WHICH HE PRAYETH DAILY
O thou Especial Little God of Parliaments and Electors, with whom the greater God of the Universe has nothing whatever to do!—I beseech Thee to look upon me, Thy chosen servant, with a tolerant and favourable Eye!
Consider with Leniency the singular and capricious Chance which has enabled me to become a Member of the Government, and grant me Thy protection, so that my utter Incapacity for the Post may never be discovered! Enable me, I implore Thee, to altogether dispense with the assistance of a certain Journalist and Press-Reporter in the composition of my Speeches! His Terms are high, and I am not sure of his Discretion!
Impart unto me by spiritual telegraphy such Knowledge of the general Situation of Affairs that I may be able to furnish forth an occasional Intelligent Remark to the farmers of this Constituency, whose Loyalty to the Government is as firm as their Trust in the Power of Beer! Give me the grace of such shallow Profundity and Pretension as shall convince Rustic minds of my complete Superiority to them in matters concerning their Interest and Welfare; and teach me to use their Simplicity for the convenient furtherance of my own Cunning! Fill me with such necessary and becoming Arrogance as shall make me overbearingly insolent to Persons of Intellect, while yet retaining that sleek Affability which shall cause me to appear a Fawning Flunkey to Persons of Rank! Enable me to so condescendingly patronize the Electors who gave me their Majority that it shall seem I was returned through Merit only, and not through Bribes and Beer! And mercifully defend me, O Beneficent little Deity, from all possibility of ever being called upon to address the House! I am no speaker,—and even if I were, I have no Ideas whereon to hang a fustian sentence! Thou Knowest, All-Knowing-One, that I have not so much as an Opinion, save that it is good for me, in respect of Social Advantage, to write M.P. after my name! And surely Thou dost also know that I have paid Two Thousand Pounds for the purchase of this small portion of the Alphabet, making One Thousand Pounds per letter, which may humbly be submitted to Thee, O Calculating Ruler of Parliamentary Elections, as somewhat dear!
But I have accepted these Conditions and paid the Sum without murmuring; therefore of Thy goodness, be pleased to spare me from the utterance of even one word in the presence of my peers, concerning any Matter for the Advancement of Which I have been elected! For lo,—if I said as much as “Yea,” it might be ill-advised; and yet again, if I said “Nay,” it might be ill-timed! Inasmuch as I am compelled to rely on the Journalist and Press-Reporter before mentioned, for whatsoever knowledge of matters political I possess, and it is just possible that he might,—through an extra dose of whisky-soda,—mislead me by erroneous information! O Lord of Press-Agencies and Grub Street Eating-Houses, if it be possible unto Thee, relieve me of this Man! He charges more, so I am credibly informed, per Hundred Words than any other Inventor of Original Eloquence in the pay of the Unlettered and Inarticulate of the House! And it is much to be feared that he does not always keep his own Counsel! Wherefore, gracious Deity, I would be Released with all convenient Speed from the Exercise of his Power! Rather than be constantly compelled to rely upon this Journalistic Wretch for Advice and Instruction, it will more conduce to my Comfort,—though possibly to my Fatigue,—to commit to Memory such portions of long-forgotten speeches spoken by Defunct Members of the House in the Past, as may be found suitable to the present needs of the Rural Population. The Corn-growing and Cattle-breeding Electors will not know from what Sources I derive my Inspiration, and the Editor of the Local Newspaper has not yet taken a degree in Scholarship. Moreover, the Dead are happily unable to send in any Claim for Damages against the Theft of their Ideas, which are as free to Independent Pilferers as the Original Plots of New and Successful Romances are free to the Dramatizing Robbers in the Stage-Purlieus, thanks to the Admirable Attitude of Dignified Indolence assumed by that Government to which I, one Fool out of Many, have the honour to belong!
Finally, O Beneficent Lilliputian Deity which governeth matters Parliamentary,—grant me such a sufficient amount of highly-respectable Mendacity as shall enable me to pass successfully for what I am not, at least, so far as Society in the Country is concerned! Fully aware am I, O Lord, that a Simulation of Ability will not always meet with approval in Town, though it has been occasionally known to do so! Therefore I am well content to sit in the House as one MUM, thus representing through myself an inaudible County! But in the County itself it shall seem to the Uninitiated that my thoughts are too deep for speech; while I retain in my own mind the knowledge of the Fact that my Humbug is too great for Expression!
To Thee, gentle yet capricious Deity, I commend all my Desires, praying Thee to keep the people whom I represent as Dumb and Inert as myself in matters concerning their own Welfare, for if they should chance to consider the Situation by the light of Common Sense, and me by the shrewd Appreciation of a Native Wit, it might occur to them to prefer a Man rather than a Wooden-headed Nonentity to Proclaim their Existence to the King’s faithful Commons! Wherefore, at the next General Election I should lose my Seat,—which would be Disagreeable to me personally, as well as a Cause of Rage in my Wife, to whom my present Condition of a Parliamentary Microbe is much more important and advantageous than it is to the Country! And Thou knowest, O Lord, that when my Wife is moved by the Impetuous Persuasion of a difficult Temper, it is necessary for me, by reason of her Superior Height, Size, and Aggressiveness, to retire from the domestic Fighting-ground, considerably worsted in the unequal Combat. Protect me, merciful Deity, from her Tongue!—which is as a Sword to slay all thoughts of Peace! And, concerning the accursed, ubiquitous Journalist-Reporter-Paragraphist-Correspondent-Attached-to-all-Newspapers Man, who, for my sins, wrote my “speech to the Electors” at a high charge, and agreed,—and therefore expects,—to write all my other public utterances on the same terms, I beseech Thee, when he next waits upon me with his Bill, ready to Counsel or to Command, grant me the Strength and Courage to tell a more barefaced Lie than is habitual to me, and to boldly say that I can do Without him!
Amen!
WHICH SHE OFFERETH WEEK-END-LY
To Thee, O Bland and Blessëd Deity of Surplus Cash and Social Advancement, whose favours are never bestowed upon the Poor or the Wise, but only on the Rich and the Foolish, I give praise, honour and glory!
I thank Thee that Thou hast made of that Supreme Ass, my Husband, a Member of the Government, so that, despite his utter Lack of Wit and Hopeless Incompetency, he may at least pass muster for having Brains in a particularly Brainless Constituency!
I acknowledge Thy mercy and goodness in permitting that for the moderate cost of Two Thousand Pounds and upwards,—a sum not greatly in excess of my dressmaker’s annual bill,—I may set my foot on the two dumb and prostrate Letters of the Alphabet now attached to my said Husband’s new calling and Election, and may mount thereon to those heights of County Society where, ever since I was born I have eagerly thirsted to be! For though County Society be often duller than the fabled Styx, nevertheless the leaden weight of its Approval is as necessary to my special comfort and welfare as the Gilded chain of Office is to the swelling chest of a Provincial Mayor. Thou knowest, O little Lord of Communities Narrow, Parochial and Politic, that I am called, even by the Profanest of Press-Reporters, “a fine figure of a woman,” and that I am deserving of Public Notice and Commendation, not only for my Physical Attractions, but for my Social Qualifications, which, despite the fact that Fate has wedded me to a Fool, have enabled me to successfully represent the said Fool to his bovine Electors as an Intelligent Personality! Great is the Tact which is needed to palm off a Sparrow for an Eagle, a Mouse for an Elephant, or a Donkey for a Statesman! But I swear to Thee, O Thou gracious Little Neptune who ruleth that Limited Ocean called the “Society Swim” that I am equal to all this and more! Thou seest me as I am, a Fashionable Feminine Insincerity! Thou beholdest the subtle cleverness of my Social Smile, which radiates sweetly upon the faces of such persons as I conceive may be useful in Election times, but which fades into a Supercilious Sneer when I discover, as I often do, that many of these persons are unblushingly “of no political party,” and have no interest whatever in keeping my Husband in His Seat! Now if my Husband were not in His Seat, I should become that most deplorable of human beings, a Provincial Nonentity! Hence arises my natural and lawful Desire that in His Seat my Husband shall remain, inasmuch as were he left without a Seat, I should be left without a “Set”!
But thanks be unto Thee, O Thou amiable and complaisant God of the British Social Status, there seems to be at present no cause for alarm that the Rustics whom my Husband, with unintelligent dumbness represents in the House of Commons will ever Rise! Chiefly inspired as they are by Drugged Beer, it is safe to presume that they will not easily awaken from their Public-House Torpor, or in a species of vulgar “horse-play” pull my Husband’s seat from under him,—even as a lubberly child pulls away a chair from the Unsuspecting Visitor who would fain sit down upon it,—and so precipitate my Husband into the unenviable rank of Unimportant Provincials! I myself am ready to guarantee,—always with Thy support, O Favourer of Paid Parliamentary Press-Puffery,—that so dire a Catastrophe as this shall not happen! For My weight,—which is both materially and mentally Considerable,—would have to be thrown into the Balance,—whereby the tottering Seat, even if partially overthrown, would, and needs Must,—under the force of my impetuous Clutch,—regain the Perpendicular!
Being by unredeemed nature a Stupid Woman, I acknowledge freely and with gratitude Thy Omnipotent Guidance in Matters purely Snobbish! I praise and bless Thee for showing me the quickest way out of Things Intellectual into Things Conventional! I thank Thee for Thy unfailing assistance afforded to me in the beaten paths of County Flunkeydom, wherein I walk with virtuous circumspection, taking care to leave my impressive Visiting-Cards and likewise those of my Husband, on Houses only, and never on People! For People may be dangerous acquaintances, while Houses never are. A Family Residence is always more respectable than a Family!
I give Thee glory that I am made of such stubborn Flesh and Quality as never to recognize that any other Woman exists who, by the Inconvenient Attributes of Either Beauty, Wit or Intelligence, deserves to be considered my Superior, and that when any such Intrusive and Obtrusive Female is accidentally forced upon my Notice, I have the good sense to diplomatically ignore Her. I am gratefully conscious that the Meaningless Insipidity of my Manner has favourably impressed the Uneducated Majority of my Husband’s Constituents. And also, that having once obtained their Unreasoning Votes, their Bucolic Lethargy is such, that I need do little further to retain their Credulous Admiration save to put in an Occasional Well-Dressed Appearance at a “local” Bazaar, or Charity Ball. Concerning any aims or hopes they may, in their blundering Dulness, have ever entertained towards the Betterment of their Condition, and the Representation of these Addle-pated desires to His Majesty’s Government, I am as Profoundly Indifferent as my Husband is Voluntarily Ignorant. For, as the larger number of the Faithful Commons are aware, no Act is more fatal to the Social Prestige and County Influence of a Member of the House, than that he should, when in office, fulfil the Rash Promises made to his Electors during a Critical state of the Poll! Inasmuch as the only Reasonable object to be attained by the Purchase of the Letters M. and P. is the Betterment of One’s Self and One’s Social Position on the lines of such Conventional Hypocrisies as are agreeable to the Best County Houses. For the taking of any bold or conspicuous part in any National Matter of Interest or Importance has long been sagaciously avoided by every County Member who desires to retain His Seat. And that one Man should do what his Colleagues dare not attempt, would be a Heroism which, thanks unto Thee, O Prudent Presiding Deity of Grandmotherly Westminster, is fortunately not to be expected of my Husband!
Finally I thank Thee, O Wise and All-Discerning, for the Gracious Consolation which Thou hast imparted unto me in the fact that though my Husband is the Embodiment of county Vacuity, the Majority of the King’s Faithful Commons are as Vacuous as He! For, as in the multitude of Ants in an Anthill, One insect more industrious or intelligent than the rest is not easily discovered, even so, in the goodly array of Stupid Members, the Stupidest of them all may conveniently sit in his Seat without public Comment.
And for the Constant Enjoyment of my own Admitted Position among the Tea-Drinking, Fox-Hunting and Bucolic élite of the Neighbourhood,—for the graceful Ease with which I assume to be what I am not, by reason of the Two Letters attached to my Husband’s Name, which gives much more importance to Me than to Him,—and for the general comfortable Self-Assertiveness in which I live and move and have my being, I bless Thee, O Potent little Deity of the Polling-Booth, and acknowledge Thy Manifold Mercies! May the Seat of my Husband continue firm in Thy Sight, unmoved by any Popular Caprice of the Vulgar, until such time as my eldest Hopeful Son, the very pattern of His Father, shall slip into it Unopposed after Him, and so preserve in those Unsophisticated Rural Districts whereby we are surrounded, the Unblemished Honour of a Unique Reputation for Highly Educated Political Incompetence in this Advanced and Enlightened Age!
Amen!
The unseen rulers of human destiny are, on the whole, very kindly Fates. They appear beneficently prone to give us mortals much more than we deserve. Gifts of various grace and value are showered upon us incessantly through our life’s progress,—gifts for which we are too often ungrateful, or which we fail to appreciate at their true worth. Apart from the pleasures of the material senses which we share in common with our friends and fellows of the brute creation, the more delicate and exquisite emotions of the mind are ministered to with unfailing and fostering care. Music—Poetry, Art in all its brilliant and changeful phases,—these things are offered for the delectation of our thoughts and the refinement of our tastes; but the most priceless boon of the Immortals is the talisman which alone enables us to understand the beauty of life at its highest, and the perfection of ideals at their best. I mean Imagination,—that wonderful spiritual faculty which is the source of all great creative work in Art and Literature. Some call it “Inspiration”; others, the Divine Fire; but whatever its nature or quality, there is good cause to think—and to fear—that it is gradually dwindling down and disappearing altogether from the world of to-day.
The reasons for this are not very far to seek. We are living in an age of feverish unrest and agitation. If we could picture a twentieth century Satan appearing before the Almighty under the circumstances described in the Book of Job, to answer the question, “Whence comest thou?”—the same reply would suit not only his, but our condition—“From going to and fro in the earth, and wandering up and down within it.” We are always going to and fro in these days. We are forever wandering up and down. Few of us are satisfied to remain long in the same place, among the same surroundings—and in this way the foundations of home life,—formerly so noble and firm a part of our national strength—are being shaken and disorganized. A very great majority of us appear to be afflicted with the chronic disease of Hurry, which generally breeds a twin ailment—Worry. We have no time for anything somehow. We seem to be always under the thrall of an invisible policeman, commanding us to “Move on!” And we do move on, like the tramps we are becoming. Moreover, we have decided that we cannot get over the ground quickly enough on the limbs with which Nature originally provided us—so we spin along on cycles, and dash about on motor cars. And it is confidently expected that by-and-by the mere earth will not be good enough for us, and that we shall “scorch” through the air—when a great change may be looked for in house accommodation. People will return, it is said, to the early cave dwellings, in order to avoid the massacre likely to be caused by tumbling air-ships over which the captains have lost control.
There is something humourous in all this modern hurry-skurry; something almost grotesque in this desire for swift movement—this wish to save time and to stint work;—but there is something infinitely pathetic about it as well. It is as if the present Period of the world’s civilization felt itself growing old—as if, like an individual human unit, it knew itself to be past its prime and drawing nigh to death, as if,—with the feeble restlessness of advancing age, it were seeking to cram as much change and amusement as possible into the little time of existence left to it. Two of the most notable signs of such mental and moral decay are, a morbid craving for incessant excitement, and a disinclination to think. It is quite a common thing nowadays to hear people say, “Oh, I have no time to think!”—and they seem to be more proud than ashamed of their loss of mental equilibrium. But it is very certain that where there is no time to think, there is less time to imagine—and where there is neither thought nor imagination, creative work of a high and lasting quality is not possible.
We, in our day, are fortunate in so far that we are the inheritors of the splendid work accomplished in the youth and prime of all that we know of civilization. No doubt there were immense periods beyond our ken, in which the entire round of birth, youth, maturity, age and death, was fulfilled by countless civilizations whose histories are unrecorded—but we can only form the faintest guess at this, through the study of old dynasties which, ancient as they are, may perhaps be almost modern compared to the unknown empires which have utterly passed away beyond human recovery. But if we care to examine the matter, we shall find among all nations, that as soon as a form of civilization has emerged from barbarism, like a youth emerging from childhood, it has entered on its career with a glad heart and a poetic soul,—full of ideals, and richly endowed with that gift of the gods—Imagination. It has invariably expressed itself as being reverently conscious of the Highest source of all creation; and its utterance through all its best work and achievement can be aptly summed up in Wordsworth’s glorious lines:—
While these “trailing clouds of glory” still cling to the soul, the limits of this world,—the mere dust and grime of material things,—do not and cannot satisfy it; it must penetrate into a realm which is of its own idea and innate perception. There it must itself create a universe, and find expression for its higher thought. To this resentful attitude of the soul against mere materialism, we owe all art, all poetry, all music. Every great artistic work performed outside the needs of material and physical life may be looked upon as a spiritual attempt to break open the close walls of our earthly prison-house and let a glimpse of God’s light through.
As a matter of fact, everything we possess or know of to-day, is the visible outcome of a once imagined possibility. It has been very grandly said that “the Universe itself was once a dream in the mind of God.” So may we say that every scientific law, every canon of beauty—every great discovery—every splendid accomplishment was once a dream in the mind of man. All the religions of the world, with their deep, beautiful, grand or terrific symbols of life, death and immortality, have had their origin in the instinctive effort of the Soul to detach itself from the mere earthly, and to imagine something better. In the early days, this strong aspiration of humanity towards a greater and more lasting good than its own immediate interest, was displayed in the loftiest and purest conceptions of art. The thoughts of the “old-world” period are written in well-nigh indelible characters. The colossal architecture of the temples of ancient Egypt—and that marvellous imaginative creation, the Sphinx, with its immutable face of mingled scorn and pity—the beautiful classic forms of old Greece and Rome—these are all visible evidences of spiritual aspiration and endeavour,—moreover, they are the expression of a broad, reposeful strength,—a dignified consciousness of power. The glorious poetry of the Hebrew Scriptures—the swing and rush of Homer’s Iliad,—the stately simplicity and profundity of Plato,—these also belong to what we know of the youth of the world. And they are still a part of the world’s most precious possessions. We, in our day, can do nothing so great. We have neither the imagination to conceive such work, nor the calm force necessary to execute it. The artists of a former time laboured with sustained and tireless, yet tranquil energy; we can only produce imitations of the greater models with a vast amount of spasmodic hurry and clamour. So, perchance, we shall leave to future generations little more than an echo of “much ado about nothing.” For, truly, we live at present under a veritable scourge of mere noise. No king, no statesman, no general, no thinker, no writer, is allowed to follow the course of his duty or work without the shrieking comments of all sorts and conditions of uninstructed and misguided persons, and under such circumstances it is well to remember the strong lines of our last great poet Laureate:—
But our chief disablement for high creative work,—and one that is particularly noticeable at this immediate period of our history, is, as I have said, the “vanishing of the gift”—the lack of Imagination. To be wanting in this, is to be wanting in the first element of artistic greatness. The poet, the painter, the sculptor, or the musician must be able to make a world of his own and live in it, before he can make one for others. When he has evolved such a world out of his individual consciousness, and has peopled it with the creations of his fancy, he can turn its “airy substance” into reality for all time. For the things we call “imaginative” are often far more real than what we call “realism.” All that we touch, taste and see, we call “real.” Now we cannot touch, taste or see Honour—but surely it is real! We cannot weigh out Courage in a solidified parcel—yet it is an actual thing. So with Imagination—it shows us what we may, if we choose, consider “the baseless fabric of a vision”—but which often proves as real and practical in its results as Honour and Courage. Shakespeare’s world is real;—so real that there are not wanting certain literary imposters who grudge him its reality and strive to dispossess him of his own. Walter Scott’s world is real—so real, that a shrine has been built for him in Edinburgh, crowded with sculptured figures of men and women, most of whom never existed, save in his teeming fancy. What a tribute to the power of Imagination is the beautiful monument in the centre of Princes Street, with all the forms evoked from one great mind, lifted high above us, who consider ourselves “real” people! And now the lesser world of thought is waiting for the discovery of a Cryptogram in the Waverley Novels, which shall prove that King George the Fourth wrote them with the assistance of Scott’s game-keeper, Tom Purdie,—and that his Majesty gave Scott a baronetcy on condition that he should never divulge the true authorship! For, according to the narrow material limits of some latter-day minds, no one man could possibly have written Shakespeare’s Plays. Therefore it may be equally argued that, as there is as much actual work, and quite as many characters in the Waverley Novels as in the plays of Shakespeare, they could not all have emanated from the one brain of Sir Walter Scott. Come forward then with a “Waverley cryptogram,” little mean starvelings of literature who would fain attempt to prove a man’s work is not his own! There are sure to be some envious fools always ready to believe that the great are not so great,—the heroic not so heroic, and that after all, they, the fools, may be wiser than the wisest men!
In very truth, one of the worst signs of the vanishing of the gift of Imagination in these days is the utter inability of the majority of modern folk to understand its value. The creative ease and exquisite happiness of an imaginative soul which builds up grand ideals of life and love and immortality with less effort than is required for the act of breathing, seems to be quite beyond their comprehension. And so—unfortunately it often follows that what is above them they try to pull down,—and what is too large for them to grasp, they endeavour to bind within their own narrow ring of experience. The attempt is of course useless. We cannot get the planet Venus to serve us as a lamp on our dinner table. We cannot fit the eagle into a sparrow’s nest. But some people are always trying to do this sort of thing. And when they find they cannot succeed, they fall into a fit of the spleen, and revile what they cannot emulate. There is no surer sign of mental and moral decadence than this grudging envy of a great fame. For the healthy mind rejoices in the recognition of genius wherever or whenever it may be discovered, and has a keen sense of personal delight in giving to merit all its due. Hero-worship is a much finer and more invigorating emotion than hero-slander. The insatiate desire which is shown by certain writers nowadays, to pull down the great reputations of the past, destroy old traditions, and cheapen noble attainment, resembles a sudden outbreak of insane persons who strive to smash everything within their reach. It is in its way a form of Imagination,—but Imagination diseased and demoralized. For Imagination, like all other faculties of the brain, can become sickly and perverted. When it is about to die it shows—in common with everything else in that condition,—signs of its dissolution. Such signs of feebleness and decay are everywhere visible in the world at the present time. They are shown in the constant output of decadent and atheistical literature—in the decline of music and the drama from noble and classic forms to the repulsive “problem” play and the comic opera—in the splashy daubing of good canvas called “impressionist” painting—in the acceptance, or passive toleration, of the vilest doggerel verse as “poetry”—and in the wretched return to the lowest forms of ignorance displayed in the “fashionable” craze for palmistry, clairvoyance, crystal-gazing, and sundry other quite contemptible evidences of foolish credulity concerning the grave issues of life and death,—combined with a most sorrowful, most deplorable indifference to the simple and pure teachings of the Christian Faith. Even in the Christian Faith itself, its chosen ministers seem unable to serve their Divine Master without quarrelling over trifles,—which is surely no part of their calling and election.
Everywhere there is a lack of high ideals,—and all the arts suffer severely in consequence. Modern education itself checks and cramps the growth of imaginative originality. The general tendency is unhappily towards the basest forms of materialism, and a large majority of people appear to be smitten with a paralysing apathy concerning everything but the making of money. That art is pursued with a horrible avidity, to the exclusion of every higher and nobler pursuit. Yet it needs very little “imagination” to prophesy what the end of a nation is bound to be when the unbridled fever of avarice once sets in. History has chronicled the ruin of empires from this one cause over and over again for our warning; and as Carlyle said in his stern and strenuous way—“One thing I do know: Never on this earth was the relation of man to man long carried on by cash payment alone. If at any time a philosophy of Laissez-faire, Competition and Supply-and-Demand start up as the exponent of human relations, expect that it will soon end.”
Perhaps some will say that Imagination is not a “vanishing gift”—and that Idealism and Romance still exist, at any rate among the Celtic races, and in countries such as Scotland, for instance, the home of so much noble tradition, song and story. I wish I could believe this. But unhappily the proofs are all against it. If the Imaginative Spirit were not decaying in Scotland as elsewhere, should we have seen the wanton and wicked destruction of one of its fairest scenes of natural beauty—the Glen and Fall of Foyers? There, where once the clear beautiful cascade whose praises were sung by Robert Burns, dashed down in its thundering glory among the heather and bracken, there are now felled trees, sorrowful blackened stumps, withering ferns and trampled flowers, dirty car-tracks, and all the indescribable muck which follows in the wake of the merely money-grubbing human microbe. And where once the pulse was quickened to a sane and healthy delight in the grandeur of unspoilt Nature, and the mind was uplifted from sordid cares to high contemplation, we are now asked to buy an aluminium paper-knife for a shilling! Human absurdity can no further go than this. There can be little imagination left in the minds that could have tolerated the building of aluminium works where Foyers once poured music through the glen. And it is instructive to recall the action taken by the Belgian people—who are generally supposed to be very prosaic,—when some of their beautiful scenery on the river Amblève, was threatened with similar destruction. Mustering together, three to four thousand strong, they took a reduced model of the intended factory, burnt it on the spot, and threw its ashes into the river; performing such a terror-striking “carmagnole” of revolt, that the authorities were compelled to prohibit the erection of the proposed works, for fear of a general rising throughout the country. Would that such a protest had been offered by the people of Scotland against the destruction of Foyers!
And what of the pitiful ruin of Loch Katrine?—once an unspoilt gem of Highland scenery, doubly beloved for the sake of Sir Walter Scott’s “Lady of the Lake”? What of the submerging of “Ellen’s Isle”?—the ruthless uprooting of that “entangled wood”—
I have been assured on the very best authority that all the beauty of Loch Katrine could have been left undisturbed, had the Scottish people taken any actively determined measures towards preserving it. The increasing water-supply necessary for Glasgow could have been procured from Loch Vennachar, which is a larger loch, and quite as good for the purpose. Only it would have cost more money, and that extra cash was not forthcoming, even for Sir Walter’s sake! It is a poor return to make to the memory of him who did so much for the fame of Scotland, to mutilate the scene he loved and immortalized! The struggles and disasters of the Jacobite Cause, and the defeat at Culloden brought more gain than loss to Scotland, by filling the land with glorious song and heroic tradition,—the result of the noble idealistic spirit which made even failure honourable,—but the defacement of Loch Katrine, the scene of “The Lady of the Lake” is nothing but a disgrace to those who authorized it, and to those who kept silence while the deed was done.
But there are yet other signs and tokens of the disappearance of that idealistic and romantic spirit in Scotland, which has more than anything, helped to make its history such a brilliant chronicle of heroism and honour. There are “a certain class” of Scottish people who are ashamed of the Scotch accent, and who affect to be unable to read anything written in the Scotch dialect. I am told—though I would hope it is not true—that the larger majority of Scottish ladies object to Scotch music, and do not know any Scotch songs. If this is true of any “certain class” of Scottish people, I am sorry for them. They have fallen down a long way from the height where birth and country placed them! I should like to talk to any Scot, man or woman, who is ashamed of the Scotch accent. As well be ashamed of the mountain heather! I should like to interview any renegade son or daughter of the Celtic race, who is not proud of every drop of Celtic blood, every word and line of Celtic tradition,—every sweet song that expresses the Celtic character. Nothing that is purely national should be set aside or allowed to perish. It is a thousand pities that the old Gaelic speech is dying out in the Highlands, along with the picturesque “plaid” and “bonnet” of the Highland shepherds. The Gaelic language is a rich and copious one, and should be kept up in every Scottish school and University. Some of the Gaelic music, too, is the most beautiful in the world,—and many a so-called “original” composer has taken the theme for an overture or a symphony from an ancient, long-forgotten Gaelic tune. A fine spirit of romance and idealism is the natural heritage of the Celtic race;—far too precious a birthright to be exchanged for the languid indifferentism of latter-day London fashion, which too often makes a jest of noble enthusiasm, and which would, no doubt, call Sir Walter Scott’s fine novel of The Heart of Midlothian, “kailyard literature”—if it dared!
And who that understands anything about music is so foolish and ignorant as to despise a Scottish song? Where can we match, in all song literature, the songs of Robert Burns? What German “lied”—what French or Italian “canzonet” or “chansonette” expresses such real human tenderness as “Of a’ the airts” or “My Nannie O!”? And it should be remembered that the imaginative pathos of the Scottish song has its other side of imaginative humour—sly, dry humour, such as cannot be rivalled in any language or dialect of the world. And in spite of the incredible assertion that they are beginning to despise their native Doric, there are surely few real Scotsmen who, even at this time of day fail to understand the whimsical satire of the famous old Jacobite song:
We shall not find anything of a bilious nature in a Scottish love-song. We shall not hear the swain asking his lady-love to meet him “in some sky,” or “when the hay is in the mow,” or any other vaguely indefinite place or period. The Scottish lover appears,—if we may judge him by his native song,—to be supremely healthy in his sentiments, and gratefully conscious of the excellence of both life and love. He takes even poverty with a light heart, and does not grizzle over it in trickling tears of dismal melody. No; he says simply and cheerily:
It will be a sad day indeed when this spirit of wholesome, tender and poetic imagination drifts away altogether from Scotland. We must not forget that the Scottish race has taken a very firm root in the New World Beyond Seas,—and that out in Canada and Australia and South Africa the memories and the traditions of home are dear to the hearts of thousands who call Scotland their mother. Surely they should be privileged to feel that in their beautiful ancestral land, the old proud spirit is still kept up,—the old legends, the old language, the old songs,—all the old associations, which—far away as they are forced to dwell—they can still hand down to their children and their children’s children. No king,—no statesman, can do for a country what its romancists and poets can,—for the sovereignty of the truly inspired and imaginative soul is supreme, and as far above all other earthly dominion as the fame of Homer is above the conquests of Alexander. And when the last touch of idealistic fancy and poetic sentiment has been crushed out of us, and only the dry husks of realism are left to feed swine withal, then may we look for the end of everything that is worth cherishing and fighting for in our much boasted civilization.
For with the vanishing gift, vanish many other things, which may be called in the quaint phrasing of an Elizabethan writer, “a bundle of good graces.” The chivalrous spirit of man towards woman is one of those “good graces” which is rapidly disappearing. Hospitality is another “good grace” which is on the wane. The art of conversation is almost a lost one. People talk as they ride bicycles—at a rush—without pausing to consider their surroundings. Elegant manners are also at a discount. The “scorching,” steaming, spasmodic motor man-animal does not inspire reverence. The smoking, slangy horsey, betting, woman-animal is not a graceful object. In the days of classic Greece and Rome, men and women “imagined” themselves to be descended from the gods;—and however extravagant the idea, it was likely to breed more dignity and beauty of conduct than if they had “imagined” themselves descended from apes. A nation rounds itself to an Ideal, as the clay forms into shape on a potter’s wheel. It is well, therefore, to see that the Ideal be pure and lofty, and not a mere Golden Image like that set up by King Nebuchadnezzar, who ended his days by eating grass,—possibly thistles. Some of our public men might perhaps be better for a little more Imagination, and a little less red tape. It might take them healthfully out of themselves. For most of them seem burdened with an absurd self-consciousness, which is apt to limit the extent of their view out on public affairs. Others again are afflicted by the hedge-hog quality of “stand-offishness” which they unfortunately mistake for dignity. And others affect to despise public opinion, and have a curious habit of overlooking the fact that it is the much-abused public which sets them in office and pays to keep them there. Their Ideal of public life and service partakes too much of Self to be nobly National.
What, after all, is Imagination? It is a great many things. It is a sense of beauty and harmony. It is an instinct of poetry and of prophecy. A Persian poet describes it as an immortal sense of memory which is always striving to recall the beautiful things the Soul has lost. Another fancy, also from the East, is that it is “an instinctive premonition of beautiful things to come.” Another, which is perhaps the most accurate description of all, is that it is “the Sun-dial of the Soul on which God flashes the true time of day.” This is true, if we bear in mind that Imagination is always ahead of Science, pointing out in advance the great discovery to come. Shakespeare foretold the whole science of geology in three words—“Sermons in stones,”—and the vast business of the electric telegraph in one line—“I’ll put a girdle round the earth in forty minutes.” One of the Hebrew prophets “imagined” the phonograph when he wrote “Declare unto me the image of a voice.” As we all know, the marks on the wax cylinder in a phonograph are “the image of a voice.” The air-ship may prove a very marvellous invention, but the imagination which saw Aladdin’s palace flying from one country to another was long before it. All the genii in the Arabian Nights stories were only the symbols of the elements which man might control if he but rubbed the lamp of his intelligence smartly enough. Every fairy tale has a meaning; every legend a lesson. The submarine boat in perfection has been “imagined” by Jules Verne. Wireless telegraphy appears to have been known in the very remote days of Egypt, for in a rare old book called The History of the Pyramids, translated from the Arabic, and published in France in 1672, we find an account of a certain high priest of Memphis named Saurid,—who, so says the ancient Arabian chronicler, “prepared for himself a casket wherein he put magic fire, and shutting himself up with the casket, he sent messages with the fire day and night, over land and sea, to all those priests over whom he had command, so that all the people should be made subject to his will. And he received answers to his messages without stop or stay, and none could hold or see the running fire, so that all the land was in fear by reason of the knowledge of Saurid.” In the same volume we find that a priestess named Borsa evidently used the telephone. For, according to her history, “She applied her mouth and ears unto pipes in the wall of her dwelling, and so heard and answered the requests of the people in the distant city.”
Thus it would seem that there is nothing new under the sun to that “dainty Ariel” of the mind, Imagination. It sees all present things at a glance, and foretells what is yet to come. It may well be called the Sun-dial of the Soul; but it is a Dial that must be kept sound and clean. There must be no crack in it,—it must not be allowed to get overgrown with the slimy mosses and rank weeds of selfishness and personal prejudice,—the index hand must be firmly set,—and none of the numeral figures must be missing! So, perchance, shall God flash the true time of day upon it, for such as will hold themselves free to mark the Hour according to His will. And for those who do thus hold themselves free,—for those who care to keep this precious Sun-dial clear and clean in their souls, there shall always be light and love,—and such clear reflections of divine beauty and peace as are described by the “Ettrick Shepherd” in his story of Kilmeny in Fairyland:
The dignity of Literature is, or used to be, something more than a mere phrase. Days there were in the long-ago, when the thinkers and writers of a nation were held to be worthy of higher honour than trade-kings and stock-jobbers,—when each one that shone out was “a bright particular star” of genius, as frankly owned as an object of admiration in the literary firmament. At that time there was no “syndicated” press. The followers and disciples of Literature were not all herded together, as it were, in a kind of scribbling trades-union. The poet, the novelist, the essayist,—each one of these moved in his or her own appointed orbit, and their differing special ways of handling the topics of their time served to interest, charm and stimulate the intelligences of people who were cultured and appreciative enough to understand and honour their efforts. But now things are greatly changed. What has been generally understood as “cultured” society is rapidly deteriorating into baseness and voluntary ignorance. The profession of letters is so little understood, and so far from being seriously appreciated, that responsible editors will accept and publish magazine articles by women of “title” and “fashion,” who prove themselves as ignorant of grammar as they are of spelling. The printer’s reader corrects the spelling, but the grammar is generally left as its “aristocratic” writer penned it, in majestic incompleteness. The newspapers are full, not of thoughtful, honestly expressed public opinion on the affairs of the nation, but of vapid “personalities,” interesting to none save gossips and busy-bodies. A lamentable lack of strength is apparent in the whole “tone” of modern Literature, together with a still more lamentable lack of wit. All topics, say the pessimists, are exhausted. The quarrels of politicians have exhausted earth,—the recriminations of the Churches have exhausted Heaven,—and the bold immoralities of society have, almost, if not quite, exhausted Hell. Yet the topic which holds in itself a great many of the pleasures of earth and heaven—with perhaps a touch of the other nameless place also, is still the Power of the Pen. It remains, even in these days, the greatest power for good or evil in the world. With the little instrument which rests so lightly in the hand, whole nations can be moved. It is nothing to look at; generally speaking it is a mere bit of wood with a nib at the end of it—but when it is poised between thumb and finger, it becomes a living thing—it moves with the pulsations of the loving heart and thinking brain, and writes down, almost unconsciously, the thoughts that live—the words that burn.
To the power of the Pen we owe our laws, our government, our civilization, our very religion. For without it we should have no Bible—no New Testament. Our histories, our classics, our philosophies, our poetry, would all be lost with their originators. We should not know that Julius Cæsar ever walked on the shores of Britain, or that Nero fiddled while Rome was burning. In fact we should still be in the dark ages, without so much as a dream of the magnificent era of progress through which we have come, and in which we, of this present generation, have our glorious share. And so I think and venture to say that the power of the Pen is one which commands more millions of human beings than any monarch’s rule, and that the profession of the pen, called Literature, is the greatest, the highest, and the noblest that is open to aspiring ambition. Empires, thrones, commerce, war, politics, society—these things last but their brief hour—the Power of the Pen takes note of them as they pass—but outlives them all!
We should know nothing to-day of the grandeurs of old Egypt, or the histories of her forgotten kings, if it were not for the Rosetta stone—on which the engraver’s instrument, serving as a pen, wrote the Egyptian hieroglyphics beside the Greek characters, thus giving us the clue to the buried secrets of a long past great civilization. The classic land of Greece, once foremost in all things which make nations great, particularly in the valour and victorious deeds of her military heroes, has almost forgotten her ancient glory—she might perhaps be forgotten by other nations altogether in the constant springing up of new countries and peoples if it were not for Homer! The blind, despised old man, who sang her golden days of pride and conquest, still keeps her memory green. And let us not forget that other glorious poet, who laid his laurel-wreath and life upon her shrine—our own immortal Byron—whose splendid lyric, “The Isles of Greece” may stand beside the finest lines of Homer, and not be shamed.
What does all Italy, and particularly Florence, make chief boast of to-day? Not commerce, not wealth—simply Dante! In his lifetime he was made a subject for hatred and derision—he was scorned, cast out, and exiled by his fellow-townsfolk—yet now he is the great glory of his native city which claims respect from all the world for having been the birthplace of so supreme a soul. So, even after death, the Power of the Pen takes its revenge, and ensures its just recognition.
Yet there are many workers in Literature who say that the Power of the Pen gives them no joy at all,—that it is a “grind,”—that it is full of disappointment and bitterness, and that they never get paid enough for what they do. This last is always a very sore point with them. They brood on it, and consider it so often, that by and by the question of how much or how little payment they get, becomes the only way in which they regard their profession. It is the wrong way. It is the way that leads straight to biliousness and chronic dyspepsia. It is not my way. To me, what little power of the pen I possess, is a magic talisman which I would not exchange for millions of money. It makes life beautiful for me—it intensifies and transfigures all events and incidents—it shows me a whole history in the face of a child—a whole volume of poetry and philosophy in the cup of a flower. It enables me to see the loveliness of nature with keener and more appreciative gratitude—and it fills me with an inward happiness which no outward circumstance can destroy.
Of course just payment is to be demanded and expected for every kind of work. The rule of “give and take” holds good in all classes of employment. Each author’s power of the pen commands its price according to the value set upon it by the public. But I, personally, have refused many considerable sums of money offered to me if I would consent to “work up” or “bring forward” certain schemes and subjects with which I have no sympathy. The largest cheque would never tempt me to write against my own inclination. If I were given such a choice as this—to write something entirely opposed to my own feeling and conscience for a thousand pounds, or to write my honest thought for nothing, I would write my honest thought, and let the thousand pounds go. I am glad to say that some of my contemporaries are with me in this particular form of literary faith—but not as many as, for the honour of our calling, I could desire.
Then again, there is that vexed question of—the Public! I have often noticed, with a humility too deep for words, that all the great modern writers, or, I should say, all those who consider themselves the greatest, have a lofty contempt for the public. “‘He,’ or ‘she’ writes for the Public,” is a remark which, when spoken with a withering sneer, is supposed to have the effect of completely crushing the ambitious scribbler whose Power of the Pen has attracted some little attention. Now if authors are not to write for the Public, who are they to write for? Certain of the “superior” folk among them will say that they write “for posterity.” But then, Posterity is also the Public! I really do not see how either the great or the small author is to get away from the Public anyhow! There is only one means of escape, and that is—not to write at all. But if those to whom the Power of the Pen is given, wish to claim and use their highest privileges, they will work always for the public, and try to win their laurels from the public alone. Not by the voice of any “clique,” “club,” or “set” will Time accept the final verdict of an author’s greatness, but by the love and honour of an entire people. Because, whatever passing surface fancies may for awhile affect the public humour, the central soul of a nation always strives for Right, for Justice, and for final Good, and the author whose Power of the Pen helps strongly, boldly, and faithfully on towards these great ends, is not, and shall not be, easily forgotten.
I hope and I believe, that it is only a few shallow, ignorant and unsuccessful persons—fancying perhaps that they have the Power of the Pen when they have it not—who, in their disappointment, take a sort of doleful comfort in “posing” as unrecognized geniuses, whose quality of thought is too fine,—they would say too “subtle”—for the public taste. For, in my humble opinion, nothing is too good for the Public. They deserve the very best they can get. No “scamp” work should ever be offered to them. If a poet sings, let him sing his sweetest for them; if a painter paints pictures, let him give them his finest skill; if an author writes stories, essays or romances, let him do his very utmost to charm, to instruct, to awaken their thought and excite their interest. It is not a wise thing to start writing for “posterity.” Because, if the present Public will have nothing to do with you, it is ten to one whether the future will. All our great authors have worked for the public of their own immediate time, without any egotistical calculations as to their possible wider appreciation after death.
The greatest poet in the world, William Shakespeare, was, from all we can gather, an unaffected, cheery, straightforward Warwickshire man, who wrote plays to please the Public who went to the Globe Theatre. He did not say he was too good for the Public; he worked for the Public. He attached so little importance to his own genius, that he made no mention of his work in his will. So we may fairly judge that he never dreamed of the future splendour of his fame—when, three hundred years after his death, every civilized country in the world would have societies founded in his name; when, year after year, new discussions would be opened up concerning his Plays, new actors would be busy working hard to represent his characters, and, strangest compliment of all, when envious persons would turn up to say his work was not his own! For when genius is so varying and brilliant that a certain section of the narrow-minded cannot understand its many-sided points of view, and will not believe that it is the inheritance of one human brain, then it is great indeed! Three hundred years hence there will, no doubt, be other people to announce to the world that Walter Scott did not write, and could not have written, the Waverley Novels. For they are—in their own special way—as great as the plays of Shakespeare. He, too, was one of those who wrote for the Public. With his magic wand he touched the wild mountains, lakes and glens of his native land, and transfigured them with the light of romance and beauty for ever. Can we imagine Scotland without Walter Scott and Robert Burns? No! Their power of the pen rules the whole country, and gives it over the heads of monarchs a free fairy kingdom to all classes and peoples who have the wish and will to possess it. There are certain superior people nowadays who declare that Walter Scott is “old-fashioned,” and that they, for their parts, cannot read his novels. Well, I grant that Walter Scott is old-fashioned—as old-fashioned as the sunshine—and just as wholesome. He lived in a time when men still reverenced women, and when women gave men cause for reverence. I think if he could be among us now, and see the change that has come over society since his day, he would scarcely have the heart to write at all. The idolatry of wealth—the servile worship of the newest millionaire—would hardly inspire his pen, save perhaps to sorrow and indignation. But if he were with us and did write for us, I am sure he would employ some of his great power to protest against the lack of fine feeling, gentleness, forbearance and courtesy which unfortunately marks much of our latter-day society. I think he would have something to say about the school-girl who smokes,—I fancy his mind might revolt against the skirt-dancing peeress! I think he would implore women not to part with their chief charm—womanliness—and I am sure he would be very sorry to see children of ten and eleven so deplorably “advanced” as to be unable to appreciate a fairy tale.
And what of dear Charles Dickens—he, whom certain superfine persons who read Yellow Journalism presume to call “vulgar”? Is love, is pity, is tenderness, is faith “vulgar”? Is kindness to the poor, patience with the suffering, tolerance for all men and all creeds “vulgar”? If so, then Charles Dickens was vulgar!—not a doubt of it! Few authors have ever been so blessedly, gloriously “vulgar” as he! What marvellous pictures his “power of the pen” conjures up at once before our eyes!—pathetic, playful, humourous, thrilling—rising to grandeur in such scenes as the shipwreck in David Copperfield; or that wonderful piece of description in the Tale of Two Cities, when the tramping feet of the Spirit of the French Revolution sweep past in the silence of the night! Match us such a passage in any literature past or present! It is unique in its own way—as unique as all great work must be. There is nothing quite like it, and never will be anything quite like it. And when we “go” with such great authors as these—and by this I mean, when we are determined to be one with them—we shall win such victories over our hearts and minds, our passions and desires, as shall make us better and stronger men and women.
And this brings me to a point which I have often earnestly considered. One cannot help noticing that the present system of education is fast doing away with two great ingredients for the thorough enjoyment of life, and especially the enjoyment of Literature—Imagination and Appreciation. On the school-boy or school-girl who is “coached” or “crammed,” the gates of fairyland and romance are shut with a bang. I had once the pleasure of entertaining at my house a small gentleman of eleven, fresh from his London College—he was indifferent to, or weary of life; things generally, were a “bore,” and he expressed his opinion of fairy tales in one brief word, “Rot!” Now altogether apart from that most revolting expression, which is becoming of frequent use, especially in the “upper circles,” it seemed to me a real misfortune to consider, that for this child, Hans Andersen was a sealed book, and the wonders and beauties of the Arabian Nights a lost world. And in the same way I pity the older children—the grown men and women, who cannot give themselves up to the charm or terror of a book completely and ungrudgingly—who approach their authors with a carping hesitation and a doubtful preparatory sneer. By so doing they shut against themselves the gate of a whole garden of delights. Imagination is the supreme endowment of the poet and romancist. It is a kind of second sight, which conveys the owner of it to places he has never seen, and surrounds him with strange circumstances of which he is merely the spiritual eyewitness. One of the most foolish notions prevalent nowadays is that an author must personally go and visit the place he intends to describe. Nothing is more fatal. For accuracy of detail, we can consult a guide book—but for a complete picture which shall impress us all our lives long, we must go to the inspired author whose prescience or second-sight enables him to be something more than a mere Baedeker. Endless examples of this second-sight faculty could be given. Take Shakespeare as the best of them. He could never have personally known Antony and Cleopatra. He did not live in the time of Julius Cæsar. He was not guilty of murder because he described a murder in Macbeth. He could not have been a “fellow-student” of Hamlet’s. And where do you suppose, among the grim realities of life, he could have met those exquisite creations, Ariel and Puck, if not in the heaven of his own peerless imagination, borne to him on the brilliant wings of his own thought, to take shape and form, and stay with us in our English language for ever! Walter Scott had never seen Switzerland when he wrote Anne of Geierstein. Thomas Moore never visited the East, yet he wrote Lalla Rookh. Charles Dickens never fought a duel, and never saw one fought, yet the duel between Mr. Chester and Haredale in Barnaby Rudge is one of the finest scenes ever written. Because an author is able to describe a certain circumstance, it does not follow that he or she has experienced that very circumstance personally. Very often it may be quite the contrary. The most romantic descriptions in novels have often been written by people leading very hum-drum, quiet lives of their own. We have only to think of Jane Eyre, and to remember the prosy, dull days passed by its author, Charlotte Brontë.
To refer once more to Hans Andersen—we all know that he never could have seen a Dresden China shepherdess eloping up the chimney with a Dresden China sweep. We know he never saw that dainty little shepherdess weeping on the top of a chimney because the world was so large, and because all her gilding was coming off. But when we are reading that fantastic little story, we feel he must have seen it somehow, and we are conscious of a slight vexation that we never see such a curious and delightful elopement ourselves. This is a phase of the power of the pen—to make the beautiful, the quaint, the terrible, or the wonderful things of imagination seem an absolute reality.
But to get all the enjoyment out of an author’s imagination, we, who read his books, must ourselves “imagine” with him. We must let him take us where he will; we must not draw back and refuse to go with him. We must not approach him in a carping spirit, or make up our minds before opening his book, that we shall not like it. We should not allow our particular views of life, or our pet prejudices to intervene between ourselves and the writer whose power of the pen may teach us something new. And above all things, we should prepare ourselves to appreciate—not to depreciate. Nothing is easier than to find fault. The cheapest sort of mind can do that. The dirty little street-boy can enter the British Museum and find fault with the Pallas Athene. But the Pallas Athene remains the same. To be Pallas Athene is sufficient. The power of appreciation is a great test of character. To appreciate warmly, even enthusiastically, is generally the proof of a kind and sunny disposition; to depreciate is to be in yourself but a sad soul at best! For depreciation in one thing leads to depreciation in another; and by and by the daily depreciator finds himself depreciating his Maker, and wondering why he was ever born! And he will never find an answer to that question till he changes his humour and begins to appreciate; then, and only then, will life explain its brightest meaning.
Of course, when vulgarity, coarseness, slang, and ribaldry are set forward as “attractions” in certain books and newspapers, it is necessary to depreciate what is not the power of the pen, but the abuse of the pen. Such abuse is easily recognizable. The libellous paragraph, the personal sneer, the society scandal—there is no need to enumerate them. But we do not call the writers of these things authors, or even journalists. They are merely on a par with the anonymous letter-writer whom all classes of society agree in regarding as the most contemptible creature alive. And they do not come at all under the heading of the power of the pen, their only strength being weakness.
I have already said that I believe the Power of the Pen to be the greatest power for good or evil in the world. And I may add that this power is never more apparent than in the Press. The Press nowadays is not a literary press; classic diction and brilliancy of style do not distinguish it by any means. It would be difficult to find a single newspaper or magazine to which we could turn for a lesson in pure and elegant English, such as that of Addison, Steele or Macaulay. But in the Scott or Byron days, the Press was literary to a very great extent, and as a natural consequence it had a powerful influence on the success or failure of an author’s work. That influence is past. Its work to-day deals, not with books, but with nations.
National education, progressing steadily for years, has taught the Public to make up its own mind more quickly than ever it did before, as regards the books it reads. It will take what it wants and leave the rest; and the Press can neither persuade it nor repel it against its own inclination. So that the author in these days has more difficulties and responsibilities than in the past. He has to fight his battle alone. He has many more rivals to compete with, and many more readers to please. And the Press cannot help him. The Press may recommend, may even “boom” his work; but several instances have occurred lately where such recommendation has not been accepted. For, sometimes the Public fight shy of a “boom.” They think it has been worked up by the author’s friends, and they are not always mistaken. And they silently express the fact that they are quite capable of choosing the books they wish to read, without advice or assistance. This being the case, the Press is beginning to leave books and authors alone to shift for themselves as best they may, and is turning to other pastime. Nations, peoples, governments! These are the great footballs it occasionally kicks in the struggle for journalistic pre-eminence. And I hope I shall not be misunderstood if I venture to say that it is a somewhat dangerous game! Because, however powerful the Press may be, it is not the People. It is the printed opinion of certain editors and their staff. The People are outside it altogether. And if some one on the Press insults a monarch or a nation, that insult should not be taken as a People’s insult. It is the insult of the editor or proprietor who deliberately allows it to be printed in the particular journal he controls.
It is a thousand pities, for example, that a section of the lower boulevard press in Paris should be accepted in any quarter, as being representative of the feeling of the whole French people. When flippant and irresponsible newspaper scribes resort to calumny for the sake of notoriety, they prove themselves unworthy to be trusted with the Power of the Pen. In any case it can only be a God-forsaken creature who seeks to earn his living by scurrility. Such an one may excite individual contempt, but does not merit the notice of a great nation.
As an author and as a lover of literature, I care very much for the honour and dignity of the British Press, and I cannot but earnestly deprecate the too free exchange of petty or malicious innuendo between foreign and English writers on their various respective journals. Bismarck used to say, “The windows which our Press breaks we shall have to pay for.” The power of the pen is abused when such windows are broken as can only be mended by the sufferings of nations. If France or Germany sneers at us, or misreads our intentions, I do not see that we are called upon to sneer at them in return. That is mere schoolboy conduct. Our dignity should shame their flippancy. The Press of such an empire as Great Britain can afford to be magnanimous and dignified. It is too big and strong a boy to throw stones at its little brothers.
On such a subject as the Power of the Pen, one might speak endless discourses, and write endless volumes, for it is practically inexhaustible. It is a power for good and evil—as I have said—but the author wrongs his vocation if he does not always, most steadfastly and honestly, use it for Good. The Power of the Pen should define Right from Wrong with absolute certainty,—it should not so mix the two together that the reader cannot tell one from the other. In what is called the “problem” novel or the “problem” play, the authors manage so to befuddle the brains of their readers, that they hardly know whether virtue is vice or vice virtue. This is putting the power of the pen to unfair and harmful uses. And when a writer—any writer—employs his or her power to promote the spirit of Atheism and Materialism, the pen is turned into a merely murderous tool of the utmost iniquity. And whosoever uses it in this sense will have to answer at a Higher Tribunal for much mischief and cruelty wrought in the world.
Many people are familiar with Shakespeare’s town, Stratford-on-Avon, quaint and peaceful and beautiful in itself, and in all its surroundings. Outside it, many roads lead to many lovely glimpses of landscape; but there is one road in particular which winds uphill, and from which, at certain times, the town itself is lost sight of, and only the tapering spire of Holy Trinity Church—Shakespeare’s Church—can be seen. Frequently at sunset, when the rosy hue of the low clouds mingles with the silvery mist of the river Avon, all the houses, bridges and streets are veiled in an opaque glow of colour—and look like “mirage,” or a picture in a dream. And then, the spire of Shakespeare’s Church, seen by itself, rising clear up from the surrounding haze, puts on the distinct appearance of a Pen,—pointing upwards, as though prepared to write upon the sky!
Often and often have I seen it so, and others have seen it with me, glittering against clouds, or lit up by a flashing sunbeam. I have always thought it a true symbol of what the Power of the Pen should be—to point upwards. To point to the highest aims of life, the best, the greatest things; to rise clear out of the darkness and point straight to the sunshine! For, if so uplifted, the Power of the Pen becomes truly invincible. It can do almost anything. It can shame the knave—it can abash the fool. It can lower the proud,—it can raise the humble. It can assist the march of Science,—it can crush opposition. Armed with truth and justice, its authority is greater than that of governments,—for it can upset governments. It would seem impossible to dethrone an unworthy king; but it has been done—by the Power of the Pen! It is difficult to put down the arrogance of a county snob,—but it can be done!—by the Power of the Pen! It may seem a terrible task to root up lies, to destroy hypocrisies, shams, false things of every kind, and make havoc among rogues, sensualists, and scoundrels of both high and low degree,—but it can be done, by the Power of the Pen! And to those who are given this power in its truest sense, is also added the gift of prophecy—the quick prescience of things To Be—the spiritual hearing which catches the first sound of the approaching time. And beyond the things of time this spiritual sense projects itself, and hears, and almost sees, all that shall be found most glorious after death!
With the Power of the Pen we can uphold all noble things; we can denounce all vile things. May all who have that power so deal with it—and point us on—and upward! For as our great poet, Tennyson, says:—