CHAPTER I

The notary, Jean Rossignol, had been summoned to the top of a great house in the Isle St. Louis to make a will; and now, his duties finished, wrapped in a warm roquelaure and with a lantern swinging from one hand, he issued from the mansion on his homeward way. Little did he think what strange adventures were to befall him!--

That is how stories should begin. And I am offered HUSKS instead.

What should be: What is: The Filibuster's Cache. Aunt Anne's Tea Cosy. Jerry Abershaw. Mrs. Brierly's Niece. Blood Money: A Tale. Society: A Novel."

The time was out of joint; but Stevenson was born to set it right. Not seven years after the posting of this letter, the recent Romantic Revival had begun. In the year of his death, 1894, it was in full swing; everybody was reading not only Stevenson, but _The Prisoner of Zenda_, _A Gentleman of France_, _Under the Red Robe_, etc. Whatever we may think of the literary quality of some of these then popular stories, there is no doubt that the change was in many ways beneficial, and that the influence of Stevenson was more responsible for it than that of any other one man. This was everywhere recognised: in the _Athenæum_ for 22 December, 1894, a critic remarked, "The Romantic Revival in the English novel of to-day had in him its leader.... But for him they might have been Howells and James young men." As a germinal writer, Stevenson will always occupy an important place in the history of English prose fiction. And seldom has a man been more conscious of his mission.

Stevenson's high standing as an English classic depends very largely on the excellence of his literary style, although Scott and Cooper won immortality without it. (One wonders if they could to-day.) When some fifteen years ago a few critics had the temerity to suggest that he was equal, if not superior, to these worthies, it sounded like blasphemy; but such an opinion is not uncommon now, and may be reasonably defended. Stevenson lacked in some degree the virility and the astonishing fertility of invention possessed by Scott; but he exhibited a technical skill undreamed of by his great predecessor. From the prefatory verses to _Treasure Island_, we know that he admired Cooper; and he loved Sir Walter, without being in the least blind to his faults. "It is undeniable that the love of the slap-dash and the shoddy grew upon Scott with success." He "had not only splendid romantic, but splendid tragic, gifts. How comes it, then, that he could so often fob us off with languid, inarticulate twaddle?... He was a great day-dreamer, a seer of fit and beautiful and humorous visions, but hardly a great artist; hardly, in the manful sense, an artist at all." Stevenson seems to have felt that Scott's deficiencies in style were not merely artistic, but moral; he lacked the patience and the particular kind of industry required. Scott loved to tell a good story, but he loved the story better than he did the telling of it; Stevenson, on the other hand, was fully as much absorbed by the manner of narration as by the narration itself. Stevenson was keenly alive to the fact that writers of romances did not seem to feel the necessity of style; whereas those who wrote novels wherein nothing happened, felt that a good style atoned for both the lack of incident and the lack of ideas. Stevenson's articles of literary faith apparently included the dogma that a mysterious, blood-curdling romance had fully as much dignity as a minute examination of the dreary, commonplace life of the submerged; and that the former made just as high a demand on the endowment and industry of a master-artist. If he had had not an idea in his head, he could not have written with more elegance.

There is, of course, some truth in the charge that Stevenson was not only a master of style, but a stylist. He is indeed something of a macaroni in words; occasionally he struts a bit, and he loves to show his brilliant plumes. He performed dexterous tricks with language, like a musician with a difficult instrument. He liked style for its own sake, and was not averse to exhibiting his technique. In a slight degree, his attitude and his influence in mere composition are somewhat similar to those of John Lyly three hundred years before. Lyly delighted his readers with unexpected quips and quiddities, with a fantastic display of rhetoric; he showed, as no one had before him, the possible flexibility of English prose. There is more than a touch of Euphuism in Stevenson; he was never insincere, but he was consciously fine. Many have swallowed without salt his statement that he learned to write by imitation; that by the "sedulous ape" method, employed with unwearying study of great models, he himself became a successful author. Men of genius are never to be trusted when they discuss the origin and development of their powers; it is no more to be believed that Stevenson learned to be a great writer by imitating Browne, than that _The Raven_ really reached its perfection in the manner so minutely described by Poe. The faithful practice of composition will doubtless help any ambitious young man or woman. But Stevensons are not made in that fashion. If they were, anyone with plenty of time and patience could become a great author. This "ape" remark by Stevenson has had one interesting effect; if he imitated others, he has been strenuously imitated himself. Probably no recent English writer has been more constantly employed for rhetorical purposes, and there is none whose influence on style is more evident in the work of contemporary aspirants in fiction.

The stories of Stevenson exhibit a double union, as admirable as it is rare. They exhibit the union of splendid material with the most delicate skill in language; and they exhibit the union of thrilling events with a remarkable power of psychological analysis. Every thoughtful reader has noticed these combinations; but we sometimes forget that Silver, Alan, Henry, and the Master are just as fine examples of character-portrayal as can be found in the works of Henry James. It is from this point of view that Stevenson is so vastly superior to Fenimore Cooper; just as in literary style he so far surpasses Scott. _Treasure Island_ is much better than _The Red Rover_ or _The Pirate_; its author actually beat Scott and Cooper at their own game. With the exception of _Henry Esmond_, Stevenson may perhaps be said to have written the best romances in the English language; the undoubted inferiority of any of his books to that masterpiece would make an interesting subject for reflexion.

The one thing in which Scott really excelled Stevenson was in the depiction of women. The latter has given us no Diana Vernon or Jeannie Deans. For the most part, Stevenson's romances are Paradise before the creation of Eve. The snake is there, but not the woman. This extraordinary absence of sex-interest is a notable feature, and many have been the reasons assigned for it. If he had not tried at all, we should be safe in saying that, like a small boy, he felt that girls were in the way, and he did not want them mussing up his games. There is perhaps some truth in this; for the presence of a girl might have ruined _Treasure Island_, as it ruined the _Sea Wolf_. Her fuss and feathers bring in all sorts of bothersome problems to distract a novelist, bent on having a good time with pirates, murders, and hidden treasure. Unfortunately for the complete satisfaction of this explanation, Stevenson wrote _Prince Otto_, and tried to draw a real woman. The result did not add anything to his fame, and, indeed, the whole book missed fire. He was unquestionably more successful in _David Balfour_, but, when all is said, the presence of women in a few of Stevenson's romances is not so impressive as their absence in most. It is only in that unfinished work, _Weir of Hermiston_, which gave every promise of being one of the greatest novels in English literature, that he seemed to have reached full maturity of power in dealing with the master passion. The best reason for Stevenson's reserve on matters of sex was probably his delicacy; he did not wish to represent this particular animal impulse with the same vivid reality he pictured avarice, ambition, courage, cowardice, and pride; and thus hampered by conscience, he thought it best in the main to omit it altogether. At least, this is the way he felt about it, as we may learn from the _Vailima Letters_:--

"This is a poison bad world for the romancer, this Anglo-Saxon world; I usually get out of it by not having any women in it at all." (February, 1892.)

"I am afraid my touch is a little broad in a love story; I can't mean one thing and write another. As for women, I am no more in any fear of them; I can do a sort all right; age makes me less afraid of a petticoat, but I am a little in fear of grossness. However, this David Balfour's love affair, that's all right--might be read out to a mothers' meeting--or a daughters' meeting. The difficulty in a love yarn, which dwells at all on love, is the dwelling on one string; it is manifold, I grant, but the root fact is there unchanged, and the sentiment being very intense, and already very much handled in letters, positively calls for a little pawing and gracing. With a writer of my prosaic literalness and pertinency of point of view, this all shoves toward grossness--positively even towards the far more damnable _closeness_. This has kept me off the sentiment hitherto, and now I am to try: Lord! Of course Meredith can do it, and so could Shakespeare; but with all my romance, I am a realist and a prosaist, and a most fanatical lover of plain physical sensations plainly and expressly rendered; hence my perils. To do love in the same spirit as I did (for instance) D. Balfour's fatigue in the heather; my dear sir, there were grossness--ready made! And hence, how to sugar?" (May, 1892.)

On the whole, I am inclined to think, that with the omission of the fragment, _Weir of Hermiston_, Stevenson's best novel is his first--_Treasure Island_. He wrote this with peculiar zest; first of all, in spite of the playful dedication, to please himself; second, to see if the public appetite for Romance could once more be stimulated. He never did anything later quite so off-hand, quite so spontaneous. His maturer books, brilliant as they are, lack the peculiar _brightness_ of _Treasure Island_. It has more unity than _The Master of Ballantræ_; and it has a greater group of characters than _Kidnapped_.

Stevenson told this story in the first person, but, by a clever device, he avoided the chief difficulty of that method of narration. The speaker is not one of the principal characters in the story, though he shares in the most thrilling adventures. We thus have all the advantages of direct discourse, all the gain in reality--without a hint as to what will be the fate of the leading actors. Stevenson said, in one of the _Vailima Letters_, that first-person tales were more in accord with his temperament. The purely objective character of this novel is noteworthy, and entirely proper, coming from a perfectly normal boy. The _Essays_ show that Stevenson could be sufficiently introspective if he chose, and _Dr. Jekyll_ is really an introspective novel, differing in every way from _Treasure Island_. But here we have romantic adventures seen through the fresh eyes of boyhood, producing their unconscious reflex action on the soul of the narrator, who daily grows in courage and self-reliance by grappling with danger. In Henry James's fine and penetrating essay on Stevenson, he says of this book, "What we see in it is not only the ideal fable, but the young reader himself and his state of mind: we seem to read it over his shoulder, with an arm around his neck." This particular remark has been much praised; but it seems in a way to half-apologise for a man's interest in the story, and to explain it like an affectionate uncle's sympathetic interest in a child's game, who mainly enjoys the child's enthusiasm. Now I venture to say that no one can any more outgrow _Treasure Island_ than he can outgrow _Robinson Crusoe_. The events in the story delight children; but it is a book that in mature years can be read and reread with ever increasing satisfaction and profit. No one needs to regret or to explain his interest in this novel; it is nothing to be sorry for, nor does it indicate a low order of literary taste. Many serious persons have felt somewhat alarmed by their pleasure in reading _Treasure Island_, and have hesitated to assign it a high place in fiction. Some have said that, after all, it is only a pirate story, differing from the Sleuths and Harkaways merely in being better written. But this is exactly the point, and a very important point, in criticism. In art, the subject is of comparatively little importance, whereas the treatment is the absolute distinguishing feature. To insist that there is little difference between _Treasure Island_ and any cheap tale of blood-and-thunder, is equivalent to saying that there is little difference between the Sistine Madonna and a cottage chromo of the Virgin.

Pew is a fearsome personage, and a notable example of the triumph of mind over the most serious of all physical disabilities. Theoretically, it seems strange that able-bodied individuals should be afraid of a man who is stone blind. But the appearance of Pew is enough to make anybody take to his heels. He is the very essence of authority and leadership. The tap-tapping of his stick in the moonlight makes one's blood run cold. We are apt to think of blind people as gentle, sweet, pure, and holy; made submissive and tender by misfortune, dependent on the kindness of others. Old Pew has lost his eyes, but not his nerve. To see so black-hearted and unscrupulous a villain, his sight taken away as it were by the hand of God, and yet intent only on desperate wickedness, upsets the moral order; he becomes an uncanny monstrosity; he takes on the hue of a supernatural fiend. John Silver has lost a leg, but he circumvents others by the speed of his mind; amazingly quick in perception, a most astute politician, arrested from no treachery or murder by any moral principle or touch of pity, he has the dark splendour of unflinching depravity. He is no Laodicean. He never lets I dare not wait upon I would. His course seems fickle and changeable, but he is really steering steadily by the compass of self-interest. He can be witty, affectionate, sympathetic, friendly, submissive, flattering, and also a devilish beast. He is the very chameleon of crime. Stevenson simply had not the heart to kill so consummate an artist in villainy. It was no mean achievement to create two heroes so sinister as Pew and Silver, while depriving one of his sight and the other of a leg. One wearies of the common run of romances, where the chief character is a man of colossal size and beautifully proportioned, so that his victories over various rascals are really only athletic records. In _Treasure Island_, the emphasis is laid in the right place, whence leadership comes; everybody is afraid of Long John, and nobody minds Ben Gunn, dead or alive.[14]

[14] It is interesting to remember that the crippled poet, W. E. Henley, was the original of Silver. Writing to Henley, May, 1883, Stevenson said, "I will now make a confession. It was the sight of your maimed strength and masterfulness that begot John Silver."

There are scenes in this story, presented with such dramatic power, and with such astonishing felicity of diction, that, once read, they can never pass from the reader's mind. The expression in Silver's face, as he talks with Tom in the marsh, first ingratiatingly friendly, then suspicious, then as implacable as malignant fate. The hurling of the crutch; the two terrific stabs of the knife. "I could hear him pant aloud as he struck the blows." The boy's struggle on the schooner with Israel Hands; the awful moment in the little boat, while Flint's gunner is training the "long nine" on her, and the passengers can do nothing but await the result of the enemy's skill; the death of the faithful old servant, Redruth, who said he thought somebody might read a prayer.

Much has been written in both prose and verse of the fascination of Stevenson's personality. He was so different in different moods that no two of his friends have ever agreed as to what manner of man he really was. As he chose to express his genius mainly in objective romances, future generations will find in the majority of his works no hint as to the character of the author. From this point of view, compare for a moment _The Master of Ballantræ_ with _Joseph Vance_! But fortunately, Stevenson elected to write personal essays; and still more fortunately, hundreds of his most intimate letters are preserved in type. Some think that these _Letters_ form his greatest literary work, and that they will outlast his novels, plays, poems, and essays. For they will have a profound interest long after the last person who saw Stevenson on earth has passed away. They are the revelation of a man even more interesting than any of the wonderful characters he created; they show that men like Philip Sidney were as possible in the nineteenth century as in the brilliant age of Elizabeth. The life of Stevenson has added immensely to our happiness and enjoyment of the world, and no literary figure in recent times had more radiance and wholesome charm. His optimism was based on a chronic experience of physical pain and weakness; to him it was a good world, and he made it distinctly better by his presence. He was a combination of the Bohemian and the Covenanter; he had all the graces of one, and the bed-rock moral earnestness of the other. "The world must return some day to the word 'duty,'" said he, "and be done with the word 'reward.'" He was the incarnation of the happy union of virtue and vivacity.

X

MRS. HUMPHRY WARD

It is high time that somebody spoke out his mind about Mrs. Humphry Ward. Her prodigious vogue is one of the most extraordinary literary phenomena of our day. A roar of approval greets the publication of every new novel from her active pen, and it is almost pathetic to contemplate the reverent awe of her army of worshippers when they behold the solemn announcement that she is "collecting material" for another masterpiece. Even professional reviewers lose all sense of proportion when they discuss her books, and their so-called criticisms sound like publishers' advertisements. Sceptics are warned to remain silent, lest they become unpleasantly conspicuous. When _Lady Rose's Daughter_ appeared, the critic of a great metropolitan daily remarked that whoever did not immediately recognise the work as a masterpiece thereby proclaimed himself as a person incapable of judgement, taste, and appreciation. This is a fair example of the attitude taken by thousands of her readers, and it is this attitude, rather than the value of her work, that we must, first of all, consider.

In the year 1905 an entirely respectable journal said of Mrs. Ward, "There is no more interesting and important figure in the literary world to-day." In comparing this superlative with the actual state of affairs, we find that we were asked to believe that Mrs. Ward was a literary personage not second in importance to Tolstoi, Ibsen, Björnson, Heyse, Sudermann, Hauptmann, Anatole France, Jules Lemaître, Rostand, Swinburne, Thomas Hardy, Meredith, Kipling, and Mark Twain. At about the same time a work appeared intended as a text-book for the young, which declared Mrs. Ward to be "the greatest living writer of fiction in English literature," and misspelled her name--an excellent illustration of carelessness in adjectives with inaccuracy in facts. Over and over again we have heard the statement that the "mantle" of George Eliot has fallen on Mrs. Ward. Is it really true that her stories are equal in value to _Adam Bede_, _The Mill on the Floss_, and _Middlemarch_?

The object of this essay is not primarily to attack a dignified and successful author; it is rather to enquire, in a proper spirit of humility, and with a full realisation of the danger incurred, whether or not the actual output justifies so enormous a reputation. For in some respects I believe the vogue of Mrs. Ward to be more unfortunate than the vogue of the late lamented Duchess, of Laura Jean Libbey, of Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth, of Marie Corelli, and of Hall Caine. When we are asked to note that 300,000 copies of the latest novel by any of these have been sold before the book is published, there is no cause for alarm. We know perfectly well what that means. It is what is called a "business proposition"; it has nothing to do with literature. It simply proves that it is possible to make as splendid a fortune out of the trade of book-making, and by equally respectable methods, as is made in other legitimate avenues of business. But the case is quite different with Mrs. Ward. Whatever she is, she is not vulgar, sensational, or cheap; she has never made the least compromise with her moral ideals, nor has she ever attempted to play to the gallery. Her constituency is made up largely of serious-minded, highly respectable people, who live in good homes, who are fairly well read, and who ought to know the difference between ordinary and extraordinary literature. Her books have had a bad effect in blurring this distinction in the popular mind; for while she has never written a positively bad book,--with the possible exception of _Bessie Costrell_,--I feel confident that she has never written supremely well; that, compared with the great masters of fiction, she becomes immediately insignificant. If there ever was a successful writer whose work shows industry and talent rather than genius, that writer is Mrs. Ward. If there ever was a successful writer whose work is ordinary rather than extraordinary, it is Mrs. Ward.

To those of us who delight in getting some enjoyment even out of the most depressing facts, the growth of Mrs. Ward's reputation has its humorous aspect. The same individuals (mostly feminine) who in 1888 read _Robert Elsmere_ with dismay, who thought the sale of the work should be prohibited, and the copies already purchased removed from circulating libraries, are the very same ones who now worship what they once denounced. She was then regarded as a destroyer of Christian faith. Well, if she was Satan then, she is Satan still (one Western clergyman, in advocating at that time the suppression of the work, said he believed in hitting the devil right between the eyes). She has given no sign of recantation, or even of penitence. I remember one fond mother, who, fearful of the effect of the book on her daughter's growing mind, marked all the worst passages, and then told Alice she might read it, provided she skipped all the blazed places! That indicated not only a fine literary sense, but a remarkable knowledge of human nature. I wonder what the poor girl did when she came to the danger signals! And, as a matter of fact, how valuable or vital would a Christian faith be that could be destroyed by the perusal of _Robert Elsmere_? It is almost difficult now to bring to distinct recollection the tremendous excitement caused by Mrs. Ward's first successful novel, for it is a long time since I heard its name mentioned. The last public notice of it that I can recall was a large sign which appeared some fifteen years ago in a New Haven apothecary's window to the effect that one copy of _Robert Elsmere_ would be presented free to each purchaser of a cake of soap!

Although _Robert Elsmere_ was an immediate and prodigious success, and made it certain that whatever its author chose to write next would be eagerly bought, it is wholly untrue to say that her subsequent novels have depended in any way on _Elsmere_ for their reputation. There are many instances in professional literary careers where one immensely successful book--_Lorna Doone_, for example--has floated a long succession of works that could not of themselves stay above water; many an author has succeeded in attaching a life-preserver to literary children who cannot swim. Far otherwise is the case with Mrs. Ward. It is probable that over half the readers of _Diana Mallory_ have never seen a copy of _Robert Elsmere_, for which, incidentally, they are to be congratulated. But many of us can easily recollect with what intense eagerness the novel that followed that sensation was awaited. Every one wondered if it would be equally good; and many confidently predicted that she had shot her bolt. As a matter of fact, not only was _David Grieve_ a better novel than _Robert Elsmere_, but, in my judgement, it is the best book its author has ever written. Oscar Wilde said that _Robert Elsmere_ was _Literature and Dogma_ with the literature left out. Now, _David Grieve_ has no dogma at all, but in a certain sense it does belong to literature. It has some actual dynamic quality. The character of David, and its development in a strange environment, are well analysed; and altogether the best thing in the work, taken as a whole, is the perspective. It is a difficult thing to follow a character from childhood up, within the pages of one volume, and have anything like the proper perspective. It requires for one thing, hard, painstaking industry; but Mrs. Ward has never been afraid of work. She cannot be accused of laziness or carelessness. The ending of this book is, of course, weak, like the conclusion of all her books, for she has never learned the fine art of saying farewell, either to her characters or to the reader.

It was in the year 1894--a year made memorable by the appearance of _Trilby_, the _Prisoner of Zenda_, _The Jungle Book_, _Lord Ormont and his Aminta_, _Esther Waters_, and other notable novels--that Mrs. Ward greatly increased her reputation and widened her circle of readers by the publication of _Marcella_. Here she gave us a political-didactic-realistic novel, which she has continued to publish steadily ever since under different titles. It was gravely announced that this new book would deal with socialism and the labour question. Many readers, who felt that she had said the last word on agnosticism in _Elsmere_, now looked forward with reverent anticipation not only to the final solution of socialistic problems, but to some coherent arrangement of their own vague and confused ideas. Naturally, they got just what they deserved--a voluminous statement of various aspects of the problem, with no solution at all. It is curious how many persons suppose that their favourite author or orator has done something toward settling questions, when, as a matter of fact, all he has done is to _state_ them, and then state them again. This is especially true of philosophical and metaphysical difficulties. Think how eagerly readers took up Professor James's exceedingly clever book on Pragmatism, hoping at last to find rest in some definite principle. And if there ever was a blind alley in philosophy, it is Pragmatism--the very essence of agnosticism.

Now, _Marcella_, as a document, is both radical and reactionary. There is an immense amount of radical talk; but the heroine's schemes fail, the Labour party is torn by dissension, Wharton proves to be a scoundrel, and the rebel Marcella marries a respectable nobleman. There is not a single page in the book, with all its wilderness of words, that can be said to be in any sense a serious contribution to the greatest of all purely political problems. And, as a work of art, it is painfully limited; but since it has the same virtues and defects of all her subsequent literary output, we may consider what these virtues and defects are.

In the first place, Mrs. Ward is totally lacking in one almost fundamental quality of the great novelist--a keen sense of humour. Who are the English novelists of the first class? They are Defoe, Richardson, Fielding, Scott, Jane Austen, Dickens, Thackeray, George Eliot, Stevenson, and perhaps Hardy. Every one of these shows humour enough and to spare, with the single exception of Richardson, and he atoned for the deficiency by a terrible intensity that has seldom, if ever, been equalled in English fiction. Now, the absence of humour in a book is not only a positive loss to the reader, in that it robs him of the fun which is an essential part of the true history of any human life, and thereby makes the history to that extent inaccurate and unreal, but the writer who has no humour seldom gets the right point of view. There is infinitely more in the temperament of the humorist than mere laughter. Just as the poet sees life through the medium of a splendid imagination, so the humorist has the almost infallible guide of sympathy. The humorist sees life in a large, tolerant, kindly way; he knows that life is a tragi-comedy, and he makes the reader feel it in that fashion.

Again, the lack of humour in a writer destroys the sense of proportion. The humorist sees the salient points--the merely serious writer gives us a mass of details. In looking back over the thousands of pages of fiction that Mrs. Ward has published, how few great scenes stand out bright in the memory! The principle of selection--so important a part of all true art--is conspicuous only by its absence. This is one reason for the sameness of her books. All that we can remember is an immense number of social functions and an immense amount of political gossip--a long, sad level of mediocrity. This perhaps helps to explain why German fiction is so markedly inferior to the French. The German, in his scientific endeavour to get in the whole of life, gives us a mass of unrelated detail. A French writer by a few phrases makes us see a character more clearly than a German presents him after many painful pages of wearisome description.

Mrs. Ward is not too much in earnest in following her ideals of art; no one can be. But she is too sadly serious. There is a mental tension in her books, like the tension of overwork and mental exhaustion, like the tension of overwrought nerves; her books are, in fact, filled with tired and overworked men and women, jaded and gone stale. How many of her characters seem to need a change--what they want is rest and sleep! Many of them ought to be in a sanatorium.

Her books are devoid of charm. One does not have to compare her with the great masters to feel this deficiency; it would not be fair to compare her with Thackeray. But if we select among all the novelists of real distinction the one whom, perhaps, she most closely approaches,--Anthony Trollope,--the enormous distance between _Diana Mallory_ and _Framley Parsonage_ is instantly manifest. We think of Trollope with a glow of reminiscent delight; but although Trollope and Mrs. Ward talk endlessly on much the same range of subject-matter, how far apart they really are! Mrs. Ward's books are crammed with politicians and clergymen, who keep the patient reader informed on modern aspects of political and religious thought; but the difficulty is that they substitute phrases for ideas. Mrs. Ward knows all the political and religious cant of the day; she is familiar with the catch-words that divide men into hostile camps; but in all these dreary pages of serious conversation there is no real illumination. She completely lacks the art that Trollope possessed, of making ordinary people attractive. But to find out the real distance that separates her productions from literature, one should read, let us say, _The Marriage of William Ashe_ and then take up _Pride and Prejudice_. The novels of Mrs. Ward bear about the same relation to first-class fiction that maps and atlases bear to great paintings.

This lack of charm that I always feel in reading Mrs. Ward's books (and I have read them all) is owing not merely to the lack of humour. It is partly due to what seems to be an almost total absence of freshness, spontaneity, and originality. Mrs. Ward works like a well-trained and high-class graduate student, who is engaged in the preparation of a doctor's thesis. Her discussions of socialism, her scenes in the House of Commons and on the Terrace, her excursions to Italy, her references to political history, her remarks on the army, her disquisitions on theology, her pictures of campaign riots, her studies of defective drainage, her representations of the labouring classes,--all these are "worked up" in a scholarly and scientific manner; there is the modern passion for accuracy, there is the German completeness of detail,--there is, in fact, everything except the breath of life. She works in the descriptive manner, from the outside in--not in the inspired manner which goes with imagination, sympathy, and genius. She is not only a student, she is a journalist; she is a special correspondent on politics and theology; but she is not a creative writer. For she has the critical, not the creative, temperament.

The monotonous sameness of her books, which has been mentioned above, is largely owing to the sameness of her characters. She changes the frames, but not the portraits. First of all, in almost any of her books we are sure to meet the studious, intellectual young man. He always has a special library on some particular subject, with the books all annotated. One wearies of this perpetual character's perpetual library, crowded, as it always is, with the latest French and German monographs. Her heroes smell of books and dusty dissertations, and the conversations of these heroes are plentifully lacking in native wit and originality--they are the mere echoes of their reading. Let us pass in review a few of these serious students--Robert Elsmere, Langham, Aldous Reyburn (who changes into Lord Maxwell, but who remains a prig), the melancholy Helbeck, the insufferable Manisty, Jacob Delafield, William Ashe, Oliver Marsham--all, all essentially the same, tiresome, dull, heavy men--what a pity they were not intended as satires! Second, as a foil to this man, we have the Byronic, clever, romantic, sentimental, insincere man--who always degenerates or dies in a manner that exalts the dull and superior virtues of his antagonist. Such a man is Wharton, or Sir George Tressady, or Captain Warkworth, or Cliffe--they have different names in different novels, but they are the same character. Curiously enough, the only convincing men that appear in her pages are _old_ men--men like Lord Maxwell or Sir James Chide. In portraying this type she achieves success.

What shall we say of her heroines? They have the same suspicious resemblance so characteristic of her heroes; they are represented as physically beautiful, intensely eager for morality and justice, with an extraordinary fund of information, and an almost insane desire to impart it. Her heroine is likely to be or to become a power in politics; even at a tender age she rules society by the brilliancy of her conversation; in a crowded drawing-room the Prime Minister hangs upon her words; diplomats are amazed at her intimate knowledge of foreign relations, and of the resources of the British Empire; and she can entertain a whole ring of statesmen and publicists by giving to each exactly the right word at the right moment. Men who are making history come to her not only for inspiration but for guidance, for she can discourse fluently on all phases of the troublesome labour question. And yet, if we may judge of this marvellous creature not by the attitude of the other characters in the book, but by the actual words that fall from her lips, we are reminded of the woman whom Herbert Spencer's friends selected as his potential spouse. They shut him up with her, and awaited the result with eagerness, for they told him she had a great mind; but on emerging from the trial interview Spencer remarked that she would not do at all: "The young lady is, in my opinion, too highly intellectual; or, I should rather say--morbidly intellectual. A small brain in a state of intense activity." Was there ever a better formula for Mrs. Ward's constantly recurring heroine? Now, as a foil to Marcella, Diana Mallory, and the others, Mrs. Ward gives us the frivolous, mischief-making, would-be brilliant, and actually vulgar woman, who makes much trouble for the heroine and ultimately more for herself--the wife of Sir George Tressady, the young upstart in _Diana Mallory_, and all the rest of them. By the introduction of these characters there is an attempt to lend colour to the dull pages of the novels. These women are at heart adventuresses, but they are apt to lack the courage of their convictions; instead of being brilliant and terrible,--like the great adventuresses of fiction,--they are as dull in sin as their antagonists are dull in virtue. Mrs. Ward cannot make them real; compare any one of them with Thackeray's Beatrix or with Becky Sharp--to say nothing of the long list of sinister women in French and Russian fiction.

There are no "supreme moments" in Mrs. Ward's books; no great dramatic situations; she has tried hard to manage this, for she has had repeatedly one eye on the stage. When _The Marriage of William Ashe_ and _Lady Rose's Daughter_ appeared, one could almost feel the strain for dramatic effect. It was as though she had realised that her previous books were treatises rather than novels, and had gathered all her energies together to make a severe effort for real drama. But, unfortunately, the scholarly and critical temperament is not primarily adapted for dramatic masterpieces. In the endeavour to recall thrilling scenes in her novels, scenes that brand themselves for ever on the memory, one has only to compare her works with such stories as _Far From the Madding Crowd_ or _The Return of the Native_, and her painful deficiency is immediately apparent.

In view of what I believe to be the standard mediocrity of her novels, how shall we account for their enormous vogue? The fact is, whether we like it or not, that she is one of the most widely read of all living novelists. Well, in the first place, she is absolutely respectable and safe. It is assuredly to her credit that she has never stooped for popularity. She has never descended to melodrama, clap-trap, or indecency. She is never spectacular and declamatory like Marie Corelli, and she is never morally offensive like some popular writers who might be mentioned. She writes for a certain class of readers whom she thoroughly understands: they are the readers who abhor both vulgarity and pruriency, and who like to enter vicariously, as they certainly do in her novels, into the best English society. In her social functions her readers can have the pleasure of meeting prime ministers, lords, and all the dwellers in Mayfair, and they know that nothing will be said that is shocking or improper. Her books can safely be recommended to young people, and they reflect the current movement of English thought as well as could be done by a standard English review. She has a well-furnished and highly developed intellect; she is deeply read; she makes her readers think that they are thinking. She tries to make up for artistic deficiencies by an immense amount of information. Fifty years ago it is probable that she would not have written novels at all, but rather thoughtful and intellectual critical essays, for which her mind is admirably fitted. She unconsciously chose the novel simply because the novel has been, during the last thirty years, the chief channel of literary expression. But in spite of her popularity, it should never be forgotten that the novel is an art-form, not a medium for doctrinaires.

Then, with her sure hand on the pulse of the public, she is always intensely modern, intensely contemporary; again like a well-trained journalist. She knows exactly what Society is talking about, for she emphatically belongs to it. This is once more a reason why so many people believe that she holds the key to great problems of social life, and that her next book will give the solution. Many hoped that her novel on America, carefully worked up during her visit here, would give the final word on American social life. Both England and the United States were to find out what the word "American" really means.

Mrs. Ward is an exceedingly talented, scholarly, and thoughtful woman, of lofty aims and actuated only by noble motives; she is hungry for intellectual food, reading both old texts and the daily papers with avidity. She has a highly trained, sensitive, critical mind,--but she is destitute of the divine spark of genius. Her books are the books of to-day, not of to-morrow; for while the political and religious questions of to-day are of temporary interest, the themes of the world's great novels are what Richardson called "love and nonsense, men and women"--and these are eternal.

XI

RUDYARD KIPLING

Mr. Rudyard Kipling is in the anomalous and fortunate position of having enjoyed a prodigious reputation for twenty years, and being still a young man. Few writers in the world to-day are better known than he; and it is to be hoped and expected that he has before him over thirty years of active production. He has not yet attained the age of forty-five; but his numerous stories, novels, and poems have reached the unquestioned dignity of "works," and in uniform binding they make on my library shelves a formidable and gallant display. Foreigners read them in their own tongues; critical essays in various languages are steadily accumulating; and he has received the honour of being himself the hero of a strange French novel.[15] His popularity with the general mass of readers has been sufficient to satisfy the wildest dreams of an author's ambition; and his fame is, in a way, officially sanctioned by the receipt of honorary degrees from McGill University, from Durham, from Oxford, and from Cambridge; and in 1907 he was given the Nobel Prize, with the ratifying applause of the whole world. There is no indication that either the shouts of the mob or the hoods of Doctorates have turned his head; he remains to-day what he always has been--a hard, conscientious workman, trying to do his best every time.

[15] A curious and ironical book, _Dingley_, by Tharaud.

Although Mr. Kipling is British to the core, there is nothing insular about his experience; he is as much-travelled as Ulysses.

"For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known: cities of men, And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honour'd of them all."

Born in India, educated at an English school, circumnavigator of the globe, he is equally at home in the snows of the Canadian Rockies, or in the fierce heat east of Suez; in the fogs of the Channel, or under the Southern Cross at Capetown. Nor is he a mere sojourner on the earth: he has lived for years in his own house, in England, in Vermont, and in India, and has had abundant opportunity to compare the climate of Brattleboro with that of Bombay.

A born journalist and reporter, his publications first saw the light in ephemeral Indian sheets. In the late eighties he began to amuse himself with the composition of squibs of verse, which he printed in the local newspaper; these became popular, and were cited and sung with enthusiasm. Emboldened by this first taste of success, he put together a little volume bound like a Government report; he then sent around reply post-cards for cash orders, in the fashion already made famous by Walt Whitman. It is needless to say that copies of this book command a fancy price to-day. He immediately contracted what Holmes used to call "lead-poisoning," and the sight of his work in type made a literary career certain. He produced volume after volume, in both prose and verse, with amazing rapidity, and his fame overflowed the world. A London periodical prophesied in 1888, "The book gives hope of a new literary star of no mean magnitude rising in the East." The amount and excellence of his output may be judged when we remember that in the three years from 1886 to 1889 he published _Departmental Ditties_, _Plain Tales from the Hills_, _Soldiers Three_, _In Black and White_, _The Story of the Gadsbys_, _The Man Who Would Be King_, _The Phantom 'Rickshaw_, _Wee Willie Winkie_, and other narratives.

The originality, freshness, and power of all this work made Europe stare and gasp. For some years he had as much notoriety as reputation. We used to hear of the Kipling "craze," the Kipling "boom," the Kipling "fad," and Kipling clubs sprang up like mushrooms. It was difficult to read him in cool blood, because he was discussed pro and con with so much passion. He was fashionable, in the manner of ping-pong; and there were not wanting pessimistic prophets who looked upon him as a comet rather than a fixed star. So late as 1895 a well-known American journal said of him: "Rudyard Kipling is supposed to be the cleverest man now handling the pen. The magazines accept everything he writes, and pay him fabulous prices. Kipling is now printing a series of Jungle Stories that are so weak and foolish that we have never been able to read them. They are not fables: they are stories of animals talking, and they are pointless, so far as the average reader is able to judge. We have asked a good many magazine editors about Kipling's Jungle Stories; they all express the same astonishment that the magazine editors accept them. Kipling will soon be dropped by the magazine editors; they will inevitably discover that his stories are not admired by the people. Robert Louis Stevenson died just in time to save him from the same fate."

Many honestly believed that Mr. Kipling could write only in flashes; that he was incapable of producing a complete novel. His answer to this was _The Light that Failed_, which, although he made the mistake of giving it a reversible ending, indicated that his own lamp had yet sufficient oil. In 1895 he added immensely to the solidity of his fame by printing _The Brushwood Boy_, the scenes of which he announced previously would be laid in "England, India, and the world of dreams." Here he temporarily forsook the land of mysterious horror for the land of mysterious beauty, and many were grateful, and said so. In 1896 the appearance of _The Seven Seas_ proved beyond cavil that he was something more than a music-hall rimester--that he was really among the English poets. The very next year _The Recessional_ stirred the religious consciousness of the whole English-speaking race. And although much of his subsequent career seems to be a nullification of the sentiment of that poem, it will remain imperishable when the absent-minded beggars and the flannelled fools have reached the oblivion they so richly deserve.

In 1897 he tried his hand for the second time at a complete novel, _Captains Courageous_, and the result might safely be called a success. The moral of this story will be worth a word or two later on. The next year an important volume came from his pen, _The Day's Work_--important because it is in this volume that the new Kipling is first plainly seen, and the mechanical engineer takes the place of the literary artist. Such curiosities as _The Ship that Found Herself_, _The Bridge-Builders_, _.007_, became anything but curiosities in his later work. This collection was sadly marred by the inclusion of such wretched stuff as _My Sunday at Home_, and _An Error in the Fourth Dimension_; but it was glorified by one of the most exquisitely tender and beautiful of all Mr. Kipling's tales, _William the Conqueror_. And it should not be forgotten that the author saw fit to close this volume with the previously printed and universally popular _Brushwood Boy_. Then, at the very height of his ten years' fame, Mr. Kipling came closer to death than almost any other individual has safely done. As he lay sick with pneumonia in New York, the American people, whom he has so frequently ridiculed, were more generally and profoundly affected than they have been at the bedside of a dying President. The year 1899 marked the great physical crisis of his life, and seems also to indicate a turning-point in his literary career.

Whatever may be thought of the relative merits of Mr. Kipling's early and later style, it is fortunate for him that the two decades of composition were not transposed. We all read the early work because we could not help it; we read his twentieth-century compositions because he wrote them. It is lucky that the _Plain Tales from the Hills_ preceded _Puck of Pook's Hill_, and that _The Light that Failed_ came before _Stalky and Co._ Whether these later productions could have got into print without the tremendous prestige of their author's name, is a question that has all the fascination and all the insolubility of speculative philosophy. The suddenness of his early popularity may be perhaps partly accounted for by the fact that he was working a new field. The two authors who have most influenced Mr. Kipling's style are both Americans--Bret Harte and Mark Twain; and the analogy between the sudden fame of Harte and the sudden fame of Mr. Kipling is too obvious to escape notice. Bret Harte found in California ore of a different kind than his maddened contemporaries sought; his early tales had all the charm of something new and strange. What Bret Harte made out of California Mr. Kipling made out of India; at the beginning he was a "sectional writer," who, with the instinct of genius, made his literary opportunity out of his environment. The material was at hand, the time was ripe, and the man was on the spot. It was the strong "local colour" in these powerful Indian tales that captivated readers--who, in far-away centres of culture and comfort, delighted to read of primitive passions in savage surroundings. We had all the rest and change of air that we could have obtained in a journey to the Orient, without any of the expense, discomfort, and peril.

But after the spell of the wizard's imagination has left us, we cannot help asking, after the manner of the small boy, Is it true? Are these pictures of English and native life in India faithful reflexions of fact? Can we depend on Mr. Kipling for India, as we can depend (let us say) on Daudet for a picture of the _Rue de la Paix_? Now it is a notable fact that local colour seems most genuine to those who are unable to verify it. It is a melancholy truth that the community portrayed by a novelist not only almost invariably deny the likeness of the portrait, but that they emphatically resent the liberty taken. Stories of college life are laughed to scorn by the young gentlemen described therein, no matter how fine the local colour may seem to outsiders. The same is true of social strata in society, of provincial towns, and Heaven only knows what the Slums would say to their depiction in novels, if only the Slums could read. One reason for this is that a novel or a short story must have a beginning and an end, and some kind of a plot; whereas life has no such thing, nor anything remotely resembling it. When honest people see their daily lives, made up of thousands of unrelated incidents, served up to remote readers in the form of an orderly progression of events, leading up to a proper climax, the whole thing seems monstrously unreal and untrue. "Why, we are not in the least like that!" they cry. And I have purposely omitted the factor of exaggeration, absolutely essential to the realistic novelist or playwright.

In a notice of the _Plain Tales from the Hills_, the London _Saturday Review_ remarked, "Mr. Kipling knows and appreciates the English in India." But it is more interesting and profitable to see how his stories were regarded in the country he described. In the _Calcutta Times_, for 14 September, 1895, there was a long editorial which is valuable, at any rate, for the point of view. After mentioning the _Plain Tales_, _Soldiers Three_, _Barrack-room Ballads_, etc., the _Times_ critic said:--

"Except in a few instances which might easily be numbered on the fingers of one hand, nothing in the books we have named is at all likely to live or deserves to live.... It will probably be answered that this sweeping condemnation is not of much value against the emphatic approval of the British public and the aforesaid chorus of critics in praise of the new Genius.... And the English critics have this to plead in excuse of their hyperbolical appreciation of the Stronger Dickens, that his first work came to them fathered with responsible guarantee from men who should have known better, that it was in the way of a revelation of Anglo-Indian society, a-letting in the light of truth on places which had been very dark indeed.

"Now the average English critic knows very little of the intricacies of social life in India, and in the enthusiasm which Mrs. Hauksbee and kindred creations inspired he accepted too readily as true types what are, in fact, caricatures, or distorted presentments, of some of the more poisonous social characteristics to be found in Anglo-Indian as well as in every other civilised society.... Do not let us be understood as recklessly running down Kipling and all his works.... He possesses in a high degree the power of describing a certain class of emotions, and the flights of his imagination in some directions are extremely bold and original. In such tales, for instance, as 'The Man who would be a King' (_sic_) and 'The Ride of Morrowby Jukes' (_sic_) there are qualities of the imagination which equal, if they do not surpass, anything in the same line with which we are acquainted.... The capital charge, in the opinion of many, the head and front of his offending, is that he has traduced a whole society, and has spread libels broadcast. Anglo-Indian society may in some respects be below the average level of the best society in the Western world, where the rush and stir of life and the collision of intellects combine to keep the atmosphere clearer and more bracing than in this land of tennis, office boxes, frontier wars, and enervation. But as far as it falls below what many would wish it to be, so far it rises above the description of it which now passes current at home under the sanction of Kipling's name.... For whether Kipling is treating of Indian subjects pure and simple, of Anglo-Indian subjects, or is attempting a Western theme, the personality of the writer is pervasive and intrusive everywhere, with all its limitations of vision and information, as well as with its eternal panoply of cheap smartness and spiced vulgarity.... Smartness is always first with him, and Truth may shift for herself."

Although the writer of the above article is somewhat blinded by prejudice and wrath, it is, nevertheless, interesting testimony from the particular section of our planet which Mr. Kipling was at that time supposed to know best. And out in San Francisco they are still talking of Mr. Kipling's visit there, and the "abominable libel" of California life and customs he chose to publish in _From Sea to Sea_.

Apart from Mr. Kipling's good fortune in having fresh material to deal with, the success of his early work lay chiefly in its dominant quality--Force. For the last thirty years, the world has been full of literary experts, professional story-writers, to whom the pen is a means of livelihood. Our magazines are crowded with tales which are well written, and nothing else. They say nothing, because their writers have nothing to say. The impression left on the mind by the great majority of handsomely bound novels is like that of a man who beholds his natural face in a glass. The thing we miss is the thing we unconsciously demand--Vitality. In the rare instances where vitality is the ground-quality, readers forgive all kinds of excrescences and defects, as they did twenty years ago in Mr. Kipling, and later, for example, in Jack London. The original vigour and strength of Mr. Kipling's stories were to the jaded reader a keen, refreshing breeze; like Marlowe in Elizabethan days he seemed a towering, robust, masculine personality, who had at his command an inexhaustible supply of material absolutely new. This undoubted vigour was naturally unaccompanied by moderation and good taste; Mr. Kipling's sins against artistic proportion and the law of subtle suggestion were black indeed. He simply had no reserve. In _The Man Who Would Be King_, which I have always regarded as his masterpiece, the subject was so big that no reserve in handling it was necessary. The whole thing was an inspiration, of imagination all compact. But in many other instances his style was altogether too loud for his subject. One wearies of eternal fortissimo. Many of his tales should have been printed throughout in italics. In examples of this nature, which are all too frequent in the "Complete Works" of Mr. Kipling, the tragedy becomes melodrama; the humour becomes buffoonery; the picturesque becomes bizarre; the terrible becomes horrible; and vulgarity reigns supreme.

He is far better in depicting action than in portraying character. This is one reason why his short stories are better than his novels. In _The Light that Failed_, with all its merits, he never realised the character of Maisie; but in his tales of violent action, we feel the vividness of the scene, time and again. His work here is effective, because Mr. Kipling has an acute sense of the value of words, just as a great musician has a correct ear for the value of pitch. When one takes the trouble to analyse his style in his most striking passages, it all comes down to skill in the use of the specific word--the word that makes the picture clear, sometimes intolerably clear. Look at the nouns and adjectives in this selection from _The Drums of the Fore and Aft_:

"They then selected their men, and slew them with deep gasps and short hacking coughs, and groanings of leather belts against strained bodies, and realised for the first time that an Afghan attacked is far less formidable than an Afghan attacking; which fact old soldiers might have told them.

"But they had no old soldiers in their ranks."

There are two defects in Mr. Kipling's earlier work that might perhaps be classed as moral deficiencies. One is the almost ever present coarseness, which the author mistook for vigour. Now the tendency to coarseness is inseparable from force, and needs to be held in check. Coarseness is the inevitable excrescence of superabundant vitality, just as effeminacy is the danger limit of delicacy and refinement. Swift and Rabelais had the coarseness of a robust English sailor; at their worst they are simply abominable, just as Tennyson at his worst is effeminate and silly. Mr. Kipling has that natural delight in coarseness that all strong natures have, whether they are willing to admit it or not. A large proportion of his scenes of humour are devoted to drunkenness: "gloriously drunk" is a favourite phrase with him. The time may come when this sort of humour will be obsolete. We laugh at drunkenness, as the Elizabethans laughed at insanity, but we are only somewhat nearer real civilisation than they. At any rate, even those who delight in scenes of intoxication must find the theme rather overworked in Mr. Kipling. This same defect in him leads to indulgence in his passion for ghastly detail. This is where he ceases to be a man of letters, and becomes downright journalistic. It is easier to excite momentary attention by physical horror than by any other device; and Mr. Kipling is determined to leave nothing to the imagination. Many instances might be cited; we need only recall the gouging out of a man's eye in _The Light that Failed_, and the human brains on the boot in _Badalia Herodsfoot_.

The other moral defect in this early work was its world-weary cynicism, which was simply foolish in so young a writer. His treatment of women, for example, compares unfavourably with that shown in the frankest tales of Bret Harte. His attitude toward women in these youthful books has been well described as "disillusioned gallantry." The author continually gives the reader a "knowing wink," which, after a time, gets on one's nerves. These books, after all, were probably not meant for women to read, and perhaps no one was more surprised than Mr. Kipling himself at the rapturous exclamations of the thousands of his feminine adorers. A woman rejoicing in the perusal of these Indian tales seems as much out of place as she does in the office of a cheap country hotel, reeking with the fumes of whiskey and stale tobacco, and adorned with men who spit with astonishing accuracy into distant receptacles.

Mr. Kipling doubtless knows more about his own faults than any of the critics; and if after one has read _The Light that Failed_ for the sake of the story, one rereads it attentively as an _Apologia Pro Vita Sua_, one will be surprised to see how many ideas about his art he has put into the mouth of Dick. "Under any circumstances, remember, four-fifths of everybody's work must be bad. But the remnant is worth the trouble for its own sake." "One must do something always. You hang your canvas up in a palm-tree and let the parrots criticise." "If we sit down quietly to work out notions that are sent to us, we may or we may not do something that isn't bad. A great deal depends on being master of the bricks and mortar of the trade. But the instant we begin to think about success and the effect of our work--to play with one eye on the gallery--we lose power and touch and everything else.... I was told that all the world was interested in my work, and everybody at Kami's talked turpentine, and I honestly believed that the world needed elevating and influencing, and all manner of impertinences, by my brushes. By Jove, I actually believed that!... And when it's done it's such a tiny thing, and the world's so big, and all but a millionth part of it doesn't care."

Fortunately, four-fifths of Kipling's work isn't bad. We are safe in ascribing genius to the man who wrote _The Phantom 'Rickshaw_, _The Strange Ride_, _The Man Who Would Be King_, _William the Conqueror_, _The Brushwood Boy_, and _The Jungle Book_. These, and many other tales, to say nothing of his poetry, constitute an astounding achievement for a writer under thirty-five.

But the Kipling of the last ten years is an Imperialist and a Mechanic, rather than a literary man. We need not classify _Stalky and Co._, except to say that it is probably the worst novel ever written by a man of genius. It is on a false pitch throughout, and the most rasping book of recent times. The only good things in it are the quotations from Browning. The Jingo in Mr. Kipling was released by the outbreak of the South African War, and the author of _The Recessional_ forgot everything he had prayed God to remember. He became the voice of the British Empire, and the man who had always ridiculed Americans for bunkum oratory, out-screamed us all. In this imperialistic verse and prose there is not much literature, but there is a great deal of noise, which has occasionally deceived the public; just as an orator is sure of a round of applause if his peroration is shouted at the top of his voice. His recent book, _Puck of Pook's Hill_, is written against the grain; painful effort has supplied the place of the old inspiration, and the simplicity of true art is conspicuous by its absence. Of this volume, _The Athenæum_, in general friendly to Kipling, remarks: "In his new part--the missionary of empire--Mr. Kipling is living the strenuous life. He has frankly abandoned story-telling, and is using his complete and powerful armory in the interest of patriotic zeal." On the other hand, Mr. Owen Wister, whose opinion is valuable, thinks _Puck_ "the highest plane that he has ever reached"--a judgement that I record with respect, though to me it is incomprehensible.

Kipling the Mechanic is less useful than an encyclopædia, and not any more interesting. A comic paper describes him as "now a technical expert; at one time a popular writer. This young man was born in India, came to his promise in America, and lost himself in England. His _Plain Tales of the Hills_ (_sic_) has been succeeded by _Enigmatical Expositions from the Dark Valleys_.... Mr. Kipling has declared that the Americans have never forgiven him for not dying in their country. On the contrary, they have never forgiven him for not having written anything better since he was here than he did before. But while there's Kipling, there's hope." It is to be earnestly hoped that he will cease describing the machinery of automobiles, ships, locomotives, and flying air-vessels, and once more look in his heart and write. His worst enemy is himself. He seems to be in terror lest he should say something ordinary and commonplace. He has been so praised for his originality and powerful imagination, that his later books give one the impression of a man writing in the sweat of his face, with the grim determination to make every sentence a literary event. Such a tale as _Wireless_ shows that the zeal for originality has eaten him up. One can feel on every page the straining for effect, and it is as exhausting to read as it is to watch a wrestling-match, and not nearly so entertaining. If Mr. Kipling goes on in the vein of these later years, he may ultimately survive his reputation, as many a good man has done before him. I should think even now, when the author of _Puck of Pook's Hill_ turns over the pages of _The Man Who Would Be King_, he would say with Swift, "Good God! what a genius I had when I wrote that book!"

His latest collection of tales, with the significant title, _Actions and Reactions_, is a particularly welcome volume to those of us who prefer the nineteenth century Kipling to the twentieth. To be sure, the story _With the Night Mail_, shows the new mechanical cleverness rather than the old inspiration; it is both ingenious and ephemeral, and should have remained within the covers of the magazine where it first appeared. Furthermore, _A Deal in Cotton_, _The Puzzler_, and _Little Foxes_ are neither clever nor literary; they are merely irritating, and remind us of a book we would gladly forget, called _Traffics and Discoveries_. But the first narrative in this new volume, with the caption, _An Habitation Enforced_, is one of the most subtle, charming, and altogether delightful things that Mr. Kipling has ever given us; nor has he ever brought English and American people in conjunction with so much charity and good feeling. I do not think he has previously shown greater psychological power than in this beautiful story. In the second tale, _Garm--A Hostage_, Mr. Kipling joins the ranks of the dog worshippers; the exploits of this astonishing canine will please all dog-owners, and many others as well. Naturally he has to exaggerate; instead of making his four-footed hero merely intelligent, he makes him noble in reason, infinite in faculty, in apprehension like a god, the paragon of animals. But it is a brilliant piece of work. The last story, _The House Surgeon_, takes us into the world of spirit, whither Mr. Kipling has successfully conducted his readers before. This mysterious domain seems to have a constantly increasing attraction for modern realistic writers, and has enormously enlarged the stock of material for contemporary novelists. The field is the world, yes; but the world is bigger than it used to be, bigger than any boundaries indicated by maps or globes. It would be interesting to speculate just what the influence of all these transcendental excursions will be on modern fiction as an educational force. Mr. Kipling apparently writes with sincere conviction, and in a powerfully impressive manner. The poetic interludes in this volume, like those in _Puck of Pook's Hill_, show that the author's skill in verse has not in the least abated; the lines on _The Power of the Dog_ are simply irresistible. It is safe to say that _Actions and Reactions_ will react favourably on all unprejudiced readers; and for this relief much thanks. If one wishes to observe the difference between the inspired and the ingenious Mr. Kipling, one has only to read this collection straight through.[16]

[16] I have not discussed a new collection of Mr. Kipling's stories, called _Abaft the Funnel_, consisting of reprints of early fugitive pieces; because there is not the slightest indication that this book is in any way authorised, or that its publication has the approval of the man who wrote it. Perhaps an authorised edition of it may now become necessary.

Like almost all Anglo-Saxon writers, Mr. Kipling is a moralist, and his gospel is Work. He believes in the strenuous life as a cure-all. He apparently does not agree with Goethe that To Be is greater than To Do. The moral of _Captains Courageous_ is the same moral contained in the ingenious bee-hive story. The unpardonable sin is Idleness. But although Work is good for humanity, it is rather limited as an ideal, and we cannot rate Mr. Kipling very high as a spiritual teacher. God is not always in the wind, or in the earthquake, or in the fire. The day-dreams of men like Stevenson and Thackeray sometimes bear more fruit than the furious energy of Mr. Kipling.

But the consuming ambition of this man, and his honest desire to do his best, will, let us hope, spare him the humiliation of being beaten by his own past. After all, Genius is the rarest article in the world, and one who undoubtedly has it is far more likely to reach the top of the hill than he is to take the road to Danger, which leads into a great wood; or the road to Destruction, which leads into a wide field, full of dark mountains.

XII

"LORNA DOONE"

The air of Devon and Somerset is full of literary germs. The best advice a London hack could give to a Gigadibs would be _Go west, young man_. The essential thing is to establish a residence south of Bristol, grow old along with Wessex, and inhale the atmosphere. Thousands of reverent pilgrims, on foot, on bicycle, and in automobile, are yearly following the tragic trails of Mr. Hardy's heroines; to a constantly increasing circle of interested observers, Mr. Eden Phillpotts is making the topography of Devon clearer than an ordnance map; if Mrs. Willcocks writes a few more novels like _The Wingless Victory_ and _A Man of Genius_, we shall soon all be talking about her--just wait and see; and in the summer season, when soft is the sun, the tops of coaches in North Devon and Somerset are packed with excited Americans, carrying Lornas instead of Baedekers. To the book-loving tourists, every inch of this territory is holy ground.

Yet the author of our favourite romance was not by birth a Wessex man. Mr. Richard D. Blackmore (for, like the creator of _Robinson Crusoe_, his name is not nearly so well known as his work) first "saw the light" in Berkshire, the year being 1825. But he was exposed to the Wessex germs at the critical period of boyhood, actually going to Blundell's School at Tiverton, a small town in the heart of Devonshire, fourteen miles north of Exeter, at the union of Exe and Lowman rivers. To this same school he sent John Ridd, as we learn in the second paragraph of the novel:--

"John Ridd, the elder, churchwarden, and overseer, being a great admirer of learning, and well able to write his name, sent me, his only son, to be schooled at Tiverton, in the County of Devon. For the chief boast of that ancient town (next to its woolen staple) is a worthy grammar-school, the largest in the west of England, founded and handsomely endowed in the year 1604 by Master Peter Blundell, of that same place, clothier."

From this institution young Blackmore proceeded to Exeter College, Oxford, where he laid the foundations of his English style by taking high rank in the classics. Like many potential poets and novelists, he studied law, and was called to the bar in 1852. But he cared little for the dusty purlieus of the Middle Temple, and not at all for city life: his father was a country parson, as it is the fashion for English fathers of men of letters to be, and the young man loved the peace and quiet of rural scenery. He finally made a home at Teddington, in Middlesex, and devoted himself to the avocation of fruit-growing. On this subject he became an authority, and his articles on gardening were widely read. Here he died in January, 1900.

His death was mourned by many thousand persons who never saw him, and who knew nothing about his life. The public always loves the makers of its favourite books; but in the case of Mr. Blackmore, every reader of his masterpiece felt a peculiarly intimate relation with the man who wrote it. The story is so full of the milk of human kindness, its hero and heroine are so irresistibly attractive, and it radiates so wholesome and romantic a charm, that one cannot read it without feeling on the best possible terms with the author--as if both were intimate friends of long standing. For _Lorna Doone_ is a book we think we have always been reading; we can hardly recall the time when it had not become a part of our literary experience; just as it takes an effort to remember that there were days and years when we were not even aware of the existence of persons who are now indissolubly close. They have since become so necessary that we imagine life before we knew them must really have been more barren than it seemed.

Like many successful novelists, Mr. Blackmore began his literary career by the publication of verse, several volumes of poems appearing from his pen during the years 1854-1860. Although he never entirely abandoned verse composition, which it was only too apparent that he wrote with his left hand, the coolness with which his Muse was received may have been a cause of his attempting the quite different art of the novel. It is pleasant to remember, however, that in these early years he translated Vergil's _Georgics_; combining his threefold love of the classics, of poetry, and of gardening. Of how much practical agricultural value he found the Mantuan bard, we shall never know.

Contrary to a common supposition, _Lorna Doone_ was not his first story. He launched two ventures before his masterpiece--_Clara Vaughan_ in 1864, and _Cradock Nowell_ in 1866. These won no applause, and have not emerged from the congenial oblivion in which they speedily foundered. After these false starts, the great book came out in 1869, with no blare of publisher's trumpet, with scanty notice from the critics, and with no notice of any kind from the public. In the preface to the twentieth edition, and his various prefaces are well worth reading, the author remarked:--

"What a lucky maid you are, my Lorna! When first you came from the Western Moors nobody cared to look at you; the 'leaders of the public taste' led none of it to make test of you. Having struggled to the light of day, through obstruction and repulses, for a year and a half you shivered in a cold corner, without a sun-ray. Your native land disdained your voice, and America answered, 'No child of mine'; knowing how small your value was, you were glad to get your fare paid to any distant colony."

The _Saturday Review_ for 5 November, 1870, uttered a few patronising words of praise. The book was called "a work of real excellence," but the reviewer timidly added, "We do not pretend to rank it with the acknowledged masterpieces of fiction." On the whole, there is good ground for gratitude that the public was so slow to see the "real excellence" of _Lorna_. A sudden blaze of popularity is sometimes so fierce as to consume its cause. Let us spend a few moments in devout meditation, while we recall the ashes of "the book of the year." The gradual dawn of Lorna's fame has assured her of a long and fair day.

Possibly one of the reasons why this great romance made so small an impression was because it appeared at an unpropitious time. The sower sowed the seed; but the thorns of Reade and Trollope sprang up and choked them. These two novelists were in full action; and they kept the public busy. Realism was strong in the market; people did not know then, as we do now, that The _Cloister and the Hearth_ was worth all the rest of Charles Reade put together. Had _Lorna Doone_ appeared toward the end of the century, when the Romantic Revival was in full swing, it would have received a royal welcome. But how many would have recognised its superiority to the tinsel stuff of those recent days, full of galvanised knights and stuffed chatelaines? For _Lorna_ belongs to a class of fiction with which we were flooded in the nineties, though, compared with the ordinary representative of its kind, it is as a star to a glow-worm. Readers then enjoyed impossible characters, whose talk was mainly of "gramercy" and similar curiosities, for they had the opportunity to "revel in the glamour of a bogus antiquity." But an abundance of counterfeits does not lower the value of the real metal; and _Lorna_ is a genuine coin struck from the mint of historical romance. In the original preface its author modestly said:--

"This work is called a 'romance,' because the incidents, characters, time, and scenery are alike romantic. And in shaping this old tale, the writer neither dares, nor desires, to claim for it the dignity or cumber it with the difficulty of an historic novel."

In warmth and colour, in correct visualisation, and in successful imitation of the prose of a bygone day (which no one has ever perfectly accomplished), it ranks not very far below the greatest of all English historical romances, _Henry Esmond_.

_Lorna Doone_ is practically one more illustration of Single-Speech Hamilton. After its appearance, its author wrote and published steadily for thirty years; but the fact remains that not only is _Lorna_ his best-known work, but that his entire reputation hangs upon it. Many of his other stories are good, notably _Cripps the Carrier_ and _Perlycross_; the latter has a most ingenious plot; but these two now peacefully repose with their mates in undisturbed slumber at dusty library corners. They had an initial sale because they came from the hand that created _Lorna_; then they were lost in the welter of ephemeral literature. Mr. Blackmore offered his buyers all sorts of wares, but, after a momentary examination, they declined what was "just as good," and returned to their favourite, which, by the way, was never his; he ranked it third among his productions.

For this novel is not only one of the best-loved books in English fiction, and stands magnificently the severe test of rereading, it is bound to have even more admirers in the future than it has ever yet enjoyed; it is visibly growing in reputation every year. It may be interesting to analyse some of its elements, in order to understand what has given it so assured a place. The main plot is simplicity itself. It is a history, however, that the world has always found entertaining, the history of the love of a strong man for a beautiful girl. They meet, he falls in love, he rescues her from peril, she goes up to London, becomes a great lady, returns, is dangerously wounded on her wedding-day, recovers, and they live happily for ever after--_voilà tout_. A very simple plot, yet the telling fills two stout volumes, with the reader's interest maintained from first to last.

It is told in the first person--the approved method of the historical romance. Professor Raleigh has admirably pointed out the virtues and defects of the three ways of composing a novel,--direct discourse by the chief actor, the exclusive employment of letters, and the "invisible and omniscient" impersonal author.[17] It is interesting to note, in passing, that our first English novelist, Defoe, adopted the first method; Richardson, our second novelist, took the second; and Fielding, our third novelist, took the third. Now, the great advantage of having John Ridd speak throughout is the gain in reality and vividness; it is as though we sat with him in the ingle, and obtained all our information at first hand. What is lost by narrowness of experience is made up in intensity; we follow him breathlessly, as Desdemona followed Othello, and he has every moment our burning sympathy. We participate more fully in his joys and sorrows, in the agony of his suspense; we share his final triumph. He is talking directly to us, and John Ridd is a good talker. He is the kind of man who appeals to all classes of listeners. He has the gentleness and modesty that are so becoming to great physical strength; the love of children, animals, and all helpless creatures; reverence for God, purity of heart, and a noble slowness to wrath. Such a man is simply irresistible, and we are sorry when he finishes his tale. The defect in this method of narration, which Mr. Blackmore has employed with such success, is the inevitable defect in all stories written in this manner, as Professor Raleigh has observed: "It takes from the novelist the privilege of killing his hero." When John Ridd is securely bound, and the guns of hostile soldiers are levelled at his huge bulk, with their fingers actually on the triggers, we laugh at ourselves for our high-beating hearts; for of course he is unkillable, else how could he be talking at this very moment?

[17] _The English Novel_, Chapter VI.

The plot of _Lorna Doone_, which, as we have observed, is very simple, is, nevertheless, skilfully complicated. It is not a surprise plot, like that of _A Pair of Blue Eyes_; we are not stunned by the last page. It is a suspense plot; we have a well-founded hope that all will come right in the end, and yet the author has introduced enough disturbing elements to put us occasionally in a maze. This artistic suspense is attained partly by the method of direct discourse; which, at the same time, develops the character of the hero. Big John repeats incidents, dwells lengthily on minute particulars, stops to enjoy the scenery, and makes mountains of stories out of molehills of fact. The second complication of the plot arises from the introduction of characters that apparently divert the course of the story without really doing so. There are nineteen important characters, all held well in hand; and a conspicuous example of a complicating personage is little Ruth Huckaback. She interferes in the main plot in an exceedingly clever way. The absorbing question in every reader's mind is, of course, Will John marry Lorna? Now Ruth's interviews with the hero are so skilfully managed, and with such intervals of time between, that on some pages she seems destined to be his bride. And, admirably drawn as her character is, when her artistic purpose in the plot is fully accomplished, she quietly fades out, with the significant tribute, "Ruth Huckaback is not married yet."

There is also a subsidiary plot, dovetailed neatly into the main building. This is the story of the attractive highwayman, Tom Faggus, and his love for John's sister, Annie. Many pages are taken up with the adventures of this gentleman, who enters the novel on horseback (what a horse!) at the moment when the old drake is fighting for his life. Besides our interest in Tom himself, in his wild adventures, and in his reformation, we are interested in the conflict of his two passions, one for the bottle, and one for Annie, and we wonder which will win. This subsidiary love story is still further complicated by the introduction of young De Whichehalse; and in the struggle between John Ridd and the Doones, both Tom Faggus and the De Whichehalse family play important parts. It is interesting, too, to observe how events that seem at the time to be of no particular importance, turn out later to be highly significant; when, at the very beginning of the long story, the little boy, on his way home from school, meets the lady's maid, and shortly after sees the child borne away on the robber's saddle, we imagine all this is put in to enliven the journey, that it is just "detail"; long afterwards we find the artistic motive. In fact, one of the most notable virtues of this admirable plot is the constant introduction of matters apparently irrelevant and due to mere garrulity, such as the uncanny sound, for example, which prove after all to be essential to the course of the narrative.

As for the characters, they impress us differently in different moods. For all John Ridd's prodigious strength, marvellous escapes, and astounding feats, his personality is so intensely human that he seems real. His _soul_, at any rate, is genuine, and wholly natural; his bodily activity--the extraction of Carver's biceps, the wrenching of the branch from the tree, the hurling of the cannon through the door--makes him a dim giant in a fairy story. When we think of the qualities of his mind and heart, he comes quite close; when we think of his physical prowess, he almost vanishes in the land of Fable. I remember the comment of an undergraduate--"John Ridd is as remote as Achilles; he is like a Greek myth."

The women are all well drawn and individualised--except the heroine. I venture to say that no one has ever seen Lorna in his mind's eye. She is like a plate that will not develop. A very pretty girl with an affectionate disposition,--what more can be said? But so long as a Queen has beauty and dignity, she does not need to be interesting; and Lorna is the queen of this romance. John's mother and his two sisters are as like and unlike as members of the same family ought to be; they are real women. Ruth Huckaback and Gwenny Carfax are great additions to our literary acquaintances; each would make an excellent heroine for a realistic novel. They have the indescribable puzzling characteristics that we call feminine; sudden caprices, flashes of unexpected jealousy, deep loyal tenderness, unlimited capacity for self-sacrifice, and in the last analysis, Mystery.

The humour of the story is spontaneous, and of great variety, running from broad mirth to whimsical subtlety. The first concerted attack on the Doones is comic opera burlesque; but the scenes of humour that delight us most are those describing friendly relations with beast and bird. The eye of the old drake, as he stared wildly from his precarious position, and the delight of the ducks as they welcomed his rescue; above all, Annie's care of the wild birds in the bitter cold.

"There was not a bird but knew her well, after one day of comforting; and some would come to her hand, and sit, and shut one eye, and look at her. Then she used to stroke their heads, and feel their breasts, and talk to them; and not a bird of them all was there but liked to have it done to him. And I do believe they would eat from her hand things unnatural to them, lest she should be grieved and hurt by not knowing what to do for them. One of them was a noble bird, such as I had never seen before, of very fine bright plumage, and larger than a missel-thrush. He was the hardest of all to please; and yet he tried to do his best."

Whatever may be the merits of Mr. Blackmore's published verse, there is more poetry in _Lorna Doone_ than in many volumes of formal rime. The wonderful descriptions of the country in shade and shine, in fog and drought, the pictures of the sunrise and the falling water, the "tumultuous privacy" of the snow-storms,--these are all descriptive poems. Every reader has noticed the peculiar rhythm of the style, and wondered if it were intentional. Hundreds of sentences here and there are perfect English hexameters; one can find them by opening the book at random, and reading aloud. But this peculiar element in the style goes much farther than isolated phrases. There are solid passages of steady rhythm, which might correctly be printed in verse form.[18]

[18] A writer in the _Atlantic Monthly_ notes especially the closing paragraph of Chapter XXVIII, and parts of Chapter XXIX.

Mr. Blackmore's personal character was so modest, unassuming, and lovable, that it is not difficult to guess the source of the purity, sweetness, and sincerity of his great book. If he were somewhat surprised at the utter coldness of its first reception, he never got over his amazement at the size and extent of its ultimate triumph. In the preface to the sixth edition, he said:--

"Few things have surprised me more, and nothing has more pleased me, than the great success of this simple tale.... Therefore any son of Devon may imagine, and will not grudge, the writer's delight at hearing from a recent visitor to the west, that '_Lorna Doone_, to a Devonshire man, is as good as clotted cream, almost!'

"Although not half so good as that, it has entered many a tranquil, happy, pure, and hospitable home; and the author, while deeply grateful for this genial reception, ascribes it partly to the fact that his story contains no word or thought disloyal to its birthright in the fairest county of England."

Mr. Blackmore lived long enough to see an entirely different kind of "local colour" become conventional, where many a novelist, portraying his native town or the community in which he dwelt, emphasised with what skill he could command all its poverty, squalor, and meanness; the disgusting vices and malignant selfishness of its inhabitants; and after he had thus fouled his nest by representing it as a mass of filth, degradation, and sin, he imagined he had created a work of art. The author of _Lorna Doone_ had the satisfaction of knowing that he had inspired hundreds of thousands of readers with the love of his favourite west country, and with an intense desire to visit it. And being, like John Ridd, of a forgiving nature, he forgave America for its early neglect of his story; for being informed of the supremacy of _Lorna Doone_ in the hearts of American undergraduates, he remarked, in a letter to the present writer, "The good word of the young, who are at once the most intelligent and the most highly educated of a vast intellectual nation, augurs well for the continuance--at least for a generation--of my fortunate production."

APPENDIX A

NOVELS AS A UNIVERSITY STUDY

Some fourteen years ago, in the pamphlet of elective courses of study open to the senior and junior classes of Yale College, I announced a new course called "Modern Novels." The course and its teacher immediately became the object of newspaper notoriety, which spells academic damnation. From every State in the Union long newspaper clippings were sent to me, in which my harmless little pedagogical scheme was discussed--often under enormous headlines--as a revolutionary idea. It was praised by some, denounced by others, but thoroughly advertised, so that, for many months, I received letters from all parts of the Western Hemisphere, asking for the list of novels read and the method pursued in studying them. During six months these letters averaged three a day, and they came from the north, south, east, and west, from Alaska, Hawaii, Central and South America. The dust raised by all this hubbub crossed the Atlantic. The course was gravely condemned in a column editorial in the London _Daily Telegraph_, and finally received the crowning honour of a parody in _Punch_.

Things have changed somewhat in the last ten years, and although I have never repeated my one year's experiment, I believe that it would be perfectly safe to do so. Not only does the production of new novels continue at constantly accelerating speed, but critical books on the novel have begun to increase and multiply in all directions. At least twenty such works now stand on my shelves, the latest of which (by Selden L. Whitcomb) is frankly called "The Study of a Novel," and boldly begins: "This volume is the result of practical experience in teaching the novel, and its aim is primarily pedagogical."

The objections usually formulated against novels as a university study are about as follows: (_a_) the study of fiction is unacademic--that is, lacking in dignity; (_b_) students will read too many novels anyway, and the emphasis should therefore be thrown on other forms of literary art; (_c_) most recent and contemporary fiction is worthless, and if novels are to be taught at all, the titles selected should be confined entirely to recognised classics; (_d_) many of the novels of to-day are immoral, and the reading of them will corrupt rather than develop adolescent minds; (_e_) they are too "easy," too interesting, and a course confined to them is totally lacking in mental discipline. These objections, each and all, contain some truth, and demand a serious answer.

That the study of fiction is unacademic is a weighty argument, but its weight is the mass of custom and prejudice rather than solid thought. In old times, the curriculum had little to do with real life, so that the most scholarly professors and the most promising pupils were often plentifully lacking in common sense. Students gifted with real independence of mind, marked with an alert interest in the life and thought about them, chafed irritably under the old-fashioned course of study, and often treated it with neglect or open rebellion. What Thomas Gray said of the Cambridge curriculum constitutes a true indictment against eighteenth-century universities; and it was not until very recent times that such studies as history, European literature, modern languages, political economy, natural sciences, and the fine arts were thought to have equal academic dignity with the trinity of Latin, Greek, and mathematics. There are, indeed, many able and conscientious men who still believe that this trinity cannot be successfully rivalled by any other possible group of studies. Now the novel is the most prominent form of modern literary art; and if modern literature is to be studied at all, fiction cannot be overlooked. The profound change brought about in university curricula, caused largely by the elective system, is simply the bringing of college courses of study into closer contact with human life, and the recognition that what young men need is a general preparation to live a life of active usefulness in modern social relations.

That students read too many novels anyway--that is, in proportion to their reading in history and biography--is probably true. But the primary object of a course in novel-reading is not to make the student read more novels, instead of less, nor to substitute the reading of fiction for the reading of other books. The real object is (after a cheerful recognition of the fact that he will read novels anyway) to persuade him to read them intelligently, to observe the difference between good novels and bad, and so to become impatient and disgusted with cheap, sensational, and counterfeit specimens of the novelist's art.

"The common problem, yours, mine, everyone's, Is--not to fancy what were fair in life Provided it could be--but, finding first What may be, then find how to make it fair Up to our means: a very different thing! No abstract intellectual plan of life Quite irrespective of life's plainest laws, But one, a man, who is man and nothing more, May lead within a world which (by your leave) Is Rome or London, not Fool's Paradise."

That much of contemporary fiction is worthless, and that the novels selected should be classics, is a twofold statement, of which the first phrase is true and the second a _non sequitur_. Much ancient and mediæval literature read in college is worthless in itself; it is read because it illustrates the language, or represents some literary form, or because it throws light on the customs and ideas of the time. The fact that a certain obscure work was written in the year 1200 does not necessarily prove that it is more valuable for study than one written in 1909. Now it so happens that the modern novel has become more and more the mirror of modern ideas; and for a student who really wishes to know what people are thinking about all over the world to-day, the novels of Tolstoi, Björnson, Sudermann, and Thomas Hardy cannot wisely be neglected. Why should the study of the contemporary novel and the contemporary drama be tabooed when in other departments of research the aim is to be as contemporary as possible? We have courses in social conditions that actually investigate slums. I am not for a moment pleading that the study of modern novels and modern art should supplant the study of immortal masterpieces; but merely that they should have their rightful place, and not be regarded either with contempt or as unworthy of serious treatment. The two most beneficial ways to study a novel are to regard it, first, as an art-form, and secondly as a manifestation of intellectual life; from neither point of view should the contemporary novel be wholly neglected.

That many of the novels of to-day are immoral is true, but it is still more true of the classics. The proportion of really immoral books to the total production is probably less to-day than it ever was before; in fact, there are an immense number of excellent contemporary novels which are spotless, something that cannot be said of the classics of antiquity or of the great majority of literary works published prior to the nineteenth century. If immorality be the cry, what shall we say about Aristophanes or Ovid? How does the case stand with the comedies of Dryden or with the novels of Henry Fielding? No, it is undoubtedly true that the teacher who handles modern fiction can more easily find a combination of literary excellence and purity of tone than he could in any previous age.

That a course in novels lacks mental discipline and is too easy depends mainly on the teacher and his method. As regards the time consumed in preparation, it is probable that a student would expend three or four times the number of hours on a course in novels than he would in ancient languages, where, unfortunately, the use of a translation is all but universal; and the translation is fatal to mental discipline. But it is not merely a matter of hours; novels can be taught in such a way as to produce the best kind of mental discipline, which consists, first, in compelling a student to do his own thinking, and, secondly, to train him properly in the expression of what ideas he has.

APPENDIX B

THE TEACHER'S ATTITUDE TOWARD CONTEMPORARY LITERATURE

Two things must be admitted at the start--first, that no person is qualified to judge the value of new books who is not well acquainted with the old ones; second, that the only test of the real greatness of any book is Time. It is, of course, vain to hope that any remarks made on contemporary authors will not be misrepresented, but I have placed two axioms at the beginning of this article in order to clear the ground. I am not advocating the abandonment of the study of Homer and Vergil, or proposing to substitute in their stead the study of Hall Caine, Mrs. Ward, and Marie Corelli. I do not believe that Mr. Pinero is a greater dramatist than Sophokles, or that the mental discipline gained by reading _The Jungle_ is equivalent to that obtained in the mastery of Euclid.

I am merely pleading that every thoughtful man who is alive in this year of grace should not attempt to live his whole life in the year 400 B.C., even though he be so humble an individual as a teacher. The very word "teacher" means something more than "scholar"; and scholarship means something more than the knowledge of things that are dead. A good teacher will remember that the boys and girls who come under his instruction are not all going to spend their lives in the pursuit of technical learning. It is his business to influence them; and he cannot exert a powerful influence without some interest in the life and thought of his own day, in the environment in which his pupils exist. I believe that the cardinal error of a divinity-school education is that the candidate for the ministry spends over half his time and energy in the laborious study of Hebrew, whereas he should study the subjects that primarily interest not his colleagues, but his audience.

"Priests Should study passion; how else cure mankind, Who come for help in passionate extremes?"

A preacher who knows Hebrew, Greek, systematic theology, New Testament interpretation, and who knows nothing about literature, history, art, and human nature, is grotesquely unfitted for his noble profession.

In every age it has been the fashion to ridicule and decry the literary production of that particular time. I suppose that the greatest creative period that the world has ever known occurred in England during the years 1590-1616, and here is what Ben Jonson said in 1607: "Now, especially in dramatic, or, as they term it, stage-poetry, nothing but ribaldry, profanation, blasphemy, all license of offence to God and man is practised. I dare not deny a great part of this, and am sorry I dare not." In 1610 he wrote, "Thou wert never more fair in the way to be cozened, than in this age, in poetry, especially in plays; wherein, now the concupiscence of dances and of antics so reigneth, as to run away from nature and be afraid of her, is the only point of art that tickles the spectators." And in 1611 he said, "In so thick and dark an ignorance as now almost covers the age ... you dare, in these jig-given times, to countenance a legitimate poem." And the age which he damned is now regarded as the world's high-water mark!

A man who teaches physics and chemistry is supposed to be familiar not only with the history of his subject, but its latest manifestations; with the work of his contemporaries. A man who teaches political economy and sociology must read the most recent books on these themes both in Europe and America--nay, he must read the newspapers and study the markets, or he will be outstripped by his own pupils. A man who teaches drawing and painting should not only know the history of art, but its latest developments. And yet, when the teacher of literature devotes a small portion of the time of his pupils to the contemplation of contemporary poets, novelists, and dramatists, he is not only blamed for doing so, but some teachers who are ignorant of the writers of their own day boast of their ignorance with true academic pride.

A teacher cannot read every book that appears; he cannot neglect the study and teaching of the recognised classics; but his attitude toward the writers of his own time should not be one of either indifference or contempt. The teacher of English literature should not be the last man in the world to discover the name of an author whom all the world is talking about. And I believe that every great university should offer, under proper restrictions, at least one course in the contemporary drama, or in contemporary fiction, or in some form of contemporary literary art. The Germans are generally regarded as the best scholars in the world, and they never think it beneath their dignity to recognise living authors of distinction. While the British public were condemning in true British fashion an author whom they had not read--Henrik Ibsen--German universities were offering courses exclusively devoted to the study of his works. Imagine a course in Ibsen at Oxford!

But not only should the teacher take an intelligent interest in contemporary authors who have already won a wide reputation, he should be eternally watchful, eternally hopeful--ready to detect signs of promise in the first books of writers whose names are wholly unknown. This does not mean that he should exaggerate the merits of every fresh work, nor beslobber with praise every ambitious quill-driver. On the contrary,--if there be occasion to give an opinion at all,--he should not hesitate to condemn what seems to him shallow, trivial, or counterfeit, no matter how big a "seller" the object in his vision may be. But his sympathies should be warm and keen, and his mind always responsive, when a new planet swims into his ken. One of the most joyful experiences of my life came to me some years ago when I read _Bob, Son of Battle_ with the unknown name Alfred Ollivant on the title-page. It was worth wading through tons of trash to find such a jewel.

And is the literature of our generation really slight and mean? By "Contemporary Literature" we include perhaps authors who have written or who are writing during the lifetime of those who are now, let us say, thirty years old. Contemporary literature would then embrace, in the drama, Ibsen, Björnson, Victor Hugo, Henri Becque, Rostand, Maeterlinck, Sudermann, Hauptmann, Pinero, Jones, and others; in the novel, Turgenev, Tolstoi, Dostoievsky, Björnson, Hugo, Daudet, Zola, Maupassant, Heyse, Sudermann, Hardy, Meredith, Stevenson, Kipling, Howells, Mark Twain, and many others; in poetry, to speak of English writers alone, Tennyson, Browning, Arnold, Swinburne, Morris, Kipling, Phillips, Watson, Thompson, and others. Those who live one hundred years from now will know more about the permanent value of the works of these men than we do; but are these names really of no importance to teachers whose speciality is literature?

APPENDIX C

TWO POEMS

It is interesting to compare the two following poems, written by two distinguished English novelists, both men of fine intelligence, noble character, and absolute sincerity. Mr. Hardy's poem appeared in the _Fortnightly Review_, for 1 January, 1907.

NEW YEAR'S EVE

BY THOMAS HARDY

"I have finished another year," said God, "In grey, green, white, and brown; I have strewn the leaf upon the sod, Sealed up the worm within the clod, And let the last sun down."

"And what's the good of it?" I said, "What reasons made You call From formless void this earth I tread, When nine-and-ninety can be read Why nought should be at all?

"Yea, Sire; why shaped You us, 'who in This tabernacle groan'?-- If ever a joy be found herein, Such joy no man had wished to win If he had never known!"

Then He: "My labours logicless You may explain; not I: Sense-sealed I have wrought, without a guess That I evolved a Consciousness To ask for reasons why!

"Strange, that ephemeral creatures who By my own ordering are, Should see the shortness of my view, Use ethic tests I never knew, Or made provision for!"

He sank to raptness as of yore, And opening New Year's Day Wove it by rote as theretofore, And went on working evermore In his unweeting way.

DOMINUS ILLUMINATIO MEA

BY RICHARD DODDRIDGE BLACKMORE

1

In the hour of death, after this life's whim, When the heart beats low, and the eyes grow dim, And pain has exhausted every limb-- The lover of the Lord shall trust in Him.

2

When the will has forgotten the life-long aim, And the mind can only disgrace its fame, And a man is uncertain of his own name, The power of the Lord shall fill this frame.

3

When the last sigh is heaved and the last tear shed, And the coffin is waiting beside the bed, And the widow and the child forsake the dead, The angel of the Lord shall lift this head.

4

For even the purest delight may pall, The power must fail, and the pride must fall, And the love of the dearest friends grow small-- But the glory of the Lord is all in all.

This poem, with the signature "R. D. B. in memoriam M. F. G." first appeared in the _University Magazine_ in 1879. Although it has been included in some anthologies, the author's name was kept an absolute secret until July, 1909. In the _Athenæum_ for 3 July, 1909, was printed an interesting letter from Agnes E. Cook, by which we learn that the late Mr. Blackmore actually _dreamed_ this poem, in its exact language and metre. The letter from the author which was published in the same _Athenæum_ article, gives the facts connected with this extraordinary dream.

Teddn Jany 5th 1879. My Dear Sir.

Having lately been at the funeral of a most dear relation I was there again (in a dream) last night, and heard the mourners sing the lines enclosed, which impressed me so that I was able to write them without change of a word this morning. I never heard or read them before to my knowledge. They do not look so well on paper as they sounded; but if you like to print them, here they are. Only please not to put my name beyond initials or send me money for them. With all good wishes to Mrs. Cook and yourself

Very truly yours R. D. Blackmore. K Cook Esqre L.L.D.

LIST OF PUBLICATIONS

BY ANDREW KEOGH

[The twelve authors are in alphabetical order. The books of each are in chronological order, the assigned dates being those of the publishers' trade journals in which the fact of publication was first recorded. Novels originally issued as serials have a note giving the name and date of the original magazine.]

BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON

8 December 1832--

[Including only works that have been translated into English.]

1857, Sept. 1. Synnöve Solbakken. Christiania. (_Illustreret Folkeblad_, 1857.)--Trust and Trial. [A translation by Mary Howitt.] London, Hurst, Sept. 15, 1858.--Love and Life in Norway. Tr. by the Hon. Augusta Bethell and A. Plesner. London, Cassell [1870].--Synnöve Solbakken. Tr. by R. B. Anderson. Boston, Houghton, 1881.--Synnöve Solbakken. Given in English by Julie Sutter. London, Macmillan, 1881.

1858. Arne. Bergen, 1858 [1859].--Arne; or, Peasant Life in Norway. Tr. by a Norwegian. Bergen [1861].--Arne: a Sketch of Norwegian Country Life. Tr. by A. Plesner and S. Rugely-Powers. London, Strahan, Aug. 1, 1866.--Arne. Tr. by R. B. Anderson. Boston, Houghton, 1881.--Arne, and the Fisher Lassie. Tr. with an introd. by W. Low. London, Bell, 1890.

1860. En glad Gut. Christiania. (_Aftenbladet._)--Ovind. Tr. by S. and E. Hjerleid. London, 1869.--The Happy Boy. Tr. by Helen R. Gade. Boston, Sever, 1870.--A Happy Boy. Tr. by R. B. Anderson. Boston, Houghton, 1881.--The Happy Lad, and other Tales. London, Blackie, 1882.

1862. Sigurd Slembe. Copenhagen.--Sigurd Slembe: a Dramatic Trilogy. Tr. by W. M. Payne. Boston, Houghton, Oct. 20, 1888.

1865. De Nygifte. Copenhagen.--The Newly Married Couple. Tr. by S. and E. Hjerleid. London, Simpkin, 1870.

1868, Apr. Fiskerjenten. Copenhagen.--The Fisher-Maiden: a Norwegian Tale. From the author's German edition by M. E. Niles. N.Y., Holt, 1869.--The Fishing Girl. Tr. by A. Plesner and F. Richardson. London, Cassell [1870].--The Fisher Girl. Tr. by S. and E. Hjerleid. London, Simpkin, 1871 [1870].--The Fisher Maiden. Tr. by R. B. Anderson. Boston, Houghton, 1882.--Arne and the Fisher Lassie. Tr. with an introd. by W. Low. London, Bell, 1890.

1873. Brude-Slaatten: Fortælling. Copenhagen.--Life by the Fells and Fiords. A Norwegian Sketch-book [containing a translation of the Bridal March]. London, Strahan, 1879.--The Bridal March and other Stories. Tr. by R. B. Anderson. Boston, 1882.--The Wedding March. Tr. by M. Ford. N.Y., Munro, 1882.

1877, Oct. Magnhild: en Fortælling. Copenhagen.--Magnhild. Tr. by R. B. Anderson. Boston, Houghton, 1883 [1882].

1879, Aug. Kaptejn Mansana. Copenhagen.--Captain Mansana, and other Stories. Tr. by R. B. Anderson. Cambridge, Mass., 1882.--Captain Mansana. N.Y., Munro, 1882.--Captain Mansana, and Mother's Hands. N.Y., Macmillan, 1897.

1883, Sept. En Hanske: Skuespil. Copenhagen.--A Glove: a Prose Play. (_Poet-Lore_, Jan.-July, 1892.)--A Gauntlet. Tr. by H. L. Braekstad. London, French [1890].--A Gauntlet. Tr. by Osman Edwards. London, Longmans, 1894.

Nov. Over Ævne. Første Stykke. Copenhagen.--Pastor Sang: being the Norwegian drama Over Ævne [Part 1]. Tr. by W. Wilson. London, Longmans, 1893.

1884, Oct. Det flager i Byen og på Havnen. Copenhagen.--The Heritage of the Kurts. Tr. by C. Fairfax. London, Heinemann, 1892.

1887, Aug. Støv. (Originally published in 1882 in I. Hfte _Nyt Tidsskrift_.)--Magnhild and Dust. N.Y., Macmillan, 1897.

1889, Oct. På Guds Veje. Copenhagen.--In God's Way. N.Y., Lovell, 1889.--In God's way: a Novel. Tr. by E. Carmichael. London, Heinemann, 1890.

1895, Dec. Over Ævne. Andet Stykke. Copenhagen.

1898, Nov. Paul Lange og Tora Parsberg. Copenhagen.--Tr. by H. L. Braekstad. London, N.Y., Harper, Feb., 1899.

1901, Apr. Laboremus. Copenhagen.--Laboremus. London, Chapman, June 8, 1901. (First published as literary supplement to the _Fortnightly Review_, May, 1901.)

1906, Oct. Mary: Fortælling. Copenhagen.--Mary. Tr. by Mary Morison. N.Y., Macmillan, Sept. 4, 1909.

In addition to the works listed above, most of the tales and sketches in Björnson's three collections (Smaastykker, Bergen, 1860; Fortællinger, Copenhagen, 1872; Nye Fortællinger, Copenhagen, 1894) have appeared in English in one or other of the collections listed below:--

Life by the Fells and Fiords: a Norwegian Sketch-book. London, Strahan [1879]. _Contents_: Arne.--The Bridal March.--The Churchyard and the Railroad.--The Father.--Faithfulness.--Thrond.--Blakken.--A Life's Enigma.--Checked Imagination.--The Eagle's Nest.--A Dangerous Wooing.--The Brothers' Quarrel.--The Eagle and the Fir.--Poems.

Works. American edition, translated by R. B. Anderson. 3 v. Boston, Houghton, 1884. _Contents_: v. 1. Synnöve Solbakken.--Arne.--Early Tales and Sketches: The Railroad and the Churchyard.--Thrond.--A Dangerous Wooing.--The Bear-Hunter.--The Eagle's Nest.--v. 2. A Happy Boy.--The Fisher Maiden.--Tales and Sketches: Blakken.--Fidelity.--A Problem of Life.--v. 3. The Bridal March.--Captain Mansana.--Magnhild.--Dust.

Novels. Edited by Edmund Gosse. London, Heinemann; N.Y., Macmillan. 13 v. 1894-1909. _Contents_: v. 1. Synnöve Solbakken. Given in English by Julie Sutter. A new ed.... 1895.--v. 2. Arne. Tr. by W. Low. 1895.--v. 3. A Happy Boy. Tr. by Mrs. W. Archer. 1896.--v. 4. The Fisher Lass. 1896.--v. 5. The Bridal March, and One Day. 1896.--v. 6. Magnhild and Dust. 1897.--v. 7. Captain Mansana, and Mother's Hands. 1897.--v. 8. Absalom's Hair, and A Painful Memory. 1898.--v. 9-10. In God's Way. Tr. by E. Carmichael. 1908.--v. 11-12. The Heritage of the Kurts. Tr. by Cecil Fairfax. 1908.--v. 13. Mary. Tr. by Mary Morison. 1909.

RICHARD DODDRIDGE BLACKMORE 7 June 1825-20 January 1900

1854, May 1. Poems by Melanter. London, Saunders. July. Epullia, and other Poems. By the Author of Poems by Melanter. London, Hope.

1855, Jan. 16. The Bugle of the Black Sea; or, The British in the East. By Melanter. London, Hardwicke.

1860, Oct. 27. The Fate of Franklin. London, Hardwicke. 1862, July 31. The Farm and Fruit of Old: a Translation in Verse of the first and second Georgics of Virgil. By a Market Gardener. London, Low.

1864, Mar. 31. Clara Vaughan: a Novel. 3 vols. London, Macmillan.

1866, Sept. 1. Cradock Nowell: A Tale of the New Forest. 3 vols. London, Chapman. (_Macmillan's Magazine_, May, 1865-Aug., 1866.)

1869, Apr. 1. Lorna Doone: a Romance of Exmoor. 3 vols. London, Low.

1871, Apr. 1. The Georgics of Virgil, translated. London, Low.

1872, Aug. 2. The Maid of Sker. 3 vols. London, Blackwood. (_Blackwood's Magazine_, Aug., 1871-July, 1872.)

1875, May 1. Alice Lorraine: a Tale of the South Downs. 3 vols. London, Low. (_Blackwood's Magazine_, Mar., 1874-Apr., 1875.)

1876, June 1. Cripps the Carrier: a Woodland Tale. 3 vols. London, Low.

1877, Nov. 16. Erema; or, My Father's Sin. 3 vols. London, Smith, Elder. (_Cornhill Magazine_, Nov., 1876-Nov., 1877.)

1880, May 15. Mary Anerley: a Yorkshire Tale. 3 vols. London, Low. (_Fraser's Magazine_, July, 1879-Sept., 1880.)

1881, Dec. 31. Christowell: a Dartmoor Tale. 3 vols. London, Low. (_Good Words_, Jan.-Dec., 1881.)

1884, May 15. The Remarkable History of Sir Thomas Upmore. 2 vols. London, Low.

1887, Mar. 1. Springhaven: a Tale of the Great War. 3 vols. London, Low. (_Harper's Magazine_, Apr., 1886-Apr., 1887.)

1889, Dec. 31. Kit and Kitty: a Story of West Middlesex. 3 vols. London, Low, 1890 [1889].

1894, Aug. 25. Perlycross: a Tale of the Western Hills. 3 vols. London, Low.

1895, June 22. Fringilla: Some Tales in Verse. London, Mathews.

1896, Mar. 21. Tales from the Telling-House. London, Low.

1897, Nov. 27. Dariel: a Romance of Surrey. London, Blackwood.

SAMUEL LANGHORNE CLEMENS

30 November 1835-

1867, May 1. The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County, and other Sketches. Edited by John Paul. N.Y., Amer. News Co.

1869, Oct. 1. The Innocents Abroad; or, The New Pilgrim's Progress. Hartford, American Publ. Co.

1871. Mark Twain's Autobiography and First Romance. N.Y., Sheldon.

1872, Feb. 29. Roughing it. Hartford, American Publ. Co.

1874, Jan. 3. The Gilded Age: a Tale of To-Day. By Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner. Hartford, American Publ. Co. Mark Twain's Sketches. [No. 1.] N.Y., American News Co.

1875. Mark Twain's Sketches, new and old. Now first published in complete form. Hartford, American Publ. Co.

1876, Dec. 23. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. Hartford, American Publ. Co.

1877, Sept. 22. A True Story, and The Recent Carnival of Crime. Boston, Osgood.

1878, Mar. 23. Punch, Brothers, Punch! and other Sketches. N.Y., Slote.

1880, July 10. A Tramp Abroad. Hartford, American Publ. Co.

1882, Jan. 21. The Prince and the Pauper. Boston, Osgood.

June 17. The Stolen White Elephant, etc. Boston, Osgood.

1883, July 7. Life on the Mississippi. Boston, Osgood.

1884, Dec. 31. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Tom Sawyer's Comrade. London, Chatto. (N.Y., Webster, Mar. 14, 1885.)

1889, Dec. 28. A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court: a Satire. N.Y., Webster.

1892, Apr. 9. Merry Tales. N.Y., Webster.

1893, Apr. 29. The £1,000,000 Bank-note, and other new stories. N.Y., Webster.

1894, Mar. 2. The Tragedy of Pudd'nhead Wilson, and the comedy Those Extraordinary Twins. Hartford, American Publ. Co.

Apr. 15. Tom Sawyer Abroad, by Huck Finn. Edited by Mark Twain. N.Y., Webster.

1896, May 9. Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc. By the Sieur Louis de Conte (her page and secretary). Freely translated out of the ancient French into modern English from the original unpublished manuscript in the National Archives of France, by Jean François Alden. N.Y., Harper.

1897, Apr. 3. The American Claimant, and other Stories and Sketches. N.Y., Harper.

Apr. 17. How to tell a story, and other Essays. N.Y., Harper.

1897, Dec. 11. Following the Equator: a Journey around the World. Hartford, American Publ. Co. (London, Chatto, under title "More Tramps Abroad.")

1900, June 23. The Man that Corrupted Hadleyburg, and other Stories and Essays. N.Y., Harper.

1902, Apr. 19. A Double-barrelled Detective Story. N.Y., Harper.

1904, Apr. 16. Extracts from Adam's Diary, translated from the Original Manuscript. N.Y., Harper.

Oct. 1. A Dog's Tale. N.Y., Harper.

1905, Oct. 7. Editorial Wild Oats. N.Y., Harper.

Nov. 4. King Leopold's Soliloquy: a Defence of his Congo Rule. Boston, Warren.

1906, June 16. Eve's Diary, translated from the Original Manuscript. N.Y., Harper.

Oct. 13. The $30,000 Bequest, and other Stories. N.Y., Harper.

1907, Feb. 16. Christian Science, with notes containing corrections to date. N.Y., Harper.

Nov. 9. A Horse's Tale. N.Y., Harper.

1909, Apr. 17. Is Shakespeare dead? From my Autobiography. N.Y., Harper.

Oct. 23. Extract from Captain Stormfield's Visit to Heaven. N.Y., Harper.

WILLIAM DE MORGAN

16 November 1839-

1906, July 28. Joseph Vance: an ill-written Autobiography. London, Heinemann. (N.Y., Holt, Sept. 22.)

1907, June 15. Alice-for-Short: a Dichronism. N.Y., Holt. (London, Heinemann, June 29.)

1908, Feb. 8. Somehow Good. N.Y., Holt. (London, Heinemann, Feb. 15.)

1909, Nov. 16. It Never Can Happen Again. N.Y., Holt. (London, Heinemann, 2 v.)

THOMAS HARDY

2 June 1840-

1871, Apr. 1. Desperate Remedies: a Novel. 3 vols. London, Tinsley.

1872, Dec. 9. Under the Greenwood Tree: a Rural Painting of the Dutch School. 2 vols. London, Tinsley.

1873, June 2. A Pair of Blue Eyes: a Novel. 3 vols. London, Tinsley. (_Tinsley's Magazine_, Sept., 1872-July, 1873.)

1874, Dec. 8. Far from the Madding Crowd. 2 vols. London, Smith, Elder. (_Cornhill Magazine_, Jan.-Dec., 1874.)

1876, Apr. 15. The Hand of Ethelberta: a Comedy in Chapters. 2 vols. London, Smith, Elder. (_Cornhill Magazine_, July, 1875-May, 1876.)

1878, Nov. 16. The Return of the Native. 3 vols. London, Smith, Elder. (Belgravia, Jan.-Dec., 1878.)

1880, Nov. 1. The Trumpet-Major: a Tale. 3 vols. London, Smith, Elder. (_Good Words_, Jan.-Dec., 1880.)

1881, Dec. 31. A Laodicean; or, The Castle of the De Stancys: a Story of To-day. 3 vols, London, Low. (_Harper's Magazine_, Jan., 1881-Jan., 1882.)

1882, Nov. 1. Two on a Tower: a Romance. 3 vols. London, Low. (_Atlantic Monthly_, May-Dec., 1882.)

1884, Jan. 25. The Romantic Adventures of a Milkmaid: a Novel. N.Y., Munro. (_Graphic_, Summer No. for 1883.)

1886, June 1. The Mayor of Casterbridge: the Life and Death of a Man of Character. 2 vols. London, Smith, Elder. (_Graphic_, Jan. 2-May 15, 1886.)

1887, Apr. 1. The Woodlanders. 3 vols. London, Macmillan. (_Macmillan's Magazine_, May, 1886-April, 1887.)

1888, May 15. Wessex Tales, Strange, Lively, and Commonplace. 2 vols. London, Macmillan.

1891, June 6. A Group of Noble Dames. London, Osgood. (_Graphic_, Christmas No., 1890.)

Dec. 12. Tess of the D'Urbervilles: a Pure Woman faithfully presented. 3 vols. London, Osgood, 1892 [1891]. (_Graphic_, July 4-Dec. 26, 1891.)

1894, Feb. 24. Life's Little Ironies: a Set of Tales. London, Osgood.

1895, Nov. 9. Jude the Obscure. London, Osgood. (_Harper's Magazine_, Dec., 1894-Nov., 1895. Began as "The Simpletons"; then changed its title to "Hearts Insurgent.")

1897, Mar. 20. The Well-Beloved: A Sketch of a Temperament. London, Osgood. (The Pursuit of the Well-Beloved, _Illustrated London News_, Oct.-Dec. 1892.)

1898, Dec. 24. Wessex Poems, and Other Verses. London, Harper.

1901, Nov. 30. Poems of the Past and the Present. London, Harper.

1904, Jan. 23. The Dynasts: a Drama of the Napoleonic Wars. Part 1. London, Macmillan.

1906, Feb. 17. The Dynasts. Part 2. Macmillan.

1908, Feb. 22. The Dynasts. Part 3. Macmillan.

WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS

1 March 1837-

1860. Poems of Two Friends. By John James Piatt and W. D. Howells. Columbus, Follett.

Lives and Speeches of Abraham Lincoln and Hannibal Hamlin. N.Y., Townsend. [The Biography of Hamlin is by J. L. Hayes.]

1866, Aug. 15. Venetian Life. N.Y., Hurd.

1867, Dec. 2. Italian Journeys. N.Y., Hurd.

1868, Dec. 1. No Love lost: a romance of travel. N.Y. (_Putnam's Magazine_, Dec., 1868.)

1871, Jan. 2. Suburban Sketches. N.Y., Hurd.

1872, Jan. 1. Their Wedding Journey. Boston, Osgood. (_Atlantic Monthly_, July-Dec., 1871.)

1873, May 10. A Chance Acquaintance. Boston, Osgood. (_Atlantic Monthly_, Jan.-June, 1873.)

Sept. 27. Poems. Boston, Osgood.

1874, Dec. 5. A Foregone Conclusion. Boston, Osgood, 1875 [1874]. (_Atlantic Monthly_, July-Dec., 1874.)

1876, Feb. 12. A Day's Pleasure. Boston, Osgood. (_Atlantic Monthly_, July-Sept., 1870.)

Sept. 16. Sketch of the Life and Character of Rutherford B. Hayes. N.Y., Hurd.

Dec. 9. The Parlor Car: Farce. Boston, Osgood. (_Atlantic Monthly_, Sept., 1876.)

1877, Apr. 28. Out of the Question: a Comedy. Boston, Osgood. (_Atlantic Monthly_, Feb.-Apr., 1877.)

Oct. 13. A Counterfeit Presentment: Comedy. Boston, Osgood (_Atlantic Monthly_, Aug.-Oct., 1877.)

1879, Mar. 1. The Lady of the Aroostook. Boston, Houghton. (_Atlantic Monthly_, Nov., 1878-Mar., 1879.)

1880, June 26. The Undiscovered Country. Boston, Houghton. (_Atlantic Monthly_, Jan.-July, 1880.)

1881, Aug. 6. A Fearful Responsibility, and other Stories. Boston, Osgood.

Dec. 10. Doctor Breen's Practice: a Novel. Boston, Osgood. (_Atlantic Monthly_, Aug.-Dec., 1881.)

1882, Oct. 14. A Modern Instance: a Novel. Boston, Osgood. (_Century Magazine_, Dec., 1881-Oct., 1882.)

1883, Apr. 28. The Sleeping-Car: a Farce. Boston, Osgood. (_Harper's Christmas_, Dec., 1882.)

Sept. 29. A Woman's Reason: a Novel. Boston, Osgood. (_Century_, Feb.-Oct., 1883.)

Dec. 22. A Little Girl among the Old Masters, with Introduction and Comment by W. D. Howells. Boston, Osgood, 1884 [1883].

1884, Mar. 22. The Register: Farce. Boston, Osgood. (_Harper's Magazine_, Dec., 1884.)

May 24. Three Villages. Boston, Osgood. Niagara Revisited. Chicago, Dalziel. (Suppressed.) (_Atlantic Monthly_, May, 1883.)

1885, Jan. 31. The Elevator: Farce. Boston, Osgood. (_Harper's Magazine_, Dec., 1884.)

Aug. 22. The Rise of Silas Lapham. Boston, Ticknor. (_Century_, Nov., 1884-Aug., 1885.)

Nov. 7. Tuscan Cities. Boston, Ticknor, 1886 [1885]. (_Century Magazine_, Oct., 1885.)

1886, Jan. 2. The Garroters: Farce. N.Y., Harper. (_Harper's Magazine_, Dec., 1885.)

Feb. 27. Indian Summer. Boston, Ticknor. (_Harper's Magazine_, July, 1885-Feb., 1886.)

Dec. 18. The Minister's Charge; or, The Apprentice-ship of Lemuel Barker. Boston, Ticknor, 1887 [1886]. (_Century Magazine_, Feb.-Dec., 1886.)

1887, Oct. 8. Modern Italian Poets: Essays and Versions. N.Y., Harper.

Dec. 17. April Hopes. N.Y., Harper, 1888 [1887]. (_Harper's Magazine_, Feb.-Nov., 1887.)

1888, Aug. 11. A Sea-Change; or, Love's Stowaway: a lyricated Farce. Boston, Ticknor. (_Harper's Weekly_, July 14, 1888.)

Dec. 22. Annie Kilburn: a Novel. N.Y., Harper, 1889 [1888]. (_Harper's Magazine_, June-Nov., 1888.)

1889, Apr. 20. The Mouse-Trap, and other Farces. N.Y., Harper. (The Mouse-Trap, _Harper's Magazine_, Dec., 1886.)

Dec. 7. A Hazard of New Fortunes: a Novel. N.Y., Harper, 1890 [1889]. (_Harper's Weekly_, Mar. 23-Nov. 16, 1889.)

1890, June 7. The Shadow of a Dream: a Story. NY., Harper. (_Harper's Magazine_, Mar.-May, 1890.)

Oct. 18. A Boy's Town, described for _Harper's Young People_. N.Y., Harper. (_Harper's Young People_, Apr. 8-Aug. 26, 1890.)

1891, May 16. Criticism and Fiction. N.Y., Harper. [Selections from the "Editor's Study" of _Harper's Magazine_.]

Oct. 17. The Albany Depot. N.Y., Harper, 1892 [1891]. (_Harper's Weekly_, Dec. 14, 1889.)

Dec. 5. An Imperative Duty: a Novel. N.Y., Harper, 1892 [1891]. (_Harper's Magazine_, July-Oct., 1891.)

1892, Apr. 9. The Quality of Mercy: a Novel. N.Y., Harper. (_New York_ (_Sunday_) _Sun._)

Aug. 6. A Letter of Introduction: Farce. N.Y., Harper. (_Harper's Magazine_, Jan., 1892.)

Oct. 8. A Little Swiss Sojourn. N.Y., Harper. (_Harper's Magazine_, Feb.-Mar., 1888.)

Dec. 17. Christmas Every Day, and other Stories told for Children. N.Y., Harper, 1893 [1892].

1893, Apr. 1. The World of Chance: a Novel. N.Y., Harper. (_Harper's Magazine_, Mar.-Nov., 1892.)

May 20. The Unexpected Guests: a Farce. N.Y., Harper. (_Harper's Magazine_, Jan., 1893.)

Oct. 14. My Year in a Log Cabin. N.Y., Harper. (_Youth's Companion_.)

Nov. 4. Evening Dress: Farce. N.Y., Harper. (_Cosmopolitan Magazine_, May, 1892.)

Nov. 11. The Coast of Bohemia: a Novel. N.Y., Harper. (_Ladies' Home Journal_, Dec., 1892-Oct., 1893.)

1894, June 2. A Traveler from Altruria: Romance. N.Y., Harper. (_Cosmopolitan_, Nov., 1892-Oct., 1893.)

1895, June 22. My Literary Passions. N.Y., Harper. (_Ladies' Home Journal_, Dec., 1892-Oct., 1893.)

Nov. 2. Stops of Various Quills. N.Y., Harper. (Eleven of the poems appeared in _Harper's Magazine_, Dec., 1894.)

1896, Feb. 22. The Day of their Wedding: a Novel. N.Y., Harper. (_Harper's Bazaar_, Oct. 5-Nov. 16, 1895.)

Apr. 11. A Parting and a Meeting: Story. N.Y., Harper. (_Cosmopolitan Magazine_, Dec., 1894.)

Oct. 31. Impressions and Experiences. N.Y., Harper.

1897, Feb. 20. A Previous Engagement: Comedy. N.Y., Harper. (_Harper's Magazine_, Dec., 1895.)

Apr. 17. The Landlord at Lion's Head: a Novel. N.Y., Harper. (_Harper's Weekly_, July 4-Dec. 5, 1896.)

Sept. 11. An Open-Eyed Conspiracy: an Idyl of Saratoga. N.Y., Harper. (_Century Magazine_, July-Oct., 1896.)

Dec. 25. Stories of Ohio. N.Y., American Book Co.

1898, June 25. The Story of a Play: a Novel. N.Y., Harper. (_Scribner's Magazine_, Mar.-July, 1897.)

1899, Feb. 25. Ragged Lady: a Novel. N.Y., Harper.

Dec. 16. Their Silver Wedding Journey. 2 vols. N.Y., Harper. (_Harper's Magazine_, Jan.-Dec., 1899.)

1900, June 2. Bride Roses: a Scene. Boston, Houghton. June 2. Room Forty-five: a Farce. Boston, Houghton.

Oct. 6. The Smoking Car: a Farce. Boston, Houghton.

Oct. 6. An Indian Giver: a Comedy. Boston, Houghton. (_Harper's Magazine_, Jan., 1897.)

Dec. 1. Literary Friends and Acquaintance: a Personal Retrospect of American Authorship. N.Y., Harper.

1901, June 1. A Pair of Patient Lovers. N.Y., Harper. (_Harper's Magazine_, Nov., 1897.)

Nov. 2. Heroines of Fiction. 2 vols. N.Y., Harper. (_Harper's Bazaar_, May 5, 1900-Oct., 1901.)

1902, Apr. 26. The Kentons: a Novel. N.Y., Harper.

Oct. 4. The Flight of Pony Baker: a Boy's Town Story. N.Y., Harper.

Oct. 25. Literature and Life: Studies. N.Y., Harper.

1903, June 6. Questionable Shapes. N.Y., Harper.

Oct. 3. Letters Home. N.Y., Harper.

1904, Oct. 15. The Son of Royal Langbrith: a Novel. N.Y., Harper. (_North American Review_, Jan.-Aug., 1904.)

1905, June 17. Miss Bellard's Inspiration: a Novel. N.Y., Harper.

Oct. 21. London Films. N.Y., Harper. (_Harper's Magazine_, Dec., 1904-Mar., 1905.)

1906, Nov. 3. Certain delightful English Towns, with Glimpses of the pleasant country between. N.Y., Harper.

1907, Apr. 27. Through the Eye of the Needle: a Romance. N.Y., Harper.

June 1. Mulberries in Pay's Garden. Cincinnati, Clarke.

Nov. 9. Between the Dark and the Daylight: Romances. N.Y., Harper.

1908, Mar. 21. Fennel and Rue: a Novel. N.Y., Harper.

Dec. 12. Roman Holidays, and others. N.Y., Harper.

1909, June 12. The Mother and the Father: Dramatic Passages. N.Y., Harper. (The Mother, in _Harper's Magazine_, Dec., 1902.)

Nov. 6. Seven English Cities. N.Y., Harper.

RUDYARD KIPLING

30 December 1865-

1881. Schoolboy Lyrics. Lahore. (Printed for Private Circulation only.)

1884. Echoes. By Two Writers. Lahore.

1885. Quartette. The Christmas Annual of the Civil and Military Gazette. By four Anglo-Indian Writers. Lahore.

1886. Departmental Ditties. Lahore.

1888. Plain Tales from the Hills. Calcutta, Thacker. Soldiers Three: a Collection of Stories. Allahabad, Wheeler. The Story of the Gadsbys: a Tale without a Plot. Allahabad, Wheeler. In Black and White. Allahabad, Wheeler. Under the Deodars. Allahabad, Wheeler. The Phantom 'Rickshaw, and other Tales. Allahabad, Wheeler. Wee Willie Winkie, and other Child Stories. Allahabad, Wheeler.

1890, Sept. 6. The Courting of Dinah Shadd, and other Stories. N.Y., Harper. The City of Dreadful Night, and other Sketches. Allahabad, Wheeler.

1891. The Smith Administration. Allahabad, Wheeler. Letters of Marque. Allahabad, Wheeler.

Feb. 28. The Light that Failed. London, Macmillan. (_Lippincott's Magazine_, Jan., 1891.)

Aug. 15. Life's Handicap: being stories of mine own people. London, Macmillan.

1892, May 21. Barrack-Room Ballads, and other Verses. London, Methuen.

July 9. The Naulahka: a Story of West and East. By Rudyard Kipling and Wolcott Balestier. London, Heinemann. (_Century Magazine_, Nov., 1891-July, 1892.)

1893, June 17. Many Inventions. London, Macmillan.

1894, June 2. The Jungle Book. London, Macmillan.

1895. Good Hunting. Pp. 16. London, _Pall Mall Gazette_ office.

Oct. 26. Out of India: Things I saw, and failed to see, on certain Days and Nights at Jeypore and elsewhere. N.Y., Dillingham.

Nov. 16. The Second Jungle Book. London, Macmillan.

1896, Nov. 7. Soldier Tales. London, Macmillan.

Nov. 14. The Seven Seas. London, Methuen.

1897, Oct. 23. Captains Courageous: a Story of the Grand Banks. London, Macmillan.

Dec. 4. An Almanac of Twelve Sports for 1898. By William Nicholson. With accompanying Rhymes by Rudyard Kipling. London, Heinemann. White Horses. Pp. 10. London, printed for Private Circulation.

1898, May. The Destroyers: a new Poem. Pp. 6. London, Ward.

Sept. 10. Collectanea: being certain reprinted Verses. Pp. 32. N.Y., Mansfield.

Oct. 15. The Day's Work. London, Macmillan.

Dec. 17. A Fleet in Being: Notes of two Trips with the Channel Squadron. London, Macmillan.

1899, July 1. From Sea to Sea: Letters of Travel. 2 vols. N.Y., Doubleday. (London, Macmillan, Feb. 24, 1900.)

Oct. 6. Stalky and Co. London, Macmillan.

1901, Oct. 19. Kim. London, Macmillan.

1902, Oct. 11. Just So Stories for Little Children. London, Macmillan.

1903, Oct. 10. The Five Nations. London, Methuen.

1904, Oct. 15. Traffics and Discoveries. London, Macmillan.

1909, Oct. 16. Actions and Reactions. N.Y., Doubleday.

Oct. 16. Abaft the Funnel. N.Y., Dodge. Cuckoo Song. Pp. 3. N.Y., Doubleday.

ALFRED OLLIVANT

1874-

1898, Oct. 8. Owd Bob, the Grey Dog of Kenmuir. London, Methuen. (N.Y., Doubleday, Oct. 29, under title "Bob, Son of Battle.")

1902, Nov. 15. Danny. N.Y., Doubleday. (London, Murray, Feb. 28, 1903, under title "Danny: Story of a Dandie Dinmont.")

1907, Oct. 5. Redcoat Captain: A Story of That Country. N.Y., Macmillan. (London, Murray, Oct. 19.)

1908, Oct. 17. The Gentleman: A Romance of the Sea. N.Y., Macmillan. (London, Murray, Oct. 24.)

HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ

4 May 1846-

[Including only works that have been translated into English.]

1884, Nov. Ogniem i Mieczem. 4 vols. Warsaw.--With Fire and Sword. Tr. by Jeremiah Curtin. Boston, Little, Brown & Co., May 17, 1890.--With Fire and Sword. Tr. by Samuel A. Binion. Phila., Altemus.

1886. Potop. 6 vols. Warsaw--The Deluge. Tr. by J. Curtin. 2 vols. Boston, Little, Dec. 19, 1891.

1887-1888. Pan Wolodyjowski. 3 vols. Warsaw.--Pan Michael. Tr. by J. Curtin. Boston, Little, Dec. 2, 1893.--Pan Michael. Tr. by S. A. Binion Phila., Altemus [1898].

1891, Feb. Bez Dogmatu. 3 vols. Warsaw.--Without Dogma. Tr. by Iza Young. Boston, Little, Apr. 15, 1893.

1895, Apr. Rodzina Polanieckich. 3 vols. Warsaw.--Children of the Soil. Tr. by J. Curtin. Boston, Little, June I, 1895.--The Irony of Life: the Polanetzki Family. Tr. by Nathan M. Babad. N.Y., Fenno, Apr. 28, 1900.

1896, Dec. Quo Vadis. 3 vols. Warsaw.--Quo Vadis. Tr. by J. Curtin. Boston, Little, Oct. 17, 1896.--Quo Vadis. Tr. by S. A. Binion and S. Malevsky. Phila., Altemus, Dec. 18, 1897.--Quo Vadis. Tr. by Wm. E. Smith. N. Y., Ogilvie, 1898.

1900, Nov. Krzyzacy. 4 vols. Warsaw.--Knights of the Cross [Part 1 only]. Tr. by S. C. de Soissons. N.Y., Fenno, 1897.--Knights of the Cross. Tr. by J. Curtin. 2 vols. Boston, Little, 1900. (Vol. 1, Jan. 13; Vol. 2, June 9.)--Knights of the Cross. Tr. by S. A. Binion. 3 vols. N.Y., Fenno, 1900. (Vols. 1-2, Jan. 20; Vol. 3, Dec. 15.)--Knights of the Cross. A special translation. 2 vols. N.Y., Street, 1900. (Vol. 1, Apr. 21; Vol. 2, Oct. 6.)--Knights of the Cross. Tr. by B. Dahl. N.Y., Ogilvie, Dec. 22, 1900. [Abridged.] Warsaw.

1906, July. Na Polu Chwaly. Warsaw.--On the Field of Glory. Tr. by J. Curtin. Boston, Little, Feb. 3, 1906.--The Field of Glory. Tr. by Henry Britoff. N.Y., Ogilvie, Apr. 14, 1906.--Field of Glory. London, Lane, July 21, 1906.

In addition to the novels listed above, his tales and stories (_Pisma_) have been collected and published in 41 vols. (Warsaw, 1880-1902.) The following English translations have been published:--

Yanko the Musician, and other Stories. Tr. by J. Curtin. Boston, Little, Oct. 21, 1893. (_Contents_: Yanko the Musician. The Light-house Keeper of Aspinwall. From the Diary of a Tutor in Poznan. Comedy of Errors: a Sketch of American Life. Bartek the Victor.)

Lillian Morris, and other Stories. Tr. by J. Curtin. Boston, Little, Oct. 27, 1894. (_Contents_: Lillian Morris. Sachem. Yamyol. The Bull-Fight.)

Let us follow Him, and other Stories. Tr. by Vatslaf A. Hlasko and Thos. H. Bullick. N.Y., Fenno [copyrighted, 1897]. (_Contents_: Let us follow Him. Sielanka. Be Blessed. Light in Darkness. Orso. Memories of Mariposa.)

Hania. Tr. by J. Curtin. Boston, Little, Dec. 11, 1897. (_Contents_: Prologue to Hania: The Old Servant. Hania. Tartar Captivity. Let us follow Him. Be thou Blessed. At the Source. Charcoal Sketches. The Organist of Ponikla. Lux in Tenebris Lucet. On the Bright Shore. That Third Woman.)

So runs the World. Tr. by S. C. de Soissons. London and N.Y., Neely, Mar. 19, 1898. (_Contents_: Henryk Sienkiewicz. Zola. Whose Fault? The Verdict. Win or Lose.)

Sielanka, and other stories. From the Polish by J. Curtin. Boston, Little, Oct. 29, 1898. (_Contents_: Sielanka: a Forest Picture. For Bread. Orso. Whose Fault? The Decision of Zeus. On a Single Card. Yanko the Musician. Bartek the Victor. Across the Plains. From the Diary of a Tutor in Poznan. The Light-house Keeper of Aspinwall. Yamyol. The Bull-Fight. Sachem. A Comedy of Errors. A Journey to Athens. Zola.)

Let us Follow Him, and other Stories. Tr. by S. C. Slupski and I. Young. Phila., Altemus [copyrighted, Oct. 24, 1898]. (_Contents_: Let us follow Him. Be Blessed. Bartek the Conqueror.)

For Daily Bread, and other Stories. Tr. by Iza Young. Phila., Altemus [1898]. (_Contents_: For Daily Bread. An Artist's End. A Comedy of Errors.)

Tales from Sienkiewicz. Tr. by S. C. de Soissons. London, Allen, Dec. 23, 1899. (_Contents_: A Country Artist. In Bohemia. A Circus Hercules. The Decision of Zeus. Anthea. Be Blessed! Whose Fault? True to his Art. The Duel.)

Life and Death, and other Legends and Stories. Tr. by J. Curtin. Boston, Little, Apr. 16, 1904. (_Contents_: Life and Death: a Hindu Legend. Is He the Dearest One? A Legend of the Sea. The Cranes. The Judgment of Peter and Paul on Olympus.)

The following stories have been published separately in English:--

Let us follow Him. Tr. by J. Curtin. Boston, Little, Dec. 11, 1897.

After Bread. Tr. by Vatslaf A. Hlasko and Thos. H. Bullick. N.Y., Fenno, June 18, 1898.--Peasants in Exile (For Daily Bread). From the Polish by C. O'Conor-Eccles. Notre Dame, Ind., The Ave Maria [1898].

In the New Promised Land. Tr. by S. C. de Soissons. London, Jarrold, 1900.

On the Sunny Shore. Tr. by S. C. de Soissons. N.Y., Fenno. [1897].--On the Bright Shore. From the Polish by J. Curtin. Boston, Little, June 18, 1898.--On the Bright Shore. To which is added, That Third Woman. From the Polish by J. Curtin. Boston, Little, 1898.

In Vain. Tr. by J. Curtin. Boston, Little, June 17, 1899.

The Third Woman. Tr. by Nathan M. Babad. N.Y., Ogilvie, Apr. 23, 1898.

The Fate of a Soldier. Tr. by J. C. Bay. N.Y., Ogilvie [copyrighted, Sept. 3, 1898].--The New Soldier. N.Y., Hurst.

Hania. Tr. by Vatslaf A. Hlasco and Thos. H. Bullick. N.Y., Fenno.

In Monte Carlo. Tr. by S. C. de Soissons. London, Greening, Sept. 16, 1899.

The Judgment of Peter and Paul on Olympus. To which is added: Be thou Blessed. Tr. by J. Curtin. Boston, Little, Nov. 3, 1900.

Dust and Ashes. N.Y., Hurst.

Her Tragic Fate. N.Y., Hurst.

Where Worlds Meet. N.Y., Hurst.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

13 November 1850-3 December 1894

1866. The Pentland Rising: a Page of History, 1666. Pp. 22. Edinburgh, Elliot.

1868. The Charity Bazaar: an allegorical Dialogue. Pp. 4. 4o. Edinburgh. (Privately Printed.)

1871. Notice of a New Form of Intermittent Light for Lighthouses. (From the Transactions of the Royal Scottish Society of Arts, Vol. 8, 1870-1871.) Edinburgh, Neill.

1873. The Thermal Influence of Forests. (From the Proceedings of the Royal Society of Edinburgh.) Edinburgh, Neill.

1875. An Appeal to the Clergy of the Church of Scotland. Edinburgh, Blackwood.

1878, May 16. An Inland Voyage. London, Kegan Paul.

Dec. 18. Edinburgh. Picturesque Notes. London, Seeley, 1879 [1878]. (_Portfolio._)

1879, June 17. Travels with a Donkey in the Cevennes. London, Kegan Paul.

1880. Deacon Brodie; or, The Double Life: a Melodrama founded on Facts. By W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson. (Privately Printed.)

1881, Apr. 16. Virginibus Puerisque, and other Papers. London, Kegan Paul.

Not I, and other Poems. Pp. 8. Davos, Osbourne.

1882. Moral Emblems: a second collection of Cuts and Verses. Davos, Osbourne. The Story of a Lie. Pp. 80. Haley and Jackson. (Suppressed.)

Mar. 15. Familiar Studies of Men and Books. London, Chatto.

Aug. 1. New Arabian Nights. 2 vols. London, Chatto.

1883, Dec. 6. Treasure Island. London, Cassell. The Silverado Squatters. London, Chatto. (_Century Magazine_, Nov.-Dec., 1883.)

1884. Admiral Guinea. By W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson. Edinburgh, Clark. (Printed for Private Circulation.) Beau Austin. By W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson. (Printed for Private Circulation.)

1885, Apr. 1. A Child's Garden of Verses. London, Longmans.

May 15. More New Arabian Nights. The Dynamiter. By R. L. Stevenson and Fanny Van de Grift Stevenson. London, Longmans.

Nov. 16. Prince Otto: a Romance. London, Chatto. (_Longman's Magazine_, Apr.-Oct., 1885.) Macaire. By W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson. (Printed for Private Circulation.)

1886, Jan. 15. The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. London, Longmans.

Aug. 2. Kidnapped: being Memoirs of the Adventures of David Balfour in the year 1751. London, Cassell.

Some College Memories. Edinburgh. (30 copies Privately Printed.)

1887, Feb. 15. The Merry Men, and other Tales and Fables. London, Chatto.

Sept. 1. Underwoods. London, Chatto.

Dec. 6. Memories and Portraits. London, Chatto. Ticonderoga. Edinburgh, Clark. (50 copies printed for the author.) Thomas Stevenson, Civil Engineer. (For Private Distribution.)

1888, Jan. 16. Memoir of Fleeming Jenkin. (Prefixed to Papers of Fleeming Jenkin.) London, Longmans.

Aug. 15. The Black Arrow: a Tale of the Two Roses. London, Cassell. (_Young Folks._)

1889, July 1. The Wrong Box. By R. L. Stevenson and Lloyd Osbourne. London, Longmans.

Sept. 16. The Master of Ballantrae: a Winter's Tale. London, Cassell. (_Scribner's Magazine_, Nov., 1888-Oct., 1889.)

1890, Mar. Father Damien: an open Letter to the Reverend Dr. Hyde of Honolulu. Pp. 32. Sydney. (Privately Printed Edition of 25 copies.) The South Seas. (Privately Printed.) Ballads. London, Chatto. (Large paper; 190 copies.)

1892, April 16. Across the Plains; with other Memories and Essays. London, Chatto.

July 9. The Wrecker. By R. L. Stevenson and Lloyd Osbourne. London, Cassell. (_Scribner's Magazine_, Aug., 1891-July, 1892.)

Aug. 20. The Beach of Falesa, and The Bottle Imp. London, Cassell.

Aug. 27. A Footnote to History: Eight Years of Trouble in Samoa. London, Cassell.

Dec. 17. Three Plays. Deacon Brodie. Beau Austin. Admiral Guinea. By W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson. London, Nutt. An Object of Pity, or the Man Haggard. Imprinted at Amsterdam. [1892.] (For Private Distribution.)

1893, Apr. 15. Island Nights' Entertainments. London, Cassell.

Sept. 9. Catriona: a Sequel to "Kidnapped." London, Cassell.

Sept. War in Samoa. Reprinted from the _Pall Mall Gazette_.

1894, Sept. 22. The Ebb-Tide: a Trio and a Quartette. By R. L. Stevenson and Lloyd Osbourne. London, Heinemann. (_McClure's Magazine_, Feb.-July, 1894.)

Nov. 10. The Suicide Club and The Rajah's Diamond. London, Chatto.

1895, Mar. 2. The Amateur Emigrant from the Clyde to Sandy Hook. Chicago, Stone & Kimball.

Nov. 9. Vailima Letters. Being Correspondence addressed by R. L. Stevenson to Sidney Colvin, Nov., 1890-Oct., 1894. London, Methuen.

1896, May 23. Weir of Hermiston: an unfinished Romance. London, Chatto.

Sept. 5. Songs of Travel, and other Verses. London, Chatto. Familiar Epistles in Verse and Prose. Pp. 18. (Printed for Private Distribution.)

A Mountain Town in France: a Fragment. Pp. 20. London, Lane.

1897, Oct. 9. St. Ives: being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in England. London, Heinemann, 1898 [1897].

1898, Feb. 26. Macaire: a melodramatic Farce. By W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson. London, Heinemann.

Apr. 16. A Lowden Sabbath Morn. London, Chatto. Æs Triplex. Printed for the American Subscribers to the Stevenson Memorial.

1899, Nov. 18. Letters to his Family and Friends, selected and edited by Sidney Colvin. 2 vols. London, Methuen.

1900, Dec. 22. In the South Seas: Account of Experiences and Observations in the Marquesas, Paumotus, and Gilbert Islands during two cruises on the Yacht "Casco," 1888, and the Schooner "Equator," 1889. London, Chatto.

HERMANN SUDERMANN

30 September 1857-

1886, Im Zwielicht: Zwanglose Geschichten. Berlin.

1887, Feb. 10. Frau Sorge: Roman. Berlin.--Dame Care. Tr. by Bertha Overbeck. London, Osgood, 1891; N.Y., Harper, 1891.

1888, Jan. 19. Geschwister: Zwei Novellen. Berlin.--The Wish: a Novel. Tr. by Lily Henkel. London, Unwin, Nov. 3, 1894.

1890, Jan. 9. Der Katzensteg: Roman. Berlin.--Regine. From the German by H. E. Miller. Chicago, Weeks, 1894.--Regina; or, The Sins of the Fathers. Tr. by Beatrice Marshall. London and N.Y., Lane, 1898. Die Ehre: Schauspiel. Berlin.

1891, Mar. 26. Sodoms Ende: Drama. Berlin.

1892, June 2. Iolanthes Hochzeit: Erzählung. Stuttgart.

1893, Mar. 23. Heimat: Schauspiel. Stuttgart.--Magda. Tr. by C. E. A. Winslow. Boston, Lamson, 1896.

1894, Dec. 6. Es war: Roman. Stuttgart.--The Undying Past. Tr. by Beatrice Marshall. London, N.Y., Lane, 1906.

1895, June 27. Die Schmetterlingschlacht: Komödie. Stuttgart.

1896, Apr. 30. Das Glück im Winkel: Schauspiel. Stuttgart.

Dec. 3. Morituri: Teja, Fritzchen, Das Ewigmännliche. Stuttgart.--Teias. Tr. by Mary Harned. (_Poet-Lore_, July-Sept., 1897.)

1898, Jan. 27. Johannes: Tragödie. Stuttgart.--Johannes. Tr. by W. H. Harned and Mary Harned. (_Poet-Lore_, Apr.-June, 1899.)--John the Baptist. Tr. by Beatrice Marshall. London, N. Y., Lane, 1909 [1908].

1899, Feb. 9. Die drei Reiherfedern: ein dramatisches Gedicht. Stuttgart.--Three Heron's Feathers. Tr. by H. T. Porter. (_Poet-Lore_, Apr.-June, 1900.)

1900, May 23. Drei Reden. Pp. 47. Stuttgart.

Oct. 25. Johannisfeuer: Schauspiel. Stuttgart.--Fires of St. John. Tr. by Charlotte

Porter and H. C. Porter. (_Poet-Lore_, Jan.-Mar., 1904.)--Fires of St. John. Tr. and adapted by Charles Swickard. Boston, Luce, Nov. 19, 1904.--St. John's Fire. Tr. by Grace E. Polk. Minneapolis, Wilson, June 17, 1905.

1902, Feb. 27. Es lebe das Leben: Drama. Stuttgart.--The Joy of Living. Tr. by Edith Wharton. N.Y., Scribner, Nov. 8, 1902.

Dec. 25. Verrohung in der Theaterkritik: Zeitgemässe Betrachtungen. Stuttgart.

1903, Oct. 22. Der Sturmgeselle Sokrates: Komödie. Stuttgart.

Nov. 12. Die Sturmgesellen: Ein Wort zur Abwehr. Pp. 27. Berlin.

1905, Oct. 19. Stein unter Steinen: Schauspiel. Stuttgart.

Nov. 16. Das Blumenboot: Schauspiel. Stuttgart.

1907, Oct. 24. Rosen: Vier Einakter. Stuttgart.--Roses. Tr. by Grace Frank. N.Y., Scribner, Oct. 9, 1909.

1908, Dec. 3. Das hohe Lied: Roman. Stuttgart.--The Song of Songs. Tr. by Thomas Seltzer. N.Y., Huebsch, Dec., 1909.

MRS. HUMPHRY WARD

(Mary Augusta Arnold)

11 June 1851-

1881, Dec. 17. Milly and Olly; or, A Holiday among the Mountains. London, Macmillan.

1884, Dec. 15. Miss Bretherton. London, Macmillan.

1885, Dec. 31. Amiel's Journal Intime, translated by Mrs. Humphry Ward. 2 vols. London, Macmillan.

1888, Mar. 1. Robert Elsmere. 3 vols. London, Smith, Elder.

1891, Mar. 14. University Hall: Opening Address. Pp. 45. London, Smith, Elder.

1892, Jan. 23. The History of David Grieve. 3 vols. London, Smith, Elder.

1894, Apr. 7. Marcella. 3 vols. London, Smith, Elder.

Aug. 4. Unitarians and the Future: the Essex Hall Lecture, 1894. Pp. 72. London, Green.

1895, July 6. The Story of Bessie Costrell. London, Smith, Elder. (_Cornhill Magazine_, May-July, 1895; _Scribner's Magazine_, May-July, 1895.)

1896, Oct. 3. Sir George Tressady. London, Smith, Elder. (_Century Magazine_, Nov., 1895-Oct. 1896.)

1898, June 11. Helbeck of Bannisdale. London, Smith, Elder.

1900, Nov. 10. Eleanor. London, Smith, Elder. (_Harper's Magazine_, Jan.-Dec., 1900.)

1903, Mar. 21. Lady Rose's Daughter. London, Smith, Elder. (_Harper's Magazine_, May, 1902-Apr., 1903.)

1905, Mar. 18. The Marriage of William Ashe. London, Smith, Elder. (_Harper's Magazine_, June, 1904-May, 1905.)

1906, Mar. 3. Play-Time of the Poor. Reprinted from the _Times_. London, Smith, Elder.

May 12. Fenwick's Career. London, Smith, Elder.

1907, Apr. 27. William Thomas Arnold, Journalist and Historian, by Mrs. Humphry Ward and C. E. Montague. Manchester, Sherratt. (Originally published on Feb. 23 as preface to W. T. Arnold's Fragmentary Studies on Roman Imperialism.)

1908, Sept. 19. Diana Mallory. London, Smith, Elder. (The Testing of Diana Mallory, _Harper's Magazine_, Nov., 1907-Oct., 1908.)

1909, May 29. Daphne; or, Marriage à la Mode. London, Cassell. (N.Y., Doubleday, June 5, under title "Marriage à la Mode.") (_McClure's Magazine_, Jan.-June, 1909.)

WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE'S

A Certain Rich Man

_Cloth, 12mo, $1.50_

Dr. Washington Gladden considered this book of sufficient importance to take it and the text from which the title was drawn as his subject for an entire sermon, in the course of which he said: "In its ethical and social significance it is the most important piece of fiction that has lately appeared in America. I do not think that a more trenchant word has been spoken to this nation since 'Uncle Tom's Cabin.' And it is profoundly to be hoped that this book may do for the prevailing Mammonism what 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' did for slavery."

"Mr. White has written a big and satisfying book made up of the elements of American life as we know them--the familiar humor, sorrows, ambitions, crimes, sacrifices--revealed to us with peculiar freshness and vigor in the multitude of human actions and by the crowd of delightful people who fill his four hundred odd pages.... It deserves a high place among the novels that deal with American life. No recent American novel save one has sought to cover so broad a canvas, or has created so strong an impression of ambition and of sincerity."--_Chicago Evening Post._

E. B. DEWING'S

Other People's Houses

_Cloth, 12mo, $1.50_

"'Other People's Houses' possesses that distinction of style in which most of our current American fiction is so lamentably deficient, and it has in addition the advantage of a theme which is a grateful relief from the usual saccharine love story admittedly designed to suit the caramel age.... Miss Dewing has a fine feeling for comedy and gives evidence of both genuine talent and a fresh and vivid outlook upon life."--_New York Times._

"It is a story rich in atmosphere, in allusion, and in vistas.... The story is full of action. The characters have virility and in certain instances charm, and the course of the story awakens no little concern on the part of the reader. An interesting, varied, and amusing group of persons is presented, and, ... take it for all in all, it is a work of taste, discrimination, and power.... Its publishers may congratulate themselves on having come upon another oasis in the present desert of American fiction."--_Chicago Tribune._

"If an unknown author is to keep an entire novel to this level, that author will be unknown no longer, but at a single bound has reached the height, not only of good American novelists, but of any novelist doing fiction in these days."--_Chicago Post._

PUBLISHED BY

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

64-66 Fifth Avenue, New York

AMONG RECENT NOVELS

F. MARION CRAWFORD'S

Stradella

_Illustrated, cloth, 12mo, $1.50,_

"Schools of fiction have come and gone, but Mr. Crawford has always remained in favor. There are two reasons for his continued popularity; he always had a story to tell and he knew how to tell it. He was a born story teller, and what is more rare, a trained one."--_The Independent._

The White Sister

_Illustrated cloth, 12mo, $1.50_

"Mr. Crawford tells his love story with plenty of that dramatic instinct which was ever one of his best gifts. We are, as always, absorbed and amused."--_New York Tribune._

"Good stirring romance, simple and poignant."--_Chicago Record Herald._

"His people are always vividly real, invariably individual."--_Boston Transcript._

ROBERT HERRICK'S

Together

_Cloth, 12mo, $1.50_

"An able book, remarkably so, and one which should find a place in the library of any woman who is not a fool."--_Editorial in the New York American._

A Life for a Life

_Cloth, 12mo, $1.50_

Mr. W. D. Howells says in the _North American Review_: "What I should finally say of his work is that it is more broadly based than that of any other American novelist of his generation.... Mr. Herrick's fiction is a force for the higher civilization, which to be widely felt, needs only to be widely known."

JAMES LANE ALLEN'S

The Bride of the Mistletoe

_Cloth, 12mo, $1.25_

"He has achieved a work of art more complete in expression than anything that has yet come from him. It is like a cry of the soul, so intense one scarcely realizes whether it is put into words or not."--_Bookman._

WINSTON CHURCHILL'S

Mr. Crewe's Career

_Illustrated, cloth, 12mo, $1.50_

"Mr. Churchill rises to a level he has never known before and gives us one of the best stories of American life ever written; ... it is written out of a sympathy that goes deep.... We go on to the end with growing appreciation.... It is good to have such a book."--_New York Tribune._

"American realism, American romance, and American doctrine, all overtraced by the kindliest, most appealing American humor."--_New York World._

ELLEN GLASGOW'S

The Romance of a Plain Man

_Cloth, 12mo, $1.50_

"To any one who has a genuine interest in American literature there is no pleasanter thing than to see the work of some good American writer strengthening and deepening year by year as has the work of Miss Ellen Glasgow. From the first she has had the power to tell a strong story, full of human interest, but as the years have passed and her work has continued it has shown an increasing mellowness and sympathy. This is particularly evident in 'The Romance of a Plain Man.'"--_Chicago Daily Tribune._

JACK LONDON'S

Martin Eden

_Cloth, 12mo, $1.50_

The stirring story of a man who rises by force of sheer ability and perseverance from the humblest beginning to a position of fame and influence. The elemental strength, the vigor and determination of Martin Eden, make him the most interesting character that Mr. London has ever created. The plan of the novel permits the author to cover a wide sweep of society, the contrasting types of his characters giving unfailing variety and interest to the story of Eden's love and fight.

ZONA GALE'S

Friendship Village

_Cloth, 12mo, $1.50_

"As charming as an April day, all showers and sunshine, and sometimes both together, so that the delighted reader hardly knows whether laughter or tears are fittest for his emotion.... The book will stir the feelings deeply."--_New York Times._

To be followed by "Friendship Village Love Stories."

CHARLES MAJOR'S

A Gentle Knight of Old Brandenburg

_Illustrated, cloth, 12mo, $1.50_

Mr. Major has selected a period to the romance of which other historical novelists have been singularly blind. The boyhood of Frederick the Great and the strange wooing of his charming sister Wilhelmina have afforded a theme, rich in its revelation of human nature and full of romantic situations.

MABEL OSGOOD WRIGHT'S

Poppea of the Post Office

_Cloth, 12mo, $1.50_

"A rainbow romance, ... tender yet bracing, cheerily stimulating ... its genial entirety refreshes like a cooling shower."--_Chicago Record Herald._

"There cannot be too many of these books by 'Barbara.' Mrs. Wright knows good American stock through and through and presents it with effective simplicity."--_Boston Advertiser._

FRANK DANBY'S

Sebastian

_Cloth, 12mo, $1.50_

Whenever a father's ideals conflict with a mother's hopes for the son of their dreams, you meet the currents underlying the plot of "Sebastian." Its author's skill in making vividly real the types and conditions of London has never been shown to better advantage.

EDEN PHILLPOTTS'

The Three Brothers

_Cloth, 12mo, $1.50_

"'The Three Brothers' seems to us the best yet of the long series of these remarkable Dartmoor tales. If Shakespeare had written novels we can think that some of his pages would have been like some of these. Here certainly is language, turn of humor, philosophical play, vigor of incident, such as might have come straight from Elizabeth's day.... The book is full of a very moving interest and is agreeable and beautiful."--_The New York Sun._

PUBLISHED BY

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

In the plain-text version of this ebook italics are indicated by _underscores_.

For ease of navigation, footnotes in the plain-text version have been placed at the end of the paragraph in which the footnote tag appears.

Obvious printer errors have been corrected without comment. Otherwise, the author's original spelling, punctuation, hyphenation and use of accents have been left intact with the following exceptions:

1. Page 153: The letter "s" was added to the word "heroine" in the phrase: "... the stuff of which heroines are made...."

2. Page 276: The word "Bazar" was changed to "Bazaar" in the phrase "Harper's Bazaar".

3. Page 293: A closing parenthesis was added in the phrase (N.Y., Doubleday, June 5, under title "Marriage à la Mode.")

End of Project Gutenberg's Essays on Modern Novelists, by William Lyon Phelps