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Essays in Little, by Andrew Lang

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Title: Essays in Little

Author: Andrew Lang

Editor: W. H. Davenport Adams

Release Date: December 29, 2007 [eBook #1594]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)

***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ESSAYS IN LITTLE***

Transcribed from the 1891 Henry and Co. edition by David Price, email ccx074@pgl

af.org

ESSAYS IN LITTLE.

byANDREW LANG.

with portrait of the author.

london:HENRY AND CO., BOUVERIE STREET, E.C.1891.

Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Vincy, Ld., London and Aylesbury.

CONTENTS.

PrefaceAlexandre DumasMr. Stevensons worksThomas Haynes BaylyThodore de BanvilleHomer and the Study of GreekThe Last Fashionable NovelThackeray

DickensAdventures of BuccaneersThe Sagas


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Charles KingsleyCharles Lever: His books, adventures and misfortunesThe poems of Sir Walter ScottJohn BunyanTo a Young JournalistMr. Kiplings stories

PREFACE

Of the following essays, five are new, and were written for this volume. They are the paper on Mr. R. L. Stevenson, the Letter to a Young Journalist, the study of Mr. Kipling, the note on Homer, and The Last Fashionable Novel. The article on the author of Oh, no! we never mention Her, appeared in the New York Sun, and was suggested by Mr. Dana, the editor of that journal. The papers on Thackeray and Dickens were published in Good Words, that on Dumas appeared in Scribners Magazine, that on M. Thodore de Banville in The New Quarterly Review. The other essays were originally written for a newspaper Syndicate. They have

been re-cast, augmented, and, to a great extent, re-written.

A. L.

ALEXANDRE DUMAS

Alexandre Dumas is a writer, and his life is a topic, of which his devotees never weary. Indeed, one lifetime is not long enough wherein to tire of them. Thelong days and years of Hilpa and Shalum, in Addisonthe antediluvian age, when apicnic lasted for half a century and a courtship for two hundred years, might h

ave sufficed for an exhaustive study of Dumas. No such study have I to offer, in the brief seasons of our perishable days. I own that I have not read, and donot, in the circumstances, expect to read, all of Dumas, nor even the greater pa

rt of his thousand volumes. We only dip a cup in that sparkling spring, and drink, and go on,we cannot hope to exhaust the fountain, nor to carry away with usthe well itself. It is but a word of gratitude and delight that we can say to

the heroic and indomitable master, only an ave of friendship that we can call across the bourne to the shade of the Porthos of fiction. That his works (his best works) should be even still more widely circulated than they are; that the young should read them, and learn frankness, kindness, generosityshould esteem thetender heart, and the gay, invincible wit; that the old should read them again,and find forgetfulness of trouble, and taste the anodyne of dreams, that is wha

t we desire.

Dumas said of himself (Mmoires, v. 13) that when he was young he tried several times to read forbidden booksbooks that are sold sous le manteau. But he never got farther than the tenth page, in the

scrofulous French novelOn gray paper with blunt type;

he never made his way so far as

the woful sixteenth print.

I had, thank God, a natural sentiment of delicacy; and thus, out of my six hundred volumes (in 1852) there are not four which the most scrupulous mother may not give to her daughter. Much later, in 1864, when the Censure threatened one o

f his plays, he wrote to the Emperor: Of my twelve hundred volumes there is notone which a girl in our most modest quarter, the Faubourg Saint-Germain, may no

t be allowed to read. The mothers of the Faubourg, and mothers in general, may


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not take Dumas exactly at his word. There is a passage, for example, in the story of Miladi (Les Trois Mousquetaires) which a parent or guardian may well think undesirable reading for youth. But compare it with the original passage inthe Mmoires of DArtagnan! It has passed through a medium, as Dumas himselfdeclared, of natural delicacy and good taste. His enormous popularity, the widest in the world of letters, owes absolutely nothing to prurience or curiosity.The air which he breathes is a healthy air, is the open air; and that by his own

choice, for he had every temptation to seek another kind of vogue, and every opportunity.

Two anecdotes are told of Dumas books, one by M. Edmond About, the other by hisown son, which show, in brief space, why this novelist is so beloved, and why h

e deserves our affection and esteem. M. Villaud, a railway engineer who had lived much in Italy, Russia, and Spain, was the person whose enthusiasm finally secured a statue for Dumas. He felt so much gratitude to the unknown friend of lonely nights in long exiles, that he could not be happy till his gratitude found apermanent expression. On returning to France he went to consult M. Victor Bori

e, who told him this tale about George Sand. M. Borie chanced to visit the famous novelist just before her death, and found Dumas novel, Les Quarante Cinq (

one of the cycle about the Valois kings) lying on her table. He expressed his wonder that she was reading it for the first time.

For the first time!why, this is the fifth or sixth time I have read Les Quarante Cinq, and the others. When I am ill, anxious, melancholy, tired, discouraged, nothing helps me against moral or physical troubles like a book of Dumas.Again, M. About says that M. Sarcey was in the same class at school with a little Spanish boy. The child was homesick; he could not eat, he could not sleep; hewas almost in a decline.

You want to see your mother? said young Sarcey.

No: she is dead.

Your father, then?

No: he used to beat me.

Your brothers and sisters?

I have none.

Then why are you so eager to be back in Spain?

To finish a book I began in the holidays.

And what was its name?

Los Tres Mosqueteros!

He was homesick for The Three Musketeers, and they cured him easily.

That is what Dumas does. He gives courage and life to old age, he charms away the half-conscious nostalgie, the Heimweh, of childhood. We are all homesick, inthe dark days and black towns, for the land of blue skies and brave adventures

in forests, and in lonely inns, on the battle-field, in the prison, on the desert isle. And then Dumas comes, and, like Argive Helen, in Homer, he casts a druginto the wine, the drug nepenthe, that puts all evil out of mind. Does any o

ne suppose that when George Sand was old and tired, and near her death, she would have found this anodyne, and this stimulant, in the novels of M. Tolsto, M. Dostoiefsky, M. Zola, or any of the scientific observers whom we are actually r


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equested to hail as the masters of a new art, the art of the future? Would theymake her laugh, as Chicot does? make her forget, as Porthos, Athos, and Aramis

do? take her away from the heavy, familiar time, as the enchanter Dumas takes us? No; let it be enough for these new authors to be industrious, keen, accurate,prcieux, pitiful, charitable, veracious; but give us high spirits now and then

, a light heart, a sharp sword, a fair wench, a good horse, or even that old Gascon rouncy of DArtagnans. Like the good Lord James Douglas, we had liefer hea

r the lark sing over moor and down, with Chicot, than listen to the starved-mouse squeak in the bouge of Thrse Raquin, with M. Zola. Not that there is not aplace and an hour for him, and others like him; but they are not, if you please,to have the whole world to themselves, and all the time, and all the praise; th

ey are not to turn the world into a dissecting-room, time into tedium, and the laurels of Scott and Dumas into crowns of nettles.

There is no complete life of Alexandre Dumas. The age has not produced the intellectual athlete who can gird himself up for that labour. One of the worst books that ever was written, if it can be said to be written, is, I think, the English attempt at a biography of Dumas. Style, grammar, taste, feeling, are all bad. The author does not so much write a life as draw up an indictment. The spiri

t of his work is grudging, sneering, contemptuous, and pitifully peddling. Thegreat charge is that Dumas was a humbug, that he was not the author of his own books, that his books were written by collaboratorsabove all, by M. Maquet. There is no doubt that Dumas had a regular system of collaboration, which he never concealed. But whereas Dumas could turn out books that live, whoever his assistants were, could any of his assistants write books that live, without Dumas?One might as well call any barrister in good practice a thief and an impostor because he has juniors to devil for him, as make charges of this kind against Dumas. He once asked his son to help him; the younger Alexandre declined. It isworth a thousand a year, and you have only to make objections, the sire urged;but the son was not to be tempted. Some excellent novelists of to-day would bemuch better if they employed a friend to make objections. But, as a rule, the

collaborator did much more. Dumas method, apparently, was first to talk the su

bject over with his aide-de-camp. This is an excellent practice, as ideas are knocked out, like sparks (an elderly illustration!), by the contact of minds. Then the young man probably made researches, put a rough sketch on paper, and supplied Dumas, as it were, with his brief. Then Dumas took the brief and wrotethe novel. He gave it life, he gave it the spark (ltincelle); and the story

lived and moved.

It is true that he took his own where he found it, like Molre and that he took a good deal. In the gallery of an old country-house, on a wet day, I came once on the Mmoires of DArtagnan, where they had lain since the family bought them in Queen Annes time. There were our old friends the Musketeers, and therewere many of their adventures, told at great length and breadth. But how much more vivacious they are in Dumas! M. About repeats a story of Dumas and his ways of work. He met the great man at Marseilles, where, indeed, Alexandre chancedto be on with the new love before being completely off with the old. Dumaspicked up M. About, literally lifted him in his embrace, and carried him off tosee a play which he had written in three days. The play was a success; the sup

per was prolonged till three in the morning; M. About was almost asleep as he walked home, but Dumas was as fresh as if he had just got out of bed. Go to sleep, old man, he said: I, who am only fifty-five, have three feuilletons to write, which must be posted to-morrow. If I have time I shall knock up a little piece for Montignythe idea is running in my head. So next morning M. About saw the three feuilletons made up for the post, and another packet addressed to M. Montigny: it was the play LInvitation la Valse, a chef-doeuvre! Well, the material had been prepared for Dumas. M. About saw one of his novels at Marseilles

in the chrysalis. It was a stout copy-book full of paper, composed by a practised hand, on the masters design. Dumas copied out each little leaf on a big leaf of paper, en y semant lesprit pleines mains. This was his method. As a r


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ule, in collaboration, one man does the work while the other looks on. Is it likely that Dumas looked on? That was not the manner of Dumas. Mirecourt and others, M. About says, have wept crocodile tears for the collaborators, the victims of his glory and his talent. But it is difficult to lament over the survivors (1884). The master neither took their moneyfor they are rich, nor their famefor they are celebrated, nor their meritfor they had and still have plenty.And they never bewailed their fate: the reverse! The proudest congratulate them

selves on having been at so good a school; and M. Auguste Maquet, the chief of them, speaks with real reverence and affection of his great friend. And M. About writes as one who had taken the master red-handed, and in the act of collaboration. Dumas has a curious note on collaboration in his Souvenirs Dramatiques. Of the two men at work together, one is always the dupe, and he is the manof talent.

There is no biography of Dumas, but the small change of a biography exists in abundance. There are the many volumes of his Mmoires, there are all the tomeshe wrote on his travels and adventures in Africa, Spain, Italy, Russia; the bookhe wrote on his beasts; the romance of Ange Pitou, partly autobiographical; andthere are plenty of little studies by people who knew him. As to his Mmoires

, as to all he wrote about himself, of course his imagination entered into thenarrative. Like Scott, when he had a good story he liked to dress it up with acocked hat and a sword. Did he perform all those astonishing and innumerable feats of strength, skill, courage, address, in revolutions, in voyages, in love, in war, in cookery? The narrative need not be taken at the foot of the letter;great as was his force and his courage, his fancy was greater still. There is

no room for a biography of him here. His descent was noble on one side, with orwithout the bend sinister, which he said he would never have disclaimed, had itbeen his, but which he did not happen to inherit. On the other side he may hav

e descended from kings; but, as in the case of The Fair Cuban, he must have added, African, unfortunately. Did his father perform these mythical feats of strength? did he lift up a horse between his legs while clutching a rafter with his hands? did he throw his regiment before him over a wall, as Guy Heavistone th

rew the mare which refused the leap (Mmoires, i. 122)? No doubt Dumas believed what he heard about this ancestorin whom, perhaps, one may see a hint of thegiant Porthos. In the Revolution and in the wars his father won the name of Mo

nsieur de lHumanit, because he made a bonfire of a guillotine; and of HoratiusCocles, because he held a pass as bravely as the Roman in the brave days of ol

d.

This was a father to be proud of; and pluck, tenderness, generosity, strength, remained the favourite virtues of Dumas. These he preached and practised. Theysay he was generous before he was just; it is to be feared this was true, but hegave even more freely than he received. A regiment of seedy people sponged on

him always; he could not listen to a tale of misery but he gave what he had, andsometimes left himself short of a dinner. He could not even turn a dog out of

doors. At his Abbotsford, Monte Cristo, the gates were open to everybody butbailiffs. His dog asked other dogs to come and stay: twelve came, making thirteen in all. The old butler wanted to turn them adrift, and Dumas consented, andrepented.

Michel, he said, there are some expenses which a mans social position and the character which he has had the ill-luck to receive from heaven force upon him.

I dont believe these dogs ruin me. Let them bide! But, in the interests oftheir own good luck, see they are not thirteen, an unfortunate number!

Monsieur, Ill drive one of them away.

No, no, Michel; let a fourteenth come. These dogs cost me some three pounds amonth, said Dumas. A dinner to five or six friends would cost thrice as much,and, when they went home, they would say my wine was good, but certainly that m


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y books were bad. In this fashion Dumas fared royally to the dogs, and his Abbotsford ruined him as certainly as that other unhappy palace ruined Sir Walter. He, too, had his miscellaneous kennel; he, too, gave while he had anything togive, and, when he had nothing else, gave the work of his pen. Dumas tells howhis big dog, Mouton once flew at him and bit one of his hands, while the other

held the throat of the brute. Luckily my hand, though small, is powerful; whatit once holds it holds longmoney excepted. He could not haud a guid grip o

the gear. Neither Scott nor Dumas could shut his ears to a prayer or his pockets to a beggar, or his doors on whoever knocked at them.

I might at least have asked him to dinner, Scott was heard murmuring, when some insufferable bore at last left Abbotsford, after wasting his time and nearly wearing out his patience. Neither man preached socialism; both practised it on the Aristotelian principle: the goods of friends are common, and men are our friends.

* * * * *

The death of Dumas father, while the son was a child, left Madame Dumas in grea

t poverty at Villers Cotterets. Dumas education was sadly to seek. Like mostchildren destined to be bookish, he taught himself to read very young: in Buffon, the Bible, and books of mythology. He knew all about Jupiterlike David Copperfields Tom Jones, a childs Jupiter, an innocent creatureall about every god, goddess, fawn, dryad, nymphand he never forgot this useful information. Dear Lemprire, thou art superseded; but how much more delightful thou art than thefastidious Smith or the learned Preller! Dumas had one volume of the Arabian

Nights, with Aladdins lamp therein, the sacred lamp which he was to keep burning with a flame so brilliant and so steady. It is pleasant to know that, in hisboyhood, this great romancer loved Virgil. Little as is my Latin, I have everadored Virgil: his tenderness for exiles, his melancholy vision of death, his f

oreboding of an unknown God, have always moved me; the melody of his verses charmed me most, and they lull me still between asleep and awake. School days did

not last long: Madame Dumas got a little posta licence to sell tobaccoand at fifteen Dumas entered a notarys office, like his great Scotch forerunner. He was ignorant of his vocation for the stageRacine and Corneille fatigued him prodigiouslytill he saw Hamlet: Hamlet diluted by Ducis. He had never heard of Shakespeare, but here was something he could appreciate. Here was a profound impression, full of inexplicable emotion, vague desires, fleeting lights, that, so far, lit up only a chaos.

Oddly enough, his earliest literary essay was the translation of Brgers Lenore. Here, again, he encounters Scott; but Scott translated the ballad, and Dumas failed. Les mortes vont vite! the same refrain woke poetry in both the Frenchman and the Scotchman.

Ha! ha! the Dead can ride with speed:Dost fear to ride with me?

So Dumas literary career began with a defeat, but it was always a beginning. He had just failed with Lenore, when Leuven asked him to collaborate in a play.

He was utterly ignorant, he says; he had not succeeded in gallant efforts to read through Gil Blas and Don Quixote. To my shame, he writes, the man has not been more fortunate with those masterpieces than the boy. He had not yetheard of Scott, Cooper, Goethe; he had heard of Shakespeare only as a barbarian

. Other plays the boy wrotefailures, of courseand then Dumas poached his wayto Paris, shooting partridges on the road, and paying the hotel expenses by hissuccess in the chase. He was introduced to the great Talma: what a moment for T

alma, had he known it! He saw the theatres. He went home, but returned to Paris, drew a small prize in a lottery, and sat next a gentleman at the play, a gentleman who read the rarest of Elzevirs, Le Pastissier Franais, and gave him a


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little lecture on Elzevirs in general. Soon this gentleman began to hiss the piece, and was turned out. He was Charles Nodier, and one of the anonymous authors of the play he was hissing! I own that this amusing chapter lacks verisimilitude. It reads as if Dumas had chanced to get up the subject of Elzevirs, andhad fashioned his new knowledge into a little story. He could make a story outof anythinghe turned all to favour and to prettiness. Could I translate thewhole passage, and print it here, it would be longer than this article; but, ah,

how much more entertaining! For whatever Dumas did he did with such life, spirit, wit, he told it with such vivacity, that his whole career is one long romance of the highest quality. Lassagne told him he must readmust read Goethe, Scott, Cooper, Froissart, Joinville, Brantme. He read them to some purpose. He entered the service of the Duc dOrlans as a clerk, for he wrote a clear hand, and, happily, wrote at astonishing speed. He is said to have written a short playin a cottage where he went to rest for an hour or two after shooting all the mo

rning. The practice in a notarys office stood him, as it stood Scott, in goodstead. When a dog bit his hand he managed to write a volume without using his thumb. I have tried it, but forbearin mercy to the printers. He performed wildfeats of rapid caligraphy when a clerk under the Duc dOrlans, and he wrote hi

s plays in one hand, his novels in another. The hand used in his dramas he

acquired when, in days of poverty, he used to write in bed. To this habit he also attributed the brutalit of his earlier pieces, but there seems to be no goodreason why a man should write like a brute because it is in bed that he writes.

In those days of small things he fought his first duel, and made a study of Fearand Courage. His earliest impulse was to rush at danger; if he had to wait, hefelt his courage oozing out at the tips of his fingers, like Bob Acres, but in

the moment of peril he was himself again. In dreams he was a coward, because, as he argues, the natural man is a poltroon, and conscience, honour, all the spiritual and commanding part of our nature, goes to sleep in dreams. The animal terror asserts itself unchecked. It is a theory not without exceptions. In dreams one has plenty of conscience (at least that is my experience), though it usually takes the form of remorse. And in dreams one often affronts dangers which, i

n waking hours, one might probably avoid if one could.

* * * * *

Dumas first play, an unimportant vaudeville, was acted in 1825. His first novels were also published then; he took part of the risk, and only four copies weresold. He afterward used the ideas in more mature works, as Mr. Sheridan Le Fan

u employed three or four times (with perfect candour and fairness) the most curious incident in Uncle Silas. Like Mr. Arthur Pendennis, Dumas at this time wrote poetry up to pictures and illustrations. It is easy, but seldom lucrativework. He translated a play of Schillers into French verse, chiefly to gain co

mmand of that vehicle, for his heart was fixed on dramatic success. Then came the visit of Kean and other English actors to Paris. He saw the true Hamlet, and, for the first time on any stage, the play of real passions. Emulation wokein him: a casual work of art led him to the story of Christina of Sweden, he wrote his play Christine (afterward reconstructed); he read it to Baron Taylor, whoapplauded; the Comdie Franaise accepted it, but a series of intrigues disappo

inted him, after all. His energy at this moment was extraordinary, for he was very poor, his mother had a stroke of paralysis, his bureau was always bullying and interfering with him. But nothing could snub this force of nature, and heimmediately produced his Henri Trois, the first romantic drama of France. Thishad an instant and noisy success, and the first night of the play he spent at the theatre, and at the bedside of his unconscious mother. The poor lady could not even understand whence the flowers came that he laid on her couch, the flowersthrown to the young manyesterday unknown, and to-day the most famous of contem

porary names. All this tale of triumph, checkered by enmities and diversified by duels, Dumas tells with the vigour and wit of his novels. He is his own hero,and loses nothing in the process; but the other charactersTaylor, Nodier, the


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Duc dOrlans, the spiteful press-men, the crabbed old officialsall live like the best of the persons in his tales. They call Dumas vain: he had reason to bevain, and no candid or generous reader will be shocked by his pleasant, frank, and artless enjoyment of himself and of his adventures. Oddly enough, they are small-minded and small-hearted people who are most shocked by what they call vanity in the great. Dumas delight in himself and his doings is only the flowerof his vigorous existence, and in his Mmoires, at least, it is as happy and e

ncouraging as his laugh, or the laugh of Porthos; it is a kind of radiance, in which others, too, may bask and enjoy themselves. And yet it is resented by tinyscribblers, frozen in their own chill self-conceit.

There is nothing incredible (if modern researches are accurate) in the stories he tells of his own success in Hypnotism, as it is called now, Mesmerism or Magnetism as it was called then. Who was likely to possess these powers, if not thisgood-humoured natural force? I believe that, by aid of magnetism, a bad man m

ight do much mischief. I doubt whether, by help of magnetism, a good man can dothe slightest good, he says, probably with perfect justice. His dramatic succ

ess fired Victor Hugo, and very pleasant it is to read Dumas warm-hearted praise of that great poet. Dumas had no jealousyno more than Scott. As he believed

in no success without talent, so he disbelieved in genius which wins no success. Je ne crois pas au talent ignor, au gnie inconnu, moi. Genius he salutedwherever he met it, but was incredulous about invisible and inaudible genius; a

nd I own to sharing his scepticism. People who complain of Dumas vanity may berequested to observe that he seems just as vain of Hugos successes, or of Sc

ribes, as of his own, and just as much delighted by them.

He was now struck, as he walked on the boulevard one day, by the first idea of Antonyan idea which, to be fair, seems rather absurd than tragic, to some tastes. A lover, caught with a married woman, kills her to save her character, and dies on the scaffold. Here is indeed a part to tear a cat in!

* * * * *

The performances of M. Dumas during the Revolution of 1830, are they not writtenin the Book of the Chronicles of Alexandre the Great? But they were not litera

ry excellences which he then displayed, and we may leave this king-maker to hover, like an eagle, above the storms of anarchy.

Even to sketch his later biography is beyond our province. In 1830 he had fortyyears to run, and he filled the cup of the Hours to the brim with activity and

adventure. His career was one of unparalleled production, punctuated by revolutions, voyages, exiles, and other intervals of repose. The tales he tells of hisprowess in 1830, and with Garibaldi, seem credible to me, and are borne out, sofar, by the narrative of M. Maxime Ducamp, who met him at Naples, in the Gariba

ldian camp. Like Mr. Jingle, in Pickwick, he banged the field-piece, twangedthe lyre, and was potting at the foes of the republic with a double-barrelled

gun, when he was not composing plays, romances, memoirs, criticisms. He has told the tale of his adventures with the Comdie Franaise, where the actors laughed at his Antony, and where Madame Mars and he quarrelled and made it up again.His plays often won an extravagant success; his novelshis great novels, that ismade all Europe his friend. He gained large sums of money, which flowed out ofhis fingers, though it is said by some that his Abbotsford, Monte Cristo, was n

o more a palace than the villa which a retired tradesman builds to shelter his old age. But the money disappeared as fast as if Monte Cristo had really been palatial, and worthy of the fantasy of a Nero. He got into debt, fled to Belgium,returned, founded the Mousquetaire, a literary paper of the strangest and most

shiftless kind. In Alexandre Dumas la Maison dOr, M. Philibert Audebrand t

ells the tale of this Micawber of newspapers. Everything went into it, good orbad, and the name of Dumas was expected to make all current coin. For Dumas, unluckily, was as prodigal of his name as of his gold, and no reputation could bea


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r the drafts he made on his celebrity. His son says, in the preface to Le FilsNaturel: Tragedy, dramas, history, romance, comedy, travel, you cast all of them in the furnace and the mould of your brain, and you peopled the world of fiction with new creations. The newspaper, the book, the theatre, burst asunder, toonarrow for your puissant shoulders; you fed France, Europe, America with your w

orks; you made the wealth of publishers, translators, plagiarists; printers andcopyists toiled after you in vain. In the fever of production you did not alway

s try and prove the metal which you employed, and sometimes you tossed into thefurnace whatever came to your hand. The fire made the selection: what was yourown is bronze, what was not yours vanished in smoke.

The simile is noble and worthy of the Cyclopean craftsman, Dumas. His great works endured; the plays which renewed the youth of the French stage, the novels which Thackeray loved to praise, these remain, and we trust they may always remain, to the delight of mankind and for the sorrow of prigs.

* * * * *

So much has been written of Dumas novels that criticism can hardly hope to say

more that is both new and true about them. It is acknowledged that, in such a character as Henri III., Dumas made history live, as magically as Scott revived the past in his Louis XI., or Balfour of Burley. It is admitted that Dumas goodtales are told with a vigour and life which rejoice the heart; that his narrati

ve is never dull, never stands still, but moves with a freedom of adventure which perhaps has no parallel. He may fall short of the humour, the kindly wisdom,the genial greatness of Sir Walter at his best, and he has not that supernaturaltouch, that tragic grandeur, which Scott inherits from Homer and from Shakespea

re. In another Homeric quality, y, s Home

imself lls it, in t

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e side of t

e s

ifty A mis, wit

ll

is be uty, dexte ity, b ve y, nd b illi n e. T

e b ve Bussy, nd t

e

iv l ous, t

e doomed L Mole, e mo ede to

im; nd if

e embellis

es t

ei

te s, giving t

em

ms nd vi

tues t

t neve

we

e t

ei

s,

isto

y loses not

ing,

nd

om

n

e

nd we

e t

e g ine s. In ll

e does, t

is best, s in t

e C

ev lie dH ment

l,

e

smovement, kindness, ou ge, nd g iety. His p

ilosop

y of life is t

t old p

ilosop

y of t

e s g s nd of Home . Let us enjoy t

e movement of t

e f y, t

ef es of f i women, t

e t ste of good wine; let us wel ome life like mist ess, let us wel ome de t

like f iend, nd wit

jestif de t

omes wit

onou .

Dum s is no pessimist. He ven

s m de but one d m fo m nt

e wo ld,

e w ites, nd du ing t

ese t

ee t

ous nd ye s m nkind

s been

issing it. It is e t in t

t, if mo l enso s

ip ould

ve p evented it, t

is g e t d m of mo t l p ssions would neve

ve been li ensed, t ll, neve pe fo med. ButDum s, fo one, will not

iss it, but ppl uds wit

ll

is mig

t

med spe

t

to

,

fo

tun

te

to

in t

e ete

n

l pie

e, w

e

e

ll t

e men

nd women

eonly pl ye s. You

e

is m nly l ug

te , you

e

is mig

ty

nds pp oving,you see t

e te s

e s

eds w

en

e

d sl in Po t

osg e t te s like t

ose o


10/94

f P nt g uel.

* * * * *

His m y not be t

e best, no t

e ultim te p

ilosop

y, but it is p

ilosop

y, nd one of w

i

we m y some d y feel t

e w nt. I e d t

e stilted iti isms, t

e ped nti pings of some mode n men w

o nnot w ite t

ei own l ngu ge, nd

I g

t

e t

t Dum

s is out of d

te. T

e e is

new p

ilosop

y of doubts

nd deli ies, of d llyings nd efinements, of

lf-

e ted looke s-on, desi ing ndfe ing some new o de of t

e wo ld. Dum s does not d lly no doubt:

e t kes

is side,

e us

es into t

e smoke,

e st ikes

is foe; but t

e e is neve n unkind wo d on

is lip, no g udging t

oug

t in

is

e t.

It m y be s id t

t Dum s is not m ste of wo ds nd p

ses, t

t

e is not

ffin of exp ession, no jewelle of style. W

en I e d t

e m unde ings, t

e stilted nd st gge ing senten es, t

e

esit ting p

ses, t

e f -soug

t ndde -boug

t nd wo t

less wo d-juggles; t

e s

m s ientifi ve bi ge, t

e n tiveped nt ies of m ny mode n so- lled stylists, I ejoi e t

t Dum s w s not one of t

ese. He told pl in t le, in t

e l ngu ge suited to pl in t le, wit

bund

n

e of wit

nd g

iety,

s in t

e

efle

tions of

is C

i

ot,

s in

ll

isdi logues. But

e did not gn w t

e end of

is pen in se

of some wo d t

t nobody

d eve used in t

is o t

t onne tion befo e. T

e ig

t wo d me to

im, t

e simple st ig

tfo w d p

se. Epit

et-

unting m y be p etty spo t,

nd t

e b g of t

e epit

et-

unte m y ont in some g ee ble epig ms nd e spe imens of style; but pl in t le of dventu e, of love nd w , needs none oft

is indust y, nd is even spoiled by inoppo tune diligen e. Speed, di e tness,lu idity e t

e

te isti s of Dum s style, nd t

ey e ex tly t

e

te isti s w

i

is novels equi ed. S ott often f iled,

is most loy l dmi e s m y dmit, in t

ese essenti ls; but it is ely t

t Dum s f ils, w

en

e is

imself nd t

is best.

* * * * *

In spite of

is

eedless edu tion, Dum s

d t ue iti l qu lities, nd most dmi ed t

e best t

ings. We

ve l e dy seen

ow

e w ites bout S

kespe e,Vi gil, Goet

e, S ott. But it m y be less f mili ly known t

t t

is bu ly m n-of- ll-wo k, igno nt s

e w s of G eek,

d t ue nd keen pp e i tion of Home . Dum s de l es t

t

e only t

i e iti ised

is ontempo ies in n unf vou ble sense, nd s one wis

ful to find f ult. T

e vi tims we e C simi Del vigne, S ibe, nd Pons d. On e

o sion Dum s de l es t

t, fte efle ting,

e s w t

t

e w s moved by little pe son l pique, not by disinte ested love of t. He m kes

is onfession wit

e nobility of ndou ; nd yet

is eview of Pons d is wo t

y of

im. M. Pons d, w

o, like Dum s, w s no s

ol , w ote pl y styled Ulysse, nd bo owed f om t

e Odyssey. Dum s follows

Pons

d, Odyssey in

nd,

nd w

ile

e p

oves t

t t

e d

m

tist f

iled to unde st nd Home , p oves t

t

e

imself w s, in essenti ls, p ble Home i iti . Dum s unde st nds t

t f -off

e oi ge. He lives in its life nd symp t

ises wit

its tempe . Home nd

e e ongeni l; oss t

e g e t gulf of timet

ey ex

nge smiles nd s lute.

O

! n ient Home , de nd good nd noble, I m minded now nd g in to le ve ll nd t nsl te t

eeI, w

o

ve neve wo d of G eekso empty nd so dism l

e t

e ve sions men m ke of t

ee, in ve se o in p ose.

How Dum s me to divine Home , s it we e, t

oug

l ngu ge

e knew not, w

os

ll s y? He did divine

im by n tu l symp t

y of ex ellen e, nd

is

pte s on t

e Ulysse of Pons d e wo t

wilde ness of notes by le ned nd mo

st un-Home

i

men. Fo

, indeed, w

o

n be less like t

e

e

oi

minst

el t

n te demi p

ilologist?


11/94

T

is unive s lity dese ves note. T

e Home i student w

o t kes up volume of Dum s t ndom finds t

t

e is not only Home i n tu lly, but t

t

e e lly knows

is Home . W

t did

e no know? His pidity in e ding must

ve been

s em k ble s

is p e wit

t

e pen. As M. Bl ze de Bu y s ys: Instin t, expe ien e, memo y we e ll

is;

e sees t gl n e,

e omp es in fl s

,

e unde st nds wit

out ons ious effo t,

e fo gets not

ing t

t

e

s e d. T

e p st nd p esent e p

otog p

ed impe is

bly on

is b in,

e knows t

e m nne s

of

ll

ges

nd

ll ount ies, t

e n

mes of

ll t

e

ms t

t men

ve used,

ll t

e g ments t

ey

ve wo n, ll t

e dis

es t

ey

ve t sted, ll t

e te ms of ll p ofessions, f om swo dsm ns

ip to o

-building. Ot

e ut

o s

ve to w it, nd

unt fo f ts; not

ing stops Dum s:

e knows nd emembe s eve yt

ing.Hen e

is pidity,

is f ility,

is positive delig

t in l bou :

en e it me t

t

e mig

t be

e d, like Di kens, l ug

ing w

ile

e wo ked.

* * * * *

T

is is t

e eulogy t

n iti ism of Dum s. His f ults e on t

e su f e, visible to ll men. He w s not only pid,

e w s

sty,

e w s in onsistent;

is need of money s well s

is love of wo k m de

im put

is

nd to dozens

of pe

is

ble t

ings. A beginne

, ente

ing t

e fo

est of Dum

s books, m

y f

ilto see t

e t ees fo t

e wood. He m y be ounselled to sele t fi st t

e y leof dA t gn nt

e Musketee s, Twenty Ye s Afte , nd t

e Vi omte de B gelonne. M . Stevensons delig

tful ess y on t

e l st m y

ve sent m ny e de sto it; I onfess to p efe ing t

e yout

of t

e Musketee s to t

ei old ge.T

en t

e e is t

e y le of t

e V lois, w

e eof t

e D me de Monse e u is t

e bestpe

ps t

e best t

ing Dum s eve w ote. T

e Tulipe Noi e is novel gi lsm y e d, s T

ke y s id, wit

onfiden e. T

e C

ev lie dH ment

l isne ly (not quite) s good s Quentin Du w d. Monte C isto

s t

e best beginning nd loses itself in t

e s nds. T

e novels on t

e Revolution e not mong t

e most llu ing: t

e f med devi e L. P. D. (lili pedibus dest ue)

s t

e b d lu k to suggest London P els Delive y. T

t is n ident, but t

e Revolution is in itself too te ible nd pitiful, nd too ne us (on bot

sides!

) fo fi tion.

On Dum s f ults it

s been no ple su e to dwell. In e ent wo k I find t

eJesuit Le Moyne quoted, s ying bout C

les V.: W

t need t

t futu e ges s

ould be m de qu inted so eligious n Empe o w s not lw ys

ste! T

e s me eti en e llu es one in eg d to so delig

tful n ut

o s Dum s. He w

o

d en i

ed so m ny died poo ;

e w

o

d told of onque ing F n e, died du ingt

e Te ible Ye . But

e ould fo give, ould pp e i te, t

e v lou of n enemy. Of t

e S ot

t W te loo

e w ites: It w s not enoug

to kill t

em: we

d to pus

t

em down. De d, t

ey still stood s

oulde to s

oulde . In t

e s

me gene ous tempe n Englis

v l y offi e w ote

ome, fte W te loo, t

t

e would gl dly

ve given t

e est of

is life to

ve se ved, on t

t d y, in o

u

inf

nt

y o

in t

e F

en

v

l

y. T

ese

e t

e spi

its t

t w

m t

e

e

t, t

t m ke us ll f iends; nd to t

e g e t, t

e b ve, t

e gene ous Dum s we y, oss t

e ye s nd oss t

e tomb, ou Ave tque v le!

MR. STEVENSONS WORKS

Pe

ps t

e fi st qu lity in M . Stevensons wo ks, now so m ny nd so v ious,w

i

st ikes e de , is t

e buoy n y, t

e su viv l of t

e

ild in

im. He

s told t

e wo ld often, in p ose nd ve se,

ow vivid e

is memo ies of

is own inf n y. T

is etention of

ildis

e olle tions

e s

es, no doubt, wit

ot

e people of genius: fo ex mple, wit

Geo ge S nd, w

ose legend of

e own inf n y is mu

mo e ente t ining, nd pe

ps will endu e longe , t

n

e novels. He yout

, like S otts nd like M . Stevensons, w s p ssed ll in f nt sy:

in pl

ying

t being some one else, in t

e invention of im

gin

y

te

s, w

o we e living to

e , in t

e f b i tion of endless unw itten om n es. M ny pe sons, w

o do not stonis

t

e wo ld by t

ei genius,

ve lived t

us in t

ei e


12/94

liest yout

. But, t given moment, t

e f n y dies out of t

em: t

is often bef lls im gin tive boys in t

ei fi st ye t s

ool. M ny e lled, few

osen; but it m y be s id wit

p ob ble t ut

, t

t t

e e

s neve been m n of genius in lette s, w

ose boy

ood w s not t

us f nt sti , n isle of d e ms.We know

ow S ott nd De Quin ey in

bited i y stles; nd Gillies tells us,t

oug

Lo k

t does not, t

t S ott, in m n

ood, w s o

sion lly so lost in t

oug

t, t

t

e knew not w

e e

e w s no w

t

e w s doing.

T

e pe uli ity of M . Stevenson is not only to

ve been f nt sti

ild, ndto et in, in m tu ity, t

t f nt sy ipened into im gin tion:

e

s lso keptup t

e

bit of d m tising eve yt

ing, of pl ying,

lf ons iously, m ny p ts, of m king t

e wo ld n unsubst nti l f i y pl e. T

is tu n of mind it ist

t uses

is wo k o sion lly to seem somew

t f e kis

. T

us, in t

e fogs nd

o o s of London,

e pl ys t being n A bi n t le-telle , nd

is New A bi n Nig

ts e new kind of om nti ismO ient l, f e kis

, like t

e wo k of

ngeling. Indeed, t

is u ious genius, sp inging f om f mily of S ottis

enginee s, esembles not

ing so mu

s one of t

e f i y

ild en, w

om t

e l dies of Queen P ose pin s ou t used to le ve in t

e

dles of Bo de keeps o of pe s nts ott ges. Of t

e S ot

e

s little but t

e powe of tou

ing us w

it

sense of t

e supe

n

tu

l,

nd

de

ided

bit of mo

lising; fo

no S

otof genius

s been mo e uste e wit

Robe t Bu ns. On t

e ot

e

nd, one element of M . Stevensons et

i l disquisitions is de ived f om

is d m ti

bit.His optimism,

is g y ou ge,

is

bit of epting t

e wo ld s ve y well wo t

living in nd looking t, pe su ded one of

is iti s t

t

e w s

d-

e

ted young t

lete of i on f me. Now, of t

e t

lete

e

s not

ing but

is love of t

e open i : it is t

e ete n l

ild t

t d ives

im to seek dventu es nd to sojou n mong be

- ombe s nd s v ges. T

us, n dmi ing but f f omoptimisti iti m y doubt w

et

e M . Stevensons ontent wit

t

e wo ld is not only

is fun, s L mb s id of Cole idges p e

ing; w

et

e

e is but pl ying t being t

e

ppy w io in life; w

et

e

e is not ting t

t p t,

imself to

imself. At le st, it is p t fo tun tely on eived nd dmi bly sust

ined: diffi ult p t too, w

e e s t

t of t

e pessimist is s e sy s w

ining.

M . Stevensons wo k

s been ve y mu

w itten bout, s it

s eng ged nd delig

ted e de s of eve y ge, st tion, nd

te . Boys, of ou se,

ve beenspe i lly dd essed in t

e books of dventu e,

ild en in A C

ilds G den ofVe se, young men nd m idens in Vi ginibus Pue isque, ll ges in ll t

e u iously v ied se ies of volumes. Kidn pped w s one of t

e l st books w

i

t

e l te Lo d Iddesleig

e d; nd I t ust t

e e is no

m in mentioning t

e ple su e w

i

M . M tt

ew A nold took in t

e s me sto y. C iti s of eve y so t

ve been kind to M . Stevenson, in spite of t

e f t t

t t

e few w

o fi st be me qu inted wit

is genius p ised it wit

ll t

e w mt

of w

i

t

ey we e m ste s. T

us

e

s be ome kind of l ssi in

is own d y, fo n undisputed eput tion m kes l ssi w

ile it l sts. But w s eve so mu

f me won by w i

tings w

i

mig

t be

lled s

ppy

nd desulto

y by t

e

dvo

tus di

boli? Itis most mis ell neous lite y b gg ge t

t M . Stevenson ies. Fi st, few m g zine ti les; t

en two little books of sentiment l jou neyings, w

i

onvin e t

e e de t

t M . Stevenson is s good omp ny to

imself s

is books

e to ot

e s. T

en me volume o two of ess ys, lite y nd so i l, on books nd life. By t

is time t

e e ould be no doubt t

t M . Stevenson

d style of

is own, modelled to some extent on t

e ess yists of t

e l st entu y, butwit

tou

es of T

ke y; wit

o igin l b e ks nd tu ns, wit

deli te f e kis

ness, in s

o t, nd dete mined love of s ying t

ings s t

e newsp pe s do not s y t

em. All t

is wo k undoubtedly smelt t ifle of t

e l mp, nd w s t

e efo e de to some, nd n offen e to ot

e s. Fo my p t, I

d delig

ted in t

e ess ys, f om t

e fi st t

t ppe ed in M mill ns M g zine, s

o tly fte t

e F n o-Ge m n w . In t

is little study, O de ed Sout

, M . Stevenson w s

employing

imself in ext

ting

ll t

e mel

n

oly ple

su

e w

i

t

e Rivie

n give to we ied body nd mind esisting t

e louds of e ly m l dy,


13/94

Al s, t

e wo n nd b oken bo d,How n it be t

e p inte s dye!T

e

p of st ined nd tuneless

o d,How to t

e minst els skill eply!To

ing eyes e

l nds pe lowe s,To feve is

pulse e

g le blows

ill,And A bys o Edens bowe s

We e b

en

s t

is moo l

nd

ill,

w ote S ott, in n

ou of m l dy nd dep ession. But t

is w s not t

e spi it of O de ed Sout

: t

e younge soul ose g inst t

e ty nny of t

e body; nd t

t f mili gl mou w

i

, in illness, obs Tinto etto of

is glow, did not spoil t

e midl nd se to M . Stevenson. His g ll nt nd

ee y stoi ism we e l e dy wit

im; nd so pe fe t, if t ifle ove studied, w s

is style, t

t one l e dy fo es w new nd

ming ess yist.

But none of t

ose e ly wo ks, no t

e delig

tful book on Edinbu g

, p op

esiedof t

e sto y telle . M . Stevensons fi st publis

ed t les, t

e New A bi n Nig

ts, o igin lly ppe ed in qu intly edited weekly p pe , w

i

nobody e d,

o

nobody but t

e w

ite

s in its

olumns. T

ey wel

omed t

e st

nge

om

n

es wit

ejoi ings: but pe

ps t

e e w s only one of t

em w

o fo es w t

t M . Stevensons fo te w s to be fi tion, not ess y w iting; t

t

e w s to ppe l wit

su ess to t

e l ge publi , nd not to t

e tiny i le w

o su ound t

e ess yist. It did not seem likely t

t ou in l ul ble publi would m ke t

emselves t

ome in t

ose f nt sti pu lieus w

i

M . Stevensons f n y dis ove ed ne t

eSt nd. T

e impossible Young M n wit

t

e C e m T ts, t

e g

stly evels of t

e Sui ide Club, t

e O ient l p i es of t

e H nsom C bsw

o ould fo esee t

tt

e publi would t ste t

em! It is t ue t

t M . Stevensons im gin tion m det

e P esident of t

e Club, nd t

e ow dly membe , M . M lt

us, s e l s t

eywe e te ible. His om n e lw ys goes

nd in

nd wit

e lity; nd M . M lt

us is s mu

n tu l m n of skin nd bone, s Sil s L p

m is m n of fles

nd blood. T

e wo ld s w t

is, nd ppl uded t

e No tes of P in e Flo ist n,

in

f

i y London.

Yet, ex ellent nd unique s t

ese t

ings we e, M . Stevenson

d not yet found

imself. It would be mo e t ue to s y t

t

e

d only dis ove ed outlying ski ts of

is dominions. H s

e eve

it on t

e o d to t

e pit l yet? nd will

e eve ente it l u elled, nd in t iump

? T

t is p e isely w

t one m y doubt, not s wit

out

ope. He is lw ys m king dis ove ies in

is e lm; it is less e t in t

t

e will ente its

ief ity in st te. His next wo k w s t

e in t

e n tu e of nnex tion nd inv sion t

n settling of

is own e lms. P in e Otto is not, to my mind, ule in

is p ope soil. T

e p ovin es of Geo ge S nd nd of M . Geo ge Me edit

ve been t ken ptive. P in e Otto isf nt sti indeed, but neit

e t

e f nt sy no t

e style is quite M . Stevensons

. T

e

e

e ex

ellent p

ss

ges,

nd t

e S

ot

soldie

of fo

tune is wel

ome,

nd t

e l dies bound in subtlety nd wit. But t

e book, t le st to myself, seems n ext emely el bo te nd skilful p sti

e. I nnot believe in t

e pe sons. I v guely smell mo l llego y ( s in Will of t

e Mill). I do not le ly unde st nd w

t it is ll bout. T

e s ene is f i yl nd; but it is not t

e f

i yl nd of Pe ult. T

e l dies e be utiful nd witty; but t

ey e es ped f om novel of M . Me edit

s, nd

ve no business

e e. T

e book is no mo e M . Stevensons t

n T

e T le of Two Cities w s M . Di kenss.

It w s p ob bly by w y of me e dive sion nd

ilds pl y t

t M . Stevenson beg n T e su e Isl nd. He is n m teu of boyis

ple su es of m ste pie es t

penny pl in nd twopen e olou ed. P ob bly

e

d looked t t

e sto ies of dventu e in penny p pe s w

i

only boys e d, nd

e dete mined spo tively to o

mpete wit

t

ei

unknown

ut

o

s. T

e

su

e Isl

nd

me out in su

pe

iodi

l, wit

t

e emp

ti wood uts w

i

do n t

em. It is s id t

t t

e pue ile publi w s not g e tly sti ed. A sto y is sto y, nd t

ey t

e p efe ed t

e


14/94

egul pu veyo s. T

e ve y f int

ism of t

e style m y

ve lien ted t

em. But, w

en T e su e Isl nd ppe ed s e l book, t

en eve y one w

o

d sm k of yout

left w s boy g in fo some

ppy

ou s. M . Stevenson

d ente ed into not

e p ovin e of

is e lm: t

e king

d ome to

is own g in.

T

ey s y t

e se m ns

ip is in u te; I e no mo e t

n I do fo t

e ye 30.T

ey s y too m ny people e killed. T

ey ll died in f i fig

t, ex ept vi tim of Jo

n Silve s. T

e on lusion is

little too like p

t of Poes most eleb ted t le, but nobody

s bellowed Pl gi ist! Some people m y not lookove fen e: M . Stevenson, if

e liked, mig

t ste l

o se,t

e nim l in t

is se is only skeleton. A ve y sobe student mig

t dd t

t t

e

e o is impossibly leve ; but, t

en, t

e

e o is boy, nd t

is is boys book. Fo t

e est, t

e

te s live. Only genius ould

ve invented Jo

n Silve , t

t te ibly smoot

-spoken m ine . Not

ing but genius ould

ve d wn t

t simple yokel on t

e isl nd, wit

is ving fo

eese s C

isti n d inty. T

e bluste ing Billy Bones is little m ste pie e: t

e blind Pew, wit

is t pping sti k (t

e e e t

ee su

blind t ppe s in M . Stevensons books), st ikes te o into t

e boldest. T

en, t

e t e su e is t

o oug

ly s tisf to y in kind, nd t

e e is plenty of it. T

e l nds pe, s in t

e feve is

, fog-smot

e ed fl t, is

g

ll

ntly p

inted. And t

e

e

e no inte

fe

ing petti

o

ts in t

e sto

y.As fo t

e Bl k A ow, I onfess to s

ing t

e dis bilities of t

e C iti on t

e He t

, to w

om it is dedi ted. Kidn pped is less sto y t

n f gment; but it is noble f gment. Setting side t

e wi ked old un le, w

o in

is l te be

viou is of t

e

ouse of R lp

Ni kleby, Kidn pped is ll ex ellentpe

ps M . Stevensons m ste pie e. Pe

ps, too, only S ot

m n knows

owgood it is, nd only Lowl nd S ot knows

ow dmi ble

te is t

e dou , b ve, on eited D vid B lfou . It is like being in S otl nd g in to ome ont

e g een d ive- o d unning wide t

oug

t

e

e t

e , w

e e D vid took

isl st look of Ki k Essende n, t

e t ees bout t

e m nse, nd t

e big ow ns in t

e ki ky d, w

e e

is f t

e nd mot

e l y. Pe fe tly S ot

, too, is t

e moulde ing, empty

ouse of t

e Mise , wit

t

e st mped le t

e on t

e w lls. And t

e Mise is

s good

s

S ot

T

pbois, till

e be omes

omi id

l,

nd t

en one f ils to e ognise

im unless

e is little m d, like t

t ot

e f nti un le in T

e Me y Men. T

e s enes on t

e s

ip, wit

t

e boy w

o is mu de ed, ebette I t

ink mo e e lt

n t

e s enes of pi ti l life in T

e M ste of B

ll nt e. T

e fig

t in t

e Round House, even if it we e ex gge ted, would be edeemed by t

e Song of t

e Swo d of Al n. As to Al n B e k

imself, wit

isv lou nd v nity,

is good

e t,

is good on eit of

imself,

is f nt sti loy lty,

e is bsolutely wo t

y of t

e

nd t

t d ew C llum Bey nd t

e Doug l e tu e. It is just possible t

t we see, in Kidn pped, mo e signs of dete mined l bou , mo e eviden e of tou

es nd etou

es, t

n in Rob Roy. In not

ing else w

i

it ttempts is it infe io ; in m ste y of l nds pe, s in t

e s ene of t

e lonely o k in d y nd t

i sty l nd, it is unsu p ssed. If t

e e

e signs of l

bou

ed

ndling on Al

n, t

e

e

e none in t

e sket

es of Cluny

nd of Rob Roys son, t

e pipe . W

t gene ous tist is Al n! Robin Oig,

e s id, w

en it w s done, ye e g e t pipe . I m not fit to blow in t

e s

me kingdom wit

you. Body of me! ye

ve m i musi in you spo n t

n I

vein my

e d.

Kidn pped, we s id, is f gment. It ends nyw

e e, o now

e e, s if t

e pen

d d opped f om we y

nd. T

us, nd fo ot

e e sons, one nnot p etend to set w

t is not e lly w

ole g inst su

ounded w

ole s Rob Roy, o g inst T

e Legend of Mont ose. Ag in, Kidn pped is novel wit

out wom n in it: not

e e is Di Ve non, not

e e is Helen M G ego . D vid B lfou is t

e p gm ti Lowl nde ;

e does not be omp ison, ex ellent s

e is, wit

B

illie Ni ol J vie, t

e

umo ous Lowl nde :

e does not live in t

e memo y like

t

e immo

t

l B

illie. It is

s

se

ies of s

enes

nd sket

es t

t Kidn

ppedis unm t

ed mong M . Stevensons wo ks.


15/94

In T

e M ste of B ll nt e M . Stevenson m kes g ll nt effo t to ente w

tI

ve ventu ed to ll t

e pit l of

is kingdom. He does int odu e wom n, nd onf onts t

e p oblems of love s well s of f te n l

t ed. T

e M ste is studied, is polis

ed d unguem; it is w

ole in itself, it is em k blyd ing ttempt to w ite t

e t gedy, s, in W ve ley, S ott w ote t

e om n e, of S otl nd bout t

e time of t

e Fo ty-Five. Wit

su

p ede esso nd iv l, M . Stevenson wisely le ves t

e pomps nd b ttles of t

e Fo ty-Five, its

i

v

l y

nd g

ll

nt y,

lone. He s

ows us t

e se

my side: t

e int igues, domesti nd politi l; t

e needy I is

dventu e wit

t

e P in e, pe son w

om S ott

d not studied. T

e book, if ompletely su essful, would be M . Stevensons

B ide of L mme moo . To be f nk, I do not t

ink it ompletely su essful vi to y ll long t

e line. T

e obvious we k point is Se und D ss, t

t Indi nof unknown n tion lity; fo su ely

is n me m ks

im s no Hindoo. T

e M ste ould not

ve b oug

t

im, s

ive ing like Jos Sedleys bl k se v nt, to S otl

nd. As in Ame i , t

is lien would

ve found it too d m old. My powe ofbelief (w

i

ve ges on edulity) is st gge ed by t

e g

stly ttempt to e nim te t

e bu ied M ste . He e, t le st to my t ste, t

e f e kis

ngeling

sgot t

e bette of M . Stevenson, nd

s b oug

t in n element out of keeping wit

t

e ste dy lu id t gedy of f te n l

t ed. Fo ll t

e est, it we e

d judge t

t

d

nyt

ing but p

ise. T

e b

illi

nt bl

kgu

dism of t

e M

ste ;

is tou

of sentiment s

e le ves Du isdee fo t

e l st time, wit

s d old song on

is lips;

is f s in tion;

is ut

lessness;

is i ony; ll e pe fe t. It is not ve y e sy to unde st nd t

e C

ev lie Bou ke, t

t B y Lyndon,wit

no

e d nd wit

good

e t, t

t e tu e of bewilde ed kindly ons ien e; but it is e sy to like

im. How dmi ble is

is undefle ted belief in nd ffe tion fo t

e M ste ! How ex ellent nd

ow I is

e is, w

en

e buffoons

imself out of

is pe ils wit

t

e pi tes! T

e s enes e b illi nt nd living, s w

en t

e M ste t

ows t

e guine t

oug

t

e H ll window, o s in t

e d kling duel in t

e g den. It needed n uste e tisti ons ien e to m ke Hen y, t

e younge b ot

e , so unlov ble wit

ll

is ex ellen e, nd to keep t

e l

dy so t ue, yet so mu

in s

dow. T

is is t

e best wom n mong M . Stevensonsfew women; but even s

e is lmost lw ys ese ved, veiled s it we e.

T

e old Lo d, g in, is po t it s lifelike s S ott ould

ve d wn, nd mo e deli tely tou

ed t

n S ott would

ve ed to d w it: F en

omp nionpi tu e to t

e B on B dw dine. T

e w

ole pie e e ds s if M . Stevenson

d eng ged in st uggle wit

imself s

e w ote. T

e sky is neve blue, t

e sun neve s

ines: we we y fo westl nd wind. T

e e is somet

ing t

wn, st

e S ot

s y, bout t

e sto y; t

e e is often tou

of t

is siniste kind in t

e ut

o s wo k. T

e l ngu ge is ext o din ily tful, s in t

e m d lo ds wo ds, I

ve felt t

e

ilt di l on

is b e st-bone. And yet, one is

dly t

illed s one expe ts to be, w

en, s M kell s ys, t

e week-old o pse looked me fo moment in t

e f e.

P

ob

bly none of M

. Stevensons m

ny books

s m

de

is n

me so f

mili

s D

. Jekyll nd M Hyde. I e d it fi st in m nus ipt, lone, t nig

t; nd, w

en t

e Butle nd M . U mson me to t

e Do to s doo , I onfess t

t I t

ew itdown, nd went

stily to bed. It is t

e most g uesome of ll

is w itings, nd so pe fe t t

t one n ompl in only of t

e slig

tly too obvious mo l; nd, g in, t

t e lly M . Hyde w s mo e of gentlem n t

n t

e un tuous D . Jekyll, wit

is bedside m nne .

So

e e, not to spe k of some dmi ble s

o t sto ies like T

wn J net, is b ief t loguelittle mo eof M . Stevensons lite y b gg ge. It is ll good, t

oug

v iously good; yet t

e wise wo ld sks fo t

e m ste pie e. It is s id t

t M . Stevenson

s not ventu ed on t

e deli te nd d nge ous g ound of t

e novel, be use

e

s not w itten mode n love sto y. But w

o

s? T

e e

e love

ff

i

s in Di

kens, but do we

emembe

o

e fo

t

em? Is it t

e love ff i s t

t we emembe in S ott? T

ke y m y tou

us wit

Clives nd J kBelsizes misfo tunes, wit

Esmonds mel n

oly p ssion, nd muse us wit

Pen


16/94

in so m ny toils, nd inte est us in t

e little

e oine of t

e S

bby Genteel Sto y. But it is not by vi tue of t

ose episodes t

t T

ke y is so g e t. Love sto ies e best done by women, s in M . Gilfils Love Sto y; nd, pe

ps, in n o din y w y, by w ite s like T ollope. One m y defy iti s to n me

g e t Englis

ut

o in fi tion w

ose

ief nd distinguis

ing me it is in

ispi tu es of t

e p ssion of Love. Still, t

ey ll give Love

is due st oke in t

e b ttle, nd pe

ps M . Stevenson will do so some d y. But I onfess t

t, if

e eve ex els

imself, I do not expe t it to be in

love sto y.

Possibly it m y be in pl y. If

e g in ttempt t

e d m ,

e

s t

is in

isf vou , t

t

e will not de l in supe nume ies. In

is t les

is mino

te s e s efully d wn s

is

ief pe son ges. Conside , fo ex mple, t

e ministe , Hende l nd, t

e m n w

o is so fond of snuff, in Kidn pped, nd, int

e M ste of B ll nt e, Si Willi m Jo

nson, t

e Englis

Gove no . T

ey e t

e wo k of mind s ttentive to det ils, s e dy to subo din te o oblite te det ils w

i

e unessenti l. T

us M . Stevensons w itings b e t

e equ lly of wo k in t

e study nd of inspi tion f om dventu e in t

e open i , nd t

us

e wins eve y vote, nd ple ses eve y l ss of e de .

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLYI nnot sing t

e old songs, no indeed ny ot

e s, but I n e d t

em, in t

enegle ted wo ks of T

om s H ynes B yly. T

e n me of B yly m y be unf mili , but eve y one lmost

s

e d

is ditties

ntedeve y one mu

ove fo ty, t

ll events. Ill

ng my H p on Willow T ee, nd Id be Butte fly, ndO

, no! we neve mention He , e dimly de to eve y f iend of M . Ri

d Swivelle . If to be sung eve yw

e e, to

e you ve ses utte ed in

mony wit

ll pi nos nd quoted by t

e wo ld t l ge, be f me, B yly

d it. He w s n un ffe ted poet. He w ote wo ds to i s, nd

e is lmost bsolutely fo gotten.To e d

im is to be ied b k on t

e wings of musi to t

e bowe s of yout

; nd to t

e bowe s of yout

I

ve been w fted, nd to t

e old bookselle s. Youdo not find on eve y st ll t

e poems of B yly; but opy in two volumes

s be

en dis ove ed, edited by M . B

ylys widow (Bentley, 1844). T

ey s

w t

e lig

tin t

e s me ye s t

e p esent iti , nd pe

ps t

ey e sed to be ve y popul

befo e

e w s b ee

ed. M . B yly, o ding to M s. B yly, bly penet tedt

e sou es of t

e

um n

e t, like S

kespe e nd M . Howells. He lso g

ve to minst elsy t

e tt ibutes of intelle t nd wit, nd e l imed even festive song f om vulg ity, in w

i

, sin e t

e ge of An eon, festive song

s noto iously w llowed. T

e poet w

o did ll t

is w s bo n t B t

in O t. 1797.His f t

e w s genteel soli ito , nd

is g e t-g ndmot

e w s siste to Lo dDel me e, w

ile

e

d emote b onet on t

e mot

e s side. To t e t

e n est l sou e of

is genius w s diffi ult, s in t

e se of Gifted Hopkins; butit w s believed to flow f om

is m te n l g ndf t

e , M . F eem n, w

om

is f iend, Lo d L vington, eg ded s one of t

e finest poets of

is ge. B yly w

s

t s

ool

t Win

este

, w

e

e

e

ondu

ted

weekly

ollege newsp

pe

. Hisf t

e , like S otts, would

ve m de

im l wye ; but t

e yout

took g e tdislike to it, fo

is ide s loved to dwell in t

e egions of f n y, w

i

e losed to tto neys. So

e t

oug

t of being le gym n, nd w s sent to St. M

ys H ll, Oxfo d. T

e e

e did not pply

imself to t

e pu suit of demi l

onou s, but fell in love wit

young l dy w

ose b ot

e

e

d tended in f t l illness. But t

ey we e bot

too wise to t

ink of living upon love, nd,

fte mutu l te s nd sig

s, t

ey p ted neve to meet g in. T

e l dy, t

oug

g ieved, w s not

e tb oken, nd soon be me t

e wife of not

e . T

ey usu lly do. M . B ylys eg et w s mo e p ofound, nd exp essed itself in t

e tou

ing ditty:

O

, no, we neve mention

e ,

He

n

me is neve

e

d,My lips e now fo bid to spe k

T

t on e f mili wo d;


17/94

F om spo t to spo t t

ey

u y meTo b nis

my eg et,And w

en t

ey only wo y me

[I beg M . B ylys p don]

And w

en t

ey win smile f om me,

T

ey f

n y I fo get.

T

ey bid me seek in

nge of s eneT

e

ms t

t ot

e s see,But we e I in fo eign l nd

T

eyd find no

nge in me.Tis t ue t

t I be

old no mo eT

e v lley w

e e we met;I do not see t

e

wt

o n t ee,But

ow n I fo get?

* * * * *

T

ey tell me s

e is

ppy now,

[And so s

e w s, in f t.]

T

e g yest of t

e g y;T

ey

int t

t s

es fo gotten me;But

eed not w

t t

ey s y.Like me, pe

ps, s

e st uggles wit

E

feeling of eg et:Tis t ue s

es m ied M . Smit

,But,

, does s

e fo get!

T

e tempt

tion to p

ody is e

lly too st ong; t

e l

st lines,

tu

lly

nd in

n ut

enti text, e:

But if s

e loves s I

ve loved,S

e neve n fo get.

B yly

d now st u k t

e note, t

e sweet, sentiment l note, of t

e e ly, inno ent, Vi to i n ge. Je mes imit ted

im:

R. H ngeline, R. L dy mine,Dost t

ou emembe Je mes!

We s

ould do t

e t

i

k quite diffe

ently now, mo

e like t

is:Love sp ke to me nd s id:

O

, lips, be mute;Let t

t one n me be de d,T

t memo y flown nd fled,Untou

ed t

t lute!Go fo t

, s id Love, wit

willow in t

y

nd,And in t

y

i De d blossoms we ,

Blown f om t

e sunless l nd.

Go fo t

, s id Love; t

ou neve mo e s

lt see

He

s

dow glimme

by t

e t

ysting t

ee;But s

e is gl d,Wit

oses owned nd l d,


18/94

W

o

t

fo gotten t

ee!But I m de nswe : Love!Tell me no mo e t

e eof,Fo s

e

s d unk of t

t s me up s I.Ye , t

oug

e eyes be d y,S

e g ne s t

e e fo meTe s s lte t

n t

e se ,

Even till t

e d

y s

e die.So g ve I Love t

e lie.

I de l e I ne ly weep ove t

ese lines; fo , t

oug

t

ey e only B ylys sentiment

stily e st in mode n m nne , t

e e is somet

ing so ve y ffe ting, mouldy, nd unw

olesome bout t

em, t

t t

ey sound s if t

ey

d been w ittenup to sket

by dis iple of M . Rossettis.

In mood mu

mo e m nly nd mo l, M . B yly w ote not

e poem to t

e young l dy:

M y t

y lot in life be

ppy, undistu bed by t

oug

ts of me,

T

e God w

o s

elte

s inno

en

e t

y gu

d

nd guide will be.T

y

e t will lose t

e

illing sense of

opeless love t l st,And t

e suns

ine of t

e futu e

se t

e s

dows of t

e p st.

It is s e sy s p ose to sing in t

is m nne . Fo ex mple:

In f t, we need not be on e ned; t l st omes ve y soon, nd ou Emili quite fo gets t

e memo y of t

e moon, t

e moon t

t s

one on

e nd us, t

e woodst

t

e d ou vows, t

e mo ning of t

e w te s, nd t

e mu mu of t

e boug

s.S

e is

ppy wit

not

e , nd by

e we e quite fo got; s

e neve lets t

oug

t of us b ing s

dow on

e lot; nd if we meet t dinne s

es too leve to epine, nd mentions us to M . Smit

s An old fl me of mine. And s

ll I g ieve t

t it is t

us? nd would I

ve

e weep, nd lose

e

e lt

y ppetite nd

b e

k

e

e

lt

y sleep? Not so, s

es not poeti

l, t

oug

nee s

ll I fo get t

e f i y of my f n y w

om I on e t

oug

t I

d met. T

e f i y of my f n y!It w s f n y, most t

ings e;

e emotions we e not ste df st s t

e s

ining of st ; but,

, I love

e im ge yet, s on e it s

one on me, nd sw yed me

s t

e low moon sw ys t

e su ging of t

e se .

Among ot

e spo ts

is nxious f iends

u ied t

e lovelo n B yly to S otl nd, w

e e

e w ote mu

ve se, nd t

en to Dublin, w

i

ompleted

is u e. He seemed in t

e midst of t

e owd t

e g yest of ll,

is l ug

te ng me y nd loud t b nquet nd

ll. He t

oug

t no mo e of studying fo t

e C

u

, but wentb k to B t

, met Miss H yes, w s f s in ted by Miss H yes, me, s w, but did not onque t on e, s ys M s. H ynes B yly (ne H yes) wit

widows p ide.

He

lovely n

me w

s Helen

;

nd I deeply

eg

et to

dd t

t,

fte

n edu

tion t Oxfo d, M . B yly, in

is poems, entu ted t

e penultim te, w

i

, of ou se, is s

o t.

O

, t

ink not, Helen , of le ving us yet,

e olled, w

en it would

ve been just s e sy, nd

und ed times mo e o e t, to sing

O

, Helen , t

ink not of le ving us yet.

Miss H yes

d l nds in I el nd, l s! nd M . B yly insinu ted t

t, like KingE ste nd King Weste in t

e b ll d,

e love s ou ted

e fo

e l nds nd

e

fee; but

e, like King Honou

,

Fo

e bonny f e


19/94

And fo

e f i bodie.

In 1825 ( fte being ele ted to t

e At

enum) M . B yly t l st found f vou int

e eyes of Miss H yes. He p esented

e wit

little uby

e t, w

i

s

e

epted, nd t

ey we e m ied, nd t fi st we e well-to-do, Miss H yes beingt

e

ei ess of Benj min H yes, Esq., of M ble Hill, in ounty Co k. A f iend of M . B ylys des ibed

im t

us:

I neve

ve met on t

is

illing e t

So me y, so kind, so f nk yout

,In moments of ple su e smile ll mi t

,In moments of so ow

e t of t ut

.I

ve

e d t

ee p ised, I

ve seen t

ee ledBy F s

ion long

e g y ee ;W

ile be utiful lips

ve often s

edT

ei fl tte ing poison in t

ine e .

Yet

e s ys t

t t

e poet w s unspoiled. On

is

oneymoon, t Lo d As

downs, M . B yly, flying f om some f i si ens, et e ted to bowe , nd t

e e w ote

i

s wo

ld-f

mous Id be

Butte

fly.Id be butte fly, living ove ,Dying w

en f i t

ings e f ding w y.

T

e pl e in w

i

t

e de t

less st ins welled f om t

e singe s

e t w s

en efo t

known s Butte fly Bowe . He now w ote novel, T

e Aylme s, w

i

s gone w

e e t

e old moons go, nd

e be me t

e lite y lion, nd m de t

e qu int n e of T

eodo e Hook. T

e loss of son used

im to w ite some devotion l ve ses, w

i

we e not w

t

e did best; nd now

e beg n to t y omedies. One of t

em, Sold fo Song, su eeded ve y well. In t

e st ge- o

between Wy ombe Abbey nd London

e w ote su essful little leve de ide u lledPe fe tion; nd it w s lu ky t

t

e opened t

is vein, fo

is wifes I is

p o

pe ty got into

n I is

bog of dis

onesty

nd diffi ulty. T

i ty-five pie es we e ont ibuted by

im to t

e B itis

st ge. Afte long illness,

e died on Ap il 22nd, 1829. He did not live, t

is butte fly minst el, into t

e winte of

um n ge.

Of

is poems t

e inevit ble iti ism must be t

t

e w s Tom Moo e of mu

lowe omplis

ments. His business w s to ol of t

e most v pid nd obvious sentiment, nd to st ing flowe s, f uits, t ees, b eeze, so ow, to-mo ow, knig

ts, o l-bl k steeds, eg et, de eption, nd so fo t

, into fe vid n psti s.Pe

ps

is su ess l y in knowing ex tly

ow little sense in poet y ompose swill endu e nd singe s will ept. W

y, wo ds fo musi e lmost inv i bly t s

now, t

oug

t

e wo ds of Eliz bet

n songs e bette t

n ny musi , i

s

gloomy

nd diffi

ult question. Like most poets, I myself detest t

e siste

t, nd dont know nyt

ing bout it. But ny one n see t

t wo ds like B ylys e nd

ve long been mu

mo e popul wit

musi l people t

n wo ds likeS

elleys, Ke tss, S

kespe es, Flet

e s, Lovel es, o C ews. T

e n tu l expl n tion is not fl tte ing to musi l people: t ll events, t

e singingwo ld doted on B yly.

S

e neve bl med

imneve ,But e eived

im w

en

e meWit

wel ome so t of s

ive ,And s

e t ied to look t

e s me.

But v inly s

e dissembled,

Fo

w

enee

s

e t

ied to smile,A te unbidden t embled

In

e blue eye ll t

e w

ile.


20/94

T

is w s ple s nt fo

im; but t

e point is t

t t

ese e lines to n Indi n i . S

elley, lso, bout t

e s me time, w ote Lines to n Indi n i ; but we m y swe , nd s ve ou o t

, t

t t

e singe s p efe ed B ylys. Tennyson ndCole idge ould neve equ l t

e popul ity of w

t follows. I s

ll sk t

e pe seve ing e de to tell me w

e e B yly ends, nd w

e e p ody begins:

W

en t

e eye of be

uty loses,W

en t

e we y e t est,W

en t

e s

de t

e sunset t

ows isBut v pou in t

e west;W

en t

e moonlig

t tips t

e billowWit

w e t

of silve fo m,And t

e w

ispe of t

e willowB e ks t

e slumbe of t

e gnome,Nig

t m y ome, but sleep will linge ,W

en t

e spi it, ll fo lo n,S

uts its e g inst t

e singe ,And t

e ustle of t

e o n

Round t

e s

d old m

nsion sobbingBids t

e w keful m id e llW

o it w s t

t used t

e t

obbingOf

e bosom t t

e b ll.

Will t

is not do to sing just s well s t

e o igin l? nd is it not t ue t

t lmost ny m n you ple se ould eel it off fo d ys toget

e ? Anyt

ing will do t

t spe ks of fo getting people, nd of being fo s ken, nd bout t

e sunset, nd t

e ivy, nd t

e ose.

Tell me no mo e t

t t

e tide of t

ine nguis

Is ed s t

e

e ts blood nd s lt s t

e se ;T

t t

e st s in t

ei ou ses omm nd t

ee to l nguis

,

T

t t

e

nd of enjoyment is loosened f om t

ee!

Tell me no mo e t

t, fo gotten, fo s ken,T

ou o mest t

e wild wood, t

ou sig

st on t

e s

o e.N y, ent is t

e pledge t

t of old we

d t ken,And t

e wo ds t

t

ve bound me, t

ey bind t

ee no mo e!

E e t

e sun

d gone down on t

y so ow, t

e m idensWe e w e t

ing t

e o nges bud in t

y

i ,And t

e t umpets we e tuning t

e musi l den eT

t g ve t

ee, b ide, to t

e b onets

ei .

F

ewell, m

y no t

oug

t pie

e t

y b

e

st of t

y t

e

son;F ewell, nd be

ppy in Hube ts emb e.Be t

e belle of t

e b ll, be t

e b ide of t

e se son,Wit

di monds bedizened nd l nguid in l e.

T

is is mine, nd I s y, wit

modest p ide, t

t it is quite s good s

Go, m yst t

ou be

ppy,T

oug

s dly we p t,In lifes e ly summe

G ief b e ks not t

e

e t.

T

e ills t

t ss il us

As speedily p

ssAs s

des oe mi o ,W

i

st in not t

e gl ss.


21/94

Anybody ould do it, we s y, in w

t Edg Poe lls t

e m d p ide of intelle tu lity, nd it e t inly looks s if it ould be done by nybody. Fo ex mple,t ke B yly s mo list. His ide s e out of t

e ent e. T

is is bout

isst nd d:

CRUELTY.

B e k not t

e t

e d t

e spide Is l bou ing to we ve.

I s id, no s I eyed

e Could d e m s

e would de eive.

He b ow w s pu e nd ndid,He tende eyes bove;

And I, if eve m n did,Fell

opelessly in love.

Fo w

o ould deem t

t uel

So f

i

f

e mig

t be?T

t eyes so like jewelWe e only p ste fo me?

I wove my t

e d, spi ingWit

in

e

e t to limb;I wove wit

ze l unti ingFo eve su

time!

But,

! t

t t

e d w s b okenAll by

e finge s f i ,T

e vows nd p ye s Ive spokenA e v nis

ed into i !

Did B yly w ite t

t ditty o did I? Upon my wo d, I n

dly tell. I m being

ypnotised by B yly. I lisp in numbe s, nd t

e numbe s ome like m d. I

n

dly sk fo lig

t wit

out bounding in

is tless vein. E sy, e sy it seems; nd yet it w s B yly fte

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