Chapter III: Introduction (1)

Few men have pursued more honourably, more usefully, or more successfully the career of letters than Thomas Caliban, D.D., of Winchelthorpe-on-Sea, near Portsmouth. Inheriting, as his name would imply, the grand old Huguenot strain, his father was a Merchant Taylor of the City of London, and principal manager of the Anglo-Chilian Bank; his mother the fifth daughter of K. Muller, Esq., of Brighton, a furniture dealer and reformer of note in the early forties.

The connection established between my own family and that of Dr. Caliban I purposely pass over as not germane to the ensuing pages, remarking only that the friendship, guidance, and intimacy of such a man will ever count among my chiefest treasures. Of him it may truly be written: “_He maketh them to shine like Sharon; the waters are his in Ram-Shaîd, and Gilgath praiseth him._”

I could fill a volume of far greater contents than has this with the mere record of his every-day acts during the course of his long and active career. I must content myself, in this sketch, with a bare summary of his habitual deportment. He would rise in the morning, and after a simple but orderly toilet would proceed to family prayers, terminating the same with a hymn, of which he would himself read each verse in turn, to be subsequently chanted by the assembled household. To this succeeded breakfast, which commonly consisted of ham, eggs, coffee, tea, toast, jam, and whatnot--in a word, the appurtenances of a decent table.

Breakfast over, he would light a pipe (for he did not regard indulgence in the weed as immoral, still less as un-Christian: the subtle word ἐπιείκεια, which he translated “sweet reasonableness,” was painted above his study door--it might have served for the motto of his whole life), he would light a pipe, I say, and walk round his garden, or, if it rained, visit the plants in his conservatory.

Before ten he would be in his study, seated at a large mahogany bureau, formerly the property of Sir Charles Henby, of North-chapel, and noon would still find him there, writing in his regular and legible hand the notes and manuscripts which have made him famous, or poring over an encyclopædia, the more conscientiously to review some book with which he had been entrusted.

After the hours so spent, it was his habit to take a turn in the fresh air, sometimes speaking to the gardener, and making the round of the beds; at others passing by the stables to visit his pony Bluebell, or to pat upon the head his faithful dog Ponto, now advanced in years and suffering somewhat from the mange.

To this light exercise succeeded luncheon, for him the most cheerful meal of the day. It was then that his liveliest conversation was heard, his closest friends entertained: the government, the misfortunes of foreign nations, the success of our fiscal policy, our maritime supremacy, the definition of the word “gentleman,” occasionally even a little bout of theology--a thousand subjects fell into the province of his genial criticism and extensive information; to each his sound judgment and ready apprehension added some new light; nor were the ladies of the family incompetent to follow the gifted table talk of their father, husband, brother, master,[1] and host.[2]

Until the last few years the hour after lunch was occupied with a stroll upon the terrace, but latterly he would consume it before the fire in sleep, from which the servants had orders to wake him by three o’clock. At this hour he would take his hat and stick and proceed into the town, where his sunny smile and friendly salute were familiar to high and low. A visit to the L.N.C. School, a few purchases, perhaps even a call upon the vicar (for Dr. Caliban was without prejudice--the broadest of men), would be the occupation of the afternoon, from which he returned to tea in the charming drawing-room of 48, Henderson Avenue.

It was now high time to revisit his study. He was at work by six, and would write steadily till seven. Dinner, the pleasant conversation that succeeds it in our English homes, perhaps an innocent round game, occupied the evening till a gong for prayers announced the termination of the day. Dr. Caliban made it a point to remain the last up, to bolt the front door, to pour out his own whiskey, and to light his own candle before retiring. It was consonant with his exact and thoughtful nature, by the way, to have this candle of a patent sort, pierced down the middle to minimise the danger from falling grease; it was moreover surrounded by a detachable cylinder of glass.[3]

Such was the round of method which, day by day and week by week, built up the years of Dr. Caliban’s life; but life is made up of little things, and, to quote a fine phrase of his own: “It is the hourly habits of a man that build up his character.” He also said (in his address to the I. C. B. Y.): “Show me a man hour by hour in his own home, from the rising of the sun to his going down, and I will tell you what manner of man he is.” I have always remembered the epigram, and have acted upon it in the endeavour to portray the inner nature of its gifted author.

I should, however, be giving but an insufficient picture of Dr. Caliban were I to leave the reader with no further impression of his life work, or indeed of the causes which have produced this book.

His father had left him a decent competence. He lay, therefore, under no necessity to toil for his living. Nevertheless, that sense of duty, “through which the eternal heavens are fresh and strong” (Wordsworth), moved him to something more than “the consumption of the fruits of the earth” (Horace). He preached voluntarily and without remuneration for some years to the churches in Cheltenham, and having married Miss Bignor, of Winchelthorpe-on-Sea, purchased a villa in that rising southern watering-place, and received a call to the congregation, which he accepted. He laboured there till his recent calamity.

I hardly know where to begin the recital of his numerous activities in the period of thirty-five years succeeding his marriage. With the pen he was indefatigable. A man more ποικίλος--or, as he put it, many-sided--perhaps never existed. There was little he would not touch, little upon which he was not consulted, and much in which, though anonymous, he was yet a leader.

He wrote regularly, in his earlier years, for _The Seventh Monarchy_, _The Banner_, _The Christian_, _The Free Trader_, _Household Words_, _Good Words_, _The Quiver_, _Chatterbox_, _The Home Circle_, and _The Sunday Monitor_. During the last twenty years his work has continually appeared in the _Daily Telegraph_, the _Times_, the _Siècle_, and the _Tribuna_. In the last two his work was translated.

His political effect was immense, and that though he never acceded to the repeated request that he would stand upon one side or the other as a candidate for Parliament. He remained, on the contrary, to the end of his career, no more than president of a local association. It was as a speaker, writer, and preacher, that his ideas spread outwards; thousands certainly now use political phrases which they may imagine their own, but which undoubtedly sprang from his creative brain. He was perhaps not the first, but one of the first, to apply the term “Anglo-Saxon” to the English-speaking race--with which indeed he was personally connected through his relatives in New Mexico. The word “Empire” occurs in a sermon of his as early as 1869. He was contemporary with Mr. Lucas, if not before him, in the phrase, “Command of the sea”: and I find, in a letter to Mrs. Gorch, written long ago in 1873, the judgment that Protection was “no longer,” and the nationalization of land “not yet,” within “the sphere of practical politics.”

If his influence upon domestic politics was in part due to his agreement with the bulk of his fellow-citizens, his attitude in foreign affairs at least was all his own. Events have proved it wonderfully sound. A strenuous opponent of American slavery as a very young man--in 1860--he might be called, even at that age, the most prominent Abolitionist in Worcestershire, and worked indefatigably for the cause in so far as it concerned this country. A just and charitable man, he proved, after the victory of the North, one of the firmest supporters in the press of what he first termed “an Anglo-American _entente_.” Yet he was not for pressing matters. He would leave the “gigantic daughter of the West” to choose her hour and time, confident in the wisdom of his daughter’s judgment, and he lived to see, before his calamity fell upon him, Mr. Hanna, Mr. Roosevelt, Mr. Elihu Root, and Mr. Smoot occupying the positions they still adorn.

He comprehended Europe. It was he who prophesied of the Dual Monarchy (I believe in the _Contemporary Review_), that “the death of Francis Joseph would be the signal for a great upheaval”; he that applied to Italy the words “clericalism is the enemy”; and he that publicly advised the withdrawal of our national investments from the debt of Spain--“a nation in active decay.” He cared not a jot when his critics pointed out that Spanish fours had risen since his advice no less than 20 per cent., while our own consols had fallen by an equal amount. “The kingdom I serve,” he finely answered, “knows nothing of the price of stock.” And indeed the greater part of his fortune was in suburban rents, saving a small sum unfortunately adventured in Shanghai Telephones.

Russia he hated as the oppressor of Finland and Poland, for oppression he loathed and combatted wherever it appeared; nor had Mr. Arthur Balfour a stronger supporter than he when that statesman, armed only in the simple manliness of an English Christian and Freeman, combatted and destroyed the terrorism that stalked through Ireland.

Of Scandinavia he knew singularly little, but that little was in its favour; and as for the German Empire, his stanzas to Prince Bismarck, and his sermon on the Emperor’s recent visit, are too well known to need any comment here. To Holland he was, until recently, attracted. Greece he despised.

Nowhere was this fine temper of unflinching courage and sterling common sense more apparent than in the great crisis of the Dreyfus case. No man stood up more boldly, or with less thought of consequence, for Truth and Justice in this country. He was not indeed the chairman of the great meeting in St. James’ Hall, but his peroration was the soul of that vast assemblage. “England will yet weather the storm....” It was a true prophecy, and in a sense a confession of Faith.

There ran through his character a vein of something steady and profound, which inspired all who came near him with a sense of quiet persistent _strength_. This, with an equable, unfailing pressure, restrained or controlled whatever company surrounded him. It was like the regular current of a full but silent tide, or like the consistent power of a good helmsman. It may be called his _personal force_. To most men and women of our circle, that force was a sustenance and a blessing; to ill-regulated or worldly men with whom he might come in contact, it acted as a salutary irritant, though rarely to so intense a degree as to give rise to scenes. I must unfortunately except the case of the Rural Dean of Bosham, whose notorious excess was the more lamentable from the fact that the Council of the _S.P.C.A._ is strictly non-sectarian, and whose excuse that the ink-pot was not thrown but brushed aside is, to speak plainly, a tergiversation.

The recent unhappy war in South Africa afforded an excellent opportunity for the exercise of the qualities I mean. He was still active and alert; still guiding men and maidens during its worse days. His tact was admirable. He suffered from the acute divisions of his congregation, but he suffered in powerful silence; and throughout those dark-days his sober _necquid nimis_[4] was like a keel and ballast for us all.

A young radical of sorts was declaiming at his table one evening against the Concentration Camp. Dr. Caliban listened patiently, and at the end of the harangue said gently, “Shall we join the ladies?” The rebuke was not lost.[5]

On another occasion, when some foreigner was reported in the papers as having doubted Mr. Brodrick’s figures relative to the numbers of the enemy remaining in the field, Dr. Caliban said with quiet dignity, “It is the first time I have heard the word of an English gentleman doubted.”

It must not be imagined from these lines that he defended the gross excesses of the London mob--especially in the matter of strong waters--or that he wholly approved of our policy. “Peace in our time, _Oh, Lord_!” was his constant cry, and against militarism he thundered fearlessly. I have heard him apply to it a word that never passed his lips in any other connection--the word DAMNABLE.

On the details of the war, the policy of annexation, the advisability of frequent surrenders, the high salaries of irregulars, and the employment of national scouts, he was silent. In fine, one might have applied to him the strong and simple words of Lord Jacobs, in his Guildhall speech.[6] One main fact stood out--he hated warfare. He was a man of peace.

The tall, broad figure, inclining slightly to obesity, the clear blue northern eyes, ever roaming from point to point as though seeking for grace, the familiar soft wideawake, the long full white beard, the veined complexion and dark-gloved hands, are now, alas, removed from the sphere they so long adorned.

Dr. Caliban’s affliction was first noticed by his family at dinner on the first of last September--a date which fell by a strange and unhappy coincidence on a Sunday. For some days past Miss Goucher had remarked his increasing volubility; but on this fatal evening, in spite of all the efforts of his wife and daughters, he continued to speak, without interruption, from half-past seven to a quarter-past nine; and again, after a short interval, till midnight, when he fell into an uneasy sleep, itself full of mutterings. His talk had seemed now a sermon, now the reminiscence of some leading article, now a monologue, but the whole quite incoherent, though delivered with passionate energy; nor was it the least distressing feature of his malady that he would tolerate no reply, nay, even the gentlest assent drove him into paroxysms of fury.

Next day he began again in the manner of a debate at the local Liberal Club, soon lapsing again into a sermon, and anon admitting snatches of strange songs into the flow of his words. Towards eleven he was apparently arguing with imaginary foreigners, and shortly afterwards the terrible scene was ended by the arrival of a medical man of his own persuasion.

It is doubtful whether Dr. Caliban will ever be able to leave Dr. Charlbury’s establishment, but all that can be done for him in his present condition is lovingly and ungrudgingly afforded. There has even been provided for him at considerable expense, and after an exhaustive search, a companion whose persistent hallucination it is that he is acting as private secretary to some leader of the Opposition, and the poor wild soul is at rest.

Such was the man who continually urged upon me the necessity of compiling some such work as that which now lies before the reader. He had himself intended to produce a similar volume, and had he done so I should never have dared to enter the same field; but I feel that in his present incapacity I am, as it were, fulfilling a duty when I trace in these few pages the plan which he so constantly counselled, and with such a man counsels were commands. If I may be permitted to dwell upon the feature more especially his own in this Guide, I will point to the section “On Vivid Historical Literature in its Application to Modern Problems,” and furthermore, to the section “On the Criticism and Distinction of Works Attributed to Classical Authors.” In the latter case the examples chosen were taken from his own large collection; for it was a hobby of his to purchase as bargains manuscripts and anonymous pamphlets which seemed to him to betray the hand of some master. Though I have been compelled to differ from my friend, and cannot conscientiously attribute the specimens I have chosen to William Shakespeare or to Dean Swift, yet I am sure the reader will agree with me that the error into which Dr. Caliban fell was that of no ordinary mind.

Finally, let me offer to his family, and to his numerous circle, such apologies as may be necessary for the differences in style, and, alas, I fear, sometimes in mode of thought, between the examples which I have chosen as models for the student and those which perhaps would have more powerfully attracted the sympathies of my preceptor himself. I am well aware that such a difference is occasionally to be discovered. I can only plead in excuse that men are made in very different ways, and that the disciple cannot, even if he would, forbid himself a certain measure of self-development. Dr. Caliban’s own sound and broad ethics would surely have demanded it of no one, and I trust that this solemn reference to his charity and genial toleration will put an end to the covert attacks which some of those who should have been the strongest links between us have seen fit to make in the provincial and religious press.

_DIVISION I._

REVIEWING.

REVIEWING.

The ancient and honourable art of Reviewing is, without question, the most important branch of that great calling which we term the “Career of Letters.”

As it is the most important, so also it is the first which a man of letters should learn. It is at once his shield and his weapon. A thorough knowledge of Reviewing, both theoretical and applied, will give a man more popularity or power than he could have attained by the expenditure of a corresponding energy in any one of the liberal professions, with the possible exception of Municipal politics.

It forms, moreover, the foundation upon which all other literary work may be said to repose. Involving, as it does, the reading of a vast number of volumes, and the thorough mastery of a hundred wholly different subjects; training one to rapid, conclusive judgment, and to the exercise of a kind of immediate power of survey, it vies with cricket in forming the character of an Englishman. It is interesting to know that Charles Hawbuck was for some years principally occupied in Reviewing; and to this day some of our most important men will write, nay, and sign, reviews, as the press of the country testifies upon every side.

It is true that the sums paid for this species of literary activity are not large, and it is this fact which has dissuaded some of our most famous novelists and poets of recent years from undertaking Reviewing of any kind. But the beginner will not be deterred by such a consideration, and he may look forward, by way of compensation, to the ultimate possession of a large and extremely varied library, the accumulation of the books which have been given him to review. I have myself been presented with books of which individual volumes were sometimes worth as much as forty-two shillings to buy.

Having said so much of the advantages of this initial and fundamental kind of writing, I will proceed to a more exact account of its dangers and difficulties, and of the processes inherent to its manufacture.

It is clear, in the first place, that the Reviewer must regard herself as the servant of the public, and of her employer; and service, as I need hardly remind her (or him), has nothing in it dishonourable. We were all made to work, and often the highest in the land are the hardest workers of all. This character of service, of which Mr. Ruskin has written such noble things, will often lay the Reviewer under the necessity of a sharp change of opinion, and nowhere is the art a better training in morals and application than in the habit it inculcates of rapid and exact obedience, coupled with the power of seeing every aspect of a thing, and of insisting upon that particular aspect which will give most satisfaction to the commonwealth.

It may not be uninstructive if I quote here the adventures of one of the truest of the many stout-hearted men I have known, one indeed who recently died in harness reviewing Mr. Garcke’s article on Electrical Traction in the supplementary volumes of the _Encyclopædia Britannica_. This gentleman was once sent a book to review; the subject, as he had received no special training in it, might have deterred one less bound by the sense of duty. This book was called _The Snail: Its Habitat, Food, Customs, Virtues, Vices, and Future_. It was, as its title would imply, a monograph upon snails, and there were many fine coloured prints, showing various snails occupied in feeding on the leaves proper to each species. It also contained a large number of process blocks, showing sections, plans, elevations, and portraits of snails, as well as detailed descriptions (with diagrams) of the ears, tongues, eyes, hair, and nerves of snails. It was a comprehensive and remarkable work.

My friend (whose name I suppress for family reasons) would not naturally have cared to review this book. He saw that it involved the assumption of a knowledge which he did not possess, and that some parts of the book might require very close reading. It numbered in all 1532 pages, but this was including the index and the preface.

He put his inclinations to one side, and took the book with him to the office of the newspaper from which he had received it, where he was relieved to hear the Editor inform him that it was not necessary to review the work in any great detail. “Moreover,” he added, “I don’t think you need praise it too much.”

On hearing this, the Reviewer, having noted down the price of the book and the name of the publisher, wrote the following words--which, by the way, the student will do well to cut out and pin upon his wall, as an excellent example of what a “short notice” should be:--

“_The Snail: Its Habitat_, &c. Adam Charles. Pschuffer. 21s. 6d.

“This is a book that will hardly add to the reputation of
its author. There is evidence of detailed work, and even of
conscientious research in several places, but the author has
ignored or misunderstood the whole teaching of ___________ and
the special discoveries of ___________ and what is even more
remarkable in a man of Mr. Charles’ standing, he advances views
which were already exploded in the days of ___________.”

He then took an Encyclopædia and filled up the blanks with the names of three great men who appeared, according to that work, to be the leaders in this branch of natural history. His duty thus thoroughly accomplished and his mind at rest, he posted his review, and applied himself to lighter occupations.

Next day, however, the Editor telephoned to him, to the effect that the notice upon which he had spent so much labour could not be used.

“We have just received,” said the Editor, “a page advertisement from Pschuffer. I would like a really good article, and you might use the book as a kind of peg on which to hang it. You might begin on the subject of snails, and make it something more like your ‘_Oh! my lost friend_,’ which has had such a success.”

On occasions such as these the beginner must remember to keep full possession of himself.

Nothing in this mortal life is permanent, and the changes that are native to the journalistic career are perhaps the most startling and frequent of all those which threaten humanity.

The Reviewer of whom I speak was as wise as he was honourable. He saw at once what was needed. He wrote another and much longer article, beginning--

“_The Snail: Its Habitat_, &c. Adam Charles. Pschuffer. 21s. 6d.

“There are tender days just before the Spring dares the adventure
of the Channel, when our Kentish woods are prescient, as it were,
of the South. It is calm ...”

and so forth, leading gradually up to snails, and bringing in the book here and there about every twentieth line.

When this long article was done, he took it back to the office, and there found the Editor in yet a third mood. He was talking into the telephone, and begged his visitor to wait until he had done. My friend, therefore, took up a copy of the _Spectator_, and attempted to distract his attention with the masterful irony and hard crystalline prose of that paper.

Soon the Editor turned to him and said that Pschuffer’s had just let him know by the telephone that they would not advertise after all.

It was now necessary to delete all that there might be upon snails in his article, to head the remainder “My Kentish Home,” and to send it immediately to “_Life in the Open_.” This done, he sat down and wrote upon a scrap of paper in the office the following revised notice, which the Editor glanced at and approved:--

“_The Snail: Its Habitat_, &c. Adam Charles. Pschuffer. 21s. 6d.

“This work will, perhaps, appeal to specialists. This journal
does not profess any capacity of dealing with it, but a glance at
its pages is sufficient to show that it would be very ill-suited
to ordinary readers. The illustrations are not without merit.”

Next morning he was somewhat perturbed to be called up again upon the telephone by the Editor, who spoke to him as follows:--

“I am very sorry, but I have just learnt a most important fact. Adam Charles is standing in our interests at Biggleton. Lord Bailey will be on the platform. You must write a long and favourable review of the book before twelve to-day, and do try and say a little about the author.”

He somewhat wearily took up a sheet of paper and wrote what follows:--a passage which I must again recommend to the student as a very admirable specimen of work upon these lines.

“_The Snail: Its Habitat_, &c. Adam Charles. Pschuffer. 21s. 6d.

“This book comes at a most opportune moment. It is not generally
known that Professor Charles was the first to point out the very
great importance of the training of the mind in the education of
children. It was in May, 1875, that he made this point in the
presence of Mr. Gladstone, who was so impressed by the mingled
enlightenment and novelty of the view, that he wrote a long
and interesting postcard upon the author to a friend of the
present writer. Professor Charles may be styled--nay, he styles
himself--a ‘self-made man.’ Born in Huddersfield of parents
who were weavers in that charming northern city, he was early
fascinated by the study of natural science, and was admitted to
the Alexandrovna University....”

(And so on, and so on, out of “_Who’s Who_.”)

“But this would not suffice for his growing genius.”

(And so on, and so on, out of the _Series of Contemporary Agnostics_.)

“ ... It is sometimes remarkable to men of less wide experience
how such spirits find the mere time to achieve their prodigious
results. Take, for example, this book on the Snail....”

And he continued in a fine spirit of praise, such as should be given to books of this weight and importance, and to men such as he who had written it. He sent it by boy-messenger to the office.

The messenger had but just left the house when the telephone rang again, and once more it was the Editor, who asked whether the review had been sent off. Knowing how dilatory are the run of journalists, my friend felt some natural pride in replying that he had indeed just despatched the article. The Editor, as luck would have it, was somewhat annoyed by this, and the reason soon appeared when he proceeded to say that the author was another Charles after all, and not the Mr. Charles who was standing for Parliament. He asked whether the original review could still be retained, in which the book, it will be remembered, had been treated with some severity.

My friend permitted himself to give a deep sigh, but was courteous enough to answer as follows:--

“I am afraid it has been destroyed, but I shall be very happy to write another, and I will make it really scathing. You shall have it by twelve.”

It was under these circumstances that the review (which many of you must have read) took this final form, which I recommend even more heartily than any of the others to those who may peruse these pages for their profit, as well as for their instruction.

“_The Snail: Its Habitat_, &c. Adam Charles. Pschuffer. 21s. 6d.

“We desire to have as little to do with this book as possible,
and we should recommend some similar attitude to our readers.
It professes to be scientific, but the harm books of this kind
do is incalculable. It is certainly unfit for ordinary reading,
and for our part we will confess that we have not read more than
the first few words. They were quite sufficient to confirm the
judgment which we have put before our readers, and they would
have formed sufficient material for a lengthier treatment had
we thought it our duty as Englishmen to dwell further upon the
subject.”

Let me now turn from the light parenthesis of illuminating anecdote to the sterner part of my task.

We will begin at the beginning, taking the simplest form of review, and tracing the process of production through its various stages.

It is necessary first to procure a few forms, such as are sold by Messrs. Chatsworthy in Chancery Lane, and Messrs. Goldman, of the Haymarket, in which all the skeleton of a review is provided, with blanks left for those portions which must, with the best will in the world, vary according to the book and the author under consideration. There are a large number of these forms, and I would recommend the student who is as yet quite a novice in the trade to select some forty of the most conventional, such as these on page 7 of the catalogue:--

“Mr. ---- has hardly seized the pure beauty of”

“We cannot agree with Mr. ---- in his estimate of”

“Again, how admirable is the following:”

At the same establishments can be procured very complete lists of startling words, which lend individuality and force to the judgment of the Reviewer. Indeed I believe that Mr. Goldman was himself the original patentee of these useful little aids, and among many before me at this moment I would recommend the following to the student:--

{ Absolute }
{ Immediate }
{ Creative }
{ Bestial }
{ Intense }
“There is somewhat { Authoritative } in Mr. ----’s style.”
of the { Ampitheatrical } Mrs. ----’s
{ Lapsed } Miss ----’s
{ Miggerlish }
{ Japhetic }
{ Accidental }
{ Alkaline }
{ Zenotic }

Messrs. Malling, of Duke Street, Soho, sell a particular kind of cartridge paper and some special pins, gum, and a knife, called “The Reviewer’s Outfit.” I do not know that these are necessary, but they cost only a few pence, and are certainly of advantage in the final process: To wit:--Seizing firmly the book to be reviewed, write down the title, price, publisher, and (in books other than anonymous) the author’s name, at the _top_ of the sheet of paper you have chosen. The book should then be taken in both hands and opened sharply, with a gesture not easily described, but acquired with very little practice. The test of success is that the book should give a loud crack and lie open of itself upon the table before one. This initial process is technically called “breaking the back” of a book, but we need not trouble ourselves yet with technical terms. One of the pages so disclosed should next be torn out and the word “extract” written in the corner, though not before such sentences have been deleted as will leave the remainder a coherent paragraph. In the case of historical and scientific work, the preface must be torn out bodily, the name of the Reviewer substituted for the word “I,” and the whole used as a description of the work in question. What remains is very simple. The forms, extracts, &c., are trimmed, pinned, and gummed in order upon the cartridge paper (in some offices brown paper), and the whole is sent to press.

I need hardly say that only the most elementary form of review can be constructed upon this model, but the simplest notice contains all the factors which enter into the most complicated and most serious of literary criticism and pronouncements.

In this, as in every other practical trade, an ounce of example is worth a ton of precept, and I have much pleasure in laying before the student one of the best examples that has ever appeared in the weekly press of how a careful, subtle, just, and yet tender review, may be written. The complexity of the situation which called it forth, and the lightness of touch required for its successful completion, may be gauged by the fact that Mr. Mayhem was the nephew of my employer, had quarrelled with him at the moment when the notice was written, but will almost certainly be on good terms with him again; he was also, as I privately knew, engaged to the daughter of a publisher who had shares in the works where the review was printed.

A YOUNG POET IN DANGER.

MR. MAYHEM’S “PEREANT QUI NOSTRA.”

We fear that in “Pereant qui Nostra,” Mr. Mayhem has hardly added
to his reputation, and we might even doubt whether he was well
advised to publish it at all. “Tufts in an Orchard” gave such
promise, that the author of the exquisite lyrics it contained
might easily have rested on the immediate fame that first effort
procured him:

“Lord, look to England; England looks to you,”

and--

“Great unaffected vampires and the moon,”

are lines the Anglo-Saxon race will not readily let die.

In “Pereant qui Nostra,” Mr. Mayhem preserves and even increases
his old facility of expression, but there is a terrible
falling-off in verbal aptitude.

What are we to think of “The greatest general the world has seen”
applied as a poetic description to Lord Kitchener? Mr. Mayhem
will excuse us if we say that the whole expression is commonplace.

Commonplace thought is bad enough, though it is difficult to
avoid when one tackles a great national subject, and thinks what
all good patriots and men of sense think also. “Pour être poête,”
as M. Yves Guyot proudly said in his receptional address to the
French Academy, “Pour être poête on n’est pas forcément aliéné.”
But commonplace _language_ should always be avoidable, and it is
a fault which we cannot but admit we have found throughout Mr.
Mayhem’s new volume. Thus in “Laura” he compares a young goat
to a “tender flower,” and in “Billings” he calls some little
children “the younglings of the flock.” Again, he says of the
waves at Dover in a gale that they are “horses all in rank, with
manes of snow,” and tells us in “Eton College” that the Thames
“runs like a silver thread amid the green.”

All these similes verge upon the commonplace, even when they
do not touch it. However, there is very genuine feeling in the
description of his old school, and we have no doubt that the bulk
of Etonians will see more in the poem than outsiders can possibly
do.

It cannot be denied that Mr. Mayhem has a powerful source of
inspiration in his strong patriotism, and the sonnets addressed
to Mr. Kruger, Mr. O’Brien, Dr. Clark, and General Mercier are
full of vigorous denunciation. It is the more regrettable that
he has missed true poetic diction and lost his subtlety in a
misapprehension of planes and values.

“Vile, vile old man, and yet more vile again,”

is a line that we are sure Mr. Mayhem would reconsider in
his better moments: “more vile” than what? Than himself? The
expression is far too vague.

“Proud Prelate,” addressed to General Mercier, must be a
misprint, and it is a pity it should have slipped in. What Mr.
Mayhem probably meant was “Proud Cæsar” or “soldier,” or some
other dissyllabic title. The word _prelate_ can properly only be
applied to a bishop, a mitred abbot, or a vicar apostolic.

“Babbler of Hell, importunate mad fiend, dead canker, crested
worm,” are vigorous and original, but do not save the sonnet. And
as to the last two lines,

“Nor seek to pierce the viewless shield of years,
For that you certainly could never do,”

Mr. Mayhem must excuse us if we say that the order of the lines
make a sheer bathos.

Perhaps the faults and the excellences of Mr. Mayhem, his
fruitful limitations, and his energetic inspirations, can be best
appreciated if we quote the following sonnet; the exercise will
also afford us the opportunity (which we are sure Mr. Mayhem will
not resent in such an old friend) of pointing out the dangers
into which his new tendencies may lead him.

“England, if ever it should be thy fate
By fortune’s turn or accident of chance
To fall from craven fears of being great,
And in the tourney with dishevelled lance
To topple headlong, and incur the Hate
Of Spain, America, Germany, and France,
What will you find upon that dreadful date
To check the backward move of your advance?
A little Glory; purchased not with gold
Nor yet with Frankincense (the island blood
Is incommensurate, neither bought nor sold),
But on the poops where Drake and Nelson stood
An iron hand, a stern unflinching eye
To meet the large assaults of Destiny.”

Now, here is a composition that not everyone could have written.
It is inspired by a vigorous patriotism, it strikes the right
note (Mr. Mayhem is a Past Seneschal of the Navy League), and it
breathes throughout the motive spirit of our greatest lyrics.

It is the execution that is defective, and it is to execution
that Mr. Mayhem must direct himself if he would rise to the level
of his own great conceptions.

We will take the sonnet line by line, and make our meaning clear,
and we do this earnestly for the sake of a young poet to whom the
Anglo-Saxon race owes much, and whom it would be deplorable to
see failing, as Kipling appears to be failing, and as Ganzer has
failed.

Line 1 is not very striking, but might pass as an introduction;
line 2 is sheer pleonasm--after using the word “fate,” you
cannot use “fortune,” “accident,” “chance,” as though they were
amplifications of your first thought. Moreover, the phrase “by
_fortune’s_ turn” has a familiar sound. It is rather an echo
than a creation.

In line 3, “craven fears of being great” is taken from Tennyson.
The action is legitimate enough. Thus, in Wordsworth’s
“Excursion” are three lines taken bodily from “Paradise Lost,”
in Kipling’s “Stow it” are whole phrases taken from the _Police
Gazette_, and in Mr. Austin’s verses you may frequently find
portions of a _Standard_ leader. Nevertheless, it is a license
which a young poet should be chary of. All these others were men
of an established reputation before they permitted themselves
this liberty.

In line 4, “dishevelled” is a false epithet for “lance”; a lance
has no hair; the adjective can only properly be used of a woman,
a wild beast, or domestic animal.

In line 5, “incur the hate” is a thoroughly unpoetic phrase--we
say so unreservedly. In line 6, we have one of those daring
experiments in metre common to our younger poets; therefore we
hesitate to pronounce upon it, but (if we may presume to advise)
we should give Mr. Mayhem the suggestion made by the _Times_ to
Tennyson--that he should stick to an exact metre until he felt
sure of his style; and in line 8, “the backward move of your
advance” seems a little strained.

It is, however, in the sextet that the chief slips of the sonnet
appear, and they are so characteristic of the author’s later
errors, that we cannot but note them; thus, “purchased not with
gold or _Frankincense_” is a grievous error. It is indeed a good
habit to quote Biblical phrases (a habit which has been the
making of half our poets), but not to confuse them: frankincense
was never used as coin--even by the Hittites. “Incommensurate” is
simply meaningless. How can blood be “incommensurate”? We fear
Mr. Mayhem has fallen into the error of polysyllabic effect,
a modern pitfall. “Island blood” will, however, stir many a
responsive thrill.

The close of the sonnet is a terrible falling off. When you say a
thing is purchased, “not with this but----” the reader naturally
expects an alternative, instead of which Mr. Mayhem goes right
off to another subject! Also (though the allusion to Nelson and
Drake is magnificent) the mention of an iron hand and an eye by
themselves on a poop seems to us a very violent metaphor.

The last line is bad.

We do not write in this vein to gain any reputation for
preciosity, and still less to offend. Mr. Mayhem has many
qualities. He has a rare handling of penultimates, much
potentiality, large framing; he has a very definite chiaroscuro,
and the tones are full and objective; so are the values. We would
not restrain a production in which (as a partner in a publishing
firm) the present writer is directly interested. But we wish
to recall Mr. Mayhem to his earlier and simpler style--to the
“Cassowary,” and the superb interrupted seventh of “The Altar
Ghoul.”

England cannot afford to lose that talent.

ON POLITICAL APPEALS.

POLITICAL APPEALS.

It was one of Dr. Caliban’s chief characteristics--and perhaps the main source of his power over others--that he could crystallize, or--to use the modern term--“wankle,” the thought of his generation into sharp unexpected phrases. Among others, this was constantly upon his lips:--

“_We live in stirring times._”

If I may presume to add a word to the pronouncements of my revered master, I would re-write the sentence thus:--

“_We live in stirring_--AND CHANGEFUL--_times._”

It is not only an element of adventure, it is also an element of rapid and unexpected development which marks our period, and which incidentally lends so considerable an influence to genius.

In the older and more settled order, political forces were so well known that no description or analysis of them was necessary: to this day members of our more ancient political families do not read the newspapers. Soon, perhaps, the national life will have entered a new groove, and once more literary gentlemen will but indirectly control the life of the nation.

For the moment, however, their effect is direct and immediate. A vivid prophecy, a strong attack upon this statesman or that foreign Government may determine public opinion for a space of over ten days, and matter of this sort is remunerated at the rate of from 15_s._ to 18_s._ 6_d._ per thousand words. When we contrast this with the 9_s._ paid for the translation of foreign classics, the 5_s._ of occasional verse, or even the 10_s._ of police-court reporting, it is sufficiently evident that this kind of composition is the Premier Prose of our time.

There must, indeed, be in London and Manchester, alive at the present moment, at least fifty men who can command the prices I have mentioned, and who, with reasonable industry, can earn as much as £500 a year by their decisions upon political matters. But I should be giving the student very indifferent counsel were I to recommend him for the delivery of his judgment to the beaten track of Leading Articles or to that of specially written and signed communications: the sums paid for such writing never rise beyond a modest level; the position itself is precarious. In London alone, and within a radius of 87 yards from the “Green Dragon,” no less than 53 Authors lost their livelihood upon the more respectable papers from an inability to prophecy with any kind of accuracy upon the late war, and this at a time when the majority of regular politicians were able to retain their seats in Parliament and many ministers their rank in the Cabinet.

By far the most durable, the most exalted, and the most effective kind of appeal, is that which is made in a poetic form, especially if that form be vague and symbolic in its character. Nothing is risked and everything is gained by this method, upon which have been founded so many reputations and so many considerable fortunes. The student cannot be too strongly urged to abandon the regular and daily task of set columns--signed or unsigned--for the occasional Flash of Verse if he desire to provoke great wars and to increase his income. It may not always succeed, but the proportion of failures is very small, and at the worst it is but a moment’s energy wasted.

“_We are sick_” says one of the most famous among those who have adopted this method, “_We are sick_”--he is speaking not only of himself but of others--“_We are sick for a stave of the song that our fathers sang._” Turn, therefore, to the dead--who are no longer alive, and with whom no quarrel is to be feared. Make them reappear and lend weight to your contention. Their fame is achieved, and may very possibly support your own. This kind of writing introduces all the elements that most profoundly affect the public: it is mysterious, it is vague, it is authoritative; it is also eminently literary, and I can recall no first-class political appeal of the last fifteen years which has not been cast more or less upon these lines.

The subjects you may choose from are numerous and are daily increasing, but for the amateur the best, without any question, is that of Imperialism. It is a common ground upon which all meet, and upon which every race resident in the wealthier part of London is agreed. Bring forward the great ghosts of the past, let them swell what is now an all but universal chorus. Avoid the more complicated metres, hendecasyllables, and the rest; choose those which neither scan nor rhyme; or, if their subtlety baffles you, fall back upon blank verse, and you should, with the most moderate talent, lay the foundation of a permanent success.

I will append, as is my custom, a model upon which the student may shape his first efforts, though I would not have him copy too faithfully, lest certain idiosyncrasies of manner should betray the plagiarism.

THE IMPERIALIST FEAST.

[_A Hall at the_ Grand Oriental. _At a long table are seated innumerable Shades. The walls are decorated with flags of all nations, and a band of musicians in sham uniform are playing very loudly on a daïs._]

CATULLUS rises and makes a short speech, pointing out the advantages of Strong Men, and making several delicate allusions to Cæsar, who is too much of a gentleman to applaud. He then gives them the toast of “Imperialism,” to which there is a hearty response. Lucan replies in a few well-chosen words, and they fall to conversation.

PETRONIUS--I would be crowned with paper flowers to-night
And scented with the rare opopanax,
Whose savour leads the Orient in, suggesting
The seas beyond Modore.

TALLEYRAND-- Shove up, Petronius,
And let me sit as near as possible
To Mr. Bingoe’s Grand Imperial Band
With Thirty-seven Brazen Instruments
And Kettle-Drums complete: I hear the players
Discourse the music called “What Ho! She Bumps!”

LORD CHESTERFIELD--What Ho! She Bumps! Likewise! C’est ça! There’s
’Air!

LORD GLENALTAMONT OF EPHESUS (_severely_)--Lord Chesterfield! Be
worthy of your name.

LORD CHESTERFIELD (_angrily_)--Lord Squab, be worthy of your
son-in-law’s.

HENRY V.--My Lords! my Lords! What do you with your swords?
I mean, what mean you by this strange demeanour
Which (had you swords and knew you how to use them)
Might ... I forget what I was going to say....
Oh! Yes----Is this the time for peers to quarrel,
When all the air is thick with Agincourt
And every other night is Crispin’s day?
The very supers bellow up and down,
Armed of rude cardboard and wide blades of tin
For England and St. George!

RICHARD YEA AND NAY-- You talk too much.
Think more. Revise. Avoid the commonplace;
And when you lack a startling word, invent it.

[_Their quarrel is stopped by_ THOMAS JEFFERSON _rising to propose the toast of “The Anglo-Saxon Race.”_]

JEFFERSON--If I were asked what was the noblest message
Delivered to the twentieth century,
I should reply--

(_Etc., etc. While he maunders on_
ANTONY, CLEOPATRA, _and_ CÆSAR _begin talking
rather loud_)

CLEOPATRA--Waiter! I want a little crème de menthe.

(_The waiter pays no attention._)

ANTONY--Waiter! A glass of curaçao and brandy.

(_Waiter still looks at Jefferson._)

CÆSAR--That is the worst of these contracted dinners.
They give you quite a feed for 3_s._ 6_d._
And have a splendid Band. I like the Band,
It stuns the soul.... But when you call the waiter
He only sneers and looks the other way.

CLEOPATRA (_makes a moue_).

CÆSAR (_archly_)--Was _that_ the face that launched a thousand ships
And sacked....

ANTONY (_angrily_)--Oh! Egypt! Egypt! Egypt!

THOMAS JEFFERSON (_ending, interrupts the quarrel_).
... blessings
Of order, cleanliness, and business methods.
The base of Empire is a living wage.
One King ... (_applause_) ... (_applause_)
... (_applause_) shall always wave ... (_applause_)
... (_loud applause_) ... (_applause_)
THE REIGN OF LAW!
(_Thunders of applause_)

NAPOLEON (_rising to reply_)--I am myself a strong Imperialist.
A _brochure_, very recently compiled
(Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read),
Neglects the point, I think; the Anglo-Saxon ... (&c. &c.)

GEORGE III. (_to Burke_)--Who’s that? Eh, what?
Who’s that? Who ever’s that?

BURKE--Dread sire! It is the Corsican Vampire.

GEORGE III.--Napoleon? What? I thought that he was leaner.
I thought that he was leaner. What? What? What?

NAPOLEON (_sitting down_) ... such dispositions!
Order! _Tête d’Armée!_
(_Slight applause_)

HEROD (_rises suddenly without being asked, crosses his
arms, glares, and shouts very loudly_).
Ha! Would you have Imperial hearing? Hounds!
I am that Herod which is he that am
The lonely Lebanonian (_interruption_) who despaired
In Deep Marsupial Dens ... (_cries of “Sit down!”_)
... In dreadful hollows
To--(“_Sit down!_”)--tear great trees with the
teeth, and hurricanes--(“_Sit down!_”)--
That shook the hills of Moab!

CHORUS OF DEAD MEN--Oh! Sit down.

(_He is swamped by the clamour, in the midst of which
Lucullus murmurs to himself_)

LUCULLUS (_musing_)--The banquet’s done. There was a tribute drawn
Of anchovies and olives and of soup
In tins of conquered nations; subject whiting:
Saddle of mutton from the antipodes
Close on the walls of ice; Laponian pheasants;
Eggs of Canadian rebels, humbled now
To such obeisance--scrambled eggs--and butter
From Brittany enslaved, and the white bread
Hardened for heroes in the test of time,
Was California’s offering. But the cheese,
The cheese was ours.... Oh! but the glory faded
Of feasting at repletion mocks our arms
And threatens even Empire.

(_Great noise of Vulgarians, a mob of people, heralds,
trumpets, flags. Enter_ VITELLIUS.)

VITELLIUS-- I have dined!
But not with you. The master of the world
Has dined alone and at his own expense.
And oh!--I am almost too full for words--
But oh! My lieges, I have used you well!
I have commanded fifteen hundred seats
And standing room for something like a thousand
To view my triumph over Nobody
Upon the limelit stage.

HEROD-- Oh! rare Vitellius,
Oh! Prominent great Imperial ears! Oh! Mouth
To bellow largesse! Oh! And rolling Thunder,
And trains of smoke. And oh!...

VITELLIUS-- Let in the vulgar
To see the master sight of their dull lives:
Great Cæsar putting on his overcoat.
And then, my loved companions, we’ll away
To see the real Herod in the Play.

(_The Shades pass out in a crowd. In the street_ THEOCRITUS
_is heard singing in a voice that gets fainter and fainter
with distance...._)

“Put me somewhere ea-heast of Su-hez,
W’ere the best is loi-hoike the worst--
W’ere there hain’ no”--(_and so forth_).

FINIS.

It is not enough to compose such appeals as may quicken the nation to a perception of her peculiar mission; it is necessary to paint for her guidance the abominations and weakness of foreign countries. The young writer may be trusted to know his duty instinctively in this matter, but should his moral perception be blunted, a sharper argument will soon remind him of what he owes to the Common Conscience of Christians. He that cannot write, and write with zeal, upon the Balkans, or upon Finland, or upon the Clerical trouble, or upon whatever lies before us to do for righteousness, is not worthy of a place in English letters: the public and his editor will very soon convince him of what he has lost by an unmanly reticence.