Then he took me to the window and said, "From this point I can count nine townships. A San Francisco man called the other day, and I told him this, and he went home and wrote in some paper that Dr. Holmes was certainly failing fast, for he imagined he could see nine towns from his window when of course he meant steeples." "Atrocious!" I exclaimed. "And is he dead too ?" Again I hear that breezy laugh, which shakes the Teacups, as I turn over these welcome pages. I wish I could give you a real idea of the genial humour which illumined that room in Boston, but, as the Dictator-Autocrat himself remarks, "It is impossible to smooth out a conversation from memory without stiffening it; you can't have a dress shirt look quite right without starching the bosom." I wonder what the patriotic American critic, who is always on the watch for the sinister Britisher, thinks of Dr. Holmes's remarks on "the lawless freaks of New World literature." On this side of the ocean we do not venture to use such language. Some American writings remind Dr. Holmes of " the drunken antics of Helots," and he compares the Young America of Walt Whitman's verse to a three-year-old colt. "He is a droll object, sprawling on the grass with his four hoofs in the air; but he likes it, and it won't harm us. So let him roll-let him roll!" I quote the audacious words with positive terror lest one of those hoofs should visit me in the eye. Has the Sage of the Teacups no dread of the American journalists who are known in the trade as "space-writers," and who are let loose in the social firmament to rearrange the planets, and write Jupiter, if need be, down to the level of the most insignificant star? There must have been some slight uneasiness in our own planetary system when Mr. G. W. Smalley took it in hand in two stout volumes, of which a large section was ominously dubbed "Personalities." But Mr. Smalley is no revolutionary astronomer. G. W. He adjusts his telescope with the air of a man who is tolerably London Smalley's satisfied with the conditions in which he pursues his researches. He Letters. (Macmillan descends to small chronicles without losing his attitude of grave & Co.) and dignified observation. If a royal personage by some oversight were to drop his hat on the stairs, Mr. Smalley would pick it up with independent grace, and record the incident in the diction of a Daudet's Port Rhoda Alas! Richard Bentley & Sons.) historian. Of personalities, in the common sense, there are none in this book, but there is a wide acquaintance with English politics and society, a good deal of admirable portraiture, some vivid descriptions, and a tone which should comfort anyone who feels that Mr. Smalley's eye is upon him, with the assurance that he will be treated in a very superior style of art. My head is running on American masters, for here is Mr. Henry James's translation of Daudet's last chronicle of Tartarin of Tarascon. I see that one or two writers profess themselves weary of this delightful creation. This is a curious paradox. Tartarin is the great embodiment in literature of the spirit which refuses to yield a servile worship to the bare facts. Tarascon represents the principle that imagination is superior to mere commonplace accuracy of measurement. Surely every writer should proclaim his adhesion to this principle and its illustrious exemplar, instead of affecting to be relieved by Tartarin's death. Depend upon it, this is hypocrisy. The critic who says Tartarin is dull secretly revels in that hero's exploits, and envies his superb assurance in every emergency. But what in the name of wonder is dulness when we are told Broughton's not only that Tartarin is uninteresting, but that Rhoda Broughton, of all writers, has lost her humour? I read in journals of some repute that Alas! is heavy. To me it is the most fascinating novel Miss Broughton has ever written. I have my quarrel with this lady, to be sure. She refuses to learn that no sane person of English speech ever says, "Will not you?" for "Won't you?" "Ought not you?" for "Oughtn't you?" and so on, through the whole range of colloquial interrogation. She endows her characters with an intimate knowledge of the poets, and makes them spout verse at moments when no intelligent being would ever dream of it. I rise from these things in a rage; but when I am told that Alas! is dull, by people who cannot see that the story of Elizabeth Le Marchant is one of the most artistic pieces of English fiction, that Amelia Wilson is drawn with a pathos in which there is not a false note, that Jim Burgoyne is a real man in every mood, that all the people in the book are flesh and blood, in spite of their quotations, and that the secret of Elizabeth's life entirely explains the extra ordinary position she has occupied all through the story-I merely remark that critics who are so blind had better drop the pen and hoe potatoes. It is the deepening sense of character which makes the artist, and when you see the growth of that quality in a writer who has been amusing the public for twenty years there is some reason for rejoicing. If we could only find this artistic sense constantly developing on the stage! What gain is there for art in the representation of Antony and Cleopatra at the Princess's? There is not a character in the play who is here endowed with real dramatic life. When I saw Giulia Ravogli in Orfeo I forgot the absurdities of the scene, the shock-headed gentlemen who danced with serpents round their necks, the ladies of the ballet who pranced on the tips of their toes in the infernal regions, the smithy fire which kept up the temperature, the pallet which was so comfortably provided for Eurydice to die on, when Orpheus made the mistake of looking back-in wonder, no doubt, at his own success in having flooded such a grotesque place with romance and melody. I did not feel disposed to smile even when Orpheus was fingering the features of the stolid ballet girl, who stood in the familiar attitude with the right foot well turned out, while the enchanting intruder from the upper world was searching for his beloved. The dignity and pathos of Giulia Ravogli touched all these ridiculous details with the glow of poetry, and I was willing to admit that an opera is not always a tale told by an idiot. But in Antony and Cleopatra there is neither poetry nor passion, only dazzling drapery and twinkling ankles. You hear the familiar lines, but they have no meaning. Such a spectacle might convert me to Mr. Andrew Lang's opinion that Shakespeare loses all reverence when he is acted, if this entertainment at the Princess's were the best the players could do for him. The revival of Much Ado About Nothing at the Lyceum is a welcome reminder that dramatic art still sustains the repute of the playwright whom, according to M. Jules Lemaitre, the French helped us to "invent." M. Lemaitre is a little astray in his chronology. He evidently thinks that Shakespeare was adapted from Sardou. Some of our dramatists are indebted to the skill of that master. I wish the authors of The People's Idol had a little of it, and even more that they had given us characters that are actual, and not mere conventions of the stage. Mr. Wilson Barrett has shown excellent sense in revising his play at the New Olympic. It is better to kill a man by violence in a drama than to make him die of heart-disease; but it is better still to keep him alive and make him a reality, instead of a melodramatic expedient. An actor of Mr. Barrett's force can do a great deal with genuine character, and I trust that the New Olympic will soon witness that substantial achievement. L. F. AUSTIN. The Editor of this Review does not undertake to return any Manuscripts. THE NEW REVIEW. No. 21. FEBRUARY, 1891. VERSES ON THE DEATH OF RICHARD N BURTON. IGHT or light is it now, wherein Sleeps, shut out from the wild world's din, Wakes, alive with a life more clear, One who found not on earth his kin ? Sleep were sweet for awhile, were dear Surely to souls that were heartless here, Souls that faltered and flagged and fell, Soft of spirit and faint of cheer. A living soul that had strength to quell Hope the spectre and fear the spell, Clear-eyed, content with a scorn sublime And a faith superb, can it fare not well? Life, the shadow of wide-winged time, Cast from the wings that change as they climb, Less than the promise of last year's prime. VOL. IV.-No. 21. H |