptious newcomer from Scotland, was independent of the social environment into which I found myself plunged. Pose as I might in my own mind as a superior person, I felt, like my elders and contemporaries, the spell of Bohemia. I thought it a very fine and splendid thing to be independent of social sanctions. I smoked a pipe, and I often drank more than was good for me. I knew Mimi and Marie, or their English namesakes. I made holiday from time to time, at Cremorne, and at Rosherville Gardens. I thought myself a fine fellow, not to be judged by the common codes of respectability. I swaggered, in and out of print, and pronounced judgment on my betters with amazing self-assurance. I would starve for weeks, or next to starve, having only one square meal now and then, a repast of coffee and muffins at the old Caledonian Coffee House in Covent Gardens; then, having drawn a month’s pay, I would spend it royally in a single evening. That was the way in these days, and it became my way. “Et ego in Bohemiâ vixi.”
     My first contributions, I think, were to the Athenæum and the Literary Gazette. I did reviews for both these journals, the first of which was conducted by Hepworth Dixon, the second by John Morley, then a youth like myself. My pay for the Athenæum was 10s. 6d. a column, extracts not deducted; that for the Gazette, I fancy, rather less, with all quotations deducted. These desultory contributions would hardly have served to keep me in bread and butter, had they not been supplemented by a leader on current politics sent weekly to a newspaper in Ayr, and paid for at the rate of 12s. 6d. a week. One literary engagement, however, soon led to another; and I was in high spirits indeed on the morning I received a letter from Edmund Yates, informing me that he was sub-editing, under Sala, a new magazine, to be called Temple Bar, and that Dickens had given him my name, among others, as that of a useful contributor.
     In after years, when he fell foul of me for an article from my pen, called the “Newest Thing in Journalism,” poor Yates asserted that his first knowledge of me was when “I went to him with a letter of introduction from John Hollingshead.” This was a mistake, though it is quite true that I did have such a letter in my possession, and that possibly presented it afterwards; it had been procured for me from Hollingshead, whom I did not then know, by Sydney Dobell. It was not until I was accepted contributor to Temple Bar that I met Yates, in his rooms at the General Post Office, where he was a sort of under-secretary. He was a bright, cheery, somewhat loud-spoken young man, who had drifted into journalism via Thackeray and the Garrick Club, and he might be described as a very favourable specimen of the “litterateur” who was not essentially or by temperament and education literary. He wrote gossips for the journals—chatty, personal, gossip of a kind not then so familiar as it is nowadays; and in the course of his lightsome work he had written with unpleasant personality of Thackeray’s Nose. Thackeray protested that Yates, a fellow-member of the Garrick Club, had broken the code of honour among gentleman by utilising his knowledge as a club-man to insult him, Thackeray; and as a result, in spite of a strong remonstrance from Dickens, Yates was expelled. It was an unpleasant business, very contemptible and very trivial. I am quite certain that Yates erred out of sheer “gaite de coeur,” and not from malice; indeed, his respect for the great novelist was almost idolatrous. Afterwards, when I visited him at his house in St. John’s Wood, I found a large portrait of Thackeray hanging over his study-table. He told me the whole story, over whisky and water, and the tears rolled down his manly cheeks as he did so, avowing both his sorrow and his adoration. Savage as Yates was prone to be in controversy, and little as he was given to sparing others, he was essentially kind and open-hearted. He had caught the swaggering trick of the Bohemian of the Early Sixties, and he slashed right and left at friends and foes; but at least half of his ferocity was mere animal spirits. Moreover, he was very sentimental. He could never read anything pathetic, either in prose or poetry, without crying. On one occasion, when repeating some certain pretty verses about a dead child (the verses I think, were called “The Empty Chair”), he fairly broke down and blubbered, and was unable to finish the recitation.
     All this time, while working diligently to make the pot boil, I was studying hard and writing verses to please myself; and a little later on, when the clouds of my loneliness began to lessen, I contrived to make a few friends. But the brightest and happiest influence upon me was that of Thomas Love Peacock, the friend of Shelley, and the kindliest and most wise of scholars. It was under Peacock’s influence that I wrote many of my pseudo-classic poems, afterwards gathered together in my first volume “Undertones.”
     It was not until the publication of that book by Moxon that I made the personal acquaintance of George Henry Lewes, with whom I had corresponded when a boy in Glasgow, and who now gave me a kindly welcome to the Priory, North Bank, where the Sybil, George Eliot, did the honours of the dinner table. Lewes was, perhaps, the cleverest man in England, with a wide experience of men, women, and the seamy side of Literature. He gave me most excellent advice, which I constantly disregarded, being then, as now, obstinately bent on following my own ideas, and disrespectful to all established authorities, social and literary. At Lewes’s house I was first introduced by the Sybil to Robert Browning, whom I had long regarded with idolatry, and with whom my friendship was close and pleasant.
     Fairly launched at last upon the troubled currents of Literature, I began that long career of cheerful dishallucination which has left me wondering, in the autumn of my days, what the deuce I ever did in the “galere” of ephemeral masterpieces and bogus reputations. At fifty years of age I discovered that I had never “grown up,” although most of my illusions had tumbled round me like a house of cards; I had still the boy’s belief in a world that never was and never will be, though it had appeared so real and substantial in the days of my youth.

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