"Well, I never! Did you ever? I never did."
"Never did what?" the clown was to ask me, when my reply was to be:—
"I could only disclose that before a Royal Commission"—alluding to a political artifice10 then coming into vogue11 in Parliament When a Minister did not know what to say to a popular demand, or found it inconvenient12 to say it if he did know, he would suggest a Commission to inquire into it, as is done to this day.
Then the clown would demand, "What is the good of a Royal Commission?" when the answer would be: "Every good in the world to a Ministry13, for before the Commission agreed as to the answer to be given, the public would forget what the question was." Under this diversion of the audience, no one noticed that no answer was given to the original question put to the jester. Whether I could have succeeded in this walk was never decided14. It was found that I lacked the loud, radiant, explosive voice necessary for circus effects, and I ceased to dream of distinction there.
I suppose, like many others who could not well write anything, I thought poetry might be my latent—very latent—faculty15. So I began. For all I knew, my genius, if I had any, might lie that way. To "body forth16 things unknown," which I was told poets did, must be delightful17. To "build castles in the air"—as my means did not enable me to pay ground rent—was at least an economical project. So I began with a question, as new Members of Parliament do, until they discover something to say. My first production, which I hoped would be mistaken for a poem, was in the form of a "Question to a Pedestrian":—
"Saw you my Lilian pass this way?
You would know her by the ray
Of light which doth attend her.
Her eye such fire of passion hath,
That none who meet her ever pass,
But they some message send her."
The critics said to me, as they said to Keats, to whom I bore no other resemblance, "This sort of thing will never do. It is an imitation of Shenstone, or of one of the Shepherd and Shepherdess School of the Elizabethan era"—of whom I knew nothing. So I was lost to the Muses18, who, however, never missed me.
But my career was not ended. I was told there might be an opening for me in criticism, especially of poetry, as there were many persons great in the critical line, who could not write a verse themselves—and yet lived to become a terror to all who could. My first effort in this direction was upon the book of a young poet whom I knew personally. Not venturing upon longer pieces at first, I selected two sonnets19—as the author, Emslie Duncan, called them. The opening was very striking, and was thus expressed:—
"Great God: What is it that I see?
A figure shrimping in the sea."
How natural is the exclamation21, I began. The poet invokes22 the Deity23 on the threshold of a great surprise. Luther did the same in his famous hymn24 beginning—
Our sonneteer may be said to have borrowed the exclamation from Luther.* But we have no doubt the exclamation of our poet is purely26 original. He next demands an interpretation27 of his vision. It is early morning, though the poet does not mention it (great poets are suggestive, and stoop not to detail). An evasive grey mist spreads everywhere, like the new fiscal28 policy of the Bentinckian type (then in the air), obscuring the landmarks29 of long-time safety. Still there is one object visible. The poet's eye in "fine frenzy30 rolling" sees something. He is not sure of the personality that confronts him, and with agnostic precaution worthy31 of Huxley, he declines to say what it is—until he knows—and so contents himself with telling the reader it is a "figure" out shrimping. The scene is most impressive. As amateurs say, when they do not understand a picture they are praising, "It grows upon you." So this marvellous sonnet20 grows upon the
* The opening of Luther's fine hymn:—
"Great God! What do mine eyes behold!
The end of things created"—
which long imposed on my imagination and does so still.
reader. If there be not imagination and profundity32 here, we do not know where to look for it.
Next our poet returns to town, and in White-chapel meets with the statue of a lady attired33 only in a blouse. Notwithstanding his astonishment35 he varies his abjuration36, and exclaims—
"Judge ye gods, of my surprise,
A lady naked in her chemise!"
This is unquestionably very fine. True, there is some contradiction in nudity and attire34; but splendid contradiction is an eternal element of poetry. What would Milton's "Paradise Lost" be without it? The reader cannot tell whether the surprise of the poet is at the lady or her drapery. There is no use in asking a great poet what he meant in writing his brilliant lines. If as candid37 as Browning, he would answer as Browning did, that "he had not the slightest idea what he meant." Nothing remains38 for us but to congratulate the public on the advent39 of a new poet who is equally great on subjects of land or sea.
There is a good deal of reviewing done on this principle, and reputations made by this sort of writing as fully41 without foundation, and I looked forward to further employment.
The editor to whom I sent these primal42 specimens43 of my new vocation44 seemed undecided what to do with them—throw them into his waste-paper basket or submit them to his readers. I assured him I had seen a number of criticisms less restrained than mine, on performances quite as slender as the sonnets I had described. With kindly45 consideration, lest he might be repressing a rising genius in me, he asked me to give my opinion upon a charming little poem by Longfellow—to commend, as he hoped I could, as a new edition in which he was interested was about to be published.
The object of the poet, I found, was to awaken46 certain young ladies, whose only fault consisted in getting up late in the morning. The lines addressed to them, if I rightly remember, began thus:—
"Awake! Arise! and greet the day.
Angels are knocking at the door.
They are in haste and may not stay,
And once departed come no more."
This verse reminds the readers of Omar Khayyam. Two ideas in it are his, and the terms used are his; but I resisted this temptation to imitate those popular critics, whose aim is not to discover the graces of a new poet, but his plagiarisms47, and to show that everybody reproduces the ideas of everybody else, and prove that—
"Nothing is, and all things seem
And we the shadows of a dream"—
and of old, antediluvian48 dreams. Disdaining49 this royal road to critical renown, I commenced by praising the enchanting50 invocation of the poet, who when the ladies heard it would leap out of bed and dress. I observed that to the reader who did not look below the surface—did not "read between the lines," is the favourite phrase—the poem presented some mysteries of diction. Instead of appearing as the angel in Leigh Hunt's "Abou Ben Adhem" did, who diffused himself in the room like a vision, these peripatetic51 visitants presented themselves like celestial52 postmen "knocking at the door." Then why were they out so early themselves? Had they more calls to make than they could well accomplish in the time allowed them? Why were they "in haste"? No wonder mankind lack repose53 if angels are in a hurry. The Kingdom of the Blest is supposed to be the land of rest Manifestly these morning angels had to be back by a stipulated54 time, and like a tax-collector could make no second call. Apparently55 Longfellow's angels are like Mr. Stead's favourite spirit Julia. They are harassed56 with appointments, commissions, and cares. It is of no use being a spirit if you cannot move about with regal leisureliness57, such as was displayed by the first Shah of Persia who visited us. The writer has seen nothing like it in any European monarch58. While in the lines now in question supernatural misgivings59 of angelic perturbation are awakened60. But as an example of poetry, irrespective of its meaning and suggestions, every reader will covet61 a new edition of the American poet, and no library could be complete without a copy upon its shelves.
I had visited the poet at his Cambridge home, and was proud of the opportunity of adding ever so small an addition to the pyramid of regard raised to his memory.
The editor looked dubious62 on reading this review, and said the higher criticism might be entertaining in theology, but the higher criticism of poetry, which dealt with its meaning, was a different thing and might not be well taken. In vain I suggested that a poet ought to mean something, as Byron did, whose fascination63 is still real, and there was pathos64 and beauty, tragedy, tenderness and courtesy enough in the world to employ more poets than we have on hand. I received no more commissions in the way of criticisms, and had to think of some other vocation.
Some of the happiest evenings of younger days were spent in the rooms of university students. It was pleasant to be near persons who dwelt in the kingdom of knowledge, who could wander at will on the mountain tops of science and literature, and have glimpses of unknown lands of light which I might never see. Who has seen London under the reign65 of the sun, after a sullen66, fitful season, knows how wondrous67 is the transformation68. Like the sheen of the gods the glittering rays descend69, dispelling70 and absorbing the sombre clouds. A radiance rests on turret71 and roof. Then hidden creatures that crawl or fly come forth and put on golden tints72. The cheerless poor emerge from their fireless chambers73 with the grateful emotions of sun worshippers.
How like is all this to the change which comes over the realm of ignorance! Light does not change vegetation more than the light of knowledge changes the realm of the mind. The thirsty crevices74 of thought drink in, as it were, the refreshing75 beams. Once conscious of the liberty and power which comes of knowing—ignorance itself becomes eager, impatient—covetous of information. Faculties76 unsuspected disclose themselves. Qualities undreamed-of appear. So it came to be my choice to enter the field of instruction. It seemed to me a great thing to endow any, however few, in any way, however humble77, with the cheeriness and strength of ideas. True, I began to teach what I did not know—or knew but partially—yet not without personal advantage, since no one knows anything well until he has tried to teach it to another. The dullest pupil will make his master sensible of defects in his own explanation. Formerly78, the dulness of a learner was supposed to discover the necessity of a cane79, whereas all it proved was incapacity or unwillingness80 to take trouble—on the part of the teacher. The result was that I wrote several elementary books of instruction. All owed their existence, or whatever success attended them, to the experience of the class-room.
All things have an end, as many observant people know, and before long I turned my attention to journalism82. I had read somewhere a saying of Aristotle—"Now I mean to speak conformably to the truth." That seems every man's duty—if he speaks at all. Anyhow, Aristotle's words appeared to constitute a good rule for a journalist I had never heard or never heeded83 the injunction of Byron:—
"Let him who speaks beware
Of whom, of what, and when, and where."
The Aristotelian rule I had adopted soon brought me into difficulties, probably from want of skill in applying it. It was in propagandist journalism that I had ventured, which I mention for the purpose of saying that it is not, as many suppose, a profitable profession. It is excellent discipline, but it is not thought much of by your banker. Its securities are never saleable on the Stock Exchange. Nevertheless, the Press has its undying attraction. It is the fame-maker. Without it noble words, as well as noble deeds, would die. Day by day there descend from the Press ideas in fertilising showers, falling on the parched84 and arid85 plains of life, which in due season become verdant86 and variegated87. Difficulties try men's souls, but true ideas expand them. And they have done so. Literature is a much brighter thing than it was when I first began to meddle88 or "muddle89" in it, as Lord Salisbury would say.
Nothing was thought classical then that was not dull No definition of importance was found to be utterly90 unintelligible91 until a University man had explained it. All is different now—let us hope.
Instances of the progress of literary opinion are perhaps more instructive and better worth remembering. In 1850, when George Henry Lewes and Thornton Hunt included my name in their published list of contributors to the Leader, it cost the proprietors92, I had reason to know, ￡2,000. It set the Rev40. Dr. Jelf, of King's College, on fire, and caused an orthodox spasm93 of a serious kind in Charles Kingsley and Professor Maurice, as witness their letters of that day.
One journal projected by me in 1850 is still v issued—Public Opinion. Mr. W. H. Ashurst asked me to devise a paper I thought the most needed. As Peel had said, "England was governed by opinion," I suggested that this opinion should be collected. I wrote the prospectus94 of the new journal, specifying95 that each article quoted should be prefixed by a few words, within brackets, setting forth what principles, party, or interest it represented—whether English or foreign. Mr. Ashurst put the prospectus into the hands of Robert Buchanan, father of the late Robert Buchanan, and the earlier issues followed the plan I had defined. The object was to collect intelligent and responsible opinion.
In 1866 the Contemporary Review announced that it would "represent the best minds of the time on all contemporary questions, free from narrowness, bigotry96, and sectarianism." It professed97 "to represent those who are not afraid of modern thought, in its varied98 aspects and demands, and scorn to defend their faith by mere99 reticence100, or by the artifices101 commonly acquiesced102 in." This manifesto103 of 1866 far surpassed in liberality any profession then known in the evangelical world. It was at the time a bold pronouncement. When it is considered that Samuel Morley was the most influential104 of the supporters of the Contemporary, it shows that intellectual Nonconformity was abreast105 of the age—as Nonconformity never was before.
In 1877 I was taken by Thomas Woolner, the sculptor106, to dine at Mr. Alfred Tennyson's (Lord Tennyson later). I believe my invitation was owing to Mrs. Tennyson's desire to make inquiries107 of me concerning the advantages of Co-operation in rural districts, in which, like the Countess of Warwick, she was interested. The Poet Laureate gave me a glass of sack, the royal beverage108 of poets, of more exquisite109 flavour than I had tasted before. I did not wonder that it was conducive110 to noble verse—where the faculty of it was present Mr. Knowles, now Sir James, founder111 of the Nineteenth Century and After, was of the party, and the new review—then projected—being mentioned, it came to pass that my name was put down among possible contributors. The Nineteenth Century proposed to go further, and include a still wider range of subjects, with free discussion on personal responsibility. Its prospectus said "it would go on lines absolutely impartial112 and unsectarian." The Prefatory Poem, written by Tennyson twenty-seven years ago, which may not be in the memory of many now, was this:—
"Those that of late had fleeted far and fast,
To touch all shores, now leaving to the skill
Of others their old craft, seaworthy still,
Have chartered this; where, mindful of the past,
Our true co-mates regather round the mast;
Of diverse tongues, but with a common will,
And crocus, to put forth and brave the blast.
For some, descending114 from the sacred peak
Of hoar, high-templed Faith, have leagued again
Their lot with ours to rove the world about,
And some are wilder comrades, sworn to seek
If any golden harbour be for men
In seas of Death and sunless gulfs of Doubt."
Tennyson, with all his genius, never quite emerged from the theologic caves of the conventicle. The sea of pure reason he took to be "the sea of Death." Doubt was a "sunless gulf115." He did not know that "Doubt" is a translucent116 valley, where the light of Truth first reveals the deformities of error—hidden by theological mists. The line containing the words "wilder comrades" was understood to include me. Out of the "One Hundred Contributors," whose names were published in the Athen?um (February 10, 1877), there were only-six:—Professor Huxley, Professor Tyndall, Professor Clifford, George Henry Lewes, myself, and possibly Frederic Harrison, to whom the phrase could apply. If the remaining ninety-four had any insurgency117 of opinion in them, it was not then apparent to the public, who are prone118 to prefer a vacuum to an insurgent119 idea. New ideas of moment have always been on hand in the Nineteenth if not of the "wilder" kind.
After issuing fifty volumes of the Nineteenth Century Review, the editor published a list of all his contributors, with the titles of the articles written by them, introduced by these brief but memorable120 words:—
"More than a quarter of a century's experience has sufficiently121 tested the practical efficacy of the principle upon which the Nineteenth Century was founded, of free public discussion by writers invariably signing their own names.
"The success which has attended and continues to attend the faithful adherence122 to this principle, proves that it is not only right but acceptable, and warrants the hope that it may extend its influence over periodical literature, until unsigned contributions become quite exceptional.
"No man can make an anonymous123 speech with his tongue, and no brave man should desire to make one with his pen, but, having the courage of his opinions, should be ready to face personally all the consequences of all his utterances124. Anonymous letters are everywhere justly discredited125 in private life, and the tone of public life would be raised in proportion to the disappearance126 of their equivalent—anonymous articles—from public controversy127."
Than the foregoing, I know of no more admirable argument against anonymity128 in literature. There is nothing more unfair in controversy than permitting writers, wearing a mask, to attack or make replies to those who give their names—being thereby129 enabled to be accusative or imputative without responsibility. There is, of course another side to this question. Persons of superior and relevant information, unwilling81 to appear personally, are thereby excluded from a hearing—which is so far a public loss.
But this evil is small compared with the vividness and care which would be exercised if every writer felt that his reputation went with the work which bore his name. Besides, how much slovenly130 thinking, which is slovenly expressed—vexing the public ear and depraving the taste and understanding of the reader—would never appear if the writer had to append his signature to his production? Of course, there is good writing done anonymously131, but power and originality132, if present, are never rewarded by fame, and no one knows who to thank for the light and pleasure nameless writers have given. The example of the Nineteenth Century and After is a public advantage.
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1
moulder
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| v.腐朽，崩碎 | |
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miasma
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| n.毒气；不良气氛 | |
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diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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invokes
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| v.援引( invoke的第三人称单数 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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fiscal
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| adj.财政的，会计的，国库的，国库岁入的 | |
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landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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profundity
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| n.渊博；深奥，深刻 | |
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attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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abjuration
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| n.发誓弃绝 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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primal
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| adj.原始的；最重要的 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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plagiarisms
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| n.剽窃( plagiarism的名词复数 )；抄袭；剽窃物；抄袭物 | |
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antediluvian
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| adj.史前的，陈旧的 | |
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disdaining
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| 鄙视( disdain的现在分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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peripatetic
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| adj.漫游的，逍遥派的，巡回的 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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stipulated
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| vt.& vi.规定；约定adj.[法]合同规定的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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leisureliness
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| n.悠然，从容 | |
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monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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covet
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| vt.垂涎；贪图(尤指属于他人的东西) | |
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dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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63
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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64
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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68
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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69
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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dispelling
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的现在分词 ) | |
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71
turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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72
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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73
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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77
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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79
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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80
unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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81
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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82
journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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83
heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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prospectus
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| n.计划书；说明书；慕股书 | |
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specifying
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| v.指定( specify的现在分词 )；详述；提出…的条件；使具有特性 | |
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bigotry
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| n.偏见，偏执，持偏见的行为[态度]等 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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100
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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101
artifices
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| n.灵巧( artifice的名词复数 )；诡计；巧妙办法；虚伪行为 | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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manifesto
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| n.宣言，声明 | |
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104
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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105
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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107
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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108
beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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109
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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110
conducive
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| adj.有益的，有助的 | |
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111
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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112
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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113
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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114
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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115
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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116
translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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117
insurgency
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| n.起义；暴动；叛变 | |
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118
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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119
insurgent
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| adj.叛乱的，起事的；n.叛乱分子 | |
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120
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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121
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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122
adherence
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| n.信奉，依附，坚持，固着 | |
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123
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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124
utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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125
discredited
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| 不足信的，不名誉的 | |
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126
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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127
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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128
anonymity
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| n.the condition of being anonymous | |
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129
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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130
slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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131
anonymously
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| ad.用匿名的方式 | |
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132
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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