Essays on Modern Novelists

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  ESSAYS ON MODERN NOVELISTS

  BY WILLIAM LYON PHELPS

  M.A. (HARVARD), PH.D. (YALE)

  FORMERLY INSTRUCTOR IN ENGLISH AT HARVARD LAMPSON PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE AT YALE

  New York THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 1910

  _All rights reserved_

  PREFACE

  Some of the essays in this volume have appeared in recent numbers ofvarious periodicals. The essays on "Mark Twain" and "Thomas Hardy" wereoriginally printed in the _North American Review_; those on "Mrs. Ward"and "Rudyard Kipling," in the _Forum_; those on "Alfred Ollivant,""Bjoernstjerne Bjoernson," and "Novels as a University Study," in the_Independent_. The same magazine contained a portion of the presentessay on "Lorna Doone," while the article on "The Teacher's Attitudetoward Contemporary Literature" was written for the _Chicago Interior_.My friend, Mr. Andrew Keogh, Reference Librarian of Yale University, hasbeen kind enough to prepare the List of Publications, thereby increasingmy debt to him for many previous favours.

  W. L. P.

  YALE UNIVERSITY,Tuesday, _5 October, 1909_.

  CONTENTS

  PAGE

  WILLIAM DE MORGAN 1

  THOMAS HARDY 33

  WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS 56

  BJOeRNSTJERNE BJOeRNSON 82

  MARK TWAIN 99

  HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ 115

  HERMANN SUDERMANN 132

  ALFRED OLLIVANT 159

  ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 172

  MRS. HUMPHRY WARD 191

  RUDYARD KIPLING 208

  "LORNA DOONE" 229

  APPENDICES 245

  A. NOVELS AS A UNIVERSITY STUDY 245

  B. THE TEACHER'S ATTITUDE TOWARD CONTEMPORARY LITERATURE 252

  C. TWO POEMS 258

  LIST OF PUBLICATIONS 261

  ESSAYS ON MODERN NOVELISTS

  I

  WILLIAM DE MORGAN

  "How can you know whether you are successful or not at forty-one? How doyou know you won't have a tremendous success, all of a sudden?Yes--after another ten years, perhaps--but _some_ time! And then twentyyears of real, happy work. It has all been before, this sort of thing.Why not you?" Thus spoke the hopeful Alice to the despairing Charley;and it makes an interesting comment on the very man who wrote theconversation, and created the speakers. It has indeed "all been before,this sort of thing"; only when an extremely clever person, whose friendshave always been saying, with an exclamation rather than aninterrogation point appended, "Why don't you write a novel!" ... waitsuntil he has passed his grand climacteric, he displays more faith inProvidence than in himself. All of which is as it should be. Keats diedat the age of twenty-five, but, from where I am now writing, I canreach his Poetical Works almost without leaving my chair; he is amongthe English Poets. Had Mr. De Morgan died at the age of twenty-five? Theanswer is, he didn't. I am no great believer in mute, ingloriousMiltons, nor do I think that I daily pass potential novelists in thestreet. Life is shorter than Art, as has frequently been observed; butit seems long enough for Genius. Genius resembles murder in that it_will_ out; you can no more prevent its expression than you can preventthe thrush from singing his song twice over. Crabbed age and youth havetheir peculiar accent. Keats, with all his glory, could not have written_Joseph Vance_, and Mr. De Morgan, with all his skill in ceramics, couldnot have fashioned the _Ode on a Grecian Urn_.

  Sir Thomas Browne, who loved miracles, did not hesitate to classify thesupposed importance of the grand climacteric as a vulgar error; heincluded a whole quaint chapter on the subject, in that old curiosityshop of literature, the _Pseudodoxia Epidemica_. "And so perhaps hath ithappened unto the number 7. and 9. which multiplyed into themselves doemake up 63. commonly esteemed the great Climactericall of our lives; forthe dayes of men are usually cast up by septenaries, and every seventhyeare conceived to carry some altering character with it, either in thetemper of body, minde, or both; but among all other, three are mostremarkable, that is, 7. times 7. or forty-nine, 9. times 9. oreighty-one, and 7. times 9. or the yeare of sixty-three; which isconceived to carry with it, the most considerable fatality, andconsisting of both the other numbers was apprehended to comprise thevertue of either, is therefore expected and entertained with feare, andesteemed a favour of fate to pass it over; which notwithstanding manysuspect but to be a Panick terrour, and men to feare they justly knownot what; and for my owne part, to speak indifferently, I find nosatisfaction, nor any sufficiency in the received grounds to establish arationall feare."

  Among various strong reasons against this superstition, Dr. Brownepresents the impressive argument shown by the Patriarchs: "the lives ofour forefathers presently after the flood, and more especially beforeit, who, attaining unto 8. or 900. yeares, had not their Climacterscomputable by digits, or as we doe account them; for the greatClimactericall was past unto them before they begat children, or gaveany Testimony of their virilitie, for we read not that any begatchildren before the age of sixtie five."

  The strange case of William De Morgan would have deeply interested SirThomas, and he would have given it both full and minute consideration.For it was just after he had safely passed the climacterical year ofsixty-three, that our now famous novelist began what is to us the mostimportant chapter of his life, the first chapter of _Joseph Vance_; and,like the Patriarchs, it was only after he had reached the age ofsixty-five that he became fruitful, producing those wonderful childrenof his brain that are to-day everywhere known and loved. Poets ripenearly; if a man comes to his twenty-fifth birthday without havingwritten some things supremely well, he may in most instances abandon allhope of immortality in song; but to every would-be novelist it isreasonable to whisper those encouraging words, "while there's lifethere's hope." Of the ten writers who may be classed as the greatestEnglish novelists, only one--Charles Dickens--published a good novelbefore the age of thirty. Defoe's first fiction of any consequence was_Robinson Crusoe_, printed in 1719; he was then fifty-eight years old.Richardson had turned fifty before his earliest novel appeared. Andalthough I can think at this moment of no case exactly comparable withthat of the author of _Joseph Vance_, it is a book to which experiencehas contributed as well as inspiration, and would be something, if notinferior, at all events very different, had it been composed in early orin middle life. For it vibrates with the echoes of a long gallery, whosewalls are crowded with interesting pictures.

  The recent Romantic Revival has produced many novels that have enjoyed abrief and noisy popularity; its worst effects are noticeable on theminds of readers, unduly stimulated by the constant perusal ofrapid-fire fiction. Many will not read further than the fourth page,unless some casualties have already occurred. To every writer who startswith some deliberation, they shout, "Leave your damnable faces andbegin." Authors who produce for immediate consumption are prepared forthis; so are the more clever men who write the publishers'advertisements. An announcement of a new work by an exceedinglyfashionable novelist was headed by the appetising line, "This book goeswith a rush, and ends with a smash." That would hardly do as adescription of _Clarissa
Harlowe_, _Wilhelm Meister_, or some otherclassics. To a highly nervous and irritably impatient reading public, aman whose name had no commercial value in literature gravely offered inthe year of grace 1906 an "ill-written autobiography" of two hundred andeighty thousand words! Well, the result is what might _not_ have beenexpected. If ever a confirmed optimist had reason to feel justificationof his faith, Mr. De Morgan must have seen it in the reception given tohis first novel.

  Despite the great length of Mr. De Morgan's books, and the leisurelypassages of comment and rather extraneous detail, he never _begins_slowly. No producer of ephemeral trash, no sensation-monger, has evergot under way with more speed, or taken a swifter initial plunge intothe very heart of action. One memorable day in 1873, Count Tolstoipicked up a little story by Pushkin, which his ten-year-old son had beenreading aloud to a member of the family. The great Russian glanced atthe first sentence, "The guests began to assemble the evening before the_fete_." He was mightily pleased. "That's the way to begin a story!" hecried. "The reader is taken by one stroke into the midst of the action.Another writer would have commenced by describing the guests, the rooms,while Pushkin--he goes straight at his goal." Some of those in the roomlaughed, and suggested that Tolstoi himself appropriate such a beginningand write a novel. He immediately retired and wrote the first sentencesof _Anna Karenina_; which is literally the manner in which thatmasterpiece came into being.[1] Now if one will open any of Mr. DeMorgan's works, he will find the procedure that Tolstoi praised.Something immediately happens--happens before we have any idea of thereal character of the agents, and before we hardly know where we are.Indeed, the first chapter of _Somehow Good_ may serve as an artisticmodel for the commencement of a novel. It is written with extraordinaryvivacity and spirit. But the author understands better how to begin hisworks than he does how to end them. The close of _Joseph Vance_ is likethe mouth of the Mississippi, running off into the open sea through agreat variety of passages. The ending of _Alice-for-Short_ isaccomplished only by notes, comment, and citations. And _Somehow Good_is simply snipped off, when it might conceivably have proceeded on itsway. His fourth novel is the only one that ends as well as it begins.

  [1] _Leon Tolstoi: Vie et OEuvres. Memoires par P. Birukov. TraductionFrancaise_, Tome III, p. 177.

  You cannot judge books, any more than you can individuals, by the firstwords they say. If I could only discover somewhere some man, woman, orchild who had not read _Joseph Vance_, I should like to tell him thesubstance of the first chapter, and ask him to guess what sort of astory had awakened my enthusiasm. Suppose some person who had neverheard of Browning should stumble on _Pauline_, and read the first threelines:--

  "Pauline, mine own, bend o'er me--thy soft breast Shall pant to mine--bend o'er me--thy sweet eyes, And loosened hair and breathing lips, and arms"

  one sees the sharp look of expectation on the reader's face, and onealmost laughs aloud to think what there is in store for him. He willvery soon exhibit symptoms of bewilderment, and before he has finishedthe second page he will push the book aside with an air of piousdisappointment. No slum story ever opened more promisingly than _JosephVance_. We are led at the very start into a dirty rum-shop; thereimmediately ensues a fight between two half-drunken loafers in thedarkness without; this results in the double necessity of the police andthe hospital; and a broken bottle, found against a dead cat, is themissile employed to destroy a human eye. In _Alice-for-Short_, the firstchapter shows us a ragged little girl of six carrying a jug of beer froma public-house to a foul basement, where dwell her father and mother,both victims of alcohol. The police again. On the third page of _SomehowGood_, we have the "fortune to strike on a rich vein of so-called lifein a London slum." The hero gives a drunken, murderous scoundrel a "blowlike the kick of a horse, that lands fairly on the eye socket with acracking concussion that can be heard above the tumult, and is followedby a roar of delight from the male vermin." Once more the police. _ItNever Can Happen Again_ begins in a corner of London unspeakably vile.

  Zola and Gorky at their best, and worst--for it is sometimes hard tomake the distinction--have not often surpassed the first chapters of Mr.De Morgan's four novels. Never has a writer waded more unflinchinglyinto the slime. And yet the very last word to characterise these bookswould be the word "slum-stories." The foundations of Mr. De Morgan'swork, like the foundations of cathedrals, are deep in the dirt; but thetotal impression is one of exceeding beauty. Indeed, with our novelist'sconception of life, as a progress toward something high and sublime,where evil not only exists, but is a necessary factor in development,the darkness of the shadows proves the intense radiance of the sun. Theplanet Venus is so bright, we are accustomed to remark, that itsometimes casts a shadow. Christopher Vance emerges from beastlydegradation to a position of power, influence, and usefulness; the Heathfamily, in receiving Alice, entertain an angel unawares; and the marchof _Somehow Good_ goes from hell, through purgatory, and into paradise.It is a divine comedy, in more ways than one; and shows that sometimesthe goal of ill is very unlike the start.

  We had not read far into _Joseph Vance_ before we shouted _DickensRedivivus!_ or some equivalent remark in the vernacular. We made thisoutcry with no tincture of depreciation and with no yelp of theplagiarism-hunting hound. It requires little skill to observe thesimilarity to Dickens, as was proved by the fact that everyone noticedit. In general, the shout was one of glad recognition; it was thewelcome given to the sound of a voice that had been still. It was not animitation: it was a reincarnation. The spirit of Dickens had reallyentered into William De Morgan; many chapters in _Joseph Vance_ soundedas if they had been dictated by the ghost of the author of_Copperfield_. No book since 1870 had given so vivid an impression ofthe best-beloved of all English novelists. This is meant to be highpraise. When Walt Whitman was being exalted for his unlikeness to thegreat poets, one sensible critic quietly remarked, "It is easier todiffer from the great poets than to resemble them." To "remind us ofDickens" would be as difficult for many modern novelists as for amolehill to remind us of the Matterhorn.

  We may say, however, that _Joseph Vance_ and _It Never Can Happen Again_are more like Dickens in character and in detail than is_Alice-for-Short_; and that the latter is closer to Dickens than is_Somehow Good_. The Reverend Benaiah Capstick infallibly calls to mindthe spiritual adviser of Mrs. Weller; with the exception that the latterwas also spirituous. That kind of religion does not seem strongly toappeal to either novelist; for Mr. Stiggins took to drink, and Capstickto an insane asylum. There are many things in the conversation ofChristopher Vance that recall the humorous world-wisdom of the elderWeller; and so we might continue, were it profitable. Another greatpoint of resemblance between Mr. De Morgan and Dickens is seen in themethod of narration chosen by each. Here William De Morgan is simplyfollowing in the main track of English fiction, where the novelistcannot refrain from _editing_ the text of the story. The course ofevents is constantly interrupted by the author's gloss. Now when theauthor's mind is not particularly interesting, the comment is anunpleasant interruption; it is both impertinent and dull. But when thewriter is himself more profound, more clever, and more entertaining thaneven his best characters, we cannot have too much of him. It is truethat Mr. De Morgan has told a good story in each of his novels; but itis also true that the story is not the cause of their reputation. Weread these books with delight because the characters are so attractive,and because the author's comments on them and on events are sopenetrating. If it is true, as some have intimated, that this method ofnovel-writing proves that Mr. De Morgan, whatever he is, is not aliterary artist, then it is undeniable that Fielding, Dickens, Trollope,and Thackeray are not artists; which is absurd, as Euclid would say.Great books are invariably greater than our definitions of them.Browning and Wagner composed great works of Art without paying muchattention to the rules of the game.

  As compared with French and Russian fiction, English novels fromFielding to De Morgan have unquestionably sounded a note of insincerity.One reason for
this lies in the fact that to the Anglo-Saxon mind,Morality has always seemed infinitely more important than Art. MatthewArnold spent his life fighting the Philistines; but when he said thatconduct was three-fourths of life, there was jubilation in the enemy'scamp. Now Zola declared that a novel could no more be called immoral inits descriptions than a text-book on physiology; the novelist commits asin when he writes a badly constructed sentence. A disciple of thisschool insisted that it was more important to have an accurate sense ofcolour than to have a clear notion of right and wrong. Fortunately forthe true greatness of humanity, you never can get the average Englishmanor American to swallow such doctrine. But it is at the same time certainthat among English-speaking peoples Art has seldom been taken withsufficient seriousness. We are handy with our fists; but you cannotimagine us using them in behalf of literature, as we do for real orpersonal property. So far as I know, an English audience in the theatrehas never been excited on a purely artistic question--a matter offrequent occurrence on the Continent. We seem to believe that, afterall, Art has no place in the serious business of life; it is arecreation, to amuse a mind overstrained by money-making or bypolitical affairs. We leave it to women, who are supposed to have moreleisure for trifles.

  For this reason, English novelists have generally felt compelled totreat their public as a tired mother treats a restless child. Ournovelists have been in mortal terror lest the attention of theiraudience should wander; and instead of taking their work and theirreaders seriously, they continually hand us lollipops. Their attitude isat once apologetic and insulting. They do not dare to believe that agreat work of Art--without personal comment--has in itself moralgreatness, and they do not dare trust the intelligence of spectators,but must forsooth constantly break the illusion by soothing orexplanatory remarks. The fact that in our greatest writers this is oftenpresented from the standpoint of humour, does not prevent the loss ofillusion; and in writers who are not great, the reader feels nothing butindignation. In the first chapter of the third book of _Amelia_, we findthe following advice:--

  "He then proceeded as Miss Matthews desired; but, lest all our readers should not be of her opinion, we will, according to our usual custom, endeavour to accommodate ourselves to every taste, and shall, therefore, place this scene in a chapter by itself, which we desire all our readers who do not love, or who, perhaps, do not know the pleasure of tenderness, to pass over; since they may do this without any prejudice to the thread of the narrative."

  In the first chapter of _Shirley_, Charlotte Bronte prologises asfollows:--

  "If you think ... that anything like a romance is preparing for you, reader, you never were more mistaken.... Calm your expectations; reduce them to a lowly standard. Something real, cool, and solid lies before you;... It is not positively affirmed that you shall not have a taste of the exciting, perhaps toward the middle and close of the meal, but it is resolved that the first dish set upon the table shall be one that a Catholic--ay, even an Anglo-Catholic--might eat on Good Friday in Passion Week; it shall be cold lentils and vinegar without oil; it shall be unleavened bread with bitter herbs, and no roast lamb."

  William Black once wrote a novel called _Madcap Violet_, which heintended for a tragedy, and in which, therefore, we have a right toexpect some artistic dignity. About midway in the volume we find thefollowing:--

  "At this point, and in common courtesy to his readers, the writer of these pages considers himself bound to give fair warning that the following chapter deals solely and wholly with the shooting of mergansers, curlews, herons, and such like fearful wild fowl; therefore, those who regard such graceless idling with aversion, and are anxious to get on with the story, should at once proceed to chapter twenty-three."

  At the beginning of the second chapter of _Dr. Thorne_, one of the bestof Trollope's novels, we are petted in this manner:--

  "A few words must still be said about Miss Mary before we rush into our story; the crust will then have been broken, and the pie will be open to the guests."

  At the three hundred and seventy-second page of the late MarionCrawford's entertaining story, _The Prima Donna_, the course of thenarrative is thus interrupted:--

  "Now at this stage of my story it would be unpardonable to keep my readers in suspense, if I may suppose that any of them have a little curiosity left. Therefore, I shall not narrate in detail what happened Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, seeing that it was just what might have been expected to happen at a week-end party during the season when there is nothing in the world to do but to play golf, tennis, or croquet, or to write or drive all day, and to work hard at bridge all the evening; for that is what it has come to."

  Finally, in the first chapter of Mr. Winston Churchill's novel,_Coniston_, the author pleads with his reader in this style:--

  "The reader is warned that this first love-story will, in a few chapters, come to an end; and not to a happy end--otherwise there would be no book. Lest he should throw the book away when he arrives at this page, it is only fair to tell him that there is another and much longer love-story later on, if he will only continue to read, in which, it is hoped, he may not be disappointed."

  Imagine Turgenev or Flaubert scribbling anything similar to theinterpolations quoted above! When a great French novelist doescondescend to speak to his reader, it is in a tone, that so far frombelittling his own art, or sugaring the expectation of his listener, hasquite the contrary effect. On the second page of _Pere Goriot_, we findthe following solemn warning:--

  "Ainsi ferez-vous, vous qui tenez ce livre d'une main blanche, vous qui vous enfoncez dans un molleux fauteuil en vous disant: 'Peut-etre ceci va-t-il m'amuser.' Apres avoir lu les secretes infortunes du pere Goriot, vous dinerez avec appetit en mettant votre insensibilite sur le compte de l'auteur, en le taxant d'exageration, en l'accusant de poesie. Ah! sachez-le: ce drame n'est ni une fiction ni un roman. _All is true_, il est si veritable, que chacun peut en reconnaitre les elements chez soi, dans son coeur peut-etre."

  The chief objection to these constant remarks to the reader, so commonin great English novels, is that they for the moment destroy theillusion. Suppose an actress in the midst of Ophelia's mad scene shouldsuddenly pause and address the audience in her own accents in this wise:"I observe that some ladies among the spectators are weeping, and thatsome men are yawning. Allow me to say to those of you who dislike tragicevents on the stage, that I shall remain here only a few moments longer,and shall not have much to say; and that if you will only be patient,the grave-diggers will come on before long, and it is probable thattheir conversation will amuse you."

  The two reasons given above, the fear that a novel unexplained byauthor's comment will not justify itself morally, and that at allhazards the gentle reader must be placated and entertained, undoubtedlypartly explain a long tradition in the course of English fiction. Butwhile we may protest against this sort of thing in general, it is wellto remember that we must take our men of genius as we find them, andrejoice that they have seen fit to employ any channel of expression.There are many different kinds of great novels, as there are of greatpoems. The fact that Tennyson's poetry belongs to the first class doesnot in the least prevent the totally different poetry of Browning frombeing ranked equally high. _Joseph Vance_ is a very different kind ofnovel from _The Return of the Native_, but both awaken our wonder anddelight. There are some books that inspire us by their art, and thereare others that inspire us by their ideas. Turgenev was surely a greaterartist than Tolstoi, but _Anna Karenina_ is a veritable piece of life.

  I do not say that William De Morgan is not a great artist, because, if Ishould say it, I should not know exactly what I meant. But the immensepleasure that his books give me is another kind of pleasure than Ireceive from _The Scarlet Letter_. _Joseph Vance_ is not so much abeautifully written or exquisitely constructed novel
as it is anencyclopaedia of life. We meet real people, we hear delightfulconversation, and the tremendously interesting personality of the authoris everywhere apparent. The opinion of many authors concerningimmortality is not worth attention; but I should very much like to knowMr. De Morgan's views on this absorbing subject. And so I turn to thefortieth chapter of _Joseph Vance_ with great expectations. The readeris advised to skip this chapter, a sure indication of its importance.For, like all humorists, Mr. De Morgan is a bit shamefaced when he talksabout the deepest things, the things that really interest him most. Itsurely will not do to have Dr. Thorpe talk like the Reverend Mr.Capstick, although they both eagerly discuss what we call thesupernatural. Capstick is an ass, but he has one characteristic that wemight, to a certain extent, imitate; he sees no reason to apologise forconversing on great topics, or to break up such a conversation with anembarrassed laugh. Most of us are horribly afraid of being taken forsanctimonious persons, when there is really not the slightest danger. Weare always pleasantly surprised when we discover that our friends are atheart just as serious as we are, and that they, too, regret the mask offlippancy that our Anglo-Saxon false modesty compels us to wear. But, assome one has said, you cannot expect your audience to take your viewsseriously unless you express them with seriousness. Mr. De Morgan, likeRobert Browning, would doubtless deny that Dr. Thorpe spoke only theauthor's thoughts; but just as you can hear Browning's voice all throughthose "utterances of so many imaginary persons, not mine," so I feelconfident that amid all the light banter of this charming talk in thefortieth chapter, the following remark of Dr. Thorpe expresses thephilosophy of William De Morgan, and at the same time the basal moralprinciple underlying this entire novel:--"The highest good is the growthof the Soul, and the greatest man is he who rejoices most in greatfulfilments of the will of God."

  For although Mr. De Morgan belongs, like Dickens, to the greathumorists, who, while keenly conscious of the enormous differencebetween right and wrong, regard the world with a kindly smile for humanweakness and folly, he is mainly a psychologist. To all of his novels hemight appropriately have prefixed the words of the author of _Sordello_:"My stress lay on the incidents in the development of a soul; littleelse is worth study." All the characters that he loves show_soul-development_; the few characters that are unlovely have souls thatdo not advance. Joseph, Lossie, Janey, Alicia, Charles Heath, Rosalind,Athelstan, have the inner man renewed day by day; one feels that atphysical death such personalities proceed naturally into a sphere ofeternal progress. On the other hand, Joey's soul stands still; so do thesouls of Violet, Lavinia Straker, Mrs. Vereker, Mrs. Eldridge, Judith,and Mrs. Craik. Why should they live for ever? They would always be thesame. This is the real distinction in these novels between people thatare fundamentally good and those that are fundamentally bad; whethertheir badness causes tragedy or merely constant irritation. It is anoriginal manner of dividing virtue from vice, but it is illuminating.

  The events in Mr. De Morgan's books are improbable, but the people areprobable. The same might be said of Shakespeare. It is highly improbablethat Christopher Vance could have risen to fortune through hissign-board, or that Fenwick should have been electrocuted at the feet ofhis wife's daughter. But Christopher Vance, Fenwick, and Sally behaveprecisely as people would behave in such emergencies in real life. Inmany ways I think Christopher Vance is the most convincing character inall the novels; at any rate, I had rather hear him talk than any of theothers. There is no trace of meanness in him, and even when he is drunkhe is never offensive or disgusting. The day after he has returnedintoxicated from a meeting of the Board of Arbitrators, he seems ratherinquisitive as to his exact condition, and asks his son:--

  "I wasn't singin' though, Nipper, was I?" I said certainly not! "Not 'a Landlady of France she loved an Officer, 'tis said,' nor 'stick 'em up again in the middle of a three-cent pie'?"

  "Neither of them--quite certain." My father seemed reassured. "That's _something_, anyhow," said he. "The other Arbitrators was singin' both. Likewise 'Rule Britannia.' Weak-headed cards, the two on 'em!"

  The scene at Christopher Vance's death-bed, when Joseph finallydiscloses the identity of the boy who threw the piece of glass into theeye of the Sweep, touches the depths of true pathos. One feels theinfinite love of the father for the little son who defended him. He isquite rightly prouder of that exploit than of all the Nipper'ssubsequent learning.

  While the imaginary events in this novel bear no sort of relation to thecircumstances of the author's own life, I cannot help launching the mereguess that the father of William De Morgan was, to a certain extent, acombination of Christopher Vance and Dr. Thorpe. For Augustus De Morganwas not only a distinguished mathematical scholar, he was well-known forthe keenness of his wit. He had the learning and refinement of Dr.Thorpe, and the shrewd, irresistible humour of old Vance. At all events,this striking combination in the novelist can be traced to no moreprobable source.

  The influence of good women on men's lives is repeatedly shown; it isindeed a leading principle in three of the books. One of the mostnotable differences in novels that reflect a pessimistic_Weltanschauung_ from those that indicate the contrary may be seen righthere. How completely the whole significance of the works of Guy deMaupassant would change had he included here and there some women whocombined virtue with personal charm! "Were there no women, men wouldlive like gods," said a character in one of Dekker's plays; judged bymuch modern fiction, one would feel like trying the experiment. But whatwould become of Mr. De Morgan's novels, and of the attitude toward lifethey so clearly reflect, if they contained no women? Young Joseph Vancewas fortunate indeed in having in his life the powerful influence of twosuch characters as Lossie Thorpe and Janey Spencer. They were what acompass is to a shipman, taking him straight on his course through theblackest storms. It was for Lossie that he made the greatest sacrificein his whole existence; and nothing pays a higher rate of moral interestthan a big sacrifice. It was Janey who led him from the grossness ofearth into the spiritual world, something that Lossie, with all herloveliness, could not do. Both women show that there is nothinginherently dull in goodness; it may be accompanied with some _esprit_.We are too apt to think that moral goodness is represented by suchpersons as the Elder Brother in the story of the Prodigal Son, when theparable indicates that the younger brother, with all his crimes, wasactually the more virtuous of the two. It took no small skill for Mr. DeMorgan to create such an irresistibly good woman as Lossie, make hishero in love with her from boyhood, cause her to marry some one else,and then to unite the heart-broken hero with another girl; and throughthese tremendous upheavals to make all things work together for good,and to the reader's complete satisfaction. This could not possibly havebeen accomplished had not the author been able to fashion a woman, who,while totally unlike Lossie in every physical and mental aspect, wasspiritually even more attractive. I am not sure which of the two girlshas the bigger place in their maker's heart; I suspect it is Lossie; butto me Janey is not only a better woman, I really have a strongeraffection for her.

  In _Alice-for-Short_, the hero is again blessed with two guardianangels, his sister and his second wife. Mr. De Morgan is extremelygenerous to his favourite men, in permitting either their second choiceor their second experiment in matrimony to prove such an amazingsuccess. Comparatively few novelists dare to handle the problem of happysecond marriages; the subject for some reason does not lend itselfreadily to romance. Josh Billings said he knew of absolutely nothingthat would cure a man of laziness; but that a second wife wouldsometimes help. Although he said this in the spirit of farce, it isexactly what happens in Mr. De Morgan's books. Janey is not technicallya second wife, but she is spiritually; and she rescues Joseph fromdespair, restores his ambition and capacity to work, and after her deathis like a guiding star. Alice is a second wife, both in her husband'sheart and in the law; and her influence on Charles Heath providesexactly the stimulus needed to save him from himself. Fenwick marriesfor the second time, an
d although his wife is in one sense the sameperson, in another she is not; she is quite different in everythingexcept constancy from the wretched girl he left sobbing on the verandahin India. And what would have become of Fenwick without the matureRosalind? Salvation, in Mr. De Morgan's novels, often assumes a feminineshape. They are not books of Friendship, like _The Cloister and theHearth_, _Trilby_, and _Es War_; with all their wonderful intelligenceand play of intellect, they would seem almost barren without women. Andhe is far more successful in depicting love after marriage than before.One of the most charming characteristics of these stories is thefrequent representation of the highest happiness known on earth--notfound in the passion of early youth, but in a union of two heartscemented by joy and sorrow in the experience of years. No novelist hasever given us better pictures of a good English home; more attractiveglimpses into the reserveless intimacy of the affairs of the hearth. Theconversations between Christopher Vance and his wife, between Sir Rupertand Lady Johnson, between Fenwick and Rosalind, are decidedly superiorto the "love-making" scenes. Indeed, the description of the walk duringwhich young Dr. Vereker definitely wins Sally, is disappointing. It isperhaps the only important episode in Mr. De Morgan's novels that showsmore effort than inspiration.

  The style in these books, despite constant quotation, is not at all aliterary style. Joseph Vance is called "an ill-written autobiography,"because it lacks entirely the conventional manner. Many works of fictionare composed in what might be called the terminology of the art; just asworks in science and in sport are compelled to repeat constantly thesame verbal forms. The astonishing freshness and charm of Mr. DeMorgan's method consist partly in his abandonment of literary precedent,and adhering only to actual observation. It is as though an actor on thestage should suddenly drop his mannerism of accent and gesture, andbehave as he would were he actually, instead of histrionically, happy orwretched. Despite the likeness to Dickens in characters and atmosphere,_Joseph Vance_ sounds not only as though its author had never written anovel previously, but as though he had never read one. It has thestrangeness of reality. There is no lack of action in these hugenarratives: the men and women pass through the most thrilling incidents,and suffer the greatest extremes of passion, pain, and joy that thehuman mind can endure. We have three cases of drowning, one tremendousfire; and in _Somehow Good_--which, viewed merely as a story, is thebest of them--a highly eventful plot; and, spiritually, the charactersgive us an idea of how much agony the heart can endure without quitebreaking. But though the bare plot seems almost like melodrama, thestyle is never on stilts. In the most awful crises, the language has theabsolute simplicity of actual circumstance. When Rosalind recognises herhusband in the cab, we wonder why she takes it so coolly. Some sixtypages farther along, we come upon this paragraph:--

  "Nevertheless, these were not so absolute that her demeanour escaped comment from the cabby, the only witness of her first sight of the 'electrocuted' man. He spoke of her afterwards as that squealing party down that sanguinary little turning off Shepherd's Bush Road he took that sanguinary galvanic shock to."

  Our author is fond of presenting events of the most momentousconsequence through the lips of humble and indifferent observers. It isonly the cabman's chance testimony which shows us that even Rosalind'ssuperb self-control had the limit determined by real womanhood; and in_Joseph Vance_, the great climax of emotion, when Lossie visits hermaligned old lover, is given with unconscious force through the faultyvernacular of the "slut" of a servant-maid, who is utterly unaware ofthe angels that ministered over that scene; and then by the brokenEnglish of the German chess-player, equally blind to the divinepresence. Compare these two crude testimonies, which make the ludicrousblunders made by the Hostess in that marvellous account of the death ofFalstaff, and you have a veritable harmony of the Gospels. Somenovelists use an extraordinary style to describe ordinary events; Mr. DeMorgan uses an ordinary style to describe extraordinary events.

  Even in his latest book, _It Never Can Happen Again_,[2] the leastcheerful of all his productions, the title is intended to be ascomforting as Charles Reade's caption, _It Is Never Too Late to Mend_.In this story, Mr. De Morgan descends into hell. Delirium tremens hasnever been pictured with more frightful horror than in the awful nightwhen the mad wretch is bent on murder. No scene in any naturalisticnovel surpasses this in vivid detail. Indeed, all of Mr. De Morgan'sbooks might well be circulated as anti-alcohol tracts; the real villainin his tragedies is Drink. Even though drunkenness in a certain aspectsupplies comedy in _Joseph Vance_, drink is, after all, the ruin of oldChristopher, and we are left with no shade of doubt that this is so. Mr.De Morgan's unquestionable optimism does not blink the dreadful aspectsof life, any more than did Browning's. The scene in the hospital, wherethe fingers without finger-nails clasp the mighty hand in the rubberglove, is as loathsomely horrible as anything to be found in the annalsof disease. And the career of Blind Jim, entirely ignorant of his divineorigin and destiny, is a series of appalling calamities. He has lost hissight in a terrible accident; he is run over by a waggon, and loses hisleg; he is run over by an automobile, and loses his life. He has alsolost, though he does not know it, what is far dearer to him than eyes,or legs, or life,--his little daughter. And yet we do not need thespirit voice of the dead child to assure us that all is well. Indeed,the tragic history of Jim and Lizarann is not nearly so depressing asthe humdrum narrative of the melancholy quarrel between Mr. and Mrs.Challis. In previous novels, the author has been pleased to show usdomestic happiness; here we have the dreary round of perpetual discord.Of course no one can complain of Mr. De Morgan for his choice in thismatter; it is certainly true that not all marriages are happy, eventhough the majority of them (as I believe) are. The difficulty is thatthe triangle in this book--husband, wife, and beautiful young lady--hasno corner of real interest. It is not entirely the fault of either Mr.or Mrs. Challis that they separate; there is much to be said on bothsides. What we object to is the fact that it is impossible to sympathisewith either of them; this is not because each is guilty, but becauseneither is interesting. We do not much care what becomes of them. And asfor Judith, the technical virgin who causes all the trouble, she is avery dull person. We do not need this book to learn that female beautywithout brains fascinates the ordinary man. The best scenes are thosewhere Blind Jim and Lizarann appear; they are a couple fully worthy ofDickens at his best. Unfortunately they do not appear often enough tosuit us, and they both die. We could more easily have spared Mr. andMrs. Challis, the latter's abominable tea-gossip friend, and that oldhypocritical tiger-cat, Mrs. Challis's mother. Why does Mr. De Morganmake elderly women so disgustingly unattractive? Does his sympathy withlife desert him here? The entire Challis household, including thesatellites of relationship and propinquity, are hardly worth theauthor's skill or the reader's attention. One would suppose that abrilliant novelist, like Challis, pulled from the domestic orbit by acomet like Judith, would be for a time in an interesting, if not anedifying, position; but he is not. Perhaps Mr. De Morgan wishes to showwith the impartiality of a true chronicler of life that a married man,drawn away by his own lust, and enticed, can be just as dull in sin asin virtue. Yet the long dreary family storm ends in sunshine; thediscordant pair are redeemed by Love,--the real motive power of thisstory,--and one feels that it can never happen again. In spite of Mr. DeMorgan's continual onslaught on creeds, Athelstan Taylor, who believesthe whole Apostles' Creed, compares very favourably with Challis, whobelieves only the first seven and the last four words of it, apparentlythe portion accepted by Mr. De Morgan: and by their fruits ye shall knowthem. It is certainly a proof of the fair-mindedness of our novelist,that he has created orthodox believers like Lossie's husband andAthelstan Taylor, big wholesome fellows, both of them; and hasdeliberately made both so irresistibly attractive. The professionalparson is often ridiculed in modern novels; it is worth noting that inthis story the only important character in the whole work who combinesintelligence with virtue is the Reverend Athelstan Ta
ylor.

  [2] Through the kindness of Messrs. Henry Holt and Co., I have had theprivilege of reading this novel in proof sheets.

  Seldom have any books shown so intimate a knowledge of the kingdom ofthis world and at the same time reflected with such radiance the kingdomof heaven. It is noteworthy and encouraging that a man who portrays withsuch humorous exactitude the things that are seen and temporal, shouldexhibit so firm a faith in the things that are unseen and eternal. In_Joseph Vance_ we have the growth of the soul from an environment ofpoverty and crime to the loftiest heights of nobility and self-denial;and the theme in the Waldstein Sonata triumphantly repeats theconfidence of Dr. Thorpe, who regards death not as a barrier, but as agateway. In _Alice-for-Short_, the mystery of the spirit-worldcompletely envelops the humdrum inconsistencies that form the dailyround, the trivial task; this is seen perhaps not so much in the"ghosts," for they speak of the past; but the figure of oldVerrinder--whose heart revolves about the Asylum like the planet aroundthe sun--and the waking of old Jane from her long sleep, seem tosymbolise the impotence of Time to quench the divine spark of Love. Thisstory is called a "dichronism"; but it might have been called a_dichroism_, for from one viewpoint it reflects only the clouded colourof earth, and from another a celestial glory. In _Somehow Good_ theugliest tragedy takes its place in the unapparent order of life. It isnot that good finally reigns in spite of evil; the final truth is thatin some manner good is the very goal of ill. The agony of separation hastested the pure metal of character; and the fusion of two lives is madepermanent in the frightful heat of awful pain. The fruit of a repulsivesin may be Beauty, like a flower springing from a dung-hill. "Whatbecame of the baby?... _The_ baby--_his_ baby--_his_ horrible baby!""Gerry darling! Gerry _dearest_! do think...."