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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..226fb96 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #62991 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/62991) diff --git a/old/62991-0.txt b/old/62991-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 4a0f05e..0000000 --- a/old/62991-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3395 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Literary Discipline, by John Erskine - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The Literary Discipline - -Author: John Erskine - -Release Date: August 21, 2020 [EBook #62991] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITERARY DISCIPLINE *** - - - - -Produced by Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - - -THE LITERARY DISCIPLINE - - - - -OTHER BOOKS BY JOHN ERSKINE - - - THE MORAL OBLIGATION TO BE INTELLIGENT AND OTHER ESSAYS - - THE KINDS OF POETRY AND OTHER ESSAYS - - DEMOCRACY AND IDEALS - - GREAT AMERICAN WRITERS (With W. P. Trent) - -_POETRY_ - - ACTÆON AND OTHER POEMS - - THE SHADOWED HOUR - - HEARTS ENDURING - - _A Play in one Scene_ - - COLLECTED POEMS 1907-1922 - - - - - THE - LITERARY DISCIPLINE - - BY - JOHN ERSKINE - _Professor of English at Columbia University_ - - [Illustration] - - NEW YORK - DUFFIELD & COMPANY - 1923 - - Copyright, 1922, by the - NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW - - Copyright, 1923, by - DUFFIELD & COMPANY - - _Printed in U. S. A._ - - - - -TO GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - - PREFACE ix - - I. DECENCY IN LITERATURE 3 - - II. ORIGINALITY IN LITERATURE 47 - - III. THE CULT OF THE NATURAL 91 - - IV. THE CULT OF THE CONTEMPORARY 137 - - V. THE CHARACTERS PROPER TO LITERATURE 187 - - - - -PREFACE - - -The following chapters were first published serially in _The North -American Review_, from November, 1922, to March, 1923. For their -reappearance in this volume I have made slight changes in them all, and -have inserted in the fourth chapter a few paragraphs written for _The -Bookman_ of July, 1922. The editors of both magazines have my thanks for -permission to reprint. - -The title of the book will disclose at once the critical theory -underlying these essays; they are studies in the discipline which -literature imposes on those who cultivate it as an art, and their -doctrine is that language as a medium of expression has certain -limitations which the writer must respect, and that the psychology of -his audience limits him also in what he may say, if he would gain a wide -hearing and keep it. To know what can be said in words, and what effect -it will have on your readers, is the inward art of writing, much more -important even than the management of a sentence or the shaping of a -paragraph. - -I write here of literature as an art. Since I mean to exclude, as not -art, many books of undoubted importance and of wide appeal, I must -attempt at least to defend a distinction that to certain readers will -seem arbitrary. A book may tell us of a life we already know about, or -of a life we as yet do not know; the pleasure it gives us will be of -recognition or of curiosity satisfied. Of course no books fall absolutely -into one or the other of such extremes, but it is fairly accurate to say -that every successful book does give us information, a new experience, or -brings back an old experience to recognize. Though both kinds of books -may be equally well written, we are inclined to ask only instruction -from the one kind, but permanent enjoyment from the other. One is a -document in history or sociology, in ethics or psychology; the other, -as I understand it, is a work of art. If our country has not proved a -favorable birth-place for literary works of art, the reason probably -lies in our history rather than in lack of able writers. Ours has always -been, and still is, an unknown land; the reader of American works has -primarily been looking for information about America. The early visitors -from Europe wrote us up for the enlightenment of their friends at home, -and since our world has changed rapidly, we still write up ourselves, -for our own enlightenment. The too brief flourishing of literature as an -art in New England was possible only because life there for one moment -in our history was so stable that a considerable body of readers had -much experience in common; having had their curiosity satisfied as to -their own life, they could recognize it and reflect upon the literary -portrait of it. But the New England moment in our literature proved an -exception, and we are so accustomed now to read novels and poems, not as -art, but as bulletins of information from the west, the northwest, the -middle west or the south, that we are losing the sense of living art in -the New England writers themselves, and are considering them more and -more as documents in a past civilization. Since we have so great need of -documents, I realize that I prejudice myself with many readers when I say -that my chief interest is in literature as art—in the books which reflect -the unchanging aspects of human experience, rather than in the reports of -our temporary condition. - -If literature in our country has suffered from our passion for -information, I believe it has also been damaged in our day by a bad -philosophy of esthetics which has encouraged the writer to think much of -himself and little of his audience. Literature is an art of expression, -we say in the old phrase, and it expresses life. But whose life? The -writer’s, of course, replies the philosophy I happen not to like. No; if -a book ever becomes famous, it is because it expresses the experience of -the reader. The writer’s personality will pervade it, but we must be able -to recognize ourselves in it before we can admit that it portrays life -truly. - -The function of criticism, as I understand it, is to discover, in the -past experience of the race, what books have won a secure place in men’s -affections, and to find out if possible why men have been permanently -fond of them. A great critic would be a scientist, observing the -behavior of the reader in the presence of certain stories or poems, -and recording the kind of effect produced by various arrangements of -character and plot, or by different employments of language. Such a -critic was Aristotle in the _Poetics_. The art of literature has never -had an observer more accurate or more penetrating, and those who return -constantly to his wise pages will understand why I have quoted him so -often, and often have drawn upon him for aid when I have not used his -name. - -I must record my gratitude to two living philosophers also, towers of -strength to those of us who love books as works of art—George Santayana -and Frederick J. E. Woodbridge. The first has taught me through his -books—are any books more beautiful than his written in English today? The -second has enriched me with his daily companionship and with those spoken -words, grave or gay but always wise, which his friends and disciples -learn to save up for remembrance. - -And I have offered this book in my dedication to our one poet-critic -in America who has spent his genius in the service of literature as -art, and as art alone. I do not know whether what I have written will -be altogether acceptable to him, and if I put his honored name in the -forefront of my pages, it is not to shield me from deserved criticism. -But writing on this theme, I must bear witness to his leadership among -all in this country who in my lifetime have known how to prize the -immortal things in great books—imagination, ideal humanity, beauty, and -the kind of truth that is beauty. In a day when literary criticism has -been contentious and personal, more like a political campaign in a tough -ward than anything that Spenser or Sidney or Shelley would recognize as -a pilgrimage to wisdom, Mr. Woodberry has written nothing ungenerous or -harsh of new arrivals less scholarly, less gifted, less accomplished and -less chivalrous than himself. He has - - Let the younger and unskilled go by - To win his honour and to make his name. - -Indeed, more than anyone else among us, he has kept his faith that -youth, given time enough, will discover art as it will find out other -incarnations of beauty, and will achieve new miracles in its worship. -Twenty-five years ago he taught us to love the masters in poetry—no -easier thing to do for boys then than it is now. We have still to acquire -his hospitality toward the future, to look on with his good humor and -sympathy while the immature in the world of art, as elsewhere, try to -rearrange the universe, not knowing that it has been here for some time -and is set in its ways. - - J. E. - - - - -THE LITERARY DISCIPLINE - - - - -I - -DECENCY IN LITERATURE - - -I - -The quarrel with indecent art is an old one, and the present discussion -of improper books, with threats of censorship, begins to rally itself -in two familiar camps—on one side the moralists, showing in the heat of -debate less understanding of art than they probably have, and on the -other side the writers, showing in the same heat somewhat less concern -for morals than it is to be hoped they feel. The censorious seem disposed -to suppress on the ground of indecency almost any kind of book they -happen not to like; the writers seem at times to argue that all books -are equally good, or, at least, should be free and equal. These are the -old exaggerations of the quarrel. Yet in two important respects the -present discussion is quite novel and more than usually interesting; for -one thing, the attack now is less on obscenity, about which there are -no two opinions, than on indecency, of which we have at the moment no -adequate definition; for another thing, the writers themselves, perhaps -for the first time in history, have no definition of literary decency to -offer, and seem not greatly interested in forming one. - -Censorships are usually exercised for the protection of religious or -political doctrine, and whatever may be said against the method, at -least in the field of religion or politics the censor knows clearly -what he wishes to protect. But if we now would protect decency, we must -first define the term. It is not enough to have a moral conviction on -the subject; we must have also some principle outside of our emotional -prejudices, based on something more lasting than fashion. In the present -welter of contradictions and opprobrium it is sometimes thought indecent -to wear bobbed hair or short skirts; for the morals of the school, -teachers have been dismissed who rolled their stockings below the knee. -Obviously, these are not great faults in decency, if faults at all; a -good deal of camel must have been swallowed before justice could be done -to these gnats. Some of our neighbors wish to suppress certain plays; -others wish to suppress the theatre. Some wish to suppress Swinburne -and Baudelaire, with one hand as it were, while distributing with the -other copies of the Bible containing the _Song of Songs_. A minister of -this type, earnest in his work for decency and quite muddled as to what -it is, told me that he could not give his approval to the _Spoon River -Anthology_, brilliant though it was; he could approve of no book that -portrayed fornication. Yet he must have read the story of Lot’s daughters -and their behavior with their father. He approved of the Bible, and -he would probably not call it indecent. What is decency, then, or its -opposite? - -At this point the writers ought to stand up and answer. In other ages -they would have done so; they would have thought no one so competent -as the artist to define decency in his own field, and they would have -stated their definition from the point of view of art. They would have -called it “decorum” instead of “decency”, but they would have meant the -same thing—fitness or propriety in the particular art they practised. -When Milton made his famous plea on ethical grounds for freedom of the -press, he went on, as an artist, to say that of course there are good -and bad books, and when a book has had its chance, it must submit to the -judgment of the competent. He was writing in an age when the reader might -be expected to have some training in artistic definitions of decorum. -If books are to enjoy freedom of publication now, it seems incumbent -upon the writers to define the decency of their art, and to spread the -knowledge of the definition, as widely as possible, that the competent -reader of today may have a standard by which to judge. - - -II - -It ought to be possible now, as it once was, to define decency in terms -outside our emotions, not variable with our private taste but fixed in -the conditions of the artist’s work. When man is inspired by the world -he sees to make some lasting record of his feeling about it, and selects -a medium to express himself in,—wood, stone, metal, color, language,—he -immediately encounters certain problems and difficulties in his medium, -certain limitations in it which he must submit to, if he would convey -his meaning with precision. The limitations of his medium, therefore, -dictate to the artist his first lessons in decorum. For if you will not -respect those limitations, you will find yourself saying what you did -not intend; instead of beauty, you will convey some effect humorous or -grotesque or ugly. It is at least bearable to see actual garments on -the wax figures in shop-windows; we dress up dolls. But not even the -shop window could tolerate a marble statue with clothes on. When the -artist learns that some things, though excellent in themselves, do not -come out in his medium with the effect he desires, his good sense and -the sincerity of his art compel him to leave these subjects for other -mediums. The themes he thus abandons are not indecent in the sense of -obscenity or filth, not bad in themselves, but they do not fit his -art—or, as writers used to say, do not belong to its decorum. - -The decorum of art may seem to the moralist far less important than the -decency his own strong emotions feel after, but the moralist is wrong. -The decorum of art is the deeper kind of decency, for it is based on -lasting principles, and it leads to an understanding of the positive -good in art, to beauty, as the moralist’s concern for decency often does -not. You cannot explain on moral grounds why the glorification of the -body in Walt Whitman, let us say, is sometimes disconcerting, yet the -glorification of it in Greek sculpture seems not only decent but noble. -The artist could explain the matter if he understood the decorum of -artistic mediums. In so far as he does not understand it, he adds to the -confusion of the arts in our time; he fills our magazines, for example, -with photographs of Greek dances, and is himself, let us hope, disturbed -by the grotesque contortions he has perpetuated. The dance was probably -a graceful flow of motion; of all that flow, however, only a few moments -would be in the decorum of the camera—moments of poise, in which motion -might be suggested but not represented. But the photographer was charmed -by the moments of motion, which are the essence of dance decorum, and -he gives us a picture of grim-faced ladies suspended in the air, with -frantic gestures of fingers and toes. - -In literature, since the medium is language, decorum is a question of the -limitations and capacities of words. The great limitation of language -is that it must be heard or read one word at a time, though most of -the things we wish to speak of in this world should be thought of or -seen all at once, and their true outline and their total effect may be -dislocated by piecemeal expression. To represent in language a landscape -or a person, a building or any intellectual architecture, is, strictly -speaking, impossible; we can merely make statements, carefully selected, -about the subject, and trust that no matter how dismembered in the -telling, it will somehow come together again in the hearer’s mind, thanks -largely to the hearer’s imagination. Where the suggestion is so slight -and the collaboration so great, the writer is under some obligation to be -precise and conscientious in what he suggests. His responsibility might -perhaps seem less when he is telling a story; if language is inapt for -the portrayal of stationary things having mass, structure and extent, we -might suppose it better fitted to the representation of action, which -like language occurs in sequence of time. But even in the recital of -events, language has to name separately in an artificial order events -which actually coincide, and the reader’s imagination must put the -fragments together again. _“Indeed,” replied Mr. Jones_, or, _Mr. Jones -replied, “Indeed!”_ Neither formula quite represents what happened. In -life, when we heard the “Indeed!” the sound would tell us not only what -was said but also who said it. No wonder the poets have so often thought -of the drama as the most satisfying literary form, for when a play is -acted, words convey in it all that they can convey in life, and they -are aided, as in life, by other kinds of language—by gesture, facial -expression, scenery, which speak to the eye while the voice is speaking -to the ear. - -Because words must be spoken one after another, there are not only some -things which are hard to say in that medium, but others which in certain -circumstances should not be said at all. No matter how much we select the -sounds, our utterance will lay a fairly even emphasis on all the things -we name; therefore, if we wish to subordinate some part of the picture, -to pass over it with no emphasis at all, we cannot throw it into shadow, -as a painter can—we must leave it out altogether. A painter may portray -a face half in shadow, so that one ear is barely discernible; looking -at the picture you do not see the shadowed ear, and do not miss it. But -if some one tells you in words that the ear is in shadow, at once the -ear enjoys special emphasis, the opposite of the painter’s intention. Or -suppose the portrait is not shadowed, but all the features are clear; and -suppose the artist has focused your attention on the eyes, or has brought -out some characteristic expression. You can attend to the picture exactly -as you look at the subject in life—noticing what is important in it, but -not examining it otherwise in detail. The head has two ears, but you do -not count them. If, however, the writer describes the face as it is in -life, or as it is in the portrait, he may speak only of the chief focus -or expression of it; he must not say that the subject has two ears. If -he does so, he will be indecent in his art, and may seem to the original -of the portrait insulting in his manners. - -All literary accounts of the human body raise this problem, not a problem -of squeamishness or puritanism, but of decorum. The classical Greeks -seem to have mastered the question either by instinctive good taste or -by analysis, as they mastered so many other problems in art with which -we are only beginning to wrestle. They cannot be accused of prudishness -where the body is concerned; they loved its naked beauty, and in their -sculpture they portrayed it frankly, with a serious and unflagging -delight. Yet in their poetry they did not portray it; they merely noted -the total effect of physical beauty, and omitted details, as we should -omit the number of ears in the portrait. In the classical Homer, to be -sure, there remained even after much expurgating certain stereotyped -labels of the body; goddesses are “ox-eyed”, beautiful women are -“deep-bosomed.” But the phrases are so conventional that they probably -called up a general sense of approval, rather than a specific detail, -as the word “mortals” calls up to us the general idea of men, rather -than the fact of death. Aside from such phrases Homer and the other -classical poets suggest the body without detail, trying to render the -general effect the body makes in life—its femininity, its masculinity—at -the same time avoiding any such attention to anatomical detail as in -real life would seem, to the Greek and to us, morbid or clinical. The -sculptor, working in another medium, can use the details the poet must -omit; when we look at his Apollo or his Aphrodite we see not a naked -body but a divine presence. The effect of divinity is not furnished by -any anatomical member, nor interfered with by any. The body in detail -is before us, but the expression, the something divine we feel, is in -the attitude or the character. The wise poet, knowing the limitations -and dangers of his medium, tries to reproduce only the attitude or the -character. Later sculptors, in the decadence that followed the Periclean -age, deserted the decorum of their own medium, and called attention -to separate parts of the body—to ribs or veins, neck or breasts. In -literature a parallel decadence occurred; the poets tried to give the -effect of beauty, not in Homer’s way, by avoiding physical detail, but by -citing it. They managed to suggest not beauty but sex. - -The modern lover of beauty who quite properly wishes to restore the body -to its rightful honor and reverence, usually appeals to the Greeks for -his precedent. But if he wishes to celebrate the body in detail, he -should appeal not to the Greeks but to the poets of the Renaissance. -The praise of the body in the Renaissance is sometimes explained as -springing from a newly recovered delight in material beauty. It should -also be explained as a reaction, on the part of earnest, even puritanical -moralists, against other moralists who, they thought, viewed life but -partially and cramped the human soul. In our own language, Edmund Spenser -and John Milton led in this praise of beauty—moralists both; as in modern -times Walt Whitman led the praise, a moralist also, whether or not his -detractors admit it. But a moral purpose is a dangerous approach to -art, whether you are a critic or a poet. Whitman is perhaps the easiest -illustration to begin with. He felt that to the pure every part of the -body is sacred, and at its best is a thing of beauty. Had he been a -sculptor, he would have proceeded to make statues which probably would -have shocked nobody. Working in language, however, he mistook the decorum -of the art, and wrote as though he were sculptor or painter, and the -result is in those anatomical catalogues from which no beauty emerges, -whatever else does. He differs as widely as possible from Edmund Spenser -in most things, but in this one matter they are alike. Milton was too -close to the Greeks to go wrong, even with his moral impulse to assert -the honor of the body; his impassioned praise of wedded love, and his -remarks on the glory of nakedness when Adam and Eve first appear in his -epic, put no strain on literary decorum. But Spenser’s moral enthusiasm -for beauty leads to such physical inventories as his picture of Belphœbe, -in the second book of the _Faerie Queene_, or of his own bride, in -the _Amoretti_ and the _Epithalamium_—an accounting of eyes, teeth, -hair, neck, shoulders, breasts, waist, arms and legs. Many a critic has -suggested that his poems have the character of painting or of tapestry, -and had he actually worked in a pictorial medium, he would have made the -effect he desired. In his portrait of Serena naked among the savages, in -the sixth book of the _Faerie Queene_, he followed Homer’s method with -admirable success. No English poet is more spiritual than he—all the more -impressive the indecorum to which his moral earnestness occasionally -brought him, and all the more helpful his example ought to be to modern -beauty-lovers who fancy that the decorum of an art need not be studied -and obeyed. - -Through ignorance of decorum in language a moralist sometimes comes -to grief in the opposite direction; wishing to indicate indecency, -he sometimes through reticence stumbles upon the Homeric method and -portrays beauty instead. A while ago a minister of some name, an -aggressive defender of decency, preached a sermon on the dangers which -at the moment he saw threatening us from the arts. According to the -newspapers, he said that if certain theatrical managers could get it by -the police, we should have a show in which a naked woman in one scene -posed before a black velvet curtain. Wishing to touch the sulphurous -subject as gingerly as possible, he merely suggested the lovely contrast -of body and background; those of his congregation who had seen it forgot -their moral danger and remembered the Venus de Milo in the Louvre. It -occurred to some of them that this material might be indecorous in the -pulpit; in the theatre, however—well, they were not unwilling to see it, -if it was actually put on. - - -III - -The principle of literary decorum which applies to the representation -of the body applies also to the allied theme of sex. The body is a fit -subject for literature, but not in detail. Sex is a proper subject for -literature, so long as it is represented as a general force in life, and -particular instances of it are decent so long as they illustrate that -general force and turn our minds to it; but sexual actions are indecent -when they cease to illustrate the general fact of sex, and are studied -for their own sake; like the ears in the portrait, they then assume -an emphasis they do not deserve. This seems to be the decorum of the -theme as great writers have treated it, and this is the decorum which -men instinctively adopt in discussion, if they have not been trained -to think that all discussion of sex is naughty. People so trained will -call any book indecent which in any way touches the theme. When _Trilby_ -appeared years ago, many of us then youngsters were protected (in vain) -from the lovely story because Trilby had been somebody’s mistress before -the romance began. So to an earlier generation _The Scarlet Letter_ had -seemed dangerous because Hester Prynne’s child was illegitimate. But -neither book had physical passion for its theme, though the force of sex -in life, for good or evil, gave each story most of its interest and its -pathos. How indecent in the artistic sense, how indecorous, either book -might have been, we realize by supposing that Du Maurier had centred -attention on Trilby’s early and sordid affairs, before she met her true -love, or that Hawthorne had given us in detail the experiences of Hester -in Arthur Dimmesdale’s arms. One has an uneasy feeling that so the books -might have been written today; the general fact of sex and its influence -would not operate as a colossal force in the story, but would be deduced -in an argument or assumed as an hypothesis—modern specialists in sex are -so uncertain of its existence—and the focus would have been on the animal -behavior of human beings, which the hypothesis of sex would explain. -This kind of book is indecent, though it is usually too psychological in -manner to disturb the censorious, and entirely too frequent in recent -literature to suppress. - -We turn for relief to the decorum of great literature. “From the roof -David saw a woman washing herself, and the woman was very beautiful to -look upon.” The painter might give the details of that beauty; the writer -could not. But he could continue: “And David sent and inquired after -the woman. And one said, Is not this Bathsheba, the daughter of Eliam, -the wife of Uriah the Hittite? And David sent messengers and took her, -and she came in unto him, and he lay with her; and she returned unto her -house. And the woman conceived, and sent and told David, and said, I am -with child. And David sent to Joab, saying, Send me Uriah the Hittite.” -So begins one of the greatest of stories from both points of view, -artistic and moral. Is it too frank for our taste? Would the minister who -described so well the naked woman and the black velvet, set this story -also before his congregation? He ought to, for it is a masterpiece of -decency. David’s passion, Bathsheba’s acceptance of it and her consequent -terror, were important only as beginning the spiritual tragedy; the old -writer names the facts and passes on to his great subject. To have -begun less frankly would have been to misrepresent life and spoil the -moral; to have elaborated the scene of David’s love-making would have -been indecent. In the same decorum the classical Greeks told their -stories; Helen eloped with Paris; Œdipus had children by his own mother; -Clytemnestra killed her husband and made her lover king—so much of the -fact is necessary in each case to understand the magnificent and tragic -consequences; but the Greek poets did not pry further into the details of -passion. - -There are, of course, unhealthy minds which have developed a mania -for obscenity, and at the other extreme of exaggeration there are the -unbalanced minds which do not care to admit the existence of sex. But -sex, in one form or another, is in the thoughts of most people most of -the time, and common folk—and the great poets—speak of it constantly, -and in the same way. In unsophisticated society, among sincere and -simple men, the references to sex are at once reticent and frank; it is -recognized and respected as gravitation might be or as the sea is by -sailors—as a power always immanent, in contact with which men may be lost -or saved. Gossip in that kind of society may whisper that such a girl had -a child by such a boy only a month after their wedding, or that so and -so is not really the son of his supposed father. Exactly this kind of -scandal furnishes material to Homer and to the old prophets in the Bible, -to Dante and to Shakespeare, for sex is one of the permanent sides of our -moral world. If this treatment of it is essential to a complete picture -of life, the thinness of American literature may well come from lack of -frankness; but current attempts to correct the thinness by dwelling on -physical details are seeking frankness in the wrong direction and are but -so many offenses against literary decorum. One reason why we cling with -such pride to _The Scarlet Letter_ is that with all its shortcomings as a -novel it bases its great moral vision on just such a complete and decent -observation of life as our books do not usually give us. - - -IV - -In this discussion of sex our attention has shifted from the problem of -language to the question of the general and the particular in art—that -is, from the principle of decorum involving the medium of literature -to the principle of decorum involving its subject-matter. This second -principle, rightly understood, marks the chief difference between -contemporary art and what some of us still believe was the great art -of the world hitherto—the best of the Greek, the best of the medieval. -When you look at life naturally, in the directions dictated by your -spontaneous impulses, it is your own life that seems important, your -private fortunes, your personal ambitions. Everything that belongs to -you seems peculiar, because it is not natural at first to compare the -lives of others with our own. A poet who presents experience from this -angle of individuality will always make a strong initial appeal and -perhaps a lasting one, since he falls in with our instincts, and this -accord will seem to us evidence of something profound. Such a poet, to -some extent, was Euripides, who imagined his characters sympathetically -from their private points of view, and portrayed for us the egotism of -human nature in its most tragic form. It is not fair to say that in -his world men and women need only to explain themselves in order to be -right; but, at least, after they have explained themselves it is hard -to tell who are right and who are wrong. Such another poet is Browning, -who represents human nature one individual at a time, always from the -individual’s point of view. By such a simple and primitive method he -obtains effects of obvious richness—he shows how varied life is, since -there are so many individuals in it, and how novel it perpetually must -be, since each of us is discovering the world for the first time, and -how much right there is in every man’s cause, once he has the chance -to speak for himself. If we had all the works of Euripides, we should -probably find in them as rich and varied a world as Browning’s, expressed -with clearer and more direct poetic genius. Our contemporary taste is -rather solidly for this kind of literature—Browning flourishes more and -more, and Euripides has been revived; and if you really approve of the -individualistic approach to art, it is hard to see how you can call -anything indecent. Anything that is natural to any kind of character must -get a hearing. - -But men can also be imaginative enough to look at life as a whole—first, -perhaps, to look out at all other men, and then to stand off and look -at all men, oneself included. When you begin to take an interest in -other men, you notice of course that their lives are not like yours, not -so important nor interesting nor promising, but in their drabness they -are all curiously alike; they all, with slight variation, are born, are -brought up, fall in love according to their lights, marry, earn their -living, have children, grow old, and die. When this uniformity begins -to interest you, you are making your first intelligent acquaintance -with life; and when you have looked at mankind and included yourself in -the picture, when you have admitted however reluctantly that the single -addition does not change the total effect, that life is still simple and -uniform and that you are less peculiar than you thought—then you have -seen yourself at last as one of the human race. - -To see this calls for imagination and for the Greek virtue which we -translate as magnanimity—great-mindedness. The virtue is not to be -acquired all at once. We have made a great advance when we can think of -life in terms not of ourselves but of moral and material aspects and -powers—in terms of youth and age, for example, of strength or beauty or -pride. This is the allegorical stage of our pilgrimage in wisdom, no mean -stage to reach, though it happens to be out of fashion just now. We are -acquainted with it in the old morality plays, especially in the almost -popular _Everyman_, and perhaps in Æschylus, especially in _Prometheus -Bound_. - -But our advance is greatest when we can recognize these aspects and -powers in the individuals around us—when our observation includes at -one and the same time the general truths of life and the particular -instances. The poet preëminently master of this sane wisdom was -Sophocles, who, in Arnold’s familiar phrase, saw life steadily and saw it -whole. The point of view which he represented is the most magnanimous, -the least egotistical, that art has yet taken, and one would have to -think meanly of the race to believe that we shall not return to it, -as to the noblest part of the Greek legacy. But Sophocles was only -the illustration of a decorum generally practised. In the brief and -magnificent period which left us our greatest perfection in the arts, -the Athenians thought of the individual as important if he illustrated -for the moment the general truths or fortunes of life, but his strictly -private fate was insignificant. - -This attitude has been explained by saying that the Greeks, having no -gift for introspection, took always an objective view of life, but such a -formula hardly accounts for all the illustrations of magnanimity. When -Athens was in her glory, for example, it was only the public buildings -that were glorious; no individual, not even Pericles himself, thought of -putting Phidias to decorate his private home. Again, in the _Antigone_ -Sophocles is introspective enough—as introspective as Euripides or Ibsen -himself—but the introspection is concerned with the general theme of -piety, of one’s duty to blood relations, not at all with the love story -of Antigone. She was betrothed to the son of the king who condemned her -to death, and the fact proves tragic for the son and for the king, but -the love of the two young people is their private business, and the poet -therefore does not let his heroine discuss the problem of piety from that -point of view. - -It was the genius of Shakespeare and of Molière, even in comedy, to -preserve the same decorum. They show us those aspects of man’s fortune -which are of interest to all men; of course we are free to fill in the -gaps according to our taste in gossip, but the dramatist awakens our -feelings and calls our attention only to general experiences and common -wisdom. In Shakespeare, _Measure for Measure_ is a good example, a noble -tragedy and a decent play. It is less glorious than the _Antigone_, -obviously, since it shows human nature resisting temptation rather than -establishing an ideal, but the grimness of its subject and the fact -that it portrays an indecent character do not make it indecent, as some -critics think. Its power is its probing into general truths of life, -chiefly into the capriciousness of temptation where sex is concerned, and -into the various forms of the fear of death. - -Claudio, condemned to die and convinced that there is no hope, persuades -himself that he does not care to live; but immediately he has a chance -to live at the cost of his sister’s honor, and he finds himself slipping -into casuistry to make his escape possible even on such terms. Here is -introspection of the Sophoclean sort, touching the psychology not of a -particular man but of all of us. Walter Pater remarked the paradox that -Angelo is tempted to his fall by sight of the pure-minded Isabella, the -incarnation of virtue. He might have named other paradoxes of Isabella’s -influence. She fascinates all the men she meets, good or bad. At the end -of the play the Duke announces that he intends to marry her himself, -and since he gives her little opportunity to dispute this plan, we may -speculate how far his motives differ essentially from Angelo’s. But -Lucio, the wretch so steeped by habit in indecency that he can hardly -frame a clean sentence, is immediately and permanently sensitive -to Isabella’s beauty of soul as well as of body. Why? Shakespeare -merely exhibits the paradox, in his characteristic way, without hint -of explanation. But we may read a lesson in decorum, if we wish, in -the decency of art, from the first speech of Lucio to Isabella in the -nunnery, when the dirty-minded wretch, having none but coarse formulas in -his vocabulary, tries to address her with the reverence he feels. - - -V - -On all this the moralist may comment that decency as a matter of art is -one thing, and the protection of public morals is another; that however -artists may be interested in the decorum of their medium, or in the -general truth of their subject-matter, the public is also interested in -the motives and the possible effects of their writing. Granted; but if -the moral point is to be made, as against the artistic, the artist has -his own conclusions to draw. The first is that one may as reasonably -question the motives of the vice-suppressors as the motives of the -artists. Better not to question the motives of either, but if the mean -insinuation begins, it must in justice spread in both directions. The -woman before the velvet curtain, described by the preacher, seemed a -vision of loveliness; yes, you may say, but what would be the motives -of those who produce such an exhibition—worship of beauty, or wish to -capitalize our baser impulses? The question is unanswerable unless -you can see into men’s hearts, but it applies also to the minister -who preached the sermon; was he interested only in morals, or was -he capitalizing to some extent our craving for the sensational? An -artist would be content to answer that where the result is beautiful, -in the decorum of the art, it is sensible as well as kind to suppose -men’s motives of the best; and when the result is not beautiful, it is -sufficient to condemn the result, without reference to the motives. - -But the more actively censorious hold that the weak need to be saved from -themselves; that a constant brooding upon indecencies is the death of -the soul. Well, if it is obscenity that we war against, by all means root -it out, for it can be recognized at a glance, and the reformer need not -brood long upon it. But in the realm of art in which decency rises, the -suppression of indecency involves as much brooding on it by the reformer -as by the endangered public—in fact, the reformer must specialize in such -brooding. Whether or not it is to the death of his soul, it seems to be -to the impairment of his taste. You cannot give all your time to bad -art and know much about good. The rôle of the censor would take on some -dignity if there ever were a censor who was a connoisseur, who was the -patron of good poets and painters, who actively supported a clean stage. -But then, if you had the taste for the best, no inducement whatever would -make you give your life to the detection of indecency. - -Human nature is wiser in the long run than any censor; in the long run -the books of the highest decency hold their place in fame by crowding -out the others. The public suppresses indecent books by reading decent -ones. Every artist would respectfully suggest this method to all censors. -Perhaps the censors will say that the method is too slow—that it takes -too long for the good books to crowd out the others. It does take too -long now, but why not hasten the process by calling attention to the -good books, instead of delaying it by advertising the bad? If the energy -which now tries to suppress books sure to be forgotten in fifty years, -were directed to the encouragement of the few books which after fifty -years might still be worth reading, the final verdict of fame might be -hastened. But there seems to be a decorum in morals too, or perhaps two -decorums, a creative and a negative—one seeking to displace evil by a -positive good, the other too much preoccupied with the evil to notice the -good at all. - - - - -II - -ORIGINALITY IN LITERATURE - - -I - -If we accept the doctrine of criticism today, originality is a great -virtue in a writer, and if we believe the book advertisements, all the -new writers as they appear, and as they reappear, have this virtue to a -striking, even to an explosive extent. But with all their originality, -some of the new books turn out to be dull, and if we reconsider for a -moment the books men have finally judged great, we observe that they were -rather destitute of the kind of originality we talk of nowadays. - -“In poetry, a new cadence means a new idea”, wrote the imagist some time -ago, defending the use of free verse. The doctrine was in the interest -of the cadence, but it implied something larger and more significant, -that in poetry newness of ideas is desirable. More recently, an American -critic remarked, in effect, that what Lytton Strachey has accomplished in -his literary portraits is nothing but what Gamaliel Bradford accomplished -in his, and since Mr. Bradford’s portraits came first, they should -have the credit and the praise which an undiscriminating world bestows -on Mr. Strachey’s. If the question of priority is raised in this kind -of writing, perhaps something should be said for Plutarch; but are we -sure we should raise the question of priority? What arrests us in the -remark of the American critic is the undebated assumption that literary -excellence derives from doing something before somebody else does it. Is -it the business of art to discover new ideas, or indeed to busy itself -much with any ideas, as separated from emotion and the other elements -of complete experience? Is it the originality of genius in art to say -something no one has ever thought of before, or to say something we all -recognize as important and true? As for the mere question of priority, -even stupid things have been said for a first time; do we wear the laurel -for being the first to say them? - -One suspects that the new cadence will persist in poetry only if we like -it, and that Mr. Bradford’s reputation will outstrip Mr. Strachey’s only -if we prefer what he wrote, and if by chance we care for neither, then -both will be neglected, though one preceded the other by a hundred years. -Excellence is the only originality that art considers. They understand -these things better in France. There the young poet even of the most -radical school will respect the bias of art towards continuity rather -than toward novelty, toward the climax of a tradition rather than its -beginning; his formula of self-confidence will be, “Victor Hugo was a -great poet, Alfred de Musset was a great poet, and now at last I’m here.” -But in America the parallel gospel is, “Poor Tennyson couldn’t write, nor -Longfellow, of course; now for the first time let’s have some poetry.” - -The writers finally judged great, so far from sharing our present concern -for originality, would probably not even understand it. What is the -object of literature? they would ask. Of course, if it is to portray the -individual rather than human nature, or those aspects of life which stand -apart from life in general, then each book may have something queer in -it, something not in any other book and in that sense original; but then -the reader, before long, will be looking for peculiarity in every book -he buys—it must be, not better, but “different”, to use an American -term in esthetics; and the writer then who would meet this demand for -the peculiar must make a fresh start with every book. What bad luck, -they would say, to be forever a primitive, to be condemned, after every -success, to produce something in another vein, the first of its kind. -Originality in this sense will be continually undermined by fame, for -the more an author is read, and the more people become accustomed to his -world, the less he will seem original. On the other hand, if the reader -looks for originality, there will be no fame, for no matter how popular -an author is, we shall read his book only once, and then be waiting for -his next novelty. - -But if the object of literature is still, as it was for the great -writers, to portray human nature, then the only new thing the artist -will look for is a greater success in his art. Human nature is old and -unchangeable; he will hope to make a better portrait than has yet been -made—better, at any rate, for his own people and his own age, and if -possible better absolutely. There is nothing new about religion or love -or friendship, war, sunsets, the sea, danger or death, yet something -remains to be told of each eternal theme, and when a book comes which -tells the whole, which satisfies some hitherto unexpressed yearnings or -defines more sharply something hitherto half-seen, then that portrait of -human nature serves our purposes until we have a still finer, and other -versions meanwhile are neglected and forgotten. We remember how many -accounts of Romeo and Juliet there were before Shakespeare told the story -to suit us, and how many records of the journey to hell before Dante told -us the whole truth of that pilgrimage; perhaps we know the many desperate -attempts, long since mercifully swallowed up in oblivion, to portray the -American Indian before Fenimore Cooper made the picture the world wanted. -The achievements of literature are all, as in these instances, a gradual -reworking of traditional or popular or folk material, and in the process -it is precisely because the subject is not original that the audience can -decide how well it has been portrayed. A sequence of writers interpreting -Life are therefore like a succession of virtuosos playing the classics, -each trying to give us the true Bach, Beethoven, Chopin, Schumann. Their -renderings will be different enough, but the music is the same, and we -know it by heart. The player who calls our attention to most beauty in -it, will be original or unique in the only way that art permits. - -The example of the musician may not seem to all writers a fair parallel; -they may protest that the writer creates, as the composer does, but the -player only interprets what is already created. But they are wrong, and -the parallel is correct. The writer does not create as the composer does. -Music is an ultimate pleasure in itself, like the taste of sugar; so long -as it delights us, we do not ask what it means. Moreover, since there -is no question of its meaning, we may not need a previous experience to -find some enjoyment in it; it may be satisfactory at first contact. Of -course every art gives a more subtle pleasure as we become practised in -appreciating it, yet the contrast between music and literature remains -a real one, since without any knowledge of life at all men and even -children often penetrate deeply into the heart of music, but without some -knowledge of life they are stopped at the very threshold of literature. -The key to that door is some first-hand acquaintance with life. Music -has no other subject-matter than itself, but literature has life for -its content, and to find one’s way about in it, we must recognize what -it is dealing with. Life is a music already composed. It has been here -a long time, and had become already an ancient history when the first -poets began to play upon it. They merely said for us the things we had -been vainly feeling after, they brought out the colors our eyes had -almost missed, they defined sharply the flavors and the half tastes that -had haunted us. The amateurs in the audience listen spellbound when the -master plays to perfection a piece they have struggled with; this is more -to them than the loveliest of new sonatas, for it is their own world in a -better light. So mankind will listen to the authentic poet who completes -their half-realized selves; and will say of him, somewhat with the woman -of Samaria, “He told me all the things that ever I did.” - -If the audience enjoy the music best when they have tried to play it -themselves, they love it next best when they have heard it often, and -they like it least, sometimes not at all, when they hear it for the first -time. The reader likes poetry best when he has lived what it interprets; -next best when he has heard often of the adventures it renders; least, -even to the point of detestation, when he never entered that region of -life at all, not even by hearsay. In such a predicament the real ground -of his objection to the art is that it is original, at least so far as he -is concerned, but the experience of his discomfort will hide the cause of -it from him; not himself but the art will seem to him inadequate—is he -not as much alive as any one ever was? The book, he will say, portrays a -world that is dead. Let us start fresh and be original; let us portray my -world. - - -II - -In the slow fermentation of human societies, as fresh elements work -their way to the top and for a time give their flavor to history, the -new arrival is likely to herald himself in some such terms in a protest -against the art which, because he has as yet no share in it, seems to -him old and worn out, and in a cry for original expression which to -those with a longer memory of the world will be quite familiar. There -have been new arrivals before, and their wish to start fresh is the -cause rather than the result of decadence. For it is only in a figure -of speech that art declines or prospers—it is the artists who are less -competent or more so than their predecessors, and the poet who tells us -that the period before him is at an end, is really proclaiming that he -cannot improve upon it, and if the other poets are like himself, the -preceding period is indeed ended. There is no other reason why the great -moments of literature were not prolonged. Shakespeare was better than his -predecessors, but he was not perfection; why did not the drama continue -to develop? Ben Jonson, being himself a new arrival, and being, for -all his book learning, outside the spiritual regions which Elizabethan -drama had mainly portrayed, thought of course that a new kind of art was -needed. He is in danger now of sharing the ignominy of all writers who -coming after greater men pay homage through jealousy. Tennyson was not -the greatest of poets; why did not his successors treat him as though he -were a Greene or a Marlowe, and make Shakespearean improvements in him? -To hear the critics of today rail against his art, one might suppose he -had hopelessly damaged the language by using it, or that rhyme and meter -had come to a bad end at his hands. The poet who talks this way about his -predecessors is never the one who is conscious of the power to swallow -them up. If Shakespeare had been a little man, he would have taken one -look at Marlowe’s _Faustus_, and given up the Elizabethan drama as a -creaking and antiquated machine for moral doctrine. Had he been really -ignorant of the long-stored-up energies and impulses which were coming to -action in his marvellous hour, had he lacked the instinct to recognize -them even when badly expressed, and to express them better, he might have -walked the streets of London as the oriental arrival walked in Athens, -or as the invader from the north walked in Rome—with a conviction that -the day of this sort of thing was over. Nothing would remain but to be -original. - -If the clamor for originality is strong in the United States, it -is, perhaps, because here are many arrivals, and the newcomer not -infrequently desires us to change our ways in the interest of his -comfort. We have so much good will toward him, and we are so conscious -of the fine things the various races may bring to our commonwealth, that -we usually hesitate to speak frankly of his qualifications as writer -or critic. He often brings a rare aptitude for art, and frequently he -desires to write, but writing is the one art where his ignorance of life -will handicap him. In painting an eye for color, in music an ear for tone -and harmony, may carry him through, but in literature he will write in an -acquired language, and even if it were his native tongue, in literature -his attitude toward the art will be conditioned by his knowledge of -life. He will perhaps assert rather vigorously that his knowledge is -superior; has he not borne hardships and risen above them? Those who -have not suffered, he will say, know nothing of life. He will think you -cold-blooded if you tell him the better way to say it—that those who -have not suffered, know nothing of suffering. If he desires to write -the literature of suffering, he is probably competent, but since he is -usually a person of strong energy, with a constructive temperament, he -does not wish to write merely the literature of suffering, nor does he -usually wish his children to repeat his hardship, though he may have said -that only by such discipline comes knowledge. He usually desires to write -about the world in general, as every one would write, and for this task -he usually has had experience too meagre or too special. It is only in -the United States, after his arrival, that he most often makes his first -contact with the older literature—not of America but of his own land; -if he has had the experience necessary for understanding it, he absorbs -it eagerly, but if his hardships in his fatherland deprived him of the -necessary equipment, he will announce that the old literature is played -out and meaningless. He is like the native students in South African -schools, who may read the skating episode in Wordsworth’s _Prelude_, but -cannot get the shiver of the ice or the scratch of the steel runners. -Those who have been with us for several generations and who through -economic or other causes have missed that rich acquaintance with life -which would explain what the great writers talk about, are likely to join -the most recent comer in a plea for originality. Their fortunes are to -be pitied, but their advice in art is hardly to be followed. No amount -of sympathy or admiration for them as human beings will accredit them -as critics, for art is long, as we have heard, and the approaches to it -are long also; though we may teach democracy fast enough to win our vote -after five years, we must know at first-hand youth and maturity, and have -a suspicion of what old age is like, in the world the poet writes of, -before we can give a fair opinion whether he has written well. But if the -newcomer recovers here the adventure of life which his hardships cheated -him of in the old country, he will find that the great literature of the -world represents that adventure faithfully and vitally; it is merely a -question of patience with him, since he is energetic and the upturn of -the new world is exciting, and it is hard for him to believe that the old -shadows in art of a life he has not yet lived will ever again take living -form or pulse again in his imagination. - -A new world, a new life, a new art. This is the sequence his hopes dwell -on, though every term in it is debatable. Is there a new world, or a -new life, or a new art? Sometimes we are told that in a new world life -must automatically be new, but the doctrine is not convincing, for at -other times we are summoned to originality, as to another duty, by the -argument that in a new world we ought to be ashamed to lead still an old -life. Sometimes we hear that a new life inevitably means a new art, and -we reflect that if life now differs from what it once was, we need take -no thought for our originality, for we shall be different in spite of -ourselves; even by the old methods art will achieve something new; if we -would write of love, for example, we need only tell the truth about the -passion as we know it, and since the love we know is like nothing that -ever was on sea or land, our romance will be like nothing that ever was -in song or story. Why all this fret about it? And if religion and war -and sorrow and death are all by hypothesis quite other than they once -were, how can we escape originality when we report them in the setting -of the new world and the new life? But the fact is that those who call -for originality in art are not quite sure, after all, that the age is -a new one—they would feel safer if some further vestiges of the past -could be obliterated; and though they justify a new art by speaking much -of their new life, it is far from clear that they really think life -is new, or at heart desire it to be so. Social and political systems, -yes—but life? Horrible indeed is the vision of an absolutely original -career for one who loves his fellows and prefers to take his experience -outside a madhouse. “Your prayer is answered,” says the original Apollo, -touching the original poet’s ears, trembling with originality: “you will -have always a new cadence and a new idea; neither the language nor the -substance of your communications will ever have occurred before in human -experience. Your art will be unique and solitary. Nothing that men have -done before will you condescend to repeat—neither to sleep, nor to eat, -nor to travel, nor to know passion, pain, suffering or peace.” The poet, -lured by the prophecy, might think at last that he had achieved fame, but -Apollo would be there to remind him that his was like no fame achieved -before—not like Shelley’s or Shakespeare’s. He might lose his heart, and -in the throes of love might fancy he knew at last the meaning of Romeo’s -story or Tristram’s, but the god would remind him that his was a special -kind of love, not like the very ancient impulse that moved the sun and -the other stars. - -We need some divine reminder that our true desire is to realize in -ourselves the best of old experience—not to find an original life, but -to bring on the stage once more as far as possible the old procession -of passions, sorrows and delights. The latest of us hopes he is not too -late to taste for himself the high flavor of life which those before him -talked so much about. If falling in love is a business incidental to -adolescence, yet it is immensely hastened by our reading and by what we -have heard; those whom the passion does not touch usually worry about -their immunity instead of being thankful for it, and anything is better -than never to have loved at all. It is not passion entirely that fills -the hearts of the lovers brought at last to each other’s arms; at least, -the single thought with which the two hearts beat may be a triumphant -“Now I know for myself.” Similarly, however strange it may seem, we -welcome sorrow and suffering, or we feel ourselves cheated rather than -blest if none of it comes our way. Death, too, is less unwelcome than it -might fairly be. At least those who faced it and have been reprieved, -often remember that a satisfaction in knowing the worst took some of the -terror away. There it was at last, the old shadow that waylays us all. - -Desiring to discover for ourselves the well known and traditional -experience, we desire at the same time a more excellent version of it -than our predecessors have enjoyed. We would love as Romeo did, but -we like to think that Romeo never loved so well, and ours is a more -wonderful Juliet. Even our sorrows will be greater, if we have our -way, for in the intensity with which we explore the old experiences we -feel rightly that we ought to equal or surpass other men. We dread the -operation for appendicitis, before we undergo it; then we reach the -point of satisfaction in finding out for ourselves what the operation -is like; then finally we are persuaded that the operation was unusually -severe, the worst of its kind. This is the artist in us, trying for -distinction. And if with the old material of life we seek the distinction -of excellence of statement, our motive is not simply a desire to surpass -others, nor a desire to indicate progress, but often it is the hope to -report the experience once for all. Art has always a dying part in it, -as artists well know—some part which must constantly be restored by -restatement. Try as he may to express only permanent things, the artist -will include something that is aside from the main purpose, that goes out -of date. Of course if an artist deliberately strives to be contemporary, -and succeeds, his work to that extent will shortly become unintelligible; -later poets will then try their hand at refurbishing or restoring the -essential thing in the picture, and incidentally, without meaning -to, they will include some contemporary and insignificant material of -their own, which in time may precipitate another revision. What we call -classics are the lucky masterpieces in which the permanent elements are -so many and the transitory so few, that it seems useless and impertinent -to revise them. - - -III - -The desire for originality is not new, and explanations of it are -old. Some of them are based on the supposed working of the artistic -temperament. The artist, it is said, craves expression at all costs, -and if the craving is not satisfied in one direction, it will reach in -another. If we cannot pour all of our energy into our painting or our -music, we may express the surplus in long hair and flowing cravat. This -explanation, even if it were true, would imply that the artist desires -notoriety rather than expression, for you cannot express yourself unless -you speak a language your audience already knows, but eccentricity, -which is the extreme form of originality, will attract attention even -if it is not understood. But artists are not likely to admit that this -theory does justice to their temperament. They will remark that few of -the greatest masters have been eccentric in their appearance, none of -them in their subject-matter. Like other men they fitted the society in -which their lot fell, except that they had a genius for feeling life more -vitally than other men. So many of them, like Chaucer or Shakespeare or -Scott, cultivated the art of living close to their fellows and sharing -an average fate, that we half suspect the less gifted would do the same -if they could; for the artist who is original in dress or manners is not -likely to meet human nature in its normal state—rather, his neighbors -will whisper when he appears, and nudge each other, and he will never -see what manners they use toward those who are not queer. Poets with -an original or eccentric subject-matter meet the same fate. Could Poe -or Baudelaire learn anything about us if they came among us with a -reputation for the abnormal? Would we not unconsciously close to them -our usual impulses, in our curiosity to observe their strangeness? To -the artist who loves life in the sane way of a Chaucer, a Montaigne, a -Molière, such a welcome would be calamitous; rather hide anything that -distinguishes him from others, even the fact that he can write, if by -this caution he may draw closer to his sensitive race, and observe the -undisturbed mystery and beauty of natural life. - -Indeed, the whole question of originality, this desire for novelty, is -in the end a question of our love of life. In the moments when we love -life passionately we are not likely to get too much of it, and we do not -ask to exchange it for another kind. When art and politics were creative, -in the heyday of writers, painters, architects and statesmen who later -seem to us almost solitary in their excellence, there was still no taking -thought to be original; they fell in love, rather, with the obvious. -Columbus made no voyage in search of originality—simply there had been -too many hints and rumors for him to stay at home any longer. Some very -original spirits, we may suppose, took no stock in his expedition. For -Shakespeare or Molière play-writing was an obvious task, and an old one; -they may have expected to do successfully what others had only tried, but -except for the success they aimed at nothing new. Where great poets have -spoken on the matter themselves, their point of view is quite clear. At -the end of the _Vita Nuova_ Dante announced his hope to write of Beatrice -such things as had never been written of any woman. Not to write a new -kind of book, for women had been praised before, as he implied, and -there had been poems of vision and pilgrimages through hell; but his -hope was to excel. He determined to speak no more of his blessed lady -until he could praise her worthily, and to praise such a woman worthily -would be to write such things as had been written of no other. In the -same mood Milton promised his great epic—in passionate love of the best -before him, and in the assurance of doing as well or better—“I began -thus to assent both to them and divers of my friends here at home, and -not less to an inward prompting, which now grew daily upon me, that by -labour and intense study, which I take to be my portion in this life, -joined with the strong propensity of nature, I might leave something so -written to after-times as they should not willingly let it die.” This is -the great manner of the poets. But in the opening words of Rousseau’s -_Confessions_, to take an opposite example, we have the accent of the -modern disease; he would undertake, he said, an enterprise of which there -had never been a parallel, and of which there would be no imitation—he -would tell the truth about one man, about himself. He promised no -excellence except the uniqueness of the subject, for truth-telling, -though always desirable, can hardly be important unless the subject is -worth while. - -Rousseau’s book is great in spite of its introductory sentence; his -subject after all was not unique, for each of us can follow his example -and write at least one book about ourselves; and perhaps he told less -of the unvarnished truth than he intended, for being an artist in -every fiber of his body, he selected from his experience not his most -singular adventures, but his adventures in those realms of experience—in -sex, for example—which his readers were surest to understand and find -interesting. But with his famous announcement, whether or not he followed -it, our malady began. Hence all the poems and novels of autobiography, -all the diaries of young men and maidens, old men and children, all the -bouquets of verse still showered upon us in which the poet confides his -intimate symptoms. In all this there is little to remind us of great -art, or of the times in which great art has been made; the resemblance -is rather to a hospital or an old folks’ home, where the inmates find -importance in the fact that they have been there longer than their -fellows, or are younger, or a little less blind and deaf. Hence also -our difficulty in understanding earlier literature, of a date when not -originality but excellence was the aim. When we first read Shakespeare’s -sonnets or Sidney’s, we conclude with satisfaction that the poet was -writing out of his heart, in the Rousseau fashion. But when we learn -that these stories are works of art, dramatic renderings of life, and -that the “I” who speaks in the lines is first of all the hero of the -story, whether or not he is the poet too; and when we learn further that -much of the material is adapted from earlier poets, used over again as -we use old words to make up new sentences—then perhaps our respect for -the master vanishes, our ideal is cracked; they were not such original -poets after all. It is the defect of our taste. We forget that the oldest -phrases, if they have the poetic excellence of being true to all of us, -are renewed and become personal in the adventure of each individual. -Though Job ought to get the credit, by all modern standards, of uttering -that very original profession of faith, “I know that my redeemer liveth”, -yet the words were too full of possible meanings to remain linked with -Job’s private misfortunes; being already immortal, they seem never to -have been said for a first time. Lover after lover has found in his -own passion the meaning of some old song, perhaps “My love is like the -red, red rose”, which until the passion fell on him seemed sentimental -and silly. And Rousseau himself in the _Confessions_, at the very -outset of his egotism, of his originality, of his indecorous opposing -of the individual to the race, records his boyhood love of an old -folk-song—precisely the kind of art from which his doctrine led us away. - -But nowadays the desire for originality comes not only from the writer; -a certain class of readers also demand it, the kind of person who reads -with an eye out for imitations and plagiarisms. That plot has been used -before, he says, when two men are in love with the same woman—or, that -character is copied from so-and-so, when Pierrot’s father forgives the -returning prodigal. There are reviewers of this type also, who read -their victims into categories, calling this poet Tennysonian, that -novelist Meredithian, that essayist Emersonian. Such categories become -less definite as we read back into the past, for over the range of a few -centuries no plot is new, nor does any writer seem altogether unlike the -others. There is such a thing as plagiarism, yet unless one is a fanatic -for originality, the question of plagiarism is of no great importance; -the world is not interested, and if the author is concerned from whom -the play or the plot is stolen, his concern is more for his property -than for his art. If his work is stolen unchanged, it is still as good -art as it was before; if the thief has mangled it, his plagiarized -version will not be so good as the authentic text; but if by luck he -has improved on what he took, it becomes his, bag and baggage, so far -as fame is concerned. Who were the authors of those songs Burns made -over into his masterpieces? Who were those dramatists and chroniclers -whom Shakespeare rewrote? The names in many cases can be looked up, but -they are of no account. The world feels that the great writer conferred -a benefit by improving on the earlier work. What is far more important, -the world also feels that the great writer, in improving on another man’s -work, actually invaded no private rights, for the material of literature -is life, and life is no one’s private property. After the invention of -printing, writers saw the possibility of financial dividends from their -works, and plagiarism is an aspect of this financial question, but it has -otherwise nothing to do with art. The world in general continues to think -of art in the old way, as creation rather than as business, and it quite -properly cares little who does the creating, or who afterward receives a -money reward. What were Homer’s annual earnings? Or was it really Homer? -Or who besides David wrote his psalms? We know instinctively that these -questions are trivial. - -But imitation in art is often more apparent than real. If a poet is in -touch with his age, he will write of the subjects that interest him, and -other poets in touch with the age will also write about what interests -them, and consequently they may all write of much the same thing; they -are not imitating each other, but they are enjoying a common pleasure, to -which one of them may have shown the way. We often say that the popular -writer is trying to catch the favor of the public by giving it what -it likes, and in some instances he may be calculating and his motives -unworthy. But it is more probable that being typical of his age, he -simply likes the same things as his fellows. The Elizabethan Londoner -liked historical plays; did Shakespeare write them only to please his -audience, or rather did he not share the general taste? The principle -here implied will explain why any poets who have an enormous popularity -will have also an enormous so-called influence. They are popular because -they share the people’s taste, and the people therefore find in their -work what they like; but if their subject-matter is so popular, many -others will be writing of it too. The resulting resemblance is not really -an influence, or rarely is; it is a contemporary tendency. The poet who -is best in the lot will be remembered. All ran, but one receives the -prize. However, those who came in second and third are neither imitators -nor plagiarists. - - -IV - -To submit oneself to the impersonal discipline of art is hard for -the young. Few young writers are lured into the profession by the -impossibility of being original in their craft, or by the excellent -chance their best works have of becoming anonymous with time. We can -imagine them pleading for the rights of their personalities; what on -earth did the old pagan mean by his proud _non omnis moriar_, if his -personality was not to survive in his work? For their comfort let us add -that personality in art is indestructible. If we have any of it, it will -live. And if we mean personality when we say originality, thinking of the -author rather than of his subject, then we may add also that genuine -personality is original in spite of itself. How hard it is to tell a -story twice the same way; how difficult to form anything permanent, even -habits; how impossible to get once for all into a rut. A dull lecture, -though we hear it a second time word for word, is subtly changed, for we -no longer hear it the first time, and “afflictions induce callosities”, -as Sir Thomas Browne said, and “sorrows destroy us or themselves.” The -record we buy for our phonograph, though we liked it at first, may empty -itself with each repetition, till the charm is gone; even the photograph -of our dear ones, framed on the wall, has a tendency at last to merge -itself in the wall paper. Whatever is repeated in our consciousness -becomes mechanical and unnoticed, or the edge of it is blunted. To -restore the sharp edges of impression, to bring back the first flavor -of things, is the ideal of life and of art; only strong personality -can do it, but where such a personality comes, it is irresistible and -undisguisable. It shows up best in those attitudes of life which in other -hands have grown drab and sordid; the contrast brings out the genius. -This kind of success in life is the art of the actor who plays a long -run, and who gives even in the one hundredth performance the impression -of a fresh experience. A poorer actor would have needed a new play long -before. Or we might say that art is a summary of life—and where will -personality show itself sooner than in summarizing? When Lafcadio Hearn -lectured to his Japanese students, he followed the reading of each -English poem by a brief paraphrase in prose, which usually is the most -precious part of his criticism; for in the retelling, his personality -emphasized what he liked in the verses. If we could ask Tennyson, Morris, -Browning, Arnold and Meredith each to write out a summary of something -we all know, we should have five criticisms, and five revelations of -personality. And there are more personalities in the world than we may -realize; only they waste themselves in the search for the original, when -all that is needed is to be sincere. - - - - -III - -THE CULT OF THE NATURAL - - -I - -It belongs with the confusion of esthetics in our time that the same -people who ask art to be original often ask it to be natural. Being -natural would appear at first sight the least original of programmes. -Even if by originality we mean personality, yet there still seems -some contradiction in the wish at one and the same time to develop a -strong personality and to remain in a state of nature. Since it is -the thoroughbred, not the wild animal, that is distinguished from his -fellows, and the cultivated bloom, not the field flower, that charms by -its single self rather than in quantity, a condition of impulse close -to the unsifted accidents of life would seem to promise an art notable -chiefly for its volume, its indistinction and its insignificance. But -those who ask art to be natural never mean completely natural. In their -wiser moments they are only asking art not to be artificial, or at least -to help them forget it is artificial. They demand a “realistic and -romantic naturalism”, or “a world of honest, and often harsh reality”, -and what they are looking for is indicated by the fact that they find -something convincingly lifelike in a drama of low life or an American -vulgarization of a French farce, but something strained and mechanical in -a comedy by Sheridan or Oscar Wilde. Art, no doubt, is still desirable in -literature—art shot through with crude material, to reassure us that we -are human. Since all plays are highly artificial, naturalness is hardly -the word for the virtue of good plays; they are convincing, rather, they -take us frankly into another world, and for the moment make us forget it -is not our world of everyday. Yet those who ask the stage to be natural -are apparently reassured when through the imaginary world of art breaks -some accent of ordinary speech, some aspect of our common sordidness. -Here, it seems, we touch earth and are strengthened. - -The cult of the natural at its best asks of the medium of art also, -as well as of the subject, that it wear a common aspect, untouched by -artifice. Many of the new poets take as their ideal “the sequence of -the spoken phrase”, with a special dislike of all “inversions”; the -“language of common speech” will serve their purposes. Yet most of them -are better poets than their theories would indicate, and their practise, -like Wordsworth’s in a similar predicament, is perhaps sufficient guide -to the kind of naturalness they are after. _An Extempore Effusion upon -the Death of James Hogg_ is the kind of naturalness Wordsworth fell into -when he was off his guard. “Other poets”, says a more modern cultivator -of naturalism, “will come and perchance perfect where these men have -given the tools. Other writers, forgetting the stormy times in which -this movement had its birth, will inherit in plenitude and calm that for -which they have fought.” Most of us who are convinced that all speech is -artful in so far as it is intelligible, can occasionally put up with a -bit of fine writing like this, but we note in passing that “perchance” -and “plenitude” are not the language of common speech today. As for the -fear of inversions and the sacredness of the natural word-order, it is -enough for the moment to observe that no one order is natural for all -peoples, nor for any one speech at all times; different word-orders -express different states of emotion, even different ideas, and one is -as natural as the other. “Tell me not in mournful numbers” or “Tell not -me in mournful numbers”—which is the natural order? From another and -contemporary New England poet, who sticks valiantly for the natural -sequence of speech, we may examine a characteristic line, which has as -high a percentage of nature in it as absence of art can insure—“I must -pass that door to go to bed.” Would it be less natural to say, “To go to -bed, I must pass that door”? - -To practise artifice and yet to seem spontaneous, to be natural and yet -to achieve art—these ancient paradoxes against which the cultivators -of the natural arrive, in both the subject-matter and the medium of -literature, need to be examined in greater detail, but it is well to -observe them first in a general way, in order to mark how much confusion -lies on the very surface of such thinking. It is emotion perhaps rather -than thinking; it is a protest in another form against what seems old and -inherited; it is an impatience with art itself. Yet art exerts its old -charm upon us all, and the worshipper of the natural succumbs unawares to -every triumph over nature. In American letters we fix on Abraham Lincoln -as our type of natural expression; the legend of his humble beginnings -and the plainness of his manner deceive us into a conviction that he was -less indebted to art than Thomas Jefferson, and we therefore talk of the -rhetorical extravagances of the Declaration and contrast them with the -Attic simplicities of the Gettysburg Address. Perhaps we see a final -proof of our sound taste in the story that Matthew Arnold gave up the -Address for lost when he got to the colloquial “proposition”; “dedicated -to the proposition”, we say, was more than his artificial spirit could -bear. Whether Arnold expressed such an opinion, or whether he would -have been right in so doing, is of less consequence than our emotional -readiness, if we cultivate the natural, to accept the Lincoln speech as -an illustration of our ideal, and to set it over against the artifice of -Jefferson’s great document—to detect a literary manner in such a phrase -as “When in the course of human events”, and nothing but naturalness in -“Fourscore and seven years ago”—or to find an empty and sounding rhetoric -in “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness”, but only the democratic -syllables of common sense in “government of the people, by the people, -for the people.” Both documents are as rich as they can well be in -rhetoric, as all great oratory is, and of the two, Lincoln’s as a matter -of fact is rather more artful in the progress of its ideas. - - -II - -Our confusion in the search for the natural in art springs from the many -different meanings that attach to both words, art and nature. For most -of us, perhaps, art is a decoration, something supplementary to life; in -the spirit of this definition we understand what it is to cultivate the -arts—to buy pictures when our means will permit us that addition to more -primary interests, or to attend the opera after the preliminary stages of -our social pilgrimage. We use the word art so often in this bad sense, -with the implication of insincerity, that there is something bracing in -any invitation to return to nature and to be once more what we were while -we still were honest with ourselves and had a sense of humor. - -This nature that we return to, haunts our thoughts as a fixed state -in which the wise soul can find enduring refuge. Just how we get the -idea that nature is stable, is not easy to see; the notion often -exists in our minds side by side with a deep conviction that life is a -flux, and that time and space are but relative terms in the universal -stream. But perhaps it is the outer appearance of the world, nature as -landscape, that first suggests a refuge even against time, mountains -are so immovable in their mysterious silence for us as for Wordsworth, -the ocean is so untamable for us, as it was for Byron. Perhaps also the -contemplation of the changing universe during the past century of daring -and imaginative science has endowed nature with a romantic career of -its own, such as the old humanists ascribed only to men; perhaps the -progress of stars, planets and solar systems, observed or guessed at, -suggests in spite of the evolution it illustrates a deeper kind of rest -in the laws by which that evolution conducts itself; so that the last -result of turning from human art to watch the behavior of inanimate -things is the conviction that nothing is really inanimate, but that all -move in the wisdom of an art superhuman, in an order peaceful and eternal -as only a divine vitality could conceive. When we think of nature in this -sense of the word, leaving man out of the picture, ourselves too as far -as possible who do the thinking, we are ready to say with Emerson that -art is an impertinent intrusion, nature is all. “Nature in the common -sense refers to essences unchanged by man; space, the air, the river, the -leaf; art is applied to the mixture of his will with the same things, -as in a house, a canal, a statue, a picture; but his operations taken -together are so insignificant,—a little shaping, baking, patching and -washing,—that in an impression so grand as that of the world on the human -mind they do not vary the result.” - -We can speak of nature in this all-embracing way so long as, like -Emerson for the moment, we lay aside every thought of man and of the -moral world which he creates or brings under his control, and in which -his responsibility is fixed. But once we resume that human outlook, we -begin to use the word natural in at least two other senses. In the first -place we use it to describe the process of life, that constant birth or -becoming which seems to have been present to the mind of the Greek also -when he used his word for nature—as when Aristotle says, in a famous -phrase, that art is an imitation of nature, meaning that the process of -art is a copy of the processes of birth and becoming, and creates by the -same methods that life does. In this sense of the word nature is like -art, not opposed to it, and with this interpretation Polixenes tried to -rebuke the cult of the natural in Perdita, who would not have in her -garden a flower artificially bred: - - Yet nature is made better by no mean, - But nature makes that mean: so, o’er that art - Which you say adds to nature, is an art - That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry - A gentler scion to the wildest stock, - And make conceive a bark of baser kind - By bud of nobler race: this is an art - Which does mend nature—change it rather: but - The art itself is nature. - -We use the word nature also to describe the raw material of life which is -the result of a previous birth or becoming. It is what some earlier art, -human or divine, has already worked on, and what we must work on now if -art is to continue. Nature in this sense is the marble, the color, the -language which are to be the mediums of various arts; human passions and -instincts also, the social and the material environments which attend our -lives, the accidents of fortune which make up their plots; and since all -this is what art must work upon, nature so defined is forever somewhat -opposed to art, as inanimate materials are opposed to the workman, as -the wood and the chisel are opposed to the carpenter. For art is the -use of the materials of life for human benefit, a method employed for -a premeditated end in a world which except for art might seem given -over to chance. Because it is a rearrangement and a control of nature -to effect the will of man, life itself, so far as it becomes civilized, -becomes an art. But in a world as old as ours the raw material with -which art deals is itself the result of art; the wood has been already -shaped into boards, the chisel and the hammer have been made into tools -before the carpenter touches them, and the environment in which the -carpenter is born, the instincts and passions he inherits, the turns and -coincidences of his fate, are all probably the result of what others -before him made of their materials and opportunities. Thinking of life -so, we see it as an alternation of nature and art, or as an alternation -in which what first is art becomes afterwards nature, all the achievement -of one generation turning into mere starting point and opportunity for -the next; and thinking of life so, we understand how nature, to the -true artist, is forever set over against art in a contrast that implies -affection rather than antagonism, for those who instead of defining -art as a decorative supplement to life identify it with civilization -itself, are free to love nature without abandoning an ideal, as a -sculptor is free to love fine marble, or the painter to love his medium -of tint and tone. With time and by such a process of reworking, nature -draws nearer and nearer to art; the raw material is made constantly -more orderly by rearrangement, as a field is enriched by plowing in the -crops. Even in the sphere of human character this is true, in the very -seat of the natural, in our instincts and passions; for though we may -agree that character should be measured by a moral career rather than -by impulses wholly innate, yet it is well to reflect that your impulses -and sentiments, if you are born and brought up in Florence or Chartres, -Heidelberg or Seville, are likely to be different from the impulses -and sentiments natural to a child born or brought up in The Bronx or -in Hoboken. In the eyes of the naturalist, nature is all, as Emerson -said, and art only a little shaping, baking, patching and washing, but -to the artist who carries in his imagination something of the scope of -agelong growth and creation, the truth is what Nature said to the poet in -Voltaire’s dialogue—“They call me nature, but by this time I am become -all art.” - - -III - -The possibility, then, of returning to nature disappears when we realize -how long a road we have traveled; all that the most primitive minded of -us can do is to stick close to the raw material of his own life, to the -circumstances with which the art of his predecessors surrounded him. This -is the nature which the realists cultivate today. They report those facts -of life from which art might take its beginning, but they report them as -much as possible in an arrested state, for fear they might pass on into -art. Among the poets one, catching the accent of the spoken language, -gives us the language of one phase of New England; another, with a -like faithfulness to the natural cadence, gives us another kind of New -England speech; a third has the colloquialism of Illinois. They are all -artists, or they would not mean much to us, but in so far as they have -followed their own ideals of the natural they have laid aside some of -the magician’s robes to which by inheritance they are entitled, and they -leave with us their renderings of our world in a form of utterance less -noble than their theme and out of harmony with it. In our prose and verse -alike, the studied inadequacy of style to the occasion is a standing -reproach to us, all the worse since it is often the pose of an inverted -vanity, like the democratic conviction still flourishing in the land that -the dinner coat or the evening coat is an artifice of a worn-out society, -whereas the senatorial frock coat and wide hat are natural and God-given -sheathings of our original nakedness. - -To revert to the starting point of our lives is to seek nature in vain, -since the alternations of art and nature proceed relentlessly, whether -we rest our dead weight on the process or try to help it along. It is a -vain flattery of our reluctance to travel, to take our seat always in -the last car. But, however futile, the cult of the natural in literature -has a reasonable explanation, and it is well to understand with sympathy -why it is likely to recur periodically in a civilization that must feel -its age more and more. Art criticizes life, as we have often been told, -by selecting or sifting it; that is what the word criticism means. -The authority that art has over us, its right to make such a sifting, -derives not from books but from the human brain itself, from the method -of memory; we remember only by forgetting most of the things we have -done or have suffered, and rearranging the rest. As we grow older life -becomes clearer, we say, thanks to this selection and forgetting. When -art sifts life, then, it is only imitating the process of nature, and -when we observe the process we can understand why the Greeks said that -memory was the mother of the muses. But this sifting of life on the part -of memory and of art is progressive, and in all honesty we may wonder at -times whether it has not gone too far. Some of the clarity of vision, -the firmness of doctrine, which is the reward of old age, may be not the -genuine harvesting of experience which is almost the gift of prophecy; -it may be rather a partial memory which seems clear because so much has -been left out. If a poet could get a first-hand impression of life, his -art would be one sifting of nature; if he reacts not only to nature but -to the interpretations of other poets, his art is a second sifting, -more highly organized, perhaps, more intelligible, than is normally -recorded from immediate contact with life. It makes no difference -whether we call these siftings poetry or criticism, since poetry, as -Arnold reminded us, is a criticism of life. The poet may submit his -sensitiveness to nature as sifted through three or four or any number -of interventions of personality, and we may call the result poetry, or -criticism, or criticism of criticism; very often we cannot tell, and -the poet does not know, whether the life that stimulates him is direct -or transmitted. But in each remove from the first contact with nature, -in each additional intervention of personality, we get a clearer order -and a finer intelligibility—truth instead of facts, formulas instead of -experiences, and fewer exceptions. The literature, then, which begins in -naturalism will at last emerge in philosophy, if we allow it time enough, -and the biography of an individual will be condensed and generalized into -a proverb. - -There are two good reasons, however, for suspecting this economical -result. One is that the proverb is probably not true. To arrive at it, -in each successive sifting we have left out something, and the total of -all the omissions has become almost as comprehensive as the original -experience. We must go back and gather up the discarded fragments of -our adventure, in order to qualify properly our too simple and absolute -summary of life. The art of the historian, we often fear, progresses by -some such over-elimination; archæology sometimes rescues him by restoring -large sections of a past, the absence of which he had not noticed, but in -periods too recent for archæology to take him by surprise, he constantly -rewrites his history, to sift it more to his mind, until we may suspect -that his account is nearer to our philosophy than to the original facts. -In history this tendency is hardly a matter of concern, for if we have a -criticism of the eighteenth century which satisfies us, we are content, -and the eighteenth century, being dead and gone, will not mind; the poet, -therefore, can look on with equanimity while the historians propose to -rewrite our national life in order to bring it more in harmony with our -present sentiments toward this or that other country; the poet knows -that history is not a science but one of the most fascinating of the -arts, closely allied to eloquence in its mission to teach and persuade, -and that having to do strictly with the past it enjoys rare freedom in -sifting its facts. But the poet himself enjoys no such freedom. Whatever -he writes will be checked up by the life we now live; his readers will -look into their hearts and criticize. If therefore he has gained his -clarity by leaving out things essential in our experience, we reject him -as too far from our reality to be of consequence to the race. He may be -a philosopher; he is no poet. - -His philosophy may even be true, and yet his right to the laurel may be -justly denied. For the special service of art is to make us live more -intensely in the very life which art sifts and selects—in fact, the -sifting has for its conscious purpose a more vivid realization of what we -live through, and a novel or a play is successful, from the standpoint -of imaginative literature, only in the degree to which we enter the -work, become ourselves the hero, fall in love with the heroine, hate -the villain. In this sense the dime novel and the melodrama, though -carelessly branded by the theorist as bad art, are likely to be very -good art indeed, and the over-reasoned story, though adorned with subtle -reflection and refinements of diction, is in fact poor art, as the -average person in his heart knows, for in such books the reflection -upon life is paid for by a failure to represent what the reflection is -about. If the author would only share with us the adventures that caused -him to reflect, we could do our own reflecting upon them, but if he -will not share the secret which inspires him, we do not care much what -philosophizing he does. Literature continues to be great so long as the -sifting it makes it really a selection only from life, and what remains -is for the imagination still a first-hand experience; when the residue -grows thin to the imagination and addresses itself rather to logic, we -feel justified in making whatever return we can to our starting point in -nature, to reassure ourselves there, if we cannot in the book, that this -human life we love is still with us. - - -IV - -If such a taking to cover is observed in much writing today, the writers -who in one form or another now cultivate nature rather than art may -plead with justice that the best literature our country produced before -them was perilously deficient in a sense of reality. If they do so -plead, however, they ought to be consistent. If they think that so great -an artist as Hawthorne was deficient in reality, that transcendental -philosophy occupies too much room in his romances and the sense of -actual American life too little, then they ought not to tell us at -the same time that Poe and Whitman are our great poets, for those -two were even further along toward the abstract than Hawthorne. And -there will be an increasing obligation on those who in each generation -of the fast-ripening world make a return to nature, to provide some -demonstration that it is not life after all they are running away from. -Some men have taken to the hermit’s cell to find God; others to avoid -responsibility. As civilization becomes greater in quantity, with more -discoveries of science, with more apparatus of education, we need more -and more the poetic genius that will dedicate this material to great -ends, and by articulating for us what we can recognize as our best ideal, -teach us to simplify life by casting off the other less significant -interests. The solution of all this raw material for art can only be -a greater art. When we turn back from this heroic opportunity to take -refuge in what is for us nature, we must convince ourselves, if we can -that our retreat does not indicate in us inadequate equipment or weak -nerve or small heart. - -In our present cult of the natural there is cause to suspect some such -lack of skill and courage. The plea that our predecessors were so -deficient in reality that we, to save the day, must exhibit less art than -theirs, will not go in the long run. Our new poetry is curiously relaxed -and enervated in temper, ground-hugging, grey and flat; if we have moods -which such writing adequately represents, we have other moments more -cheerful and creative, which our architecture and our engineering manage -to express, but which cannot be guessed at in our poetry, not as much as -the oak can be guessed at in the acorn. Our novels, too, have lost their -courage, and though they often represent photographically the machine of -civilization which builds up around us, and which now is the raw material -on which our art is to operate, they do not even attempt to portray the -spirit of the artist which actually pervades the land, the joy in putting -the machine to human uses, the almost divine ecstasy in having made so -much of nature subject already to the mind. This mood of confidence in -art is as much a fact in our national life as the number of gallons that -flow over Niagara each hour, but the poets and novelists seem to have -taken fright. - -In both verse and prose, in style as well as subject, the cult of the -natural has limited our writers to a few individualistic attitudes, and -has taken from them the power to speak with authority on all subjects -for us all. We have no American poet, no American novelist; each is -the poet or novelist of Vermont or Boston or Maine or Chicago—whatever -scene is to him by birth or habit his natural world. To find a universal -utterance of universal experience is the aim and the tendency of art, -but the cult of nature compels us to return each in what state he came. -The counsel to use the language of ordinary speech limits us to the -speech of some locality; and such limitation is a fatal handicap for -great poetry. The advice to use only the natural word-order limits us to -the word-order which each of us finds natural, whereas it is our duty, on -the contrary, if we make any claim to mastery in literature, to enlarge -our vocabulary even beyond the words our family and our neighbors made -natural to us, and to cultivate all the variety of word-order our speech -permits, that we may enrich and refine our style, and render our meaning -more precise. The temptation to get along with a small vocabulary and a -meagre change of construction is altogether too natural; we did not need -this premeditated urging to a still greater poverty. Hitherto the best -remedy for a narrow equipment in language has been to read constantly -in the great writers; it was they who extended the powers of speech and -laid upon each tongue the shape and cadence which to the ill-informed -might seem the gift of nature. But now that the ideal of the writer is to -shrink to the measure of the conversation he is used to, how shall our -nobler moments find expression? Not even in reading old authors, for by -the contemporary doctrine of naturalness the old masters are artificial. -“Whither thou goest, I will go, and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy -people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where thou diest, will I -die, and there will I be buried.” ... “At her feet he bowed, he fell, he -lay down; at her feet he bowed, he fell; where he bowed there he fell -down dead.” ... “Or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be -broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain, or the wheel broken at -the cistern. Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was, and the -spirit shall return unto God who gave it.” - -These cadences are not natural, and they are not modeled on the sounds -that habitually fill our ears. Their distinction, or if you like, their -condemnation, is that they are works of art. Such language gets away -as far as it can from time and place, and by much sifting out from -unessentials it tries to preserve a universal appeal. If you can write -this way at all, you can write as well in New York as in London, as well -now as in 1611. - -The purpose of art is to make its subject-matter also universal, to sift -and rearrange the raw material of life into a history that will have as -much meaning as possible for as many readers as possible, for as long as -possible. But the cult of the natural tends to the opposite effect—to -make the subject-matter of literature temporary in its interest and -limited in its meaning. The Broadway entertainments which please us for -the moment, since they conform to our taste in the spontaneous, the -impromptu and the natural, are but the raw material of drama; good plays -might be made out of them; but in each case the author stops the story -before we pass from nature to art. It is natural, in the sense of our -definition, that a stoker in modern times should have two ideas—that -to the idle and effete he may seem akin to the missing link, and that -since he is at the bottom of society, he must be supporting it. Quite -a philosophy can be made out of two ideas, and these two, when put -together, as in a recent drama, promise an explosion. But after all, -nothing explodes. The man simply enunciates his two ideas in different -accents of violence, until the author thinks it is time to stop, and -gets him strangled in the zoo. An artist would have been interested to -see in action a character with such a philosophy. We have recently seen -another play with an idea, a very simple one; by any means in her power a -girl is going to capture the man she loves. Since the only means in her -power are eccentric ones, we watch her eccentricity with astonishment for -three acts; her behavior is original, like nothing that ever was or will -be, and our interest is held by the growing desperation of her ingenuity. -Well, she gets him—for much the same reason that the philosophic stoker -was strangled, because it is time for the audience to go home. An artist -would have granted her ambition as natural, and her success as natural -too; he would have shown us, however, what happened after her success, -when her philosophy of opportunism in etiquette would have met its -test. Had _Much Ado About Nothing_ been written by the author of either -of the plays just described, the famous comedy would never have got -further than the raw material of the story, the legend that Benedick and -Beatrice waged a merry war between them; we should have had an evening’s -entertainment of jokes and insults, made gradually more intensive, more -violent and more surprising in order to hold us till the last curtain. -Shakespeare, choosing the way of art, begins rather at the point where -the wit of Beatrice and Benedick is exhausted; they have the reputation -for it, but their public efforts show signs of strain and flagging. From -this start in nature the play proceeds to represent what happened to -Benedick and Beatrice, the witty enemies, when serious accidents brought -their fates together. - - -V - -Nowhere in literature, perhaps, is art so obviously essential and -naturalism so obviously fatal as in drama, for drama, by exhibiting life -to us directly, quickens to its utmost whatever desire we have to see -our fellows move on from their natural beginnings to some achievement or -significant conclusion. Impulses, ideas, motives, prejudices, passions, -and as we now say, complexes, are all natural forms of energy; in real -life they weary us if they have only a lyric expression, and we wish -they would get started into action. Their attempts toward action may -be thwarted, and such a defeat may be tragically significant, but at -least they should try, and if instead of trying they waste themselves -in talk, they become not energies but nuisances. It is for this reason, -we suppose, that Aristotle long ago cautioned us that tragedy, or all -drama, is an imitation not of men but of an action, and that plot is the -essential thing. He might have said that character may exist in a state -of nature, but plot presupposes art in life, a selection from all other -incidents of one succession of events which so selected have a meaning. -What he did say was that without action there can be no drama, but there -may be without character. Plot is a generalization of life, in which the -actors may or may not be portrayed as individuals. The woman who lost -the piece of silver, the good Samaritan, the mother of Œdipus, are clear -enough in their universal relation to the story in which they appear; -their personalities may be restated to suit our taste, or left undefined. -We read in the newspaper that a man jumps into the river to save a -drowning child, and having got to land, discovers that he has rescued his -own son. We live in that drama without asking what was the character of -the father or what was the psychology of the son. - -It is remarkable how Shakespeare illustrates Aristotle’s doctrine, by -showing his characters in action and by avoiding as far as possible an -analysis of their motives, their instincts, their prejudices, their -passions. Life with him finds expression in art or not at all. It is a -mirror indeed which he applies to nature, not a microscope; in his glass -we see the form of virtue and the features of vice, we know who are -good and who are bad, at least as accurately as we form such judgments -in life, but we do not know the motives of the good or the bad. What -were Falstaff’s motives? Should he be acted as a comic or a tragic -character? Why did Portia like Bassanio? Why did Cordelia take such -an absolute stand with her father? What did Hero think of Claudio, or -Hermione of Leontes, after the restoration to the jealous husband? Was -Hamlet’s mother an accessory to the murder of his father, or did her -conscience trouble her only because she had made a second marriage and in -such haste? The profundity of Shakespeare’s art lies in his genius for -representing the surface of action; in art as in ethics, life is chiefly -conduct, and it is enough that behind conduct lies unprobed the same -mystery that lies behind existence itself. - -But since naturalism thinks otherwise, Shakespeare is no longer our -example. Browning is more in our vein. For him the natural man, the raw -material of each one of us, the hidden instincts and impulses, must be -the whole subject, and action he finds useful only in the fragmentary -incidents that must be premised before you can conclude anything even -about instincts. Few verdicts in criticism are wider of the mark than -the too familiar saying that Browning’s genius is Shakespearean. He -is the opposite of Shakespeare. He is absorbed in what we call in a -loose way psychology, in the original man apart from his conduct, or -as far apart from it as you can separate him. To be so concerned about -motives and instincts is to be a kind of inverted dramatist, moving -back from action instead of toward it; it is no wonder, therefore, that -Browning’s so-called dramas fail on the stage, since in that direct -relation to the audience their static naturalness, their inability to -live out a significance in conduct, is pitilessly revealed. Everybody -examines himself and talks about himself, as God made him; nothing -gets under way; the audience is finally delivered by the death of the -soliloquizer, not in a zoo, but more politely, it may be, in a gondola. -“Even if you string together a set of speeches expressive of character,” -said Aristotle, “though well finished in diction and in thought, yet -you will not produce the essential tragic effect nearly so well as with -a play which, however deficient in these respects, yet has a plot and -artistically constructed incidents.” To return to nature absolutely -would be to return to silence. Short of silence, to return to nature in -literature is to confess your private character in monologue. Browning is -master in that kind. It would be untactful to name the writers today who -share the mastery with him, and perhaps it is enough merely to suggest -the idea. To save time we might prudently meditate rather upon the few -poets and novelists remaining whose art gets further than monologue. - -Meanwhile the universe marches on its secret errand, not altogether -secret since it marches, and its art is slowly dramatized in its vast -conduct. Art for art’s sake is a formula inspiring if taken in a noble -sense, but in any sense it is intelligible as a programme deliberately -chosen. To cultivate nature for nature’s sake is absurd. For nature is -here without our aid, and to preserve it in what we call its pure state, -we need cultivate nothing—unless it be a more animal contentedness to -profit in indolence by the art of those who came before us. - - - - -IV - -THE CULT OF THE CONTEMPORARY - - -I - -“The end of playing”, said Hamlet, “both at the first and now, was and -is, to show the very age and body of the time, his form and presence.” It -would seem that Hamlet thought the business of art was to portray the age -in which the artist lived, not only to address his contemporaries, but to -speak to them about themselves. The cult of the contemporary, then, in -our own day could ask for no better text than this phrase of the Prince -of Denmark; what a pity he uttered it so long ago! - -Shakespeare did not agree with Hamlet—at least, he made some pretence -to show his Elizabethan audience the form and presence of remote times -and far-away countries, Rome and Athens, Denmark itself, Italy, Scotland, -Bohemia, the age of King John and the Richards and the Henrys, the -time and place, whatever they were, of _Midsummer Night’s Dream_, the -_Tempest_, _Cymbeline_, the _Winter’s Tale_. And Hamlet himself, be it -noted, is hardly faithful to his theory, for when he asks the players to -repeat a favorite speech of his, it turns out to be Æneas’s tale to Dido. -It was from a piece, he said, that pleased not the million, perhaps never -had a second performance, but in the judgment of the competent and in his -own opinion it was an excellent play. Perhaps the million were at the -moment bred exclusively to appreciate contemporary themes; costume plays -were not the fashion. Hamlet’s other choice in drama is poor evidence -of his esthetic theory; the murder of Gonzaga seems to have been already -ancient history, but he chose it to catch the conscience of the king, -since the story fitted his own household tragedy. Shall we follow the -hint, and suggest that Hamlet, like Shakespeare, really had nothing in -common with those who would make contemporary life the proper subject for -art? Perhaps he would not have mentioned the age and body of the time, -if he had not just said that the end of playing is to show scorn her own -image, if indeed the purpose of his meddling with the drama at all, at -that moment, had not been to sting the royal murderer into a confession -of his guilt. - -The cult of the contemporary follows logically from the cult of the -natural. If we are to write of a life untouched with art, we can write -only of life about us, as our fathers left it to us—our best of nature, -the talent buried in a napkin; and if we are to use the ordinary -language of men, we must use today’s language, the only speech that to -us is ordinary. And if it is possible to understand the search for the -natural as an effort to correct the generalizing tendency in literature, -we may also find a sympathetic explanation of the insistence on the -contemporary, when we recall how many writers have reasoned themselves -into a determination to walk in the ways of their heart and in the -sight of their eyes. Did not Homer celebrate the glory of Hellenism? -Did not Virgil celebrate the empire of Rome? Well, then, we ought to -celebrate the United States, our United States, rather than the country -of Washington or Jefferson; we ought to celebrate the hour and the place -we know, for we ought to love what we know—New York, Boston, Chicago -or the Middle West. This conclusion seems rational, but the desired -enthusiasm does not follow; the celebration of the contemporary in our -literature is as dreary in its results as the worship of the natural, -inspired merely by the sense of some duty rather than by delight in what -is portrayed. Homer’s zest for Hellenism is undeniable, and the instinct -is right that we, too, must love life as he loved it before we can write -as he wrote. For the moment we postpone the question, whether we must -not also live a life as noble in kind as he portrayed. Virgil, writing -in a more complicated, a sadder age, none the less loved imperial Rome, -and we are right to think that before we shall be worthy to sing of our -own land, in its own grave and complex era, we must take it to heart, -problems and all. “The proof of a poet”, said Whitman, “shall be sternly -deferred till his country absorbs him as affectionately as he absorbed -it.” But Whitman’s own practise is a provoking comment on his saying; he -succeeded remarkably in loving his land under an eternal form; the form -and presence of his day he did not leave us. His poems are no guide-books -to Manhattan and Long Island in 1855; even his beloved ferry-boats are -dateless. - -In what sense, then, would Whitman have us love our country, the home -of our own times, and how did Homer and Virgil, as artists, love the -Greece or the Rome they knew? To be of one’s age, yet to be immortal, is -a problem more subtle perhaps than to achieve an art that seems natural, -but it can be solved in the same way, by defining the terms of our -esthetic, and by referring them, as to a touchstone, to what we know of -our common human nature. The question can also be narrowed at the start, -and very profitably, by pressing home our reflections on Hamlet’s remark -to the players. There is one kind of writing which does confine itself -to the feature of virtue and the image of scorn, and which does indeed, -for that very reason, limit itself always to giving the form and presence -of the time—the kind of writing, that is, which indicts human nature -instead of portraying it. Our better selves, our ideals, are of no time, -but our faults are personal responsibilities and strictly contemporary. -Satire, therefore, which holds up to merriment or to scorn what is -ridiculous or base, must always take a present subject, and in general -any art that leans toward the consideration of our shortcomings will lean -also toward the life enacted at the moment. If Hamlet meant to trap the -king, of course he would write into the old play the very murder the king -had committed only three or four months ago; this would not be satire in -the usual sense, but it would serve the same end, to convict the guilty -and to reform the world. The cult of the contemporary, then, is proper -quite literally for satire; it remains only to ask how far it is proper -for art. - -But is satire not art? Did not Martial and Juvenal, Dryden and Pope write -highly artistic satires? There is an art of satire, we must answer, as -there is an art of preaching and an art of prosecuting a criminal case. -But if there is a distinction between art and morals, then satire belongs -to the world of ethics, and of ethics on the grim side, rather than to -the world of beauty and delight. To survey and judge the morals of one’s -age is a serious office that no thoughtful and sensitive person seems -altogether to neglect; if the purpose of art is to make such a survey, as -Hamlet seems to say, then _Twelfth Night_ is hardly a masterpiece in art, -and _Sandford and Merton_ is certainly one. If art, on the other hand, -has for its purpose to salvage out of our crude days the truth which can -be translated into beauty, and which so translated may be a joy for ever, -then art will have as little as possible to do with men’s faults—what -faults are joys for ever?—and the kind of writing which confines itself -to our frailties or our sins will be as far removed as possible from -art. Moreover, the moralist desires a cure of souls, and when the fault -is remedied, who will care for the satire or even understand it? It is -easy enough, without taking thought, to perish with our own time, but it -is one of the oldest hopes art has held out to natural man, that being -purified into art he should not altogether die. But mortality is germane -to satire. When we read Dryden’s terrible excoriations of Og and Doeg, we -can only wonder who were the human beings he hated so, and when we come -to know something of their lives and characters, we are more confused to -name the moral impulse in him which made it necessary to fix them in so -warm a hell. In art, loving your own times does not mean loving to find -fault with them. - - -II - -A genuine love of your own time is the recognition, in what you meet in -it, of those best moments which crave to be made accessible even for the -remotest of ages following. To immortalize any given moment, however, -is to take it out of the temporary and somehow to find a language for -it so general in its appeal that hereafter it may preserve in its own -significance the trivial circumstances from which it first arose. -Whenever a genuine love of life stirs the artist, it will be a passion -for what he thinks is the best in his own day; even if he is antiquarian -and takes for object of his devotion some medieval phase of life, it -is medievalism in his own day that he worships. Such a passion leads -the writer toward the future, for since it is an ideal passion, yet to -be realized, he instinctively proclaims it to posterity, or tries to; -but in his search for the right language in which to utter it, he as -instinctively turns to the past. To cultivate the contemporary in art -is therefore as absurd as to waste effort cultivating the natural, for -the present, like nature, is always with us; but the problem for the -artist is to express a vision which necessarily points toward the future -in language which necessarily trails from the past. We cannot remind -ourselves too often that even the single words of common speech must be -used by each one of us perhaps a lifetime before they are charged with -emotions or sharpened to precise meanings, and before the writer can -use them with full effect they must be so charged and sharpened for all -his readers. The language of poetry, moreover, is far more than single -words; it is chiefly the metaphors and the legends, the characters and -the episodes, which the race has met with so often that at last they -suggest accurately to all men the same feelings and the same thoughts. -Life at each moment may be on its way to become something to talk with, -but only the rash would try to express a serious ideal through a picture -of that life which is still near us, and therefore still imperfectly -seasoned or digested. The patriotism that Shakespeare dramatized for -his audience was certainly a passion for the England of Elizabeth; that -is why he expressed it through Faulconbridge, the child of Richard the -Lion-Hearted, or through John of Gaunt, or through Henry V. Why did he -not put Elizabeth on his stage, with Raleigh and Spenser and Drake and -Sidney? Was he blind to the glory of his own hour? He seems not to have -been so, but in his own hour neither the Queen nor any of her great -courtiers was as clear a figure to the emotions as time has since made -them all; the sentiment of the audience would be divided as to each one -of them, the adherents to Rome still perhaps cursing Henry’s daughter -in their hearts, the friends of Ireland perhaps cursing the poet of the -_Faerie Queene_. But the wise dramatist was on safe ground, he knew, when -the audience heard their common love of country issue unprejudiced from -the lips of old Gaunt, who died two centuries earlier: - - This fortress, built by nature for herself, - Against infection and the hand of war; - This happy breed of men, this little world, - This precious stone set in the silver sea, - Which serves it in the office of a wall, - Or as a moat defensive to a house, - Against the envy of less happier lands; - This blessed spot, this earth, this realm, this England. - -When a poet turns to the past for language with which to express his -love of the present or his vision of the future, he soon learns that not -all epochs lend themselves with equal felicity to his purpose; he must -select that aspect of the past which is adequate in nobility and energy -to what he has to say, and he must select that aspect of the past which -will be understood emotionally by his readers. We are prepared, every -one of us perhaps, to admit the necessity of this twofold selection, but -to admit so much is to admit a good deal; it is to admit that not all -epochs are equally available for the language of art, and that though -we exist in our own time, it may be the part of wisdom and good taste -to derive our artistic speech from another period. When Molière’s hero -pronounces his scorn of artificial verse and contrasts with it an old -song of the people, he is rejecting a fashion that was contemporary and -temporary for one that was lasting. When Homer wrote of ancient Troy, or -when Æneas sang the founding of Rome, either poet was choosing the date -of his story with the same taste with which he selected his theme, or -selected the words of which to make his lines; he was choosing what the -race after long reflection had realized was dignified, noble and true in -feeling. The poet, whoever he was, that left us the _Song of Roland_, -no doubt was expressing a sentiment toward France which flourished in -his own day, and which may have been very foreign to the feelings of -the original Roland; as in the other instances, the old story had to be -changed and expurgated to make it altogether the vehicle of contemporary -experience; yet he was right in taking the great figure of Roland for -the outer clothing or language of his emotions, since heroic sentiments -had already connected themselves with Charlemagne’s peer, as they had -not yet with William of Normandy, nor with his immediate predecessors. -In English history there have been efficient and picturesque rulers in -plenty, yet the poets were right who have retold their national epics in -the story of Arthur rather than in the biographies of Alfred or Edward I -or Cromwell; for the Arthurian legend as the race has chosen to remember -it is of richer fabric emotionally and of a simpler structure than any -nearer and more actual history could well be. Theodore Roosevelt, for all -we know, may have been a greater man than Cromwell, and time may make him -seem more significant, but if the poet wishes to say things about the -strenuous life, he had better say them now through the image of Cromwell, -about whom our emotions are more classified; better still if he says -them through the image of King Arthur, who much more than Cromwell has -become a precise symbol in the imagination. Arthur was to have been the -hero of Milton’s epic—at least, Milton considered him for a possible hero -but discarded him in favor, not of Cromwell or Hampden, but of Adam; and -again the choice was wise, since Adam is still an image more universally -understood than any of Milton’s contemporaries, and we know what we are -expected to feel when we hear his story. - -To say then that in writing, even when our purpose is art and not -satire, we should express ourselves in terms of the life about us, is -to lay down a formula which has been contradicted in practise by the -influential writers of the world. To find a language already wide-spread -and therefore intelligible, the artist will always draw to some extent -on the past, even though he does so unconsciously, and how far he goes -back into the past will depend on what it is he wants to express. In -_Henry Esmond_, Thackeray used the age of Marlborough to express a flavor -of romance that could not be said in life of a later date. But when -he had satire for his purpose, as in _Vanity Fair_, he chose a period -comparatively modern. It is but fair to observe, however, that Thackeray -follows this principle with very uncertain skill. The period he chose for -his great satire was somewhat more remote than for _Pendennis_ or _The -Newcomes_, where his purpose was less obviously and exclusively moral; -the resulting effect in each case is somewhat peculiar, since most of us, -unless we count up the dates, perhaps get the impression that _Vanity -Fair_ was the contemporary book. In one sense it makes little difference, -and we might use the illustration to indicate that it is the method of -treatment, rather than the life portrayed, that will make a book seem -contemporary. But we are left to wonder also whether Thackeray did not -intend _Vanity Fair_ to be more satirical in its effect than it actually -is, and _The Newcomes_ to be less so. Did the great but easy-going artist -make here a careless choice of the time for his story? - -Even the writers who seem now to have been most contemporary were really -not so; what seems contemporary in them are eternal aspects of life, -which even in their day were old. We sometimes doubt the value of those -scholarly labors which search out for us the sources, so-called, of the -great poets, the residuum of earlier times which they adapted to express -their genius; but these labors would be justified sufficiently by the -answer they give to those who think that art speaks through contemporary -life. They think that we should look in our heart and write, as Sidney -did, or return directly to nature, as did Wordsworth, forgetting -that when Sidney looked in his heart to write, he wrote some masterly -translations and paraphrases of earlier Italian or French poems, and -that when Wordsworth drew on his personal experience, as in the immortal -lines to the Cuckoo, he recast an earlier fine poem by Michael Bruce. -The believers in the contemporary urge us to paint the record of our own -times as immediately as Chaucer wove his neighbors into the tapestry of -the Canterbury Tales; they do not know how many versions there were of -the famous tales before Chaucer shaped them to his own purposes. Indeed, -so much of the past has gone into all that we now are or say or do, that -the attempt to detach ourselves from the best that has gone before is -in a way a denial of contemporary character to our own times, or to any -other period; for the quality of civilization in 1923 which distinguishes -it from civilization in 1823 is the gift, for good or evil, of the -hundred years in between; and to be contemporary with any moment in -history is to be aware of all the past that still is articulate in that -moment. - - -III - -If a writer fails to use the past as the language with which to express -his present, the reason may be that he does not know the past, or that -he has theoretical objections to using it so, even though the great -writers have followed no other method. But this reason is rarely the -true one. Today as at other times any sincere writer will be interested -in the great examples of his art, and will find them out, and probably -the same instincts will eventually show themselves in his work as in -the work of his predecessors. Undoubtedly there are poets and novelists -today who through a mistaken cult of the natural are striving for a -strictly contemporary utterance—rejecting, that is, all that they can -recognize in our speech as having a history. If their scholarship were -more complete, they would have to reject even the meagre vocabulary -of word, image and legend they are now content to use. But the writer -who willingly would avail himself of the full inheritance in his art -finds himself limited perhaps for another reason—he finds that his -readers do not know the past, that many of them cultivate an ignorance -of it, and that, therefore, if he uses it to speak with, he may not be -understood. It is part of the discipline which every art imposes on -those who practise it, that they must speak in terms intelligible to -their audience. It remains to ask, of course, who are the audience? and -the writer, if he is sufficiently courageous, stubborn, or hopeful, may -choose to address a more intelligent audience than he finds in his day, -an audience who he thinks will at last recover the traditional tongue in -which he speaks, and for whom it will be worth his while to wait. This -may seem to some of us the only way out, but we know it is a precarious -way. Such a brilliant belated justification came to the Greek classics at -the Renaissance; it has come in music to such a giant as Bach, who was, -as we say, ahead of his own day; but to expect it to come to us merely -because our contemporaries do not appreciate us is entirely too obvious a -self-flattery. The sane artist will rather do his best to say what he has -to say in language his day understands, and he will try also to encourage -his audience in the recovery of a larger language, so that he may say -more to them. - -This question whether the reader has sufficient command of the inherited -language of literature is always an acute one for the author; the lasting -successes in literature have been made at those moments when a knowledge -of the past was wide-spread, and the audience were as familiar with the -older literature as the writers were. Historical as Virgil seems to us in -the _Æneid_, almost antiquarian, he offered to his first readers nothing -they were not familiar with, and little that would not immediately -kindle an emotion. In one sense then he may be said to have spoken in -a contemporary language. But neither he nor his audience would have -understood the doctrine that art becomes great by being contemporary, and -that it becomes contemporary by discrediting the past. “To have great -poets, there must be great audiences too”, said Whitman, and here, as -elsewhere, we are coming to realize, he got at the permanent truth of -the matter. For it is a sound observation of literary historians that a -country exercises its impulses toward art, in any period, as much by -what it reads of the older books as by what it writes; the two activities -must go together if the contemporary great writer is to get a competent -hearing, and they must be studied together if we are to estimate justly -the culture of an epoch. In what was produced, some decades of the -eighteenth century in England look to us destitute of poetry, but in -those very moments Spenser, Shakespeare and Milton were widely loved, and -enjoyed perhaps a more humane and significant treatment from the critics -than they have often had since. The weakness of contemporary poetry in -Addison’s time, in Warton’s and Gray’s, was not that they knew the elder -masters, but that their practise departed so widely from them and became -so contemporary. The revival in the romantic age was brought about by -rejecting the kind of art the early eighteenth century wrote, and by -building on the still earlier art the eighteenth century had the wisdom -to love. - -In our day and in our land the question of the audience is peculiarly -acute, and it has been rendered more so by the intentional efforts of -those who believe that literature should be contemporary. Even without -those efforts we, who come from many countries, with different race -memories and with the legacy of different cultures, should have had -difficulty enough to achieve a common language adequately rich in -the best things of the past and welded into some continuity with our -American future. If we write in those terms which to an Italian would be -emotional, we shall hardly stir the pulses of a Scotchman or a Slav, and -if we waken the race-memories of the Spanish or the French, we may leave -quite cold the Dutch in Pennsylvania or the Swede in Minnesota. Our first -hope, to which some of us still desperately cling, is that we may lose -no one of these racial inheritances, but that by a jealous conserving -and study of each of them, and by teaching them all to our children, we -may build up one of the richest cultures that the accidents of migration -have ever permitted the race to compose. The literature of America in a -thousand years would carry in its majestic overtones the essential beauty -of all the civilizations that have made their entry through our ports, -the essential beauty too of the wonderful Indian civilizations which our -European coming dispossessed, and above these overtones, perhaps, the -far-off suggestions of the Greek and Roman worlds and the immemorial East. - -But this hope, whether or not it could be realized, is so far as we -can see at present a fantastic dream; our progress toward it has been -slight—better, to be frank, we have made no progress, rather we have -lost ground. There is less general culture of that sort in the United -States now than there was fifty years ago. It has seemed wise to many -of us, therefore, to moderate our hopes, and to aim at mastering, not -all our heritages in common, but at least one tradition, and that the -tradition of this country from the revolution till the present day. Such -a program might be carried out in our schools—not in the colleges, since -only a fraction of the country’s youth gets to college, but in those -early school years through which all the boys and girls may reasonably -be expected to pass; and there would be nothing illogical in burdening -the schools with the task, for the training of a common consciousness, -cultural or otherwise, in a land of immigrants is the chief problem of -elementary education. We thought, then, that we might all absorb our own -past and the few decades that preceded our coming, so that hereafter the -spokesmen of the nation, poets, dramatists, preachers, statesmen, might -at least touch some common chords in us all by naming those who built -up the opportunities we enjoy. This program is still in force in other -departments of study than literature, but the teachers of literature -have been largely won over to the cult of the contemporary; so far from -building up in the land a great audience for the great poets to sing to, -many energetic teachers of literature are persuading these children, if -persuasion is necessary, to read only books of the day, about things -of the day, and by inference to neglect as really negligible anything -written yesterday or written about other times and other problems than -ours. Our dream of a cosmopolitan culture has shrunk in practise to an -educational discipline which will make us more insular and provincial -than we are already, more selfish, more contemptuous of other times and -of other peoples, and still further disinherited from great art. - -The movement began a few years ago in a protest against the narrow -choice of books permitted by the requirements for entrance to college. -Some of the schools thought they could do their best work if their -teachers—and their pupils—could select the books for this arduous study; -there could be some wise consulting of taste, some adaptation to special -temperaments. So long as the choice was still to be made from books of -recognized merit, it was unreasonable to deny this request. But the trend -toward the contemporary developed quickly; if we consulted the taste and -the temperament of our students, the children of many racial traditions, -we found that few of the older writers were easy for them to understand; -the difficulty of bridging over the gap between traditions was too -great for many of our teachers to solve, or perhaps they themselves were -not at home in the tradition either of the books or of the students; -and the most graceful form of surrender was to study only what was easy -for everybody. The process was paralleled in society outside of the -schoolroom, in the change in ideals and in competence which overtook -professed criticism in our reviews; but the heart of the matter was and -still is in the centers of education. - -A teacher of English in New York City recently presented the case for -contemporary literature vs. the classics, in some such argument as this: -When she was in college, she said, the faculty took such an inhospitable -view of the world about them that only one author, of all those they -studied in literature classes, was still alive when they studied his -books. She and her fellow students felt somehow cramped and cheated, -not to be studying more books of which the authors were still living. In -other words, whereas the critics in Mr. Shaw’s play could not judge the -work till they knew who wrote it, these lovers of the contemporary could -not estimate a book till they knew whether the author was in or out of -the graveyard. In these better days, the teacher went on to say, she and -her colleagues allow for the natural desire of their students to read -what is written at the moment—a life of a prominent man like Theodore -Roosevelt, the work of a columnist in the daily press, the popular plays, -the most talked-of novels. Such reading, she explained, gives opportunity -for ethical or social or political discussion in class; she meant, it -seems, that you can argue whether the Middle West was fairly portrayed, -and if so, what should be done to cure it, or whether we should have gone -into the war at all, or if so, what should have been done to make the -lot of the private easier, and establish the officer on a less privileged -plane. Out of this open discussion of spontaneous interest in current -events, will come, she thought, a finer taste for the best in art. - -It is obvious that the training, such as it is, which is to produce this -finer taste is a training not in art at all, but in Americanization, if -you choose to call it so, in sociology or in politics. These purposes are -good in their place, but if they usurp the classroom where literature -as an art should be taught, we need expect no aid from the schools -in training us to a common culture, not at least so far as the word -applies to poetry, to romance, to the drama, to the novel. We might -Americanize ourselves in literature by reading our older poets—three of -them, Whitman, Poe and Emerson, of influence in the whole world today; -we might read our elder novelists, two of whom, Cooper and Hawthorne, -at their best were among the prose-poets of the nineteenth century; -or we might read Parkman, an historian not likely to be surpassed for -the beauty of his spirit, for the solidity of his method, and for the -romantic charm of his subject, by any who will hereafter write about this -land. We might read Lincoln, about whom we talk so much, and we might -profitably read Jefferson and Hamilton. We might even discover the charm -of the colonial records, north and south, and the heroic poetry of our -frontier, as it pushed through wilderness and across plain and canyon, -to face at last the Orient again and our inscrutable future. This kind -of Americanization would produce class discussion of some dignity, even -though it had nothing to do immediately with the art of literature, for -it would give us, not only a sense of our common destiny, but an escape -from our own circumstances into other days and other minds, and it would -cultivate the sympathy and the imagination once thought to be the fruit -of literary study. But to discuss always and exclusively only what is -under our own noses, to study a life of Mr. Roosevelt not because it is -a great biography but because it is about Mr. Roosevelt, and to study -novels not because they are good novels, but because they are about us, -is to find ourselves in the end just where we were in the beginning, -with our prejudices more firmly rooted and our skin a bit thicker to any -joy or sorrow in the world not our own. As for the ability to understand -great writing when it comes to us, we have learned only this, that since -Mr. Roosevelt lived nearer our day than Dr. Johnson, the biography of -him is a better biography and a more interesting one than Boswell could -write, and we need not read Boswell; and since Main Street is nearer to -us than Salem, Mr. Lewis is a greater novelist than Hawthorne, and we -need not read Hawthorne. Enough to know that the whole contains the part. - - -IV - -Well, then, says the teacher of current literature, there never can be -any great books, for you approve of nothing contemporary, and every -book, unfortunately, has to be written in its own time. Yes, in a sense, -anything you write, on however remote a subject, will be of your time and -will represent it; Walter Pater was expressing one phase of Victorian -England when he wrote _Marius the Epicurean_. But the artist hopes to -appeal to more than the present generation; even the most contemporary -of our contemporaries, who read no books of which the authors are not -living, cherish some ambition to have their own works read after they -themselves are gone. And since the fame of a book depends on its ability -to meet the interest of readers over a long period of time, the life -of our works will depend on two things—on our gift for selecting the -matter which is permanently interesting to men, and on the willingness -or unwillingness of any generation to be interested in the same things -as its predecessors. If readers are now brought up to neglect as a -matter of course any works of literature that once were loved, there -will be no fame for any one hereafter, and no masters of the art, but -only in each publishing season a nine days’ wonder. But if human nature -still asserts its primal interests, in spite of mistaken teaching, and -continues to like in the long run the same things that have been loved -in the past, then the writer will finally be reckoned great who answers, -not the mood of his hour, but the spirit of those constant demands. He -will get his inspiration from life as he knows it; he will express it -in an eternal form, as we say—at least in a form so durable that instead -of our understanding his work through the incident that inspired it, we -shall know of the incident through the work. Molière has so immortalized -one moment of his times in his _Précieuses Ridicules_; without the play, -would we know much of the temporary affectation? And to be quite frank, -has not something died in the play, along with what was contemporary in -it, so that we enjoy it now with an historical effort not needed to be -at home, let us say, with Falstaff? Tennyson really immortalized the -Charge of the Light Brigade, for the incident on so many grounds has -since proved regrettable that we should be glad to forget it, but for -the poem, and we begin to be sorry that the poem is anchored to so much -that was transitory. Our own civil war poet, Henry Howard Brownell, true -genius if we ever had one, wrote his verses on the very scene, after the -fights he had passed through as Farragut’s secretary on the flagship, -and the virulence of contemporary passion is in his work forever, an -embarrassing alloy. But of the danger of being contemporary, Dante is the -great illustration. It is not hard to see what an impact his great poem -must have made on his first hearers, it was so immediate in its reference -to persons, places, incidents, crimes and disasters which Florence, Rome -and Italy well knew; but what an effort it is now to recover all those -allusions to the times, indeed how impossible! We wrestle with them, if -at all, because the greatness of the poem bears up their leaden weight; -and the poem is great for what is least contemporary in it, for the -vision which Dante drew from his masters, and which he handed on to the -future in images of the past. - -The impulse to be contemporary is in our time, and perhaps always was, -an impulse to tell the news. This impulse is felt perhaps in all the -arts, but most in books and in the theatre, less in music, still less in -painting, and least in architecture and sculpture. From these last we can -learn, if we need a reminder, what are the conditions of enduring art, -and what, in contrast to popularity, is fame. Sculpture and architecture, -from the substantial nature of their medium, must submit to be looked -at more than once, to be lived with, finally to be judged by the good -opinions of many men over a long period of time; and a good opinion -of such work, so lived with, will depend less on the first impression -than on habitual contact. For such work popularity is difficult, if not -impossible. A book about the war may be a popular book; the Farragut -statue in Madison Square is not a popular statue. What statue is -popular? It can have only the better kind of success, if any; like the -Farragut, it can be famous, loved and returned to over an indefinite -length of time. For we can read a book once and throw it aside, or hear -music or see a play but once, and then criticize it; it lies entirely -in our choice whether we shall read or hear twice. How different our -criticism would be if it were based on at least half a dozen readings -and hearings! But the bronze and the building are not easily removed -or ignored, and even the painting has a good chance of being looked at -more than once. It is not surprising then that the sculptor, like the -architect or the painter, attends to the conditions on which fame is -secured, since popularity is denied him, and makes his appeal to revised -judgments and to second thoughts. - -It would be a misfortune to seem to say that the author who misses -popularity is necessarily an artist, or that even temporary success is -not to be admired. But in American letters we are beginning to wonder -why our great successes are so transitory; why a writer who sells more -copies of his first book than did Thackeray or Dickens, does not continue -like them to reach a large public with succeeding books; and why he does -not, like them, continue to be read after he has ceased to write. The -explanation suggested is that most American writers, not only today but -throughout the last twenty-five years, have written as journalists—have -put out their material not as life but as news about life, and the -critics have discussed it as news, and the readers have come to look -for the news in it, and for nothing else. Some novelists still writing -began their work with successful stories of local color, which we read -in order to learn about Louisiana or Pennsylvania or the Middle West, -and having got the information we were looking for, we went elsewhere to -look into other novelties. It goes without saying that in this process we -readers have done injustice to many a work of art; _Old Creole Days_ and -_Main Traveled Roads_ have something for the permanent reader, as well as -for the news-seeker, and _Trilby_—to speak of an English book—is still -a magnificent romance of friendship and chivalry, though it expired of -its own success as a bulletin from the Latin Quarter and a document in -hypnotism. - -At least, says again the lover of current things, you must write in the -language of the hour. Some beauty is lost when the poet does not speak -in his native tongue, or when we cannot read him in it. Well, some -languages are better than others; Greek was a better language, more -precise, more varied, more forceful and more colorful, than English or -any of the modern tongues. But all language changes, as the works of art -in language do not; in literature we have this haunting paradox, that -through a temporary medium we can build something imperishable. Much -as we may dislike literature in translation, it is perhaps salutary to -remember that literary masterpieces must survive in translation or not at -all. In what language were the parables spoken? If Homer were not Homer -still in English or French or German, how much of Homer would the world -know? Some bouquet of his own time is gone, but perhaps we should not -have liked it if it had remained. At least we have kept what we liked; -we have kept what suited our spiritual needs, we have loved Andromache -and Hector, and wondered in the old way why such fine men as Achilles and -Agamemnon should quarrel, and have decided, as all our fathers have done, -that for so beautiful a woman as Helen to waste her time on so mean a -fellow as Paris, there must have been queer influences at work. To live -in art in this timeless way, is to satisfy what is eternal in ourselves; -it is to leave behind us the limitations of our hour, our place, and our -language. And unless art is wide enough for us to live in it so, we shall -trifle with it only for an hour, and without regret let it go the way of -other contemporary things. - - - - -V - -THE CHARACTERS PROPER TO LITERATURE - - -I - -Our impulse might be to say that any character at all is proper to -literature, or to any phase of literature, for we have long ago discarded -that convention of ancient story which introduced the hero and heroine -always as nobly born, or if at first they were not gentlefolk, yet in the -last chapter they were shown to be prince and princess in disguise. Our -leading characters now may have whatever origin God wills; the author -does not interfere. No longer do we reserve the peasant, the poor or -the ignorant for the foot of our list of _dramatis personæ_, nor do we -smuggle them into the scene at resting moments, for comic relief. Since -human nature is the subject of art, and since the Almighty (we quote -Lincoln for this) showed us where to put the emphasis in human nature, -by creating common folk in the vast majority, we have even followed the -example with an excess of enthusiasm, until the elect are pretty well -put down from their former seat in literature, and in their stead are -the socially humble and the mentally weak. For a hundred years or more -we have been pressing this charitable revolution. Wordsworth, though -not the first to try it, first won a considerable hearing in English -poetry for the beggar, the pedlar, the afflicted, the half-witted—a -hearing for them, that is, as central figures in the poems where they -occur; and shortly afterwards the novelists, on the irresistible tide of -humanitarianism, invited not only our attention but our admiration for -persons who hitherto had seemed obscure and unfortunate. Dickens perhaps -went too far, we now feel; he demonstrated the weakness of the gentry, -and sent them to the background of the story, where we are willing enough -they should remain, but he also tried to endow the lower classes with -so much delicacy, tact, and spirit that his leading persons seem to be -gentry still, masquerading in a temporary eclipse of fortune, like the -lost prince and princess of the fairy tale. But he taught us how to carry -on his unfinished revolution; since he stripped sentimentality, all that -sort of nonsense, from the gentry, we have known at last how to strip it -from the bourgeois. Some of our novelists riddle the polite world for us, -others tell us the unflinching truth about our middle classes. We have no -heroes; any character can get into our literature, if we may use him as -a target rather than worship him as a god. - -It is too late to return, even if we desired to do so, to the sentimental -misreading of social conditions against which our modern realism, however -grim, tries honestly to protest, and there is a form of discourse in -which human frailties can properly be discussed; social science or the -science of ethics would neither of them deserve the name of science -if we excluded from their consideration any aspect of human character -or conduct—just as medicine would fail in its office if we forbade it -to study any part or function of the body. But it is not too late to -ask ourselves the difference between science and art; between a story -which represents our physical actions with that conscience in detail -which would aid a medical diagnosis, and a story through which Helen’s -body walks, a joy forever; between a record of our neighbors just as -they are, or a bit meaner, and a picture of men and women as we would -gladly be. Anything printed may be called literature, even last year’s -time-tables, but if we preserve in the word an emphasis upon art rather -than upon information, we may ask after all whether certain characters, -or certain attitudes toward character, are not essential to art; or, -putting it another way, we may ask whether the type of character we -portray will not determine the kind of art we produce, with or without -our will, and whether the kind of character we portray will not finally -classify our writing for us as art or as social document. - -To have our novel appraised as a social document may seem to us a -compliment, and we may be glad to escape the equivocal verdict that our -picture of life is art. The terms are unimportant and our prejudices in -words may be respected. But the fact remains that some books we are -to read many times, and permanently, whereas others are for a season -only, and may be read but once; and books which must serve us in ways so -different would seem to need certain special privileges of method and -material—they may even be permitted certain varieties of emphasis not -usually found in life. The temporary writing helps us on our way, and -we ought to have one honorable name for it all—newspapers, telephone -directory, time-tables, all our telegrams and most of our letters. We -stop over them only for a moment, in order to go about our business more -conveniently. But the other kind of books will detain us forever, or -will try to—and this kind of literature is art; we return thither for no -information and for no immediate aid in our daily affairs, but rather to -taste again an experience we enjoyed before, to meet old friends, to -breathe an atmosphere which we crave, and which is hard to find elsewhere. - -If this distinction needs often to be made between the literature which -is information and the literature which is art, it is because both kinds -of book use the same medium, and speech is the commonest of mediums. -Painting or music escape such a confusion, but writing is a slippery -craft, now running to a bare record or to good advice, now drifting -into a music of words, articulating a beauty that seems ageless and -impersonal, and sometimes doing a bit of all these things at once. In -daily conversation, when we talk of anything in human interest, we use -the same words as literature is made of; what more natural than to -conclude that literature therefore may deal with any subject we talk of? -We resent the suggestion that art should be narrower than life itself. -Yet if we admit any difference at all between art and life, between -literature and our average conversations, between books which give -information and books which give delight, and if art is the record of -that aspect of life we delight in not for the moment but permanently, -then art is indeed narrower than life itself; outside of it will remain -the trivial things, however likable, of our daily round, which we forget -gladly, so many other pleasant and trivial things supplant them; and -outside of it also will remain very important issues which we hope and -resolve shall be temporary—the grave wrongs and errors which call not for -eternal contemplation but for reform. Face to face with such problems, -we often feel that art is inadequate. What can poetry do for the sick or -the dying? What solace is there in music or sculpture for the wretchedly -poor? The answer to such questions is not in art but in conduct; death -calls for fortitude, sickness must be cured, poverty must be relieved; -and if books deal with such subjects, it is not for a literary end, but -to aid us in practical remedies. Indeed, to have a literary ambition as -we contemplate another’s misery, would seem possible only for a fiend; it -is in the merit of Mrs. Stowe’s story of Uncle Tom that the book seems a -protest from the soul rather than a work of art. If there are sins and -misfortunes, it may be necessary to spread the news, as though the house -were on fire, but if we really care for our house we shall not linger to -enjoy the cadence of the thrilling call. On the other hand, if we are to -lose ourselves in a book or a play, if we are to live in it repeatedly, -ourselves the hero, in love with the heroine, and hating the villain, -then the book or play must give us an experience in some sense better -than the life ordinarily available to us; who would waste a moment -on Cleopatra in a book, if he knew where to find her in the world? Or -perhaps in life she was less charming than Plutarch said she was, or than -Shakespeare showed her to be; perhaps we could not be drawn irresistibly -to her until the poet made her better than she was—made her, that is, a -character proper for the literature which is to be enjoyed as art. - - -II - -The effect of the excellence or the inferiority of the character on -the book was long ago observed by Aristotle, when he said that tragedy -and the epic—that is, all serious literature—will aim at representing -men as better than in actual life, and that comedy and satire will -represent them as worse. In this second kind of writing, he added, -satire came first, and it was Homer who laid down the principles of -comedy, by dramatizing the ludicrous instead of composing personal -satire. This famous observation of the ancient critic has been too often -read as doctrine, as though Aristotle were telling us what should take -place in literature, whereas he is recording what actually does take -place. If you wish to write a story or a play in which the reader can -lose himself with delight, you must portray character better than the -reader, character which in some degree satisfies and strengthens his -aspirations. If you wish the reader to laugh at the world, or to scorn -it, or to feel the need of improving it, you portray for him character -in a condition inferior to his estimate of himself; if you wish him to -profit by that wholesome self-observation which we call the comic-spirit, -you mingle satire with tragedy—you show him character which satisfies his -aspirations, so that he will identify himself with it, and which at the -same time is inferior in some respects to what he would prefer to be, so -that he must laugh at himself. He will have a tendency to save the day -for self-respect by laughing, not at himself, but at human nature, and -the universal comic spirit will then have come to birth, akin to both -satire and tragedy, but more nearly a dramatizing of the ludicrous, as -Aristotle said, than a scoring of personal faults. - -These principles, it goes without saying, are not accepted by writers -today; the average author is not aware of them, or if he is, he takes -refuge in another remark of Aristotle’s, that perhaps tragedy was -destined to develop into something different from the type of poetry -produced by Æschylus, Sophocles and Euripides; perhaps new principles, -we say, in the too familiar formula, are needed for new material. So -think many of our poets and novelists who give us sordid and wretched -characters to contemplate, yet invite us to feel toward them not the -satiric regret, but the old pity and terror of noble tragedy. That -the principles do persist, however, very much as Aristotle described -them, is evidenced by the difficulty the readers still have with such -books; the authors argue their case, or critics argue it for them, but -common humanity remains unconvinced that misery is a proper subject -for permanent contemplation. In our age especially, when the impulse -to social good works is highly developed, it is a curious paradox that -writers should expect us to associate in art, as habitual companions, -with types of character which in real life we should hasten to rescue and -to change. It is generous of the writers to suppose that in a humane age -the reader will be ready to discern the heroic even beneath handicaps -and afflictions, and probably the reader is thus ready, but the writers -forget that in any age, particularly in a humane one, we do not like to -contemplate, in the permanence of art, heroic character smothered beneath -handicaps and afflictions. And in justice to the embarrassed reader it -should be added that often the character is not heroic at all, and the -only claim put forth for it is that it might have been attractive if it -had not been smothered. - -Perhaps it is the influence of Wordsworth that still spreads this -confusion in our writing. The effect of many of his best known poems -has never been wholly satisfactory, not even to his admirers; he drew -moral lessons from objects humble or mean, and since his own interest -was in the moral lesson, he sometimes was careless of the emotional -appeal which the object, left standing as it were in the poem, might -make on the reader. In one sense he was not a nature-lover, though he -had recourse to nature for ethical wisdom; it was only the wisdom he -cared about, and we have an unpleasant impression, which perhaps does -him injustice, that when he had got a moral idea out of the primrose -by the river’s brim, he was through with the primrose for the day. The -same impression, unfortunately, is made by his portrayal of humble or -mean characters. He obviously does not identify his better fortunes -with their misery, nor does he enter dramatically or imaginatively into -their lives; he is content to draw a moral from them, and the reader, -in his day and still in ours, is surprised that misery in the picture, -having produced a moral, is promptly dropped as though of no further -concern. The old leech-gatherer serves a purpose when his courage -against frightful odds cheers up a moodish poet; the old beggar at the -door moves us to gratitude that another man’s poverty keeps fresh in -us our springs of charity. Much good this does the leech-gatherer or -the beggar! And if there is to be no help for them, their presence is a -bit disturbing in the background of so much complacence. We wish there -were more tenderness in these poems that talk so much of feeling. And -when Wordsworth deliberately sets out to enlist our admiration for the -heroic, we may find ourselves facing such dumb human misery as we have -in _Michael_, the heroism of a wrecked family and an abandoned farm. -With relief we turn to the passages in the _Prelude_ where the poet no -longer looks down benignly on the wretched, but gives expression to the -ideal life which he himself desires to attain; there, where he shows life -better than it is, we can go with him and lose ourselves in the vision. - -It is our poets who chiefly defy Aristotle’s wise warning, and try with -Wordsworth to convert into a theme for meditation what is really a -subject for philanthropy. Our novelists tend more and more to give us -an inferior world, but not for our admiration; we may smile at it, or -despise it, or try to cure it. This is satire, an achievement in morals -rather than in art, and from the advertisements on the book covers it -is clear that the publisher at least knows that the author is revealing -something medicinal, something unpleasant but good for us. If we prefer -to write satires, we are at least achieving our ambition. But the reader -of the American novel today, whether he reads Mrs. Wharton, or Sinclair -Lewis, or whether he goes back to an earlier period and reads W. D. -Howells, is usually reading about other people, rarely about himself; -he has noticed those faults in his neighbors before. We have to go far -back in our literature to find a novel in which the American future is -implicit, a story into which we can enter as into a world we are glad is -ours. Perhaps we must go back as far as the _Scarlet Letter_, in which a -modern audacity of thought seems breaking through an antique repression, -and we can identify profound speculations of our own with the wisdom in -Hester’s heart or Arthur Dimmesdale’s. It has been pointed out before -how much Hawthorne gained by making his chief characters noble in the -Greek way, tragic characters better than in actual life; for the sin of -the woman and the minister was common enough in the world among weak or -vulgar characters, and the impulse even in Hawthorne’s time might well -have been to keep the story, for purposes of edification or realism, in -the low tone in which it first occurred. But we cannot easily take to -heart the sins of people who are obviously our inferiors; only the sins -of good people rouse in us tragic pity or terror, for that is the kind -of sin, if any, we should commit. Hawthorne therefore makes the minister -a saint, and if Hester is not a saint at the beginning, she is so at -the end of her ordeal, and in the sufferings of both our own heart has -been wrung. In the _House of the Seven Gables_, however, the reader is a -looker-on rather than an actor, for the characters are not better than -life, their experience is therefore not ours, and since we cannot cure -their unhappiness, we are sorry to watch it. In that story our greatest -romancer was on the road toward the modern habit of satire, a road which -he had marked out for us clearly enough in some of his early sketches and -tales. - -The trend away from the literature of art to the literature of satire -is all the more remarkable in our day because the exigencies of satire -compel the American to deny wholesale his better self. There might be -some apparent reason for not writing in the epic or the tragic tone if in -order to do so we had to assume virtues we all knew we lacked; but why -make a religion of writing satire, when to do so we must conceal the few -virtues we are sure we have? Mr. Howells took it to be his duty to tell -the unvarnished truth about human society as he knew it, but you would -not guess from his novels that America ever produced so charming a man -as Mr. Howells and those literary friends of his of whom, outside his -novels, he wrote lovingly. So Mr. Lewis pictures America today—leaving -out of the picture the satirical criticism of America in which he leads, -and so Mrs. Wharton shows us the narrower world of fashion, with no one -in it so gifted, so admirably trained, as Mrs. Wharton. The best of us -is hard enough to express, as Rabbi Ben Ezra knew, but how odd that we -prefer not to express it, whether difficult or easy—that we deliberately -conceal what we have set our hearts on. We name half a dozen characters -from his plays in whom Shakespeare seems to be portraying himself, -and without too subtle a discrimination we recognize ideals of our own -in all of them. Pendennis seems to be Thackeray himself, and so seems -Henry Esmond and Clive Newcome, and we flatter ourselves that the great -novelist incorporated in those portraits some of our own best features. -We—and Cervantes—are incarnated in Don Quixote. - -The contrast between information and art in our books, and the tendency -to stress information with a moral bent, are both thrown into sharper -relief by the success of American architecture in expressing more and -more a significant and lasting beauty. Nothing might seem at first -more utilitarian than a building, and few things in our country seem -less permanent, we have such a passion for altering. Yet art has made -its greatest progress with us in architecture, and the stages of the -progress have been accompanied by just such a selection and choice of -subject as Aristotle’s remarks about character would imply. In our cities -a genuine impulse toward beauty began to show itself two decades ago in -shop-windows. Where else should beauty appear but in the enterprises we -care most about? Since we were lovers of business, we began to indicate -the beauty that business has in our eyes. The shop-window ceased to -be, what in country hardware stores it still often is, a place where -samples of all the merchandise were displayed, an order card from which -you could plan your purchases; it became rather a scene of loveliness -to contemplate for its own sake, an attraction to hold you rooted to -the spot rather than a stimulus to hurry you inside to buy. Probably -the shop-windows in our great streets could not be justified now on a -purely economic basis; they have been lifted into the realm of beauty -and are things to remember. But for this kind of shop-window not every -article the store sells is “proper”, in the Aristotelian sense; nothing -ridiculous is shown, though ridiculous things are bought and sold, -nothing trivial is shown, and nothing that discloses too publicly the -animal conditions in which we lead our spiritual life. With a different -selection of articles which the store for our convenience must sell, we -might have a comic window, the sight of which would cause us to smile -at ourselves, or a satiric one, which would teach us to laugh at our -fellowman. - -The buildings themselves, moreover, have become beautiful by expressing -what we genuinely love to contemplate, and not all kinds of buildings -were proper to that happy end. For mere sale and barter, any shed in -the market-place might serve, but if we think of traffic in the large -way that Ruskin suggested, as something potentially heroic and noble, -as a feeding of the hungry and a clothing of the naked, as a soldierly -occupying of outposts against poverty and wretchedness, as a campaign of -conquest against nature, and as an exchange at last of spiritual hungers -and satisfactions among men, then our houses of business should look -like temples. So they begin to look, and only a very blind critic here -and there still fails to see that so they should look. With our love of -traffic goes our love of travel. In this country travel is necessary, but -it is also an ideal. Any sort of railway station will serve as a place -to buy a ticket or board a train, and until recently almost any kind of -barracks did serve for those purposes. But the haphazard building could -not express our delight in travel, our enjoyment of distance and speed -and punctilious arrivings and departings. The pleasant casualness of the -stage-coach and the road-side inn does not really appeal to us, except -in exotic moments; our religion of travel is uttered in the Pennsylvania -Station in New York, and in other such structures fast rising throughout -the country, where the ritualistic atmosphere, produced by carefully -selected elements from the buildings of antiquity, have little to do with -buying your ticket and a great deal to do with the American spirit. We -breathe more freely as we enter them, and enjoy the space and the height; -our instinctive comment is, “This is something like!” as though some part -of us had found expression at last. And if this success in architecture -is as yet in the field of business and travel, among public buildings, -the reason probably is that in those fields we know what our aspirations -are. In ecclesiastical architecture, by way of contrast, we are less -clear. We feel that if the Woolworth building is so lovely, it is but -respectable to improve the appearance of our churches, so we put up very -wonderful Gothic chapels and cathedrals—only to find, perhaps, that they -are a sort of weight on our conscience rather than an expression of our -desires; we sometimes try to cultivate the religion that produced them, -in order that so eloquent a language may have more content in its words. - -When we turn back from our architecture to our books, we have the right -to ask why poetry and the novel address themselves exclusively to what is -in essence satire, to the portrayal of us as worse than we are, or with -our aspirations left out; why we as readers must be invited to absorb -mere information about ourselves and our country; why we so seldom meet -in the pages offered to us the kind of men and women we admire or ought -to admire. The arts all express the same thing, at any given moment, -and if we are equally proficient in them, they ought to achieve the same -grandeur and the same beauty. Against the trivial and drab contents of -much of our poetry and the condescending realism of much of our prose -American architecture now stands, a reproach and an indictment; for the -imaginative power and sweep of our buildings is hardly discernible in -our books. The architects have followed old wisdom, by making their work -ideal, better than life. The writers, in a stubborn wrong-headedness, in -defiance of the readers’ psychology, portray characters worse than in -actual life, and sometimes ask us to admire them. - - -III - -To ask what characters are proper to literature as an art, and to point -out that the character better than life will express our ideals, and -that the character worse than life will invite our satire, is only to -raise in another way the old problems of the universal as against the -particular in art, of the contemporary as against the eternal. To be -strictly personal is in the end to be contemporary, and to be strictly -contemporary is to give, whether or not we intend it, the effect of -satire. If our picture of life is to appeal to the reader, and to many -readers, as their own world, not simply as their neighbors’ private house -into which they are prying, it must have general human truth beyond -what is strictly personal; and if it is to be read with that sense of -proprietorship by many people over a stretch of time, it must not limit -itself to the peculiarities of any one moment. It is true that the writer -himself lives but one life and is circumscribed by time and place; if -there were no such thing as imagination he would only record what he -is, for the enlightenment of others who are just like him; without -imagination he would not know of a better character than his, or of a -worse one, and we should be spared the discipline of satire, but at the -price of art. The problem for the writer, as for any other artist, is -to imagine the lives of other men, and the lives that he and other men -aspire to; his business is to select from personal adventure what is -generally important, and to see it against the background of universal -experience. Can any one imagine universal experience? Perhaps not, but -the nearer he comes to this difficult success the more readers the world -over will find meaning in what he writes. To have a personal career is no -ground for conceit in an artist—every one has as much; the achievement is -to state our experience so that it is the experience of other people too. - -If we portray characters as better than in actual life, there is no -great difficulty in making them seem universal; for it is a radical gift -in human conceit to fancy that anything admirable or desirable has a -possible connection with ourselves. If we do not at first discover what -there is in common between Romeo or Lincoln or Achilles or General Lee -and ourselves, yet if we admire them we shall find the resemblance, or -try to create it. This is the power of great imaginative art, that the -admirable things in it generate a kind of universal emulation, and the -story or statue which has been said to imitate nature succeeds at last -in persuading men and women quite naturally to imitate it. The power of -a great book over human conduct, even its influence at last upon what -might seem instinctive conduct, is immeasurable. In the troubadour art of -love before Dante’s time, a true lover was taught to turn pale at sight -of his lady, and at the unexpected sight of her to faint; Dante loved -that literature, and he grew pale and fainted by second nature—just as -women once learned to blush at certain things, and afterward learned not -to blush. How many lives were affected, for good or evil, throughout -Europe and America, by the alluring power of Byron’s heroes and heroines? -The poet, then, who represents character as better than actual life, as -possessing, that is, something that we desire but have not, has already -made his hero universal, and must some day accept the responsibility of -having dedicated his readers to that general ideal. We may question Byron -on moral grounds by asserting that his hero, after whom so many lives -were patterned, was really not deserving of any imitation; just as an -Oriental reformer from India might tell us that the traffic and travel -of which our architecture is an expression are both of them trivial -enterprises, mere distractions from the contemplative ends of life. -But such criticism lies outside of art. To understand the discipline -which art imposes on us it is enough to observe the kind of character -which does make an ideal effective in literature, and the kind that -precipitates us into satire. - -The real difficulty for the writer is not, then, in generalizing the -characters which embody his ideal, and which therefore are better than in -actual life; what he will chiefly need for his success is to have the -ideals. But even with a consciousness of deep aspiration he may wish to -include in the picture whole characters or parts of character which are -not what they should be, and which yet are likable, even lovable; and -to give this double effect of inferiority in some sense, together with -charm in some sense, is, it seems, very difficult, for this is the effect -of comedy, and comedy is rare in any literature, almost entirely absent -from our own. If you represent a character as worse than in actual life, -the condescending attitude of the reader will not automatically draw the -portrait into some universal relation; the writer must add something -universally admirable to the particular weakness we look down on. -Beatrice and Benedick have exhausted their wit, and they are the victims -of a plot to marry them off to each other; for such inferiority to their -companions we cannot admire them. But Shakespeare makes them both loyal -to their friends and generous in their delight in life, and Beatrice has -the good sense to know innocence when she sees it; these qualities we -can identify with our own virtues, and for these we admire the hero and -heroine. The poet further generalizes both characters by reminding us -through their meditations that to fall in love is not the work of reason, -and that even the wittiest scoffers succumb; here too we gladly recognize -our own experience. We can therefore smile at the foibles of the young -people, partly because these foibles are incident to all human nature, -and partly because, even with the foibles, we like to identify ourselves -in imagination with the supplementary virtues. Socrates was trying to -persuade Aristophanes and Agathon, in the gray dawn after the Symposium, -that the art of comedy and the art of tragedy are the same; and so far -at least he was right, in that the universal rendering which character -must receive in both, gives to the comic effect some of the pity, though -none of the terror, which tragedy evokes. But Socrates did not say that -the art of tragedy is identical with the art of satire. - -When comedy is at its best—that is, when we have made the inferior -character universal by showing that its faults are natural, or by adding -to it some general virtues—we may indeed go further and say that comedy -produces perhaps the terror as well as the pity of tragedy, and that -the two kinds of writing are, as Socrates said, but one. The tragic or -epic hero, portrayed as better than in actual life, may have faults, -but so far from despising him on that account, we may not even smile; -we like him so much that the faults seem his misfortune. Moreover, if -we refer the weakness of the comic character to nature itself, how can -we be hard on the individual? And if we add to the faults positive and -lovable virtues, will not the comic character seem at last to be tragic? -In English drama Falstaff is perhaps the prince of comic characters, -so vitally imagined that he lives on the stage apart from any plot; he -is a living person, with no virtues at all, yet infinitely likable. He -can be played to make the groundlings laugh, but most of us after we -have laughed taste profound tragedy in what we have laughed at. He is -almost majestic in those moments of cowardice when he portrays himself -exactly as he is—when he sees himself, as it were, from outside, and -points to those aspects of his frailty which belong to mankind. An -actor might play the scenes on the battle-field in _Henry IV_ so as to -inspire, not laughter at the fat knight’s depravity, but a pitiful and -self-accusing silence. When he finds the corpse of Sir Walter Blunt, -just slain—“Soft! who are you? Sir Walter Blunt!—There’s Honour for you! -Here’s no vanity!... I have led my ragamuffins where they are peppered; -there’s but three of my hundred and fifty left alive, and they are for -the town’s end, to beg during life.... I like not such grinning honour as -Sir Walter hath. Give me life; which if I can save, so; if not, honour -comes unlooked for.” - -In French drama Molière brought comedy to an excellence not matched, -perhaps, in any other literature, and no imaginative writing is richer -than his in general ideas. We laugh at the amusing situation, or delight -in the frankly artificial balancing of the plot, but on second thoughts -we fall silent, contemplating the universal sweep of humanity, ourselves -included, which he has uncovered for us. - -The most obvious example for American readers is in _Tartuffe_, where -the unhappy Elmire has difficulty in proving to her husband Orgon that -Tartuffe, whom he greatly admires, is a treacherous friend and is -actually making love to her. She finally admits Tartuffe to her room, -having first hidden her husband under the table, from which he has -promised to emerge if Tartuffe should go beyond the bounds of decency. -Tartuffe, of course, makes love in the clearest terms to his friend’s -wife, but Orgon remains concealed. “Before we go any further”, says -Elmire, “just look down the hall to make sure my husband isn’t coming.” -“Why worry about him?” says Tartuffe, “we can lead him around by the -nose.” Then Orgon comes from under the table. Where has the comedy -brought us? Is it not to a contemplation of our own vanity, the source of -the sense of honor in us all? Are we laughing at Tartuffe and Orgon, or -are we thinking of ourselves? - -Falstaff and Tartuffe illustrate the generalizing of inferior characters -by the ascribing of their faults to human nature. A good illustration of -the comic character which enlists our admiration and is a genuine ideal -is Huckleberry Finn. His ignorance, his poverty, and his lack of humor -would seem to disqualify him for any heroic career in literature, yet he -is a veritable hero, in the sense that we gladly put ourselves in his -point of view and return again and again to live for an hour or so in his -experience. The reason is that along with his inferior qualities he has -characteristics and he has a fortune which seem better than ours; he is -loyal to Tom and the negro Jim, he has a simple faith and zest in life, -and he has exciting adventures and gets romance out of scenes we should -otherwise find dull. He flatters us too by admiring people and things -which from his praise we know we should treat satirically. To know what -comedy is, as opposed to satire, we have but to read his story again -and compare it with any current indictment of the scene in which his -adventure was laid. - - -IV - -If the principles of tragedy, comedy and satire are as implicit in our -psychology now as when Aristotle described them, and if the principles -of decorum, of art, and of the timeless and the impersonal in art, are -as rooted in life as they are declared to be, there might seem to be no -great need to preach them; the practice of literature would disclose them -in spite of our ignorance. Try as we might to make a lovable hero out of -an inferior character, he would still emerge a figure in satire or, if -we generalized his faults, a figure in comedy; in serious literature, -only a character better than in real life would give satisfaction. Though -we do not doubt that the principles of art will thus be rediscovered -pragmatically by the unescapable discipline of literature, yet it is -something of a pity to go through such lengths of experiment in order to -find out what was known before. And the great danger in our country is -that we may not push the experiment to the tedious but profitable end at -which sound knowledge awaits us; we may grow weary of the discipline, and -take refuge in parody or in sentimentality. These two avenues of escape -from the problem have cursed American literature before, and signs are -not wanting that they now are the temptations of those who yesterday were -our “new” writers and promised brave things. Face to face with characters -worse than in actual life, we may find our own satiric attitude -monotonous, but to handle such material otherwise than satirically, we -must master the art of comedy, and comedy is an art too difficult. What -Bret Harte and Riley and Eugene Field did in such circumstances was -to obscure the meanness of the subject by sentimentality, instead of -illuminating it by the comic spirit. Spoon River has been celebrated -before, though we may not have recognized the subject with the old -sentimental surface removed; much of our contemporary satire has been the -kind of surgical operation necessary to separate the American reader from -the sentimentality which in his heart he likes. Since it is in his heart, -he may express it again quite shamelessly, this time as a protest against -too much satire, and we may have another welter of old oaken buckets and -old swimming holes and little boy blues—the literature that provides the -satisfaction of a good cry, without the over-exertion of tragic pity or -terror. Already we have again the familiar and dilettante essay, the -imitation of eighteenth-century style, even in newspaper columns, the -interminable parodies of Horace, which in this country have been the -advance signals of the sentimental wave. - -We can but hope that the signs may prove deceptive, and that literature -in America will not wait much longer for the characters and subjects -proper to it, and proper to the dramatic hour we live in—characters and -subjects expressing that better part of us which has given our land its -direction and its power, and expressing also that other world of the -spirit which man builds for elbow-room to exercise his genuine ideals in, -and carries it around with him, and sets it up to be a tabernacle in the -wilderness of this natural world. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Literary Discipline, by John Erskine - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITERARY DISCIPLINE *** - -***** This file should be named 62991-0.txt or 62991-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/2/9/9/62991/ - -Produced by Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The Literary Discipline - -Author: John Erskine - -Release Date: August 21, 2020 [EBook #62991] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITERARY DISCIPLINE *** - - - - -Produced by Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_i"></a>[i]</span></p> - -<p class="titlepage larger"><span class="smaller">THE</span><br /> -LITERARY DISCIPLINE</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="ad"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_ii"></a>[ii]</span></p> - -<p class="center">OTHER BOOKS BY JOHN ERSKINE</p> - -<p class="hanging">THE MORAL OBLIGATION TO BE INTELLIGENT<br /> -<span class="smcap">and Other Essays</span></p> - -<p class="hanging">THE KINDS OF POETRY<br /> -<span class="smcap">and Other Essays</span></p> - -<p class="hanging">DEMOCRACY AND IDEALS</p> - -<p class="hanging">GREAT AMERICAN WRITERS<br /> -(With W. P. Trent)</p> - -<p class="center"><i>POETRY</i></p> - -<p class="hanging">ACTÆON AND OTHER POEMS</p> - -<p class="hanging">THE SHADOWED HOUR</p> - -<p class="hanging">HEARTS ENDURING<br /> -<i>A Play in one Scene</i></p> - -<p class="hanging">COLLECTED POEMS<br /> -1907-1922</p> - -</div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_iii"></a>[iii]</span></p> - -<p class="titlepage larger">THE<br /> -LITERARY DISCIPLINE</p> - -<p class="titlepage"><span class="smcap smaller">By</span><br /> -JOHN ERSKINE<br /> -<span class="smaller"><i>Professor of English at Columbia University</i></span></p> - -<div class="figcenter titlepage" style="width: 150px;"> -<img src="images/titlepage.jpg" width="150" height="200" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p class="titlepage"><span class="smaller">NEW YORK</span><br /> -DUFFIELD & COMPANY<br /> -<span class="smaller">1923</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_iv"></a>[iv]</span></p> - -<p class="titlepage smaller">Copyright, 1922, by the<br /> -NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW</p> - -<p class="center smaller">Copyright, 1923, by<br /> -DUFFIELD & COMPANY</p> - -<p class="titlepage smaller"><i>Printed in U. S. A.</i></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_v"></a>[v]</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_vi"></a>[vi]</span></p> - -<p class="titlepage"><span class="smaller">TO</span><br /> -GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_vii"></a>[vii]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</h2> - -</div> - -<table summary="Contents"> - <tr> - <td></td> - <td></td> - <td class="tdpg smaller">PAGE</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"></td> - <td><span class="smcap">Preface</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#PREFACE">ix</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr">I.</td> - <td><span class="smcap">Decency in Literature</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#I">3</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr">II.</td> - <td><span class="smcap">Originality in Literature</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#II">47</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr">III.</td> - <td><span class="smcap">The Cult of the Natural</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#III">91</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr">IV.</td> - <td><span class="smcap">The Cult of the Contemporary</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#IV">137</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr">V.</td> - <td><span class="smcap">The Characters Proper to Literature</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#V">187</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_viii"></a>[viii]</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_ix"></a>[ix]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="PREFACE">PREFACE</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="dropcap">The following chapters were first published -serially in <cite>The North American -Review</cite>, from November, 1922, to March, -1923. For their reappearance in this volume -I have made slight changes in them -all, and have inserted in the fourth chapter -a few paragraphs written for <cite>The -Bookman</cite> of July, 1922. The editors of -both magazines have my thanks for permission -to reprint.</p> - -<p>The title of the book will disclose at -once the critical theory underlying these -essays; they are studies in the discipline -which literature imposes on those who cultivate -it as an art, and their doctrine is -that language as a medium of expression -has certain limitations which the writer -must respect, and that the psychology of -his audience limits him also in what he -may say, if he would gain a wide hearing -and keep it. To know what can be said<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_x"></a>[x]</span> -in words, and what effect it will have on -your readers, is the inward art of writing, -much more important even than the management -of a sentence or the shaping of -a paragraph.</p> - -<p>I write here of literature as an art. -Since I mean to exclude, as not art, many -books of undoubted importance and of -wide appeal, I must attempt at least to -defend a distinction that to certain readers -will seem arbitrary. A book may tell -us of a life we already know about, or of -a life we as yet do not know; the pleasure -it gives us will be of recognition or of -curiosity satisfied. Of course no books -fall absolutely into one or the other of -such extremes, but it is fairly accurate to -say that every successful book does give -us information, a new experience, or -brings back an old experience to recognize. -Though both kinds of books may be -equally well written, we are inclined to -ask only instruction from the one kind, -but permanent enjoyment from the other.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xi"></a>[xi]</span> -One is a document in history or sociology, -in ethics or psychology; the other, as I -understand it, is a work of art. If our -country has not proved a favorable birth-place -for literary works of art, the reason -probably lies in our history rather than in -lack of able writers. Ours has always -been, and still is, an unknown land; the -reader of American works has primarily -been looking for information about America. -The early visitors from Europe wrote -us up for the enlightenment of their -friends at home, and since our world has -changed rapidly, we still write up ourselves, -for our own enlightenment. The -too brief flourishing of literature as an art -in New England was possible only because -life there for one moment in our -history was so stable that a considerable -body of readers had much experience in -common; having had their curiosity satisfied -as to their own life, they could recognize -it and reflect upon the literary portrait -of it. But the New England moment<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xii"></a>[xii]</span> -in our literature proved an exception, -and we are so accustomed now to read -novels and poems, not as art, but as bulletins -of information from the west, the -northwest, the middle west or the south, -that we are losing the sense of living art -in the New England writers themselves, -and are considering them more and more -as documents in a past civilization. Since -we have so great need of documents, I -realize that I prejudice myself with many -readers when I say that my chief interest -is in literature as art—in the books which -reflect the unchanging aspects of human -experience, rather than in the reports of -our temporary condition.</p> - -<p>If literature in our country has suffered -from our passion for information, I believe -it has also been damaged in our day -by a bad philosophy of esthetics which has -encouraged the writer to think much of -himself and little of his audience. Literature -is an art of expression, we say in the -old phrase, and it expresses life. But<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xiii"></a>[xiii]</span> -whose life? The writer’s, of course, replies -the philosophy I happen not to like. -No; if a book ever becomes famous, it is -because it expresses the experience of the -reader. The writer’s personality will pervade -it, but we must be able to recognize -ourselves in it before we can admit that -it portrays life truly.</p> - -<p>The function of criticism, as I understand -it, is to discover, in the past experience -of the race, what books have won a -secure place in men’s affections, and to -find out if possible why men have been -permanently fond of them. A great critic -would be a scientist, observing the behavior -of the reader in the presence of certain -stories or poems, and recording the -kind of effect produced by various arrangements -of character and plot, or by -different employments of language. Such -a critic was Aristotle in the <cite>Poetics</cite>. The -art of literature has never had an observer -more accurate or more penetrating, -and those who return constantly to his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xiv"></a>[xiv]</span> -wise pages will understand why I have -quoted him so often, and often have drawn -upon him for aid when I have not used -his name.</p> - -<p>I must record my gratitude to two living -philosophers also, towers of strength -to those of us who love books as works of -art—George Santayana and Frederick J. -E. Woodbridge. The first has taught me -through his books—are any books more -beautiful than his written in English today? -The second has enriched me with -his daily companionship and with those -spoken words, grave or gay but always -wise, which his friends and disciples learn -to save up for remembrance.</p> - -<p>And I have offered this book in my -dedication to our one poet-critic in -America who has spent his genius in the -service of literature as art, and as art -alone. I do not know whether what I have -written will be altogether acceptable to -him, and if I put his honored name in -the forefront of my pages, it is not to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xv"></a>[xv]</span> -shield me from deserved criticism. But -writing on this theme, I must bear witness -to his leadership among all in this country -who in my lifetime have known how to -prize the immortal things in great books—imagination, -ideal humanity, beauty, -and the kind of truth that is beauty. In -a day when literary criticism has been -contentious and personal, more like a political -campaign in a tough ward than anything -that Spenser or Sidney or Shelley -would recognize as a pilgrimage to wisdom, -Mr. Woodberry has written nothing -ungenerous or harsh of new arrivals less -scholarly, less gifted, less accomplished -and less chivalrous than himself. He has</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Let the younger and unskilled go by</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To win his honour and to make his name.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Indeed, more than anyone else among us, -he has kept his faith that youth, given -time enough, will discover art as it will -find out other incarnations of beauty, and -will achieve new miracles in its worship. -Twenty-five years ago he taught us to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xvi"></a>[xvi]</span> -love the masters in poetry—no easier thing -to do for boys then than it is now. We -have still to acquire his hospitality toward -the future, to look on with his good humor -and sympathy while the immature in the -world of art, as elsewhere, try to rearrange -the universe, not knowing that it -has been here for some time and is set in -its ways.</p> - -<p class="right">J. E.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_1"></a>[1]</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h1>THE<br /> -LITERARY DISCIPLINE</h1> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_2"></a>[2]</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_3"></a>[3]</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="I">I<br /> -<span class="smaller">DECENCY IN LITERATURE</span></h2> - -</div> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p class="dropcap">The quarrel with indecent art is an -old one, and the present discussion -of improper books, with threats of censorship, -begins to rally itself in two familiar -camps—on one side the moralists, -showing in the heat of debate less understanding -of art than they probably have, -and on the other side the writers, showing -in the same heat somewhat less concern -for morals than it is to be hoped they feel. -The censorious seem disposed to suppress -on the ground of indecency almost any -kind of book they happen not to like; the -writers seem at times to argue that all<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_4"></a>[4]</span> -books are equally good, or, at least, should -be free and equal. These are the old exaggerations -of the quarrel. Yet in two -important respects the present discussion -is quite novel and more than usually interesting; -for one thing, the attack now is -less on obscenity, about which there are -no two opinions, than on indecency, of -which we have at the moment no adequate -definition; for another thing, the writers -themselves, perhaps for the first time in -history, have no definition of literary decency -to offer, and seem not greatly interested -in forming one.</p> - -<p>Censorships are usually exercised for -the protection of religious or political -doctrine, and whatever may be said -against the method, at least in the field of -religion or politics the censor knows -clearly what he wishes to protect. But if -we now would protect decency, we must -first define the term. It is not enough to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_5"></a>[5]</span> -have a moral conviction on the subject; -we must have also some principle outside -of our emotional prejudices, based on -something more lasting than fashion. In -the present welter of contradictions and -opprobrium it is sometimes thought indecent -to wear bobbed hair or short skirts; -for the morals of the school, teachers have -been dismissed who rolled their stockings -below the knee. Obviously, these are not -great faults in decency, if faults at all; a -good deal of camel must have been swallowed -before justice could be done to -these gnats. Some of our neighbors wish -to suppress certain plays; others wish to -suppress the theatre. Some wish to suppress -Swinburne and Baudelaire, with -one hand as it were, while distributing -with the other copies of the Bible containing -the <cite>Song of Songs</cite>. A minister of this -type, earnest in his work for decency and -quite muddled as to what it is, told me<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_6"></a>[6]</span> -that he could not give his approval to the -<cite>Spoon River Anthology</cite>, brilliant though -it was; he could approve of no book that -portrayed fornication. Yet he must have -read the story of Lot’s daughters and -their behavior with their father. He approved -of the Bible, and he would probably -not call it indecent. What is decency, -then, or its opposite?</p> - -<p>At this point the writers ought to stand -up and answer. In other ages they would -have done so; they would have thought no -one so competent as the artist to define -decency in his own field, and they would -have stated their definition from the point -of view of art. They would have called it -“decorum” instead of “decency”, but they -would have meant the same thing—fitness -or propriety in the particular art they -practised. When Milton made his famous -plea on ethical grounds for freedom of the -press, he went on, as an artist, to say that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_7"></a>[7]</span> -of course there are good and bad books, -and when a book has had its chance, it -must submit to the judgment of the competent. -He was writing in an age when -the reader might be expected to have some -training in artistic definitions of decorum. -If books are to enjoy freedom of publication -now, it seems incumbent upon the -writers to define the decency of their art, -and to spread the knowledge of the definition, -as widely as possible, that the competent -reader of today may have a standard -by which to judge.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_8"></a>[8]</span></p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>It ought to be possible now, as it once -was, to define decency in terms outside -our emotions, not variable with our private -taste but fixed in the conditions of -the artist’s work. When man is inspired -by the world he sees to make some lasting -record of his feeling about it, and selects -a medium to express himself in,—wood, -stone, metal, color, language,—he immediately -encounters certain problems and -difficulties in his medium, certain limitations -in it which he must submit to, if he -would convey his meaning with precision. -The limitations of his medium, therefore, -dictate to the artist his first lessons in decorum. -For if you will not respect those -limitations, you will find yourself saying<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_9"></a>[9]</span> -what you did not intend; instead of -beauty, you will convey some effect humorous -or grotesque or ugly. It is at least -bearable to see actual garments on the -wax figures in shop-windows; we dress up -dolls. But not even the shop window -could tolerate a marble statue with clothes -on. When the artist learns that some -things, though excellent in themselves, do -not come out in his medium with the effect -he desires, his good sense and the sincerity -of his art compel him to leave these subjects -for other mediums. The themes he -thus abandons are not indecent in the -sense of obscenity or filth, not bad in -themselves, but they do not fit his art—or, -as writers used to say, do not belong to -its decorum.</p> - -<p>The decorum of art may seem to the -moralist far less important than the decency -his own strong emotions feel after, -but the moralist is wrong. The decorum<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_10"></a>[10]</span> -of art is the deeper kind of decency, for it -is based on lasting principles, and it leads -to an understanding of the positive good -in art, to beauty, as the moralist’s concern -for decency often does not. You cannot -explain on moral grounds why the glorification -of the body in Walt Whitman, let -us say, is sometimes disconcerting, yet the -glorification of it in Greek sculpture -seems not only decent but noble. The -artist could explain the matter if he understood -the decorum of artistic mediums. -In so far as he does not understand it, he -adds to the confusion of the arts in our -time; he fills our magazines, for example, -with photographs of Greek dances, and is -himself, let us hope, disturbed by the grotesque -contortions he has perpetuated. -The dance was probably a graceful flow -of motion; of all that flow, however, only -a few moments would be in the decorum -of the camera—moments of poise, in which<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_11"></a>[11]</span> -motion might be suggested but not represented. -But the photographer was -charmed by the moments of motion, which -are the essence of dance decorum, and he -gives us a picture of grim-faced ladies -suspended in the air, with frantic gestures -of fingers and toes.</p> - -<p>In literature, since the medium is language, -decorum is a question of the limitations -and capacities of words. The -great limitation of language is that it -must be heard or read one word at a time, -though most of the things we wish to -speak of in this world should be thought -of or seen all at once, and their true outline -and their total effect may be dislocated -by piecemeal expression. To represent -in language a landscape or a person, -a building or any intellectual architecture, -is, strictly speaking, impossible; we can -merely make statements, carefully selected, -about the subject, and trust that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_12"></a>[12]</span> -no matter how dismembered in the telling, -it will somehow come together again in -the hearer’s mind, thanks largely to the -hearer’s imagination. Where the suggestion -is so slight and the collaboration so -great, the writer is under some obligation -to be precise and conscientious in what he -suggests. His responsibility might perhaps -seem less when he is telling a story; -if language is inapt for the portrayal of -stationary things having mass, structure -and extent, we might suppose it better -fitted to the representation of action, -which like language occurs in sequence of -time. But even in the recital of events, -language has to name separately in an artificial -order events which actually coincide, -and the reader’s imagination must -put the fragments together again. <i>“Indeed,” -replied Mr. Jones</i>, or, <i>Mr. Jones -replied, “Indeed!”</i> Neither formula quite -represents what happened. In life, when<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_13"></a>[13]</span> -we heard the “Indeed!” the sound would -tell us not only what was said but also who -said it. No wonder the poets have so -often thought of the drama as the most -satisfying literary form, for when a play -is acted, words convey in it all that they -can convey in life, and they are aided, as -in life, by other kinds of language—by -gesture, facial expression, scenery, which -speak to the eye while the voice is speaking -to the ear.</p> - -<p>Because words must be spoken one -after another, there are not only some -things which are hard to say in that medium, -but others which in certain circumstances -should not be said at all. No -matter how much we select the sounds, -our utterance will lay a fairly even emphasis -on all the things we name; therefore, -if we wish to subordinate some part -of the picture, to pass over it with no emphasis -at all, we cannot throw it into<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_14"></a>[14]</span> -shadow, as a painter can—we must leave -it out altogether. A painter may portray -a face half in shadow, so that one ear is -barely discernible; looking at the picture -you do not see the shadowed ear, and do -not miss it. But if some one tells you in -words that the ear is in shadow, at once -the ear enjoys special emphasis, the opposite -of the painter’s intention. Or suppose -the portrait is not shadowed, but all -the features are clear; and suppose the -artist has focused your attention on the -eyes, or has brought out some characteristic -expression. You can attend to the -picture exactly as you look at the subject -in life—noticing what is important in it, -but not examining it otherwise in detail. -The head has two ears, but you do not -count them. If, however, the writer describes -the face as it is in life, or as it is in -the portrait, he may speak only of the -chief focus or expression of it; he must<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_15"></a>[15]</span> -not say that the subject has two ears. If -he does so, he will be indecent in his art, -and may seem to the original of the portrait -insulting in his manners.</p> - -<p>All literary accounts of the human -body raise this problem, not a problem of -squeamishness or puritanism, but of decorum. -The classical Greeks seem to -have mastered the question either by instinctive -good taste or by analysis, as they -mastered so many other problems in art -with which we are only beginning to -wrestle. They cannot be accused of -prudishness where the body is concerned; -they loved its naked beauty, and in their -sculpture they portrayed it frankly, with -a serious and unflagging delight. Yet in -their poetry they did not portray it; they -merely noted the total effect of physical -beauty, and omitted details, as we should -omit the number of ears in the portrait. -In the classical Homer, to be sure, there<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_16"></a>[16]</span> -remained even after much expurgating -certain stereotyped labels of the body; -goddesses are “ox-eyed”, beautiful women -are “deep-bosomed.” But the phrases are -so conventional that they probably called -up a general sense of approval, rather -than a specific detail, as the word “mortals” -calls up to us the general idea of -men, rather than the fact of death. Aside -from such phrases Homer and the other -classical poets suggest the body without -detail, trying to render the general effect -the body makes in life—its femininity, its -masculinity—at the same time avoiding -any such attention to anatomical detail as -in real life would seem, to the Greek and -to us, morbid or clinical. The sculptor, -working in another medium, can use the -details the poet must omit; when we look -at his Apollo or his Aphrodite we see not -a naked body but a divine presence. The -effect of divinity is not furnished by any<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_17"></a>[17]</span> -anatomical member, nor interfered with -by any. The body in detail is before us, -but the expression, the something divine -we feel, is in the attitude or the character. -The wise poet, knowing the limitations -and dangers of his medium, tries to reproduce -only the attitude or the character. -Later sculptors, in the decadence that -followed the Periclean age, deserted the -decorum of their own medium, and called -attention to separate parts of the body—to -ribs or veins, neck or breasts. In literature -a parallel decadence occurred; the -poets tried to give the effect of beauty, not -in Homer’s way, by avoiding physical detail, -but by citing it. They managed to -suggest not beauty but sex.</p> - -<p>The modern lover of beauty who quite -properly wishes to restore the body to its -rightful honor and reverence, usually appeals -to the Greeks for his precedent. -But if he wishes to celebrate the body in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_18"></a>[18]</span> -detail, he should appeal not to the Greeks -but to the poets of the Renaissance. The -praise of the body in the Renaissance is -sometimes explained as springing from a -newly recovered delight in material -beauty. It should also be explained as a -reaction, on the part of earnest, even puritanical -moralists, against other moralists -who, they thought, viewed life but partially -and cramped the human soul. In -our own language, Edmund Spenser and -John Milton led in this praise of beauty—moralists -both; as in modern times Walt -Whitman led the praise, a moralist also, -whether or not his detractors admit it. -But a moral purpose is a dangerous approach -to art, whether you are a critic or -a poet. Whitman is perhaps the easiest -illustration to begin with. He felt that -to the pure every part of the body is -sacred, and at its best is a thing of beauty. -Had he been a sculptor, he would have<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_19"></a>[19]</span> -proceeded to make statues which probably -would have shocked nobody. Working in -language, however, he mistook the decorum -of the art, and wrote as though he -were sculptor or painter, and the result is -in those anatomical catalogues from which -no beauty emerges, whatever else does. -He differs as widely as possible from -Edmund Spenser in most things, but in -this one matter they are alike. Milton was -too close to the Greeks to go wrong, even -with his moral impulse to assert the honor -of the body; his impassioned praise of -wedded love, and his remarks on the glory -of nakedness when Adam and Eve first -appear in his epic, put no strain on literary -decorum. But Spenser’s moral enthusiasm -for beauty leads to such physical -inventories as his picture of Belphœbe, in -the second book of the <cite>Faerie Queene</cite>, or -of his own bride, in the <cite>Amoretti</cite> and the -<cite>Epithalamium</cite>—an accounting of eyes,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_20"></a>[20]</span> -teeth, hair, neck, shoulders, breasts, waist, -arms and legs. Many a critic has suggested -that his poems have the character -of painting or of tapestry, and had he -actually worked in a pictorial medium, he -would have made the effect he desired. In -his portrait of Serena naked among the -savages, in the sixth book of the <cite>Faerie -Queene</cite>, he followed Homer’s method with -admirable success. No English poet is -more spiritual than he—all the more impressive -the indecorum to which his moral -earnestness occasionally brought him, and -all the more helpful his example ought to -be to modern beauty-lovers who fancy -that the decorum of an art need not be -studied and obeyed.</p> - -<p>Through ignorance of decorum in language -a moralist sometimes comes to grief -in the opposite direction; wishing to indicate -indecency, he sometimes through reticence -stumbles upon the Homeric method<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_21"></a>[21]</span> -and portrays beauty instead. A while ago -a minister of some name, an aggressive -defender of decency, preached a sermon -on the dangers which at the moment he -saw threatening us from the arts. According -to the newspapers, he said that if -certain theatrical managers could get it -by the police, we should have a show in -which a naked woman in one scene posed -before a black velvet curtain. Wishing to -touch the sulphurous subject as gingerly -as possible, he merely suggested the lovely -contrast of body and background; those -of his congregation who had seen it forgot -their moral danger and remembered the -Venus de Milo in the Louvre. It occurred -to some of them that this material might -be indecorous in the pulpit; in the theatre, -however—well, they were not unwilling -to see it, if it was actually put on.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_22"></a>[22]</span></p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>The principle of literary decorum -which applies to the representation of the -body applies also to the allied theme of -sex. The body is a fit subject for literature, -but not in detail. Sex is a proper -subject for literature, so long as it is represented -as a general force in life, and -particular instances of it are decent so -long as they illustrate that general force -and turn our minds to it; but sexual actions -are indecent when they cease to illustrate -the general fact of sex, and are -studied for their own sake; like the ears -in the portrait, they then assume an emphasis -they do not deserve. This seems to -be the decorum of the theme as great writers -have treated it, and this is the decorum<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_23"></a>[23]</span> -which men instinctively adopt in discussion, -if they have not been trained to think -that all discussion of sex is naughty. -People so trained will call any book indecent -which in any way touches the theme. -When <cite>Trilby</cite> appeared years ago, many -of us then youngsters were protected (in -vain) from the lovely story because Trilby -had been somebody’s mistress before the -romance began. So to an earlier generation -<cite>The Scarlet Letter</cite> had seemed dangerous -because Hester Prynne’s child was -illegitimate. But neither book had physical -passion for its theme, though the force -of sex in life, for good or evil, gave each -story most of its interest and its pathos. -How indecent in the artistic sense, how -indecorous, either book might have been, -we realize by supposing that Du Maurier -had centred attention on Trilby’s early -and sordid affairs, before she met her true -love, or that Hawthorne had given us in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_24"></a>[24]</span> -detail the experiences of Hester in Arthur -Dimmesdale’s arms. One has an uneasy -feeling that so the books might have -been written today; the general fact of -sex and its influence would not operate as -a colossal force in the story, but would be -deduced in an argument or assumed as an -hypothesis—modern specialists in sex are -so uncertain of its existence—and the -focus would have been on the animal -behavior of human beings, which the -hypothesis of sex would explain. This -kind of book is indecent, though it is usually -too psychological in manner to disturb -the censorious, and entirely too frequent -in recent literature to suppress.</p> - -<p>We turn for relief to the decorum of -great literature. “From the roof David -saw a woman washing herself, and the -woman was very beautiful to look upon.” -The painter might give the details of that -beauty; the writer could not. But he<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_25"></a>[25]</span> -could continue: “And David sent and inquired -after the woman. And one said, -Is not this Bathsheba, the daughter of -Eliam, the wife of Uriah the Hittite? -And David sent messengers and took her, -and she came in unto him, and he lay with -her; and she returned unto her house. -And the woman conceived, and sent and -told David, and said, I am with child. -And David sent to Joab, saying, Send me -Uriah the Hittite.” So begins one of the -greatest of stories from both points of -view, artistic and moral. Is it too frank -for our taste? Would the minister who -described so well the naked woman and -the black velvet, set this story also before -his congregation? He ought to, for it is -a masterpiece of decency. David’s passion, -Bathsheba’s acceptance of it and her -consequent terror, were important only as -beginning the spiritual tragedy; the old -writer names the facts and passes on to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_26"></a>[26]</span> -his great subject. To have begun less -frankly would have been to misrepresent -life and spoil the moral; to have elaborated -the scene of David’s love-making -would have been indecent. In the same -decorum the classical Greeks told their -stories; Helen eloped with Paris; Œdipus -had children by his own mother; Clytemnestra -killed her husband and made her -lover king—so much of the fact is necessary -in each case to understand the magnificent -and tragic consequences; but the -Greek poets did not pry further into the -details of passion.</p> - -<p>There are, of course, unhealthy minds -which have developed a mania for -obscenity, and at the other extreme of -exaggeration there are the unbalanced -minds which do not care to admit the existence -of sex. But sex, in one form or -another, is in the thoughts of most people -most of the time, and common folk—and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_27"></a>[27]</span> -the great poets—speak of it constantly, -and in the same way. In unsophisticated -society, among sincere and simple men, -the references to sex are at once reticent -and frank; it is recognized and respected -as gravitation might be or as the sea is by -sailors—as a power always immanent, in -contact with which men may be lost or -saved. Gossip in that kind of society may -whisper that such a girl had a child by -such a boy only a month after their wedding, -or that so and so is not really the son -of his supposed father. Exactly this kind -of scandal furnishes material to Homer -and to the old prophets in the Bible, to -Dante and to Shakespeare, for sex is one -of the permanent sides of our moral -world. If this treatment of it is essential -to a complete picture of life, the thinness -of American literature may well come -from lack of frankness; but current attempts -to correct the thinness by dwelling<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_28"></a>[28]</span> -on physical details are seeking frankness -in the wrong direction and are but so -many offenses against literary decorum. -One reason why we cling with such pride -to <cite>The Scarlet Letter</cite> is that with all its -shortcomings as a novel it bases its great -moral vision on just such a complete and -decent observation of life as our books do -not usually give us.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_29"></a>[29]</span></p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>In this discussion of sex our attention -has shifted from the problem of language -to the question of the general and the particular -in art—that is, from the principle -of decorum involving the medium of literature -to the principle of decorum involving -its subject-matter. This second principle, -rightly understood, marks the chief -difference between contemporary art and -what some of us still believe was the great -art of the world hitherto—the best of the -Greek, the best of the medieval. When -you look at life naturally, in the directions -dictated by your spontaneous impulses, -it is your own life that seems important, -your private fortunes, your personal ambitions. -Everything that belongs to you<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_30"></a>[30]</span> -seems peculiar, because it is not natural -at first to compare the lives of others with -our own. A poet who presents experience -from this angle of individuality will always -make a strong initial appeal and -perhaps a lasting one, since he falls in with -our instincts, and this accord will seem to -us evidence of something profound. Such -a poet, to some extent, was Euripides, who -imagined his characters sympathetically -from their private points of view, and portrayed -for us the egotism of human nature -in its most tragic form. It is not fair to -say that in his world men and women need -only to explain themselves in order to be -right; but, at least, after they have explained -themselves it is hard to tell who -are right and who are wrong. Such another -poet is Browning, who represents -human nature one individual at a time, always -from the individual’s point of view. -By such a simple and primitive method<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_31"></a>[31]</span> -he obtains effects of obvious richness—he -shows how varied life is, since there are so -many individuals in it, and how novel it -perpetually must be, since each of us is -discovering the world for the first time, -and how much right there is in every man’s -cause, once he has the chance to speak for -himself. If we had all the works of -Euripides, we should probably find in -them as rich and varied a world as Browning’s, -expressed with clearer and more -direct poetic genius. Our contemporary -taste is rather solidly for this kind of literature—Browning -flourishes more and -more, and Euripides has been revived; -and if you really approve of the individualistic -approach to art, it is hard to see -how you can call anything indecent. Anything -that is natural to any kind of character -must get a hearing.</p> - -<p>But men can also be imaginative enough -to look at life as a whole—first, perhaps,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_32"></a>[32]</span> -to look out at all other men, and then to -stand off and look at all men, oneself included. -When you begin to take an interest -in other men, you notice of course -that their lives are not like yours, not so -important nor interesting nor promising, -but in their drabness they are all curiously -alike; they all, with slight variation, -are born, are brought up, fall in love according -to their lights, marry, earn their -living, have children, grow old, and die. -When this uniformity begins to interest -you, you are making your first intelligent -acquaintance with life; and when you -have looked at mankind and included -yourself in the picture, when you have -admitted however reluctantly that the -single addition does not change the total -effect, that life is still simple and uniform -and that you are less peculiar than you -thought—then you have seen yourself at -last as one of the human race.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_33"></a>[33]</span></p> - -<p>To see this calls for imagination and -for the Greek virtue which we translate -as magnanimity—great-mindedness. The -virtue is not to be acquired all at once. -We have made a great advance when we -can think of life in terms not of ourselves -but of moral and material aspects and -powers—in terms of youth and age, for -example, of strength or beauty or pride. -This is the allegorical stage of our pilgrimage -in wisdom, no mean stage to -reach, though it happens to be out of -fashion just now. We are acquainted -with it in the old morality plays, especially -in the almost popular <cite>Everyman</cite>, and perhaps -in Æschylus, especially in <cite>Prometheus -Bound</cite>.</p> - -<p>But our advance is greatest when we -can recognize these aspects and powers in -the individuals around us—when our observation -includes at one and the same -time the general truths of life and the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_34"></a>[34]</span> -particular instances. The poet preëminently -master of this sane wisdom was -Sophocles, who, in Arnold’s familiar -phrase, saw life steadily and saw it whole. -The point of view which he represented is -the most magnanimous, the least egotistical, -that art has yet taken, and one would -have to think meanly of the race to believe -that we shall not return to it, as to -the noblest part of the Greek legacy. But -Sophocles was only the illustration of a -decorum generally practised. In the brief -and magnificent period which left us our -greatest perfection in the arts, the Athenians -thought of the individual as important -if he illustrated for the moment the -general truths or fortunes of life, but his -strictly private fate was insignificant.</p> - -<p>This attitude has been explained by -saying that the Greeks, having no gift for -introspection, took always an objective -view of life, but such a formula hardly accounts<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_35"></a>[35]</span> -for all the illustrations of magnanimity. -When Athens was in her glory, -for example, it was only the public buildings -that were glorious; no individual, not -even Pericles himself, thought of putting -Phidias to decorate his private home. -Again, in the <cite>Antigone</cite> Sophocles is introspective -enough—as introspective as -Euripides or Ibsen himself—but the introspection -is concerned with the general -theme of piety, of one’s duty to blood relations, -not at all with the love story of -Antigone. She was betrothed to the son -of the king who condemned her to death, -and the fact proves tragic for the son and -for the king, but the love of the two young -people is their private business, and the -poet therefore does not let his heroine discuss -the problem of piety from that point -of view.</p> - -<p>It was the genius of Shakespeare and -of Molière, even in comedy, to preserve<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_36"></a>[36]</span> -the same decorum. They show us those -aspects of man’s fortune which are of interest -to all men; of course we are free to -fill in the gaps according to our taste in -gossip, but the dramatist awakens our -feelings and calls our attention only to -general experiences and common wisdom. -In Shakespeare, <cite>Measure for Measure</cite> is -a good example, a noble tragedy and a -decent play. It is less glorious than the -<cite>Antigone</cite>, obviously, since it shows human -nature resisting temptation rather than -establishing an ideal, but the grimness of -its subject and the fact that it portrays an -indecent character do not make it indecent, -as some critics think. Its power is its -probing into general truths of life, chiefly -into the capriciousness of temptation -where sex is concerned, and into the various -forms of the fear of death.</p> - -<p>Claudio, condemned to die and convinced -that there is no hope, persuades<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_37"></a>[37]</span> -himself that he does not care to live; but -immediately he has a chance to live at the -cost of his sister’s honor, and he finds himself -slipping into casuistry to make his escape -possible even on such terms. Here -is introspection of the Sophoclean sort, -touching the psychology not of a particular -man but of all of us. Walter Pater -remarked the paradox that Angelo is -tempted to his fall by sight of the pure-minded -Isabella, the incarnation of virtue. -He might have named other paradoxes of -Isabella’s influence. She fascinates all the -men she meets, good or bad. At the end -of the play the Duke announces that he -intends to marry her himself, and since he -gives her little opportunity to dispute this -plan, we may speculate how far his motives -differ essentially from Angelo’s. -But Lucio, the wretch so steeped by habit -in indecency that he can hardly frame a -clean sentence, is immediately and permanently<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_38"></a>[38]</span> -sensitive to Isabella’s beauty of -soul as well as of body. Why? Shakespeare -merely exhibits the paradox, in his -characteristic way, without hint of explanation. -But we may read a lesson in -decorum, if we wish, in the decency of art, -from the first speech of Lucio to Isabella -in the nunnery, when the dirty-minded -wretch, having none but coarse formulas -in his vocabulary, tries to address her with -the reverence he feels.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_39"></a>[39]</span></p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>On all this the moralist may comment -that decency as a matter of art is one -thing, and the protection of public morals -is another; that however artists may be -interested in the decorum of their medium, -or in the general truth of their subject-matter, -the public is also interested -in the motives and the possible effects of -their writing. Granted; but if the moral -point is to be made, as against the artistic, -the artist has his own conclusions to -draw. The first is that one may as reasonably -question the motives of the vice-suppressors -as the motives of the artists. -Better not to question the motives of -either, but if the mean insinuation begins, -it must in justice spread in both directions.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_40"></a>[40]</span> -The woman before the velvet curtain, -described by the preacher, seemed a -vision of loveliness; yes, you may say, -but what would be the motives of those -who produce such an exhibition—worship -of beauty, or wish to capitalize our baser -impulses? The question is unanswerable -unless you can see into men’s hearts, but -it applies also to the minister who preached -the sermon; was he interested only in -morals, or was he capitalizing to some extent -our craving for the sensational? An -artist would be content to answer that -where the result is beautiful, in the decorum -of the art, it is sensible as well as -kind to suppose men’s motives of the best; -and when the result is not beautiful, it is -sufficient to condemn the result, without -reference to the motives.</p> - -<p>But the more actively censorious hold -that the weak need to be saved from themselves; -that a constant brooding upon indecencies<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_41"></a>[41]</span> -is the death of the soul. Well, -if it is obscenity that we war against, by -all means root it out, for it can be recognized -at a glance, and the reformer need -not brood long upon it. But in the realm -of art in which decency rises, the suppression -of indecency involves as much brooding -on it by the reformer as by the endangered -public—in fact, the reformer -must specialize in such brooding. Whether -or not it is to the death of his soul, it seems -to be to the impairment of his taste. You -cannot give all your time to bad art and -know much about good. The rôle of the -censor would take on some dignity if there -ever were a censor who was a connoisseur, -who was the patron of good poets and -painters, who actively supported a clean -stage. But then, if you had the taste -for the best, no inducement whatever -would make you give your life to the -detection of indecency.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_42"></a>[42]</span></p> - -<p>Human nature is wiser in the long run -than any censor; in the long run the books -of the highest decency hold their place in -fame by crowding out the others. The -public suppresses indecent books by reading -decent ones. Every artist would respectfully -suggest this method to all censors. -Perhaps the censors will say that -the method is too slow—that it takes too -long for the good books to crowd out the -others. It does take too long now, but -why not hasten the process by calling -attention to the good books, instead of -delaying it by advertising the bad? If -the energy which now tries to suppress -books sure to be forgotten in fifty years, -were directed to the encouragement of the -few books which after fifty years might -still be worth reading, the final verdict of -fame might be hastened. But there seems -to be a decorum in morals too, or perhaps<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_43"></a>[43]</span> -two decorums, a creative and a negative—one -seeking to displace evil by a positive -good, the other too much preoccupied with -the evil to notice the good at all.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_44"></a>[44]</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_45"></a>[45]</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_46"></a>[46]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="II">II<br /> -<span class="smaller">ORIGINALITY IN LITERATURE</span></h2> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_47"></a>[47]</span></p> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p class="dropcap">If we accept the doctrine of criticism -today, originality is a great virtue in -a writer, and if we believe the book advertisements, -all the new writers as they -appear, and as they reappear, have this -virtue to a striking, even to an explosive -extent. But with all their originality, -some of the new books turn out to be dull, -and if we reconsider for a moment the -books men have finally judged great, we -observe that they were rather destitute of -the kind of originality we talk of nowadays.</p> - -<p>“In poetry, a new cadence means a new -idea”, wrote the imagist some time ago,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_48"></a>[48]</span> -defending the use of free verse. The doctrine -was in the interest of the cadence, -but it implied something larger and more -significant, that in poetry newness of ideas -is desirable. More recently, an American -critic remarked, in effect, that what Lytton -Strachey has accomplished in his literary -portraits is nothing but what Gamaliel -Bradford accomplished in his, and since -Mr. Bradford’s portraits came first, they -should have the credit and the praise which -an undiscriminating world bestows on Mr. -Strachey’s. If the question of priority is -raised in this kind of writing, perhaps -something should be said for Plutarch; -but are we sure we should raise the question -of priority? What arrests us in the -remark of the American critic is the undebated -assumption that literary excellence -derives from doing something before -somebody else does it. Is it the business -of art to discover new ideas, or indeed to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_49"></a>[49]</span> -busy itself much with any ideas, as separated -from emotion and the other elements -of complete experience? Is it the originality -of genius in art to say something no -one has ever thought of before, or to say -something we all recognize as important -and true? As for the mere question of -priority, even stupid things have been -said for a first time; do we wear the laurel -for being the first to say them?</p> - -<p>One suspects that the new cadence will -persist in poetry only if we like it, and that -Mr. Bradford’s reputation will outstrip -Mr. Strachey’s only if we prefer what he -wrote, and if by chance we care for neither, -then both will be neglected, though one -preceded the other by a hundred years. -Excellence is the only originality that art -considers. They understand these things -better in France. There the young poet -even of the most radical school will respect -the bias of art towards continuity rather<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_50"></a>[50]</span> -than toward novelty, toward the climax of -a tradition rather than its beginning; his -formula of self-confidence will be, “Victor -Hugo was a great poet, Alfred de Musset -was a great poet, and now at last I’m -here.” But in America the parallel gospel -is, “Poor Tennyson couldn’t write, nor -Longfellow, of course; now for the first -time let’s have some poetry.”</p> - -<p>The writers finally judged great, so far -from sharing our present concern for -originality, would probably not even understand -it. What is the object of literature? -they would ask. Of course, if it is -to portray the individual rather than human -nature, or those aspects of life which -stand apart from life in general, then each -book may have something queer in it, -something not in any other book and in -that sense original; but then the reader, -before long, will be looking for peculiarity -in every book he buys—it must be, not<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_51"></a>[51]</span> -better, but “different”, to use an American -term in esthetics; and the writer then -who would meet this demand for the peculiar -must make a fresh start with every -book. What bad luck, they would say, to -be forever a primitive, to be condemned, -after every success, to produce something -in another vein, the first of its kind. Originality -in this sense will be continually undermined -by fame, for the more an author -is read, and the more people become accustomed -to his world, the less he will seem -original. On the other hand, if the reader -looks for originality, there will be no fame, -for no matter how popular an author is, -we shall read his book only once, and then -be waiting for his next novelty.</p> - -<p>But if the object of literature is still, as -it was for the great writers, to portray -human nature, then the only new thing -the artist will look for is a greater success -in his art. Human nature is old and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_52"></a>[52]</span> -unchangeable; he will hope to make a better -portrait than has yet been made—better, -at any rate, for his own people and -his own age, and if possible better absolutely. -There is nothing new about religion -or love or friendship, war, sunsets, -the sea, danger or death, yet something -remains to be told of each eternal theme, -and when a book comes which tells the -whole, which satisfies some hitherto unexpressed -yearnings or defines more sharply -something hitherto half-seen, then that -portrait of human nature serves our purposes -until we have a still finer, and other -versions meanwhile are neglected and forgotten. -We remember how many accounts -of Romeo and Juliet there were before -Shakespeare told the story to suit us, -and how many records of the journey to -hell before Dante told us the whole truth -of that pilgrimage; perhaps we know the -many desperate attempts, long since mercifully<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_53"></a>[53]</span> -swallowed up in oblivion, to portray -the American Indian before Fenimore -Cooper made the picture the world -wanted. The achievements of literature -are all, as in these instances, a gradual reworking -of traditional or popular or folk -material, and in the process it is precisely -because the subject is not original that the -audience can decide how well it has been -portrayed. A sequence of writers interpreting -Life are therefore like a succession -of virtuosos playing the classics, each trying -to give us the true Bach, Beethoven, -Chopin, Schumann. Their renderings -will be different enough, but the music is -the same, and we know it by heart. The -player who calls our attention to most -beauty in it, will be original or unique in -the only way that art permits.</p> - -<p>The example of the musician may not -seem to all writers a fair parallel; they -may protest that the writer creates, as the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_54"></a>[54]</span> -composer does, but the player only interprets -what is already created. But they -are wrong, and the parallel is correct. -The writer does not create as the composer -does. Music is an ultimate pleasure -in itself, like the taste of sugar; so long as -it delights us, we do not ask what it means. -Moreover, since there is no question of its -meaning, we may not need a previous experience -to find some enjoyment in it; it -may be satisfactory at first contact. Of -course every art gives a more subtle pleasure -as we become practised in appreciating -it, yet the contrast between music and -literature remains a real one, since without -any knowledge of life at all men and -even children often penetrate deeply into -the heart of music, but without some -knowledge of life they are stopped at the -very threshold of literature. The key to -that door is some first-hand acquaintance -with life. Music has no other subject-matter<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_55"></a>[55]</span> -than itself, but literature has life for -its content, and to find one’s way about in -it, we must recognize what it is dealing -with. Life is a music already composed. -It has been here a long time, and had become -already an ancient history when the -first poets began to play upon it. They -merely said for us the things we had been -vainly feeling after, they brought out the -colors our eyes had almost missed, they -defined sharply the flavors and the half -tastes that had haunted us. The amateurs -in the audience listen spellbound when the -master plays to perfection a piece they -have struggled with; this is more to them -than the loveliest of new sonatas, for it is -their own world in a better light. So -mankind will listen to the authentic poet -who completes their half-realized selves; -and will say of him, somewhat with the -woman of Samaria, “He told me all the -things that ever I did.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_56"></a>[56]</span></p> - -<p>If the audience enjoy the music best -when they have tried to play it themselves, -they love it next best when they have -heard it often, and they like it least, sometimes -not at all, when they hear it for the -first time. The reader likes poetry best -when he has lived what it interprets; next -best when he has heard often of the adventures -it renders; least, even to the point -of detestation, when he never entered that -region of life at all, not even by hearsay. -In such a predicament the real ground of -his objection to the art is that it is original, -at least so far as he is concerned, but the -experience of his discomfort will hide the -cause of it from him; not himself but the -art will seem to him inadequate—is he not -as much alive as any one ever was? The -book, he will say, portrays a world that is -dead. Let us start fresh and be original; -let us portray my world.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_57"></a>[57]</span></p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>In the slow fermentation of human societies, -as fresh elements work their way -to the top and for a time give their flavor -to history, the new arrival is likely to -herald himself in some such terms in a -protest against the art which, because he -has as yet no share in it, seems to him old -and worn out, and in a cry for original -expression which to those with a longer -memory of the world will be quite familiar. -There have been new arrivals before, and -their wish to start fresh is the cause rather -than the result of decadence. For it is -only in a figure of speech that art declines -or prospers—it is the artists who are less -competent or more so than their predecessors, -and the poet who tells us that the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_58"></a>[58]</span> -period before him is at an end, is really -proclaiming that he cannot improve upon -it, and if the other poets are like himself, -the preceding period is indeed ended. -There is no other reason why the great -moments of literature were not prolonged. -Shakespeare was better than his predecessors, -but he was not perfection; why -did not the drama continue to develop? -Ben Jonson, being himself a new arrival, -and being, for all his book learning, outside -the spiritual regions which Elizabethan -drama had mainly portrayed, -thought of course that a new kind of art -was needed. He is in danger now of sharing -the ignominy of all writers who coming -after greater men pay homage through -jealousy. Tennyson was not the greatest -of poets; why did not his successors treat -him as though he were a Greene or a Marlowe, -and make Shakespearean improvements -in him? To hear the critics of today<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_59"></a>[59]</span> -rail against his art, one might suppose he -had hopelessly damaged the language by -using it, or that rhyme and meter had -come to a bad end at his hands. The poet -who talks this way about his predecessors -is never the one who is conscious of the -power to swallow them up. If Shakespeare -had been a little man, he would -have taken one look at Marlowe’s <cite>Faustus</cite>, -and given up the Elizabethan drama as a -creaking and antiquated machine for -moral doctrine. Had he been really ignorant -of the long-stored-up energies and -impulses which were coming to action in -his marvellous hour, had he lacked the instinct -to recognize them even when badly -expressed, and to express them better, he -might have walked the streets of London -as the oriental arrival walked in Athens, -or as the invader from the north walked -in Rome—with a conviction that the day<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_60"></a>[60]</span> -of this sort of thing was over. Nothing -would remain but to be original.</p> - -<p>If the clamor for originality is strong -in the United States, it is, perhaps, because -here are many arrivals, and the -newcomer not infrequently desires us to -change our ways in the interest of his comfort. -We have so much good will toward -him, and we are so conscious of the fine -things the various races may bring to our -commonwealth, that we usually hesitate -to speak frankly of his qualifications as -writer or critic. He often brings a rare -aptitude for art, and frequently he desires -to write, but writing is the one art where -his ignorance of life will handicap him. In -painting an eye for color, in music an ear -for tone and harmony, may carry him -through, but in literature he will write in -an acquired language, and even if it were -his native tongue, in literature his attitude -toward the art will be conditioned<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_61"></a>[61]</span> -by his knowledge of life. He will perhaps -assert rather vigorously that his -knowledge is superior; has he not borne -hardships and risen above them? Those -who have not suffered, he will say, know -nothing of life. He will think you cold-blooded -if you tell him the better way to -say it—that those who have not suffered, -know nothing of suffering. If he desires -to write the literature of suffering, he is -probably competent, but since he is usually -a person of strong energy, with a constructive -temperament, he does not wish to -write merely the literature of suffering, -nor does he usually wish his children to -repeat his hardship, though he may have -said that only by such discipline comes -knowledge. He usually desires to write -about the world in general, as every one -would write, and for this task he usually -has had experience too meagre or too special. -It is only in the United States, after<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_62"></a>[62]</span> -his arrival, that he most often makes his -first contact with the older literature—not -of America but of his own land; if he has -had the experience necessary for understanding -it, he absorbs it eagerly, but if -his hardships in his fatherland deprived -him of the necessary equipment, he will -announce that the old literature is played -out and meaningless. He is like the native -students in South African schools, who -may read the skating episode in Wordsworth’s -<cite>Prelude</cite>, but cannot get the shiver -of the ice or the scratch of the steel runners. -Those who have been with us for -several generations and who through economic -or other causes have missed that rich -acquaintance with life which would explain -what the great writers talk about, -are likely to join the most recent comer in -a plea for originality. Their fortunes are -to be pitied, but their advice in art is -hardly to be followed. No amount of sympathy<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_63"></a>[63]</span> -or admiration for them as human -beings will accredit them as critics, for -art is long, as we have heard, and the approaches -to it are long also; though we -may teach democracy fast enough to win -our vote after five years, we must know -at first-hand youth and maturity, and -have a suspicion of what old age is like, -in the world the poet writes of, before we -can give a fair opinion whether he has -written well. But if the newcomer recovers -here the adventure of life which his -hardships cheated him of in the old country, -he will find that the great literature -of the world represents that adventure -faithfully and vitally; it is merely a question -of patience with him, since he is energetic -and the upturn of the new world is -exciting, and it is hard for him to believe -that the old shadows in art of a life he has -not yet lived will ever again take living -form or pulse again in his imagination.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_64"></a>[64]</span></p> - -<p>A new world, a new life, a new art. -This is the sequence his hopes dwell on, -though every term in it is debatable. Is -there a new world, or a new life, or a new -art? Sometimes we are told that in a new -world life must automatically be new, but -the doctrine is not convincing, for at other -times we are summoned to originality, as -to another duty, by the argument that in -a new world we ought to be ashamed to -lead still an old life. Sometimes we hear -that a new life inevitably means a new art, -and we reflect that if life now differs from -what it once was, we need take no thought -for our originality, for we shall be different -in spite of ourselves; even by the old -methods art will achieve something new; -if we would write of love, for example, -we need only tell the truth about the passion -as we know it, and since the love we -know is like nothing that ever was on sea -or land, our romance will be like nothing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_65"></a>[65]</span> -that ever was in song or story. Why all -this fret about it? And if religion and war -and sorrow and death are all by hypothesis -quite other than they once were, how can -we escape originality when we report them -in the setting of the new world and the new -life? But the fact is that those who call -for originality in art are not quite sure, -after all, that the age is a new one—they -would feel safer if some further vestiges of -the past could be obliterated; and though -they justify a new art by speaking much of -their new life, it is far from clear that they -really think life is new, or at heart desire -it to be so. Social and political systems, -yes—but life? Horrible indeed is the vision -of an absolutely original career for -one who loves his fellows and prefers to -take his experience outside a madhouse. -“Your prayer is answered,” says the original -Apollo, touching the original poet’s -ears, trembling with originality: “you will<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_66"></a>[66]</span> -have always a new cadence and a new -idea; neither the language nor the substance -of your communications will ever -have occurred before in human experience. -Your art will be unique and solitary. -Nothing that men have done before will -you condescend to repeat—neither to -sleep, nor to eat, nor to travel, nor to -know passion, pain, suffering or peace.” -The poet, lured by the prophecy, might -think at last that he had achieved fame, -but Apollo would be there to remind him -that his was like no fame achieved before—not -like Shelley’s or Shakespeare’s. He -might lose his heart, and in the throes of -love might fancy he knew at last the meaning -of Romeo’s story or Tristram’s, but -the god would remind him that his was a -special kind of love, not like the very ancient -impulse that moved the sun and the -other stars.</p> - -<p>We need some divine reminder that our<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_67"></a>[67]</span> -true desire is to realize in ourselves the -best of old experience—not to find an -original life, but to bring on the stage once -more as far as possible the old procession -of passions, sorrows and delights. The -latest of us hopes he is not too late to taste -for himself the high flavor of life which -those before him talked so much about. If -falling in love is a business incidental to -adolescence, yet it is immensely hastened -by our reading and by what we have -heard; those whom the passion does not -touch usually worry about their immunity -instead of being thankful for it, and -anything is better than never to have loved -at all. It is not passion entirely that fills -the hearts of the lovers brought at last to -each other’s arms; at least, the single -thought with which the two hearts beat -may be a triumphant “Now I know for -myself.” Similarly, however strange it -may seem, we welcome sorrow and suffering,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_68"></a>[68]</span> -or we feel ourselves cheated rather -than blest if none of it comes our way. -Death, too, is less unwelcome than it might -fairly be. At least those who faced it and -have been reprieved, often remember that -a satisfaction in knowing the worst took -some of the terror away. There it was at -last, the old shadow that waylays us all.</p> - -<p>Desiring to discover for ourselves the -well known and traditional experience, we -desire at the same time a more excellent -version of it than our predecessors have -enjoyed. We would love as Romeo did, -but we like to think that Romeo never -loved so well, and ours is a more wonderful -Juliet. Even our sorrows will be greater, -if we have our way, for in the intensity -with which we explore the old experiences -we feel rightly that we ought to equal or -surpass other men. We dread the operation -for appendicitis, before we undergo -it; then we reach the point of satisfaction<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_69"></a>[69]</span> -in finding out for ourselves what the operation -is like; then finally we are persuaded -that the operation was unusually -severe, the worst of its kind. This is the -artist in us, trying for distinction. And -if with the old material of life we seek the -distinction of excellence of statement, our -motive is not simply a desire to surpass -others, nor a desire to indicate progress, -but often it is the hope to report the experience -once for all. Art has always a -dying part in it, as artists well know—some -part which must constantly be restored -by restatement. Try as he may to -express only permanent things, the artist -will include something that is aside from -the main purpose, that goes out of date. -Of course if an artist deliberately strives -to be contemporary, and succeeds, his work -to that extent will shortly become unintelligible; -later poets will then try their -hand at refurbishing or restoring the essential<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_70"></a>[70]</span> -thing in the picture, and incidentally, -without meaning to, they will include -some contemporary and insignificant -material of their own, which in time may -precipitate another revision. What we -call classics are the lucky masterpieces in -which the permanent elements are so many -and the transitory so few, that it seems -useless and impertinent to revise them.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_71"></a>[71]</span></p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>The desire for originality is not new, -and explanations of it are old. Some of -them are based on the supposed working -of the artistic temperament. The artist, -it is said, craves expression at all costs, -and if the craving is not satisfied in one -direction, it will reach in another. If we -cannot pour all of our energy into our -painting or our music, we may express the -surplus in long hair and flowing cravat. -This explanation, even if it were true, -would imply that the artist desires notoriety -rather than expression, for you cannot -express yourself unless you speak a language -your audience already knows, but -eccentricity, which is the extreme form of -originality, will attract attention even if<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_72"></a>[72]</span> -it is not understood. But artists are not -likely to admit that this theory does justice -to their temperament. They will remark -that few of the greatest masters have -been eccentric in their appearance, none of -them in their subject-matter. Like other -men they fitted the society in which their -lot fell, except that they had a genius for -feeling life more vitally than other men. -So many of them, like Chaucer or Shakespeare -or Scott, cultivated the art of living -close to their fellows and sharing an average -fate, that we half suspect the less -gifted would do the same if they could; -for the artist who is original in dress or -manners is not likely to meet human nature -in its normal state—rather, his neighbors -will whisper when he appears, and -nudge each other, and he will never see -what manners they use toward those who -are not queer. Poets with an original or -eccentric subject-matter meet the same<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_73"></a>[73]</span> -fate. Could Poe or Baudelaire learn anything -about us if they came among us with -a reputation for the abnormal? Would we -not unconsciously close to them our usual -impulses, in our curiosity to observe their -strangeness? To the artist who loves life -in the sane way of a Chaucer, a Montaigne, -a Molière, such a welcome would -be calamitous; rather hide anything that -distinguishes him from others, even the -fact that he can write, if by this caution -he may draw closer to his sensitive race, -and observe the undisturbed mystery and -beauty of natural life.</p> - -<p>Indeed, the whole question of originality, -this desire for novelty, is in the end -a question of our love of life. In the moments -when we love life passionately we -are not likely to get too much of it, and we -do not ask to exchange it for another kind. -When art and politics were creative, in -the heyday of writers, painters, architects<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_74"></a>[74]</span> -and statesmen who later seem to us almost -solitary in their excellence, there was still -no taking thought to be original; they fell -in love, rather, with the obvious. Columbus -made no voyage in search of originality—simply -there had been too many hints -and rumors for him to stay at home any -longer. Some very original spirits, we -may suppose, took no stock in his expedition. -For Shakespeare or Molière play-writing -was an obvious task, and an old -one; they may have expected to do successfully -what others had only tried, but except -for the success they aimed at nothing -new. Where great poets have spoken on -the matter themselves, their point of view -is quite clear. At the end of the <cite>Vita -Nuova</cite> Dante announced his hope to write -of Beatrice such things as had never been -written of any woman. Not to write a -new kind of book, for women had been -praised before, as he implied, and there<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_75"></a>[75]</span> -had been poems of vision and pilgrimages -through hell; but his hope was to excel. -He determined to speak no more of his -blessed lady until he could praise her -worthily, and to praise such a woman -worthily would be to write such things as -had been written of no other. In the same -mood Milton promised his great epic—in -passionate love of the best before him, and -in the assurance of doing as well or better—“I -began thus to assent both to them -and divers of my friends here at home, -and not less to an inward prompting, -which now grew daily upon me, that by -labour and intense study, which I take to -be my portion in this life, joined with the -strong propensity of nature, I might leave -something so written to after-times as they -should not willingly let it die.” This is -the great manner of the poets. But in -the opening words of Rousseau’s <cite>Confessions</cite>, -to take an opposite example, we<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_76"></a>[76]</span> -have the accent of the modern disease; he -would undertake, he said, an enterprise of -which there had never been a parallel, and -of which there would be no imitation—he -would tell the truth about one man, about -himself. He promised no excellence except -the uniqueness of the subject, for -truth-telling, though always desirable, can -hardly be important unless the subject is -worth while.</p> - -<p>Rousseau’s book is great in spite of its -introductory sentence; his subject after -all was not unique, for each of us can follow -his example and write at least one -book about ourselves; and perhaps he told -less of the unvarnished truth than he intended, -for being an artist in every fiber -of his body, he selected from his experience -not his most singular adventures, but -his adventures in those realms of experience—in -sex, for example—which his -readers were surest to understand and find<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_77"></a>[77]</span> -interesting. But with his famous announcement, -whether or not he followed it, -our malady began. Hence all the poems -and novels of autobiography, all the diaries -of young men and maidens, old men -and children, all the bouquets of verse still -showered upon us in which the poet confides -his intimate symptoms. In all this -there is little to remind us of great art, or -of the times in which great art has been -made; the resemblance is rather to a hospital -or an old folks’ home, where the inmates -find importance in the fact that they -have been there longer than their fellows, -or are younger, or a little less blind and -deaf. Hence also our difficulty in understanding -earlier literature, of a date when -not originality but excellence was the aim. -When we first read Shakespeare’s sonnets -or Sidney’s, we conclude with satisfaction -that the poet was writing out of his heart, -in the Rousseau fashion. But when we<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_78"></a>[78]</span> -learn that these stories are works of art, -dramatic renderings of life, and that the -“I” who speaks in the lines is first of all -the hero of the story, whether or not he is -the poet too; and when we learn further -that much of the material is adapted from -earlier poets, used over again as we use -old words to make up new sentences—then -perhaps our respect for the master vanishes, -our ideal is cracked; they were not -such original poets after all. It is the -defect of our taste. We forget that the -oldest phrases, if they have the poetic -excellence of being true to all of us, are -renewed and become personal in the adventure -of each individual. Though Job -ought to get the credit, by all modern -standards, of uttering that very original -profession of faith, “I know that my redeemer -liveth”, yet the words were too full -of possible meanings to remain linked with -Job’s private misfortunes; being already<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_79"></a>[79]</span> -immortal, they seem never to have been -said for a first time. Lover after lover has -found in his own passion the meaning of -some old song, perhaps “My love is like -the red, red rose”, which until the passion -fell on him seemed sentimental and -silly. And Rousseau himself in the <cite>Confessions</cite>, -at the very outset of his egotism, -of his originality, of his indecorous opposing -of the individual to the race, records -his boyhood love of an old folk-song—precisely -the kind of art from which his -doctrine led us away.</p> - -<p>But nowadays the desire for originality -comes not only from the writer; a certain -class of readers also demand it, the kind -of person who reads with an eye out for -imitations and plagiarisms. That plot has -been used before, he says, when two men -are in love with the same woman—or, that -character is copied from so-and-so, when -Pierrot’s father forgives the returning<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_80"></a>[80]</span> -prodigal. There are reviewers of this type -also, who read their victims into categories, -calling this poet Tennysonian, that novelist -Meredithian, that essayist Emersonian. -Such categories become less definite as -we read back into the past, for over the -range of a few centuries no plot is new, -nor does any writer seem altogether unlike -the others. There is such a thing as plagiarism, -yet unless one is a fanatic for originality, -the question of plagiarism is of no -great importance; the world is not interested, -and if the author is concerned from -whom the play or the plot is stolen, his -concern is more for his property than for -his art. If his work is stolen unchanged, -it is still as good art as it was before; if -the thief has mangled it, his plagiarized -version will not be so good as the authentic -text; but if by luck he has improved on -what he took, it becomes his, bag and baggage, -so far as fame is concerned. Who<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_81"></a>[81]</span> -were the authors of those songs Burns -made over into his masterpieces? Who -were those dramatists and chroniclers -whom Shakespeare rewrote? The names -in many cases can be looked up, but they -are of no account. The world feels that -the great writer conferred a benefit by improving -on the earlier work. What is far -more important, the world also feels that -the great writer, in improving on another -man’s work, actually invaded no private -rights, for the material of literature is life, -and life is no one’s private property. -After the invention of printing, writers -saw the possibility of financial dividends -from their works, and plagiarism is an -aspect of this financial question, but it has -otherwise nothing to do with art. The -world in general continues to think of art -in the old way, as creation rather than as -business, and it quite properly cares little -who does the creating, or who afterward<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_82"></a>[82]</span> -receives a money reward. What were -Homer’s annual earnings? Or was it -really Homer? Or who besides David -wrote his psalms? We know instinctively -that these questions are trivial.</p> - -<p>But imitation in art is often more apparent -than real. If a poet is in touch -with his age, he will write of the subjects -that interest him, and other poets in -touch with the age will also write about -what interests them, and consequently -they may all write of much the same -thing; they are not imitating each other, -but they are enjoying a common pleasure, -to which one of them may have -shown the way. We often say that the -popular writer is trying to catch the favor -of the public by giving it what it likes, and -in some instances he may be calculating -and his motives unworthy. But it is more -probable that being typical of his age, he -simply likes the same things as his fellows.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_83"></a>[83]</span> -The Elizabethan Londoner liked -historical plays; did Shakespeare write -them only to please his audience, or rather -did he not share the general taste? The -principle here implied will explain why -any poets who have an enormous popularity -will have also an enormous so-called influence. -They are popular because they -share the people’s taste, and the people -therefore find in their work what they like; -but if their subject-matter is so popular, -many others will be writing of it too. The -resulting resemblance is not really an influence, -or rarely is; it is a contemporary -tendency. The poet who is best in the lot -will be remembered. All ran, but one -receives the prize. However, those who -came in second and third are neither imitators -nor plagiarists.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_84"></a>[84]</span></p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>To submit oneself to the impersonal discipline -of art is hard for the young. Few -young writers are lured into the profession -by the impossibility of being original -in their craft, or by the excellent chance -their best works have of becoming anonymous -with time. We can imagine them -pleading for the rights of their personalities; -what on earth did the old pagan -mean by his proud <i lang="la">non omnis moriar</i>, if his -personality was not to survive in his work? -For their comfort let us add that personality -in art is indestructible. If we have -any of it, it will live. And if we mean -personality when we say originality, thinking -of the author rather than of his subject, -then we may add also that genuine<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_85"></a>[85]</span> -personality is original in spite of itself. -How hard it is to tell a story twice the -same way; how difficult to form anything -permanent, even habits; how impossible to -get once for all into a rut. A dull lecture, -though we hear it a second time word for -word, is subtly changed, for we no longer -hear it the first time, and “afflictions induce -callosities”, as Sir Thomas Browne -said, and “sorrows destroy us or themselves.” -The record we buy for our phonograph, -though we liked it at first, may -empty itself with each repetition, till the -charm is gone; even the photograph of our -dear ones, framed on the wall, has a tendency -at last to merge itself in the wall -paper. Whatever is repeated in our consciousness -becomes mechanical and unnoticed, -or the edge of it is blunted. To -restore the sharp edges of impression, to -bring back the first flavor of things, is the -ideal of life and of art; only strong personality<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_86"></a>[86]</span> -can do it, but where such a personality -comes, it is irresistible and undisguisable. -It shows up best in those -attitudes of life which in other hands -have grown drab and sordid; the contrast -brings out the genius. This kind -of success in life is the art of the actor -who plays a long run, and who gives even -in the one hundredth performance the impression -of a fresh experience. A poorer -actor would have needed a new play long -before. Or we might say that art is a -summary of life—and where will personality -show itself sooner than in summarizing? -When Lafcadio Hearn lectured to -his Japanese students, he followed the -reading of each English poem by a brief -paraphrase in prose, which usually is the -most precious part of his criticism; for -in the retelling, his personality emphasized -what he liked in the verses. If we -could ask Tennyson, Morris, Browning,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_87"></a>[87]</span> -Arnold and Meredith each to write out a -summary of something we all know, we -should have five criticisms, and five revelations -of personality. And there are more -personalities in the world than we may -realize; only they waste themselves in the -search for the original, when all that is -needed is to be sincere.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_88"></a>[88]</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_89"></a>[89]</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_90"></a>[90]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="III">III<br /> -<span class="smaller">THE CULT OF THE NATURAL</span></h2> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_91"></a>[91]</span></p> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p class="dropcap">It belongs with the confusion of esthetics -in our time that the same people -who ask art to be original often ask it to -be natural. Being natural would appear -at first sight the least original of programmes. -Even if by originality we mean -personality, yet there still seems some -contradiction in the wish at one and the -same time to develop a strong personality -and to remain in a state of nature. Since -it is the thoroughbred, not the wild animal, -that is distinguished from his fellows, -and the cultivated bloom, not the field -flower, that charms by its single self rather<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_92"></a>[92]</span> -than in quantity, a condition of impulse -close to the unsifted accidents of life -would seem to promise an art notable -chiefly for its volume, its indistinction and -its insignificance. But those who ask art -to be natural never mean completely natural. -In their wiser moments they are -only asking art not to be artificial, or at -least to help them forget it is artificial. -They demand a “realistic and romantic -naturalism”, or “a world of honest, and -often harsh reality”, and what they are -looking for is indicated by the fact that -they find something convincingly lifelike -in a drama of low life or an American -vulgarization of a French farce, but something -strained and mechanical in a comedy -by Sheridan or Oscar Wilde. Art, no -doubt, is still desirable in literature—art -shot through with crude material, to reassure -us that we are human. Since all plays -are highly artificial, naturalness is hardly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_93"></a>[93]</span> -the word for the virtue of good plays; they -are convincing, rather, they take us -frankly into another world, and for the -moment make us forget it is not our world -of everyday. Yet those who ask the stage -to be natural are apparently reassured -when through the imaginary world of art -breaks some accent of ordinary speech, -some aspect of our common sordidness. -Here, it seems, we touch earth and are -strengthened.</p> - -<p>The cult of the natural at its best asks of -the medium of art also, as well as of the -subject, that it wear a common aspect, untouched -by artifice. Many of the new -poets take as their ideal “the sequence of -the spoken phrase”, with a special dislike -of all “inversions”; the “language of common -speech” will serve their purposes. -Yet most of them are better poets than -their theories would indicate, and their -practise, like Wordsworth’s in a similar<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_94"></a>[94]</span> -predicament, is perhaps sufficient guide to -the kind of naturalness they are after. <cite>An -Extempore Effusion upon the Death of -James Hogg</cite> is the kind of naturalness -Wordsworth fell into when he was off his -guard. “Other poets”, says a more modern -cultivator of naturalism, “will come -and perchance perfect where these men -have given the tools. Other writers, forgetting -the stormy times in which this -movement had its birth, will inherit in -plenitude and calm that for which they -have fought.” Most of us who are convinced -that all speech is artful in so far as -it is intelligible, can occasionally put up -with a bit of fine writing like this, but we -note in passing that “perchance” and -“plenitude” are not the language of common -speech today. As for the fear of inversions -and the sacredness of the natural -word-order, it is enough for the moment -to observe that no one order is natural for<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_95"></a>[95]</span> -all peoples, nor for any one speech at all -times; different word-orders express different -states of emotion, even different -ideas, and one is as natural as the other. -“Tell me not in mournful numbers” or -“Tell not me in mournful numbers”—which -is the natural order? From another -and contemporary New England poet, -who sticks valiantly for the natural sequence -of speech, we may examine a -characteristic line, which has as high a percentage -of nature in it as absence of art -can insure—“I must pass that door to go -to bed.” Would it be less natural to say, -“To go to bed, I must pass that door”?</p> - -<p>To practise artifice and yet to seem -spontaneous, to be natural and yet to -achieve art—these ancient paradoxes -against which the cultivators of the natural -arrive, in both the subject-matter and -the medium of literature, need to be examined -in greater detail, but it is well to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_96"></a>[96]</span> -observe them first in a general way, in -order to mark how much confusion lies on -the very surface of such thinking. It is -emotion perhaps rather than thinking; it -is a protest in another form against what -seems old and inherited; it is an impatience -with art itself. Yet art exerts its -old charm upon us all, and the worshipper -of the natural succumbs unawares to every -triumph over nature. In American letters -we fix on Abraham Lincoln as our -type of natural expression; the legend of -his humble beginnings and the plainness -of his manner deceive us into a conviction -that he was less indebted to art than -Thomas Jefferson, and we therefore talk -of the rhetorical extravagances of the Declaration -and contrast them with the Attic -simplicities of the Gettysburg Address. -Perhaps we see a final proof of our sound -taste in the story that Matthew Arnold<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_97"></a>[97]</span> -gave up the Address for lost when he got -to the colloquial “proposition”; “dedicated -to the proposition”, we say, was more than -his artificial spirit could bear. Whether -Arnold expressed such an opinion, or -whether he would have been right in so -doing, is of less consequence than our -emotional readiness, if we cultivate the -natural, to accept the Lincoln speech as an -illustration of our ideal, and to set it over -against the artifice of Jefferson’s great -document—to detect a literary manner in -such a phrase as “When in the course of -human events”, and nothing but naturalness -in “Fourscore and seven years ago”—or -to find an empty and sounding rhetoric -in “life, liberty, and the pursuit of -happiness”, but only the democratic syllables -of common sense in “government of -the people, by the people, for the people.” -Both documents are as rich as they can<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_98"></a>[98]</span> -well be in rhetoric, as all great oratory is, -and of the two, Lincoln’s as a matter of -fact is rather more artful in the progress -of its ideas.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_99"></a>[99]</span></p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>Our confusion in the search for the natural -in art springs from the many different -meanings that attach to both words, art -and nature. For most of us, perhaps, art -is a decoration, something supplementary -to life; in the spirit of this definition we -understand what it is to cultivate the arts—to -buy pictures when our means will -permit us that addition to more primary -interests, or to attend the opera after the -preliminary stages of our social pilgrimage. -We use the word art so often in this -bad sense, with the implication of insincerity, -that there is something bracing in -any invitation to return to nature and to -be once more what we were while we still<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_100"></a>[100]</span> -were honest with ourselves and had a sense -of humor.</p> - -<p>This nature that we return to, haunts -our thoughts as a fixed state in which the -wise soul can find enduring refuge. Just -how we get the idea that nature is stable, -is not easy to see; the notion often exists -in our minds side by side with a deep conviction -that life is a flux, and that time -and space are but relative terms in the -universal stream. But perhaps it is the -outer appearance of the world, nature as -landscape, that first suggests a refuge even -against time, mountains are so immovable -in their mysterious silence for us as for -Wordsworth, the ocean is so untamable -for us, as it was for Byron. Perhaps also -the contemplation of the changing universe -during the past century of daring -and imaginative science has endowed nature -with a romantic career of its own, such -as the old humanists ascribed only to men;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_101"></a>[101]</span> -perhaps the progress of stars, planets and -solar systems, observed or guessed at, suggests -in spite of the evolution it illustrates -a deeper kind of rest in the laws by which -that evolution conducts itself; so that the -last result of turning from human art to -watch the behavior of inanimate things is -the conviction that nothing is really inanimate, -but that all move in the wisdom of -an art superhuman, in an order peaceful -and eternal as only a divine vitality could -conceive. When we think of nature in -this sense of the word, leaving man out of -the picture, ourselves too as far as possible -who do the thinking, we are ready to say -with Emerson that art is an impertinent -intrusion, nature is all. “Nature in the -common sense refers to essences unchanged -by man; space, the air, the river, -the leaf; art is applied to the mixture of -his will with the same things, as in a -house, a canal, a statue, a picture; but his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_102"></a>[102]</span> -operations taken together are so insignificant,—a -little shaping, baking, patching -and washing,—that in an impression so -grand as that of the world on the human -mind they do not vary the result.”</p> - -<p>We can speak of nature in this all-embracing -way so long as, like Emerson for -the moment, we lay aside every thought of -man and of the moral world which he creates -or brings under his control, and in -which his responsibility is fixed. But once -we resume that human outlook, we begin -to use the word natural in at least two -other senses. In the first place we use it -to describe the process of life, that constant -birth or becoming which seems to -have been present to the mind of the Greek -also when he used his word for nature—as -when Aristotle says, in a famous phrase, -that art is an imitation of nature, meaning -that the process of art is a copy of the -processes of birth and becoming, and creates<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_103"></a>[103]</span> -by the same methods that life does. -In this sense of the word nature is like -art, not opposed to it, and with this interpretation -Polixenes tried to rebuke the -cult of the natural in Perdita, who would -not have in her garden a flower artificially -bred:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Yet nature is made better by no mean,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But nature makes that mean: so, o’er that art</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Which you say adds to nature, is an art</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A gentler scion to the wildest stock,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And make conceive a bark of baser kind</div> - <div class="verse indent0">By bud of nobler race: this is an art</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Which does mend nature—change it rather: but</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The art itself is nature.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>We use the word nature also to describe -the raw material of life which is the result -of a previous birth or becoming. It is -what some earlier art, human or divine,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_104"></a>[104]</span> -has already worked on, and what we must -work on now if art is to continue. Nature -in this sense is the marble, the color, the -language which are to be the mediums of -various arts; human passions and instincts -also, the social and the material environments -which attend our lives, the accidents -of fortune which make up their -plots; and since all this is what art must -work upon, nature so defined is forever -somewhat opposed to art, as inanimate -materials are opposed to the workman, as -the wood and the chisel are opposed to the -carpenter. For art is the use of the materials -of life for human benefit, a method -employed for a premeditated end in a -world which except for art might seem -given over to chance. Because it is a -rearrangement and a control of nature to -effect the will of man, life itself, so far as -it becomes civilized, becomes an art. But -in a world as old as ours the raw material<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_105"></a>[105]</span> -with which art deals is itself the result of -art; the wood has been already shaped -into boards, the chisel and the hammer -have been made into tools before the carpenter -touches them, and the environment -in which the carpenter is born, the instincts -and passions he inherits, the turns -and coincidences of his fate, are all probably -the result of what others before him -made of their materials and opportunities. -Thinking of life so, we see it as an alternation -of nature and art, or as an alternation -in which what first is art becomes -afterwards nature, all the achievement of -one generation turning into mere starting -point and opportunity for the next; and -thinking of life so, we understand how -nature, to the true artist, is forever set -over against art in a contrast that implies -affection rather than antagonism, for those -who instead of defining art as a decorative -supplement to life identify it with civilization<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_106"></a>[106]</span> -itself, are free to love nature without -abandoning an ideal, as a sculptor is free -to love fine marble, or the painter to love -his medium of tint and tone. With time -and by such a process of reworking, nature -draws nearer and nearer to art; the -raw material is made constantly more orderly -by rearrangement, as a field is enriched -by plowing in the crops. Even in -the sphere of human character this is true, -in the very seat of the natural, in our instincts -and passions; for though we may -agree that character should be measured -by a moral career rather than by impulses -wholly innate, yet it is well to reflect that -your impulses and sentiments, if you are -born and brought up in Florence or Chartres, -Heidelberg or Seville, are likely to -be different from the impulses and sentiments -natural to a child born or brought -up in The Bronx or in Hoboken. In the -eyes of the naturalist, nature is all, as<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_107"></a>[107]</span> -Emerson said, and art only a little shaping, -baking, patching and washing, but to -the artist who carries in his imagination -something of the scope of agelong growth -and creation, the truth is what Nature said -to the poet in Voltaire’s dialogue—“They -call me nature, but by this time I am become -all art.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_108"></a>[108]</span></p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>The possibility, then, of returning to -nature disappears when we realize how -long a road we have traveled; all that the -most primitive minded of us can do is to -stick close to the raw material of his own -life, to the circumstances with which the -art of his predecessors surrounded him. -This is the nature which the realists cultivate -today. They report those facts of -life from which art might take its beginning, -but they report them as much as -possible in an arrested state, for fear they -might pass on into art. Among the poets -one, catching the accent of the spoken language, -gives us the language of one phase -of New England; another, with a like -faithfulness to the natural cadence, gives -us another kind of New England speech;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_109"></a>[109]</span> -a third has the colloquialism of Illinois. -They are all artists, or they would not -mean much to us, but in so far as they -have followed their own ideals of the natural -they have laid aside some of the magician’s -robes to which by inheritance they -are entitled, and they leave with us their -renderings of our world in a form of utterance -less noble than their theme and out -of harmony with it. In our prose and -verse alike, the studied inadequacy of style -to the occasion is a standing reproach to -us, all the worse since it is often the pose -of an inverted vanity, like the democratic -conviction still flourishing in the land that -the dinner coat or the evening coat is an -artifice of a worn-out society, whereas the -senatorial frock coat and wide hat are -natural and God-given sheathings of our -original nakedness.</p> - -<p>To revert to the starting point of our -lives is to seek nature in vain, since the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_110"></a>[110]</span> -alternations of art and nature proceed -relentlessly, whether we rest our dead -weight on the process or try to help it -along. It is a vain flattery of our reluctance -to travel, to take our seat always in -the last car. But, however futile, the cult -of the natural in literature has a reasonable -explanation, and it is well to understand -with sympathy why it is likely to -recur periodically in a civilization that -must feel its age more and more. Art -criticizes life, as we have often been told, -by selecting or sifting it; that is what the -word criticism means. The authority that -art has over us, its right to make such a -sifting, derives not from books but from -the human brain itself, from the method of -memory; we remember only by forgetting -most of the things we have done or have -suffered, and rearranging the rest. As we -grow older life becomes clearer, we say, -thanks to this selection and forgetting.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_111"></a>[111]</span> -When art sifts life, then, it is only imitating -the process of nature, and when we -observe the process we can understand -why the Greeks said that memory was the -mother of the muses. But this sifting of -life on the part of memory and of art is -progressive, and in all honesty we may -wonder at times whether it has not gone -too far. Some of the clarity of vision, the -firmness of doctrine, which is the reward -of old age, may be not the genuine harvesting -of experience which is almost the -gift of prophecy; it may be rather a partial -memory which seems clear because so -much has been left out. If a poet could -get a first-hand impression of life, his art -would be one sifting of nature; if he reacts -not only to nature but to the interpretations -of other poets, his art is a second sifting, -more highly organized, perhaps, more -intelligible, than is normally recorded -from immediate contact with life. It<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_112"></a>[112]</span> -makes no difference whether we call these -siftings poetry or criticism, since poetry, -as Arnold reminded us, is a criticism of -life. The poet may submit his sensitiveness -to nature as sifted through three or -four or any number of interventions of -personality, and we may call the result -poetry, or criticism, or criticism of criticism; -very often we cannot tell, and the -poet does not know, whether the life that -stimulates him is direct or transmitted. -But in each remove from the first contact -with nature, in each additional intervention -of personality, we get a clearer order -and a finer intelligibility—truth instead -of facts, formulas instead of experiences, -and fewer exceptions. The literature, -then, which begins in naturalism will at -last emerge in philosophy, if we allow it -time enough, and the biography of an individual -will be condensed and generalized -into a proverb.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_113"></a>[113]</span></p> - -<p>There are two good reasons, however, -for suspecting this economical result. One -is that the proverb is probably not true. -To arrive at it, in each successive sifting -we have left out something, and the total -of all the omissions has become almost as -comprehensive as the original experience. -We must go back and gather up the discarded -fragments of our adventure, in order -to qualify properly our too simple -and absolute summary of life. The art of -the historian, we often fear, progresses by -some such over-elimination; archæology -sometimes rescues him by restoring large -sections of a past, the absence of which he -had not noticed, but in periods too recent -for archæology to take him by surprise, he -constantly rewrites his history, to sift it -more to his mind, until we may suspect -that his account is nearer to our philosophy -than to the original facts. In history this -tendency is hardly a matter of concern, for<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_114"></a>[114]</span> -if we have a criticism of the eighteenth century -which satisfies us, we are content, and -the eighteenth century, being dead and -gone, will not mind; the poet, therefore, -can look on with equanimity while the historians -propose to rewrite our national life -in order to bring it more in harmony with -our present sentiments toward this or that -other country; the poet knows that history -is not a science but one of the most fascinating -of the arts, closely allied to eloquence -in its mission to teach and persuade, -and that having to do strictly with -the past it enjoys rare freedom in sifting -its facts. But the poet himself enjoys no -such freedom. Whatever he writes will -be checked up by the life we now live; his -readers will look into their hearts and -criticize. If therefore he has gained his -clarity by leaving out things essential in -our experience, we reject him as too far -from our reality to be of consequence to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_115"></a>[115]</span> -the race. He may be a philosopher; he -is no poet.</p> - -<p>His philosophy may even be true, and -yet his right to the laurel may be justly -denied. For the special service of art is -to make us live more intensely in the very -life which art sifts and selects—in fact, the -sifting has for its conscious purpose a -more vivid realization of what we live -through, and a novel or a play is successful, -from the standpoint of imaginative -literature, only in the degree to which we -enter the work, become ourselves the hero, -fall in love with the heroine, hate the villain. -In this sense the dime novel and the -melodrama, though carelessly branded by -the theorist as bad art, are likely to be -very good art indeed, and the over-reasoned -story, though adorned with subtle -reflection and refinements of diction, is in -fact poor art, as the average person in his -heart knows, for in such books the reflection<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_116"></a>[116]</span> -upon life is paid for by a failure to -represent what the reflection is about. If -the author would only share with us the -adventures that caused him to reflect, we -could do our own reflecting upon them, -but if he will not share the secret which -inspires him, we do not care much what -philosophizing he does. Literature continues -to be great so long as the sifting it -makes it really a selection only from life, -and what remains is for the imagination -still a first-hand experience; when the -residue grows thin to the imagination and -addresses itself rather to logic, we feel -justified in making whatever return we -can to our starting point in nature, to -reassure ourselves there, if we cannot in -the book, that this human life we love is -still with us.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_117"></a>[117]</span></p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>If such a taking to cover is observed in -much writing today, the writers who in -one form or another now cultivate nature -rather than art may plead with justice that -the best literature our country produced -before them was perilously deficient in a -sense of reality. If they do so plead, however, -they ought to be consistent. If they -think that so great an artist as Hawthorne -was deficient in reality, that transcendental -philosophy occupies too much room -in his romances and the sense of actual -American life too little, then they ought -not to tell us at the same time that Poe -and Whitman are our great poets, for -those two were even further along toward<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_118"></a>[118]</span> -the abstract than Hawthorne. And there -will be an increasing obligation on those -who in each generation of the fast-ripening -world make a return to nature, to provide -some demonstration that it is not life -after all they are running away from. -Some men have taken to the hermit’s cell -to find God; others to avoid responsibility. -As civilization becomes greater in quantity, -with more discoveries of science, with -more apparatus of education, we need -more and more the poetic genius that will -dedicate this material to great ends, and -by articulating for us what we can recognize -as our best ideal, teach us to simplify -life by casting off the other less significant -interests. The solution of all this raw -material for art can only be a greater art. -When we turn back from this heroic opportunity -to take refuge in what is for us -nature, we must convince ourselves, if we -can that our retreat does not indicate<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_119"></a>[119]</span> -in us inadequate equipment or weak nerve -or small heart.</p> - -<p>In our present cult of the natural there -is cause to suspect some such lack of skill -and courage. The plea that our predecessors -were so deficient in reality that we, -to save the day, must exhibit less art than -theirs, will not go in the long run. Our -new poetry is curiously relaxed and enervated -in temper, ground-hugging, grey -and flat; if we have moods which such writing -adequately represents, we have other -moments more cheerful and creative, -which our architecture and our engineering -manage to express, but which cannot -be guessed at in our poetry, not as much -as the oak can be guessed at in the acorn. -Our novels, too, have lost their courage, -and though they often represent photographically -the machine of civilization -which builds up around us, and which now -is the raw material on which our art is to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_120"></a>[120]</span> -operate, they do not even attempt to portray -the spirit of the artist which actually -pervades the land, the joy in putting the -machine to human uses, the almost divine -ecstasy in having made so much of nature -subject already to the mind. This mood -of confidence in art is as much a fact in -our national life as the number of gallons -that flow over Niagara each hour, but the -poets and novelists seem to have taken -fright.</p> - -<p>In both verse and prose, in style as well -as subject, the cult of the natural has -limited our writers to a few individualistic -attitudes, and has taken from them the -power to speak with authority on all subjects -for us all. We have no American -poet, no American novelist; each is the -poet or novelist of Vermont or Boston or -Maine or Chicago—whatever scene is to -him by birth or habit his natural world. -To find a universal utterance of universal<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_121"></a>[121]</span> -experience is the aim and the tendency of -art, but the cult of nature compels us to -return each in what state he came. The -counsel to use the language of ordinary -speech limits us to the speech of some -locality; and such limitation is a fatal handicap -for great poetry. The advice to use -only the natural word-order limits us to -the word-order which each of us finds natural, -whereas it is our duty, on the contrary, -if we make any claim to mastery in -literature, to enlarge our vocabulary even -beyond the words our family and our -neighbors made natural to us, and to cultivate -all the variety of word-order our -speech permits, that we may enrich and refine -our style, and render our meaning -more precise. The temptation to get along -with a small vocabulary and a meagre -change of construction is altogether too -natural; we did not need this premeditated -urging to a still greater poverty. Hitherto<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_122"></a>[122]</span> -the best remedy for a narrow equipment -in language has been to read constantly -in the great writers; it was they -who extended the powers of speech and -laid upon each tongue the shape and cadence -which to the ill-informed might seem -the gift of nature. But now that the ideal -of the writer is to shrink to the measure -of the conversation he is used to, how shall -our nobler moments find expression? Not -even in reading old authors, for by the -contemporary doctrine of naturalness the -old masters are artificial. “Whither thou -goest, I will go, and where thou lodgest, I -will lodge; thy people shall be my people, -and thy God my God. Where thou diest, -will I die, and there will I be buried.” ... -“At her feet he bowed, he fell, he lay -down; at her feet he bowed, he fell; where -he bowed there he fell down dead.” ... -“Or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the -golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher be<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_123"></a>[123]</span> -broken at the fountain, or the wheel -broken at the cistern. Then shall the dust -return to the earth as it was, and the spirit -shall return unto God who gave it.”</p> - -<p>These cadences are not natural, and -they are not modeled on the sounds that -habitually fill our ears. Their distinction, -or if you like, their condemnation, is that -they are works of art. Such language -gets away as far as it can from time and -place, and by much sifting out from unessentials -it tries to preserve a universal -appeal. If you can write this way at all, -you can write as well in New York as in -London, as well now as in 1611.</p> - -<p>The purpose of art is to make its subject-matter -also universal, to sift and rearrange -the raw material of life into a history -that will have as much meaning as -possible for as many readers as possible, -for as long as possible. But the cult of the -natural tends to the opposite effect—to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_124"></a>[124]</span> -make the subject-matter of literature temporary -in its interest and limited in its -meaning. The Broadway entertainments -which please us for the moment, since they -conform to our taste in the spontaneous, -the impromptu and the natural, are but -the raw material of drama; good plays -might be made out of them; but in each -case the author stops the story before we -pass from nature to art. It is natural, in -the sense of our definition, that a stoker -in modern times should have two ideas—that -to the idle and effete he may seem -akin to the missing link, and that since he -is at the bottom of society, he must be -supporting it. Quite a philosophy can be -made out of two ideas, and these two, -when put together, as in a recent drama, -promise an explosion. But after all, -nothing explodes. The man simply enunciates -his two ideas in different accents of -violence, until the author thinks it is time<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_125"></a>[125]</span> -to stop, and gets him strangled in the zoo. -An artist would have been interested to -see in action a character with such a -philosophy. We have recently seen another -play with an idea, a very simple -one; by any means in her power a girl is -going to capture the man she loves. Since -the only means in her power are eccentric -ones, we watch her eccentricity with astonishment -for three acts; her behavior -is original, like nothing that ever was or -will be, and our interest is held by the -growing desperation of her ingenuity. -Well, she gets him—for much the same -reason that the philosophic stoker was -strangled, because it is time for the audience -to go home. An artist would have -granted her ambition as natural, and her -success as natural too; he would have -shown us, however, what happened after -her success, when her philosophy of opportunism -in etiquette would have met its<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_126"></a>[126]</span> -test. Had <cite>Much Ado About Nothing</cite> -been written by the author of either of the -plays just described, the famous comedy -would never have got further than the raw -material of the story, the legend that -Benedick and Beatrice waged a merry war -between them; we should have had an evening’s -entertainment of jokes and insults, -made gradually more intensive, more violent -and more surprising in order to hold -us till the last curtain. Shakespeare, -choosing the way of art, begins rather at -the point where the wit of Beatrice and -Benedick is exhausted; they have the -reputation for it, but their public efforts -show signs of strain and flagging. From -this start in nature the play proceeds to -represent what happened to Benedick -and Beatrice, the witty enemies, when -serious accidents brought their fates together.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_127"></a>[127]</span></p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>Nowhere in literature, perhaps, is art -so obviously essential and naturalism so -obviously fatal as in drama, for drama, -by exhibiting life to us directly, quickens -to its utmost whatever desire we have to -see our fellows move on from their natural -beginnings to some achievement or -significant conclusion. Impulses, ideas, -motives, prejudices, passions, and as we -now say, complexes, are all natural forms -of energy; in real life they weary us if -they have only a lyric expression, and we -wish they would get started into action. -Their attempts toward action may be -thwarted, and such a defeat may be tragically -significant, but at least they should -try, and if instead of trying they waste<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_128"></a>[128]</span> -themselves in talk, they become not energies -but nuisances. It is for this reason, -we suppose, that Aristotle long ago cautioned -us that tragedy, or all drama, is an -imitation not of men but of an action, and -that plot is the essential thing. He might -have said that character may exist in a -state of nature, but plot presupposes art -in life, a selection from all other incidents -of one succession of events which so selected -have a meaning. What he did say -was that without action there can be no -drama, but there may be without character. -Plot is a generalization of life, in -which the actors may or may not be portrayed -as individuals. The woman who -lost the piece of silver, the good Samaritan, -the mother of Œdipus, are clear -enough in their universal relation to the -story in which they appear; their personalities -may be restated to suit our taste, -or left undefined. We read in the newspaper<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_129"></a>[129]</span> -that a man jumps into the river to -save a drowning child, and having got to -land, discovers that he has rescued his -own son. We live in that drama without -asking what was the character of the father -or what was the psychology of the -son.</p> - -<p>It is remarkable how Shakespeare illustrates -Aristotle’s doctrine, by showing -his characters in action and by avoiding -as far as possible an analysis of their motives, -their instincts, their prejudices, -their passions. Life with him finds expression -in art or not at all. It is a mirror -indeed which he applies to nature, -not a microscope; in his glass we see the -form of virtue and the features of vice, -we know who are good and who are bad, -at least as accurately as we form such -judgments in life, but we do not know the -motives of the good or the bad. What -were Falstaff’s motives? Should he be<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_130"></a>[130]</span> -acted as a comic or a tragic character? -Why did Portia like Bassanio? Why did -Cordelia take such an absolute stand with -her father? What did Hero think of -Claudio, or Hermione of Leontes, after -the restoration to the jealous husband? -Was Hamlet’s mother an accessory to the -murder of his father, or did her conscience -trouble her only because she had made a -second marriage and in such haste? The -profundity of Shakespeare’s art lies in his -genius for representing the surface of -action; in art as in ethics, life is chiefly -conduct, and it is enough that behind conduct -lies unprobed the same mystery that -lies behind existence itself.</p> - -<p>But since naturalism thinks otherwise, -Shakespeare is no longer our example. -Browning is more in our vein. For him -the natural man, the raw material of -each one of us, the hidden instincts and -impulses, must be the whole subject, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_131"></a>[131]</span> -action he finds useful only in the fragmentary -incidents that must be premised before -you can conclude anything even -about instincts. Few verdicts in criticism -are wider of the mark than the too familiar -saying that Browning’s genius is -Shakespearean. He is the opposite of -Shakespeare. He is absorbed in what -we call in a loose way psychology, in the -original man apart from his conduct, or -as far apart from it as you can separate -him. To be so concerned about motives -and instincts is to be a kind of inverted -dramatist, moving back from action instead -of toward it; it is no wonder, therefore, -that Browning’s so-called dramas -fail on the stage, since in that direct relation -to the audience their static naturalness, -their inability to live out a significance -in conduct, is pitilessly revealed. -Everybody examines himself and talks -about himself, as God made him; nothing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_132"></a>[132]</span> -gets under way; the audience is finally delivered -by the death of the soliloquizer, -not in a zoo, but more politely, it may be, -in a gondola. “Even if you string together -a set of speeches expressive of -character,” said Aristotle, “though well -finished in diction and in thought, yet you -will not produce the essential tragic effect -nearly so well as with a play which, however -deficient in these respects, yet has a -plot and artistically constructed incidents.” -To return to nature absolutely -would be to return to silence. Short of -silence, to return to nature in literature is -to confess your private character in -monologue. Browning is master in that -kind. It would be untactful to name the -writers today who share the mastery with -him, and perhaps it is enough merely to -suggest the idea. To save time we might -prudently meditate rather upon the few<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_133"></a>[133]</span> -poets and novelists remaining whose art -gets further than monologue.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile the universe marches on its -secret errand, not altogether secret since -it marches, and its art is slowly dramatized -in its vast conduct. Art for art’s -sake is a formula inspiring if taken in a -noble sense, but in any sense it is intelligible -as a programme deliberately chosen. -To cultivate nature for nature’s sake is -absurd. For nature is here without our -aid, and to preserve it in what we call its -pure state, we need cultivate nothing—unless -it be a more animal contentedness -to profit in indolence by the art of those -who came before us.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_134"></a>[134]</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_135"></a>[135]</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_136"></a>[136]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="IV">IV<br /> -<span class="smaller">THE CULT OF THE CONTEMPORARY</span></h2> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_137"></a>[137]</span></p> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p class="dropcap">“The end of playing”, said Hamlet, -“both at the first and now, was and -is, to show the very age and body of the -time, his form and presence.” It would -seem that Hamlet thought the business of -art was to portray the age in which the artist -lived, not only to address his contemporaries, -but to speak to them about themselves. -The cult of the contemporary, -then, in our own day could ask for no -better text than this phrase of the Prince -of Denmark; what a pity he uttered it so -long ago!</p> - -<p>Shakespeare did not agree with Hamlet—at<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_138"></a>[138]</span> -least, he made some pretence to show -his Elizabethan audience the form and -presence of remote times and far-away -countries, Rome and Athens, Denmark -itself, Italy, Scotland, Bohemia, the age -of King John and the Richards and the -Henrys, the time and place, whatever they -were, of <cite>Midsummer Night’s Dream</cite>, the -<cite>Tempest</cite>, <cite>Cymbeline</cite>, the <cite>Winter’s Tale</cite>. -And Hamlet himself, be it noted, is hardly -faithful to his theory, for when he asks -the players to repeat a favorite speech -of his, it turns out to be Æneas’s tale to -Dido. It was from a piece, he said, that -pleased not the million, perhaps never had -a second performance, but in the judgment -of the competent and in his own -opinion it was an excellent play. Perhaps -the million were at the moment bred exclusively -to appreciate contemporary -themes; costume plays were not the fashion. -Hamlet’s other choice in drama is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_139"></a>[139]</span> -poor evidence of his esthetic theory; the -murder of Gonzaga seems to have been -already ancient history, but he chose it -to catch the conscience of the king, since -the story fitted his own household tragedy. -Shall we follow the hint, and suggest that -Hamlet, like Shakespeare, really had -nothing in common with those who would -make contemporary life the proper subject -for art? Perhaps he would not have -mentioned the age and body of the time, if -he had not just said that the end of playing -is to show scorn her own image, if indeed -the purpose of his meddling with the -drama at all, at that moment, had not been -to sting the royal murderer into a confession -of his guilt.</p> - -<p>The cult of the contemporary follows -logically from the cult of the natural. If -we are to write of a life untouched with -art, we can write only of life about us, as -our fathers left it to us—our best of nature,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_140"></a>[140]</span> -the talent buried in a napkin; and -if we are to use the ordinary language of -men, we must use today’s language, the -only speech that to us is ordinary. And -if it is possible to understand the search -for the natural as an effort to correct the -generalizing tendency in literature, we -may also find a sympathetic explanation -of the insistence on the contemporary, -when we recall how many writers have -reasoned themselves into a determination -to walk in the ways of their heart and in -the sight of their eyes. Did not Homer -celebrate the glory of Hellenism? Did not -Virgil celebrate the empire of Rome? -Well, then, we ought to celebrate the -United States, our United States, rather -than the country of Washington or Jefferson; -we ought to celebrate the hour and -the place we know, for we ought to love -what we know—New York, Boston, Chicago -or the Middle West. This conclusion<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_141"></a>[141]</span> -seems rational, but the desired enthusiasm -does not follow; the celebration -of the contemporary in our literature is as -dreary in its results as the worship of the -natural, inspired merely by the sense of -some duty rather than by delight in what is -portrayed. Homer’s zest for Hellenism -is undeniable, and the instinct is right that -we, too, must love life as he loved it before -we can write as he wrote. For the moment -we postpone the question, whether we -must not also live a life as noble in kind as -he portrayed. Virgil, writing in a more -complicated, a sadder age, none the less -loved imperial Rome, and we are right to -think that before we shall be worthy to -sing of our own land, in its own grave and -complex era, we must take it to heart, -problems and all. “The proof of a poet”, -said Whitman, “shall be sternly deferred -till his country absorbs him as affectionately -as he absorbed it.” But Whitman’s<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_142"></a>[142]</span> -own practise is a provoking comment on -his saying; he succeeded remarkably in -loving his land under an eternal form; the -form and presence of his day he did not -leave us. His poems are no guide-books -to Manhattan and Long Island in 1855; -even his beloved ferry-boats are dateless.</p> - -<p>In what sense, then, would Whitman -have us love our country, the home of our -own times, and how did Homer and Virgil, -as artists, love the Greece or the Rome -they knew? To be of one’s age, yet to be -immortal, is a problem more subtle perhaps -than to achieve an art that seems -natural, but it can be solved in the same -way, by defining the terms of our esthetic, -and by referring them, as to a touchstone, -to what we know of our common -human nature. The question can also be -narrowed at the start, and very profitably, -by pressing home our reflections on Hamlet’s -remark to the players. There is one<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_143"></a>[143]</span> -kind of writing which does confine itself -to the feature of virtue and the image of -scorn, and which does indeed, for that -very reason, limit itself always to giving -the form and presence of the time—the -kind of writing, that is, which indicts -human nature instead of portraying it. -Our better selves, our ideals, are of no -time, but our faults are personal responsibilities -and strictly contemporary. Satire, -therefore, which holds up to merriment or -to scorn what is ridiculous or base, must -always take a present subject, and in -general any art that leans toward the consideration -of our shortcomings will lean -also toward the life enacted at the moment. -If Hamlet meant to trap the king, of -course he would write into the old play -the very murder the king had committed -only three or four months ago; this would -not be satire in the usual sense, but it -would serve the same end, to convict the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_144"></a>[144]</span> -guilty and to reform the world. The cult -of the contemporary, then, is proper quite -literally for satire; it remains only to ask -how far it is proper for art.</p> - -<p>But is satire not art? Did not Martial -and Juvenal, Dryden and Pope write -highly artistic satires? There is an art -of satire, we must answer, as there is an -art of preaching and an art of prosecuting -a criminal case. But if there is a distinction -between art and morals, then satire -belongs to the world of ethics, and of -ethics on the grim side, rather than to the -world of beauty and delight. To survey -and judge the morals of one’s age is a -serious office that no thoughtful and sensitive -person seems altogether to neglect; -if the purpose of art is to make such a survey, -as Hamlet seems to say, then <cite>Twelfth -Night</cite> is hardly a masterpiece in art, and -<cite>Sandford and Merton</cite> is certainly one. If -art, on the other hand, has for its purpose<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_145"></a>[145]</span> -to salvage out of our crude days the -truth which can be translated into beauty, -and which so translated may be a joy -for ever, then art will have as little as possible -to do with men’s faults—what faults -are joys for ever?—and the kind of writing -which confines itself to our frailties or -our sins will be as far removed as possible -from art. Moreover, the moralist desires -a cure of souls, and when the fault is -remedied, who will care for the satire or -even understand it? It is easy enough, -without taking thought, to perish with our -own time, but it is one of the oldest hopes -art has held out to natural man, that being -purified into art he should not altogether -die. But mortality is germane to satire. -When we read Dryden’s terrible excoriations -of Og and Doeg, we can only wonder -who were the human beings he hated so, -and when we come to know something of -their lives and characters, we are more confused<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_146"></a>[146]</span> -to name the moral impulse in him -which made it necessary to fix them in so -warm a hell. In art, loving your own -times does not mean loving to find fault -with them.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_147"></a>[147]</span></p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>A genuine love of your own time is the -recognition, in what you meet in it, of -those best moments which crave to be made -accessible even for the remotest of ages -following. To immortalize any given moment, -however, is to take it out of the temporary -and somehow to find a language -for it so general in its appeal that hereafter -it may preserve in its own significance -the trivial circumstances from which -it first arose. Whenever a genuine love -of life stirs the artist, it will be a passion -for what he thinks is the best in his own -day; even if he is antiquarian and takes -for object of his devotion some medieval -phase of life, it is medievalism in his own -day that he worships. Such a passion<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_148"></a>[148]</span> -leads the writer toward the future, for -since it is an ideal passion, yet to be realized, -he instinctively proclaims it to posterity, -or tries to; but in his search for the -right language in which to utter it, he as -instinctively turns to the past. To cultivate -the contemporary in art is therefore -as absurd as to waste effort cultivating -the natural, for the present, like nature, -is always with us; but the problem -for the artist is to express a vision which -necessarily points toward the future in -language which necessarily trails from the -past. We cannot remind ourselves too -often that even the single words of common -speech must be used by each one of -us perhaps a lifetime before they are -charged with emotions or sharpened to -precise meanings, and before the writer -can use them with full effect they must be -so charged and sharpened for all his readers. -The language of poetry, moreover,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_149"></a>[149]</span> -is far more than single words; it is chiefly -the metaphors and the legends, the characters -and the episodes, which the race has -met with so often that at last they suggest -accurately to all men the same feelings -and the same thoughts. Life at each -moment may be on its way to become -something to talk with, but only the rash -would try to express a serious ideal -through a picture of that life which is still -near us, and therefore still imperfectly -seasoned or digested. The patriotism that -Shakespeare dramatized for his audience -was certainly a passion for the England of -Elizabeth; that is why he expressed it -through Faulconbridge, the child of Richard -the Lion-Hearted, or through John -of Gaunt, or through Henry V. Why did -he not put Elizabeth on his stage, with -Raleigh and Spenser and Drake and Sidney? -Was he blind to the glory of his own -hour? He seems not to have been so, but<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_150"></a>[150]</span> -in his own hour neither the Queen nor any -of her great courtiers was as clear a figure -to the emotions as time has since made -them all; the sentiment of the audience -would be divided as to each one of them, -the adherents to Rome still perhaps cursing -Henry’s daughter in their hearts, the -friends of Ireland perhaps cursing the -poet of the <cite>Faerie Queene</cite>. But the wise -dramatist was on safe ground, he knew, -when the audience heard their common -love of country issue unprejudiced from -the lips of old Gaunt, who died two centuries -earlier:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">This fortress, built by nature for herself,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Against infection and the hand of war;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">This happy breed of men, this little world,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">This precious stone set in the silver sea,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Which serves it in the office of a wall,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Or as a moat defensive to a house,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Against the envy of less happier lands;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">This blessed spot, this earth, this realm, this England.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_151"></a>[151]</span></p> -<p>When a poet turns to the past for language -with which to express his love of -the present or his vision of the future, he -soon learns that not all epochs lend themselves -with equal felicity to his purpose; -he must select that aspect of the past which -is adequate in nobility and energy to what -he has to say, and he must select that -aspect of the past which will be understood -emotionally by his readers. We are prepared, -every one of us perhaps, to admit -the necessity of this twofold selection, -but to admit so much is to admit a good -deal; it is to admit that not all epochs are -equally available for the language of art, -and that though we exist in our own time, -it may be the part of wisdom and good -taste to derive our artistic speech from -another period. When Molière’s hero -pronounces his scorn of artificial verse and -contrasts with it an old song of the people, -he is rejecting a fashion that was contemporary<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_152"></a>[152]</span> -and temporary for one that was -lasting. When Homer wrote of ancient -Troy, or when Æneas sang the founding -of Rome, either poet was choosing the date -of his story with the same taste with which -he selected his theme, or selected the words -of which to make his lines; he was choosing -what the race after long reflection had -realized was dignified, noble and true in -feeling. The poet, whoever he was, that -left us the <cite>Song of Roland</cite>, no doubt was -expressing a sentiment toward France -which flourished in his own day, and which -may have been very foreign to the feelings -of the original Roland; as in the other -instances, the old story had to be changed -and expurgated to make it altogether the -vehicle of contemporary experience; yet -he was right in taking the great figure of -Roland for the outer clothing or language -of his emotions, since heroic sentiments -had already connected themselves with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_153"></a>[153]</span> -Charlemagne’s peer, as they had not yet -with William of Normandy, nor with his -immediate predecessors. In English history -there have been efficient and picturesque -rulers in plenty, yet the poets were -right who have retold their national epics -in the story of Arthur rather than in the -biographies of Alfred or Edward I or -Cromwell; for the Arthurian legend as the -race has chosen to remember it is of richer -fabric emotionally and of a simpler structure -than any nearer and more actual history -could well be. Theodore Roosevelt, -for all we know, may have been a greater -man than Cromwell, and time may make -him seem more significant, but if the poet -wishes to say things about the strenuous -life, he had better say them now through -the image of Cromwell, about whom our -emotions are more classified; better still -if he says them through the image of King -Arthur, who much more than Cromwell<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_154"></a>[154]</span> -has become a precise symbol in the imagination. -Arthur was to have been the hero -of Milton’s epic—at least, Milton considered -him for a possible hero but discarded -him in favor, not of Cromwell or Hampden, -but of Adam; and again the choice -was wise, since Adam is still an image -more universally understood than any of -Milton’s contemporaries, and we know -what we are expected to feel when we hear -his story.</p> - -<p>To say then that in writing, even when -our purpose is art and not satire, we -should express ourselves in terms of the -life about us, is to lay down a formula -which has been contradicted in practise by -the influential writers of the world. To -find a language already wide-spread and -therefore intelligible, the artist will always -draw to some extent on the past, even -though he does so unconsciously, and how -far he goes back into the past will depend<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_155"></a>[155]</span> -on what it is he wants to express. -In <cite>Henry Esmond</cite>, Thackeray used the -age of Marlborough to express a flavor of -romance that could not be said in life of a -later date. But when he had satire for his -purpose, as in <cite>Vanity Fair</cite>, he chose a -period comparatively modern. It is but -fair to observe, however, that Thackeray -follows this principle with very uncertain -skill. The period he chose for his great -satire was somewhat more remote than for -<cite>Pendennis</cite> or <cite>The Newcomes</cite>, where his -purpose was less obviously and exclusively -moral; the resulting effect in each case -is somewhat peculiar, since most of us, -unless we count up the dates, perhaps -get the impression that <cite>Vanity Fair</cite> was -the contemporary book. In one sense -it makes little difference, and we might -use the illustration to indicate that it is -the method of treatment, rather than the -life portrayed, that will make a book seem<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_156"></a>[156]</span> -contemporary. But we are left to wonder -also whether Thackeray did not intend -<cite>Vanity Fair</cite> to be more satirical in its effect -than it actually is, and <cite>The Newcomes</cite> -to be less so. Did the great but easy-going -artist make here a careless choice of -the time for his story?</p> - -<p>Even the writers who seem now to have -been most contemporary were really not -so; what seems contemporary in them are -eternal aspects of life, which even in their -day were old. We sometimes doubt the -value of those scholarly labors which -search out for us the sources, so-called, -of the great poets, the residuum of earlier -times which they adapted to express their -genius; but these labors would be justified -sufficiently by the answer they give to -those who think that art speaks through -contemporary life. They think that we -should look in our heart and write, as Sidney -did, or return directly to nature, as<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_157"></a>[157]</span> -did Wordsworth, forgetting that when -Sidney looked in his heart to write, he -wrote some masterly translations and -paraphrases of earlier Italian or French -poems, and that when Wordsworth drew -on his personal experience, as in the immortal -lines to the Cuckoo, he recast an -earlier fine poem by Michael Bruce. The -believers in the contemporary urge us to -paint the record of our own times as immediately -as Chaucer wove his neighbors -into the tapestry of the Canterbury Tales; -they do not know how many versions there -were of the famous tales before Chaucer -shaped them to his own purposes. Indeed, -so much of the past has gone into all that -we now are or say or do, that the attempt -to detach ourselves from the best that has -gone before is in a way a denial of contemporary -character to our own times, or -to any other period; for the quality of civilization -in 1923 which distinguishes it<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_158"></a>[158]</span> -from civilization in 1823 is the gift, for -good or evil, of the hundred years in between; -and to be contemporary with any -moment in history is to be aware of all the -past that still is articulate in that moment.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_159"></a>[159]</span></p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>If a writer fails to use the past as the -language with which to express his present, -the reason may be that he does not -know the past, or that he has theoretical -objections to using it so, even though the -great writers have followed no other -method. But this reason is rarely the -true one. Today as at other times any -sincere writer will be interested in the -great examples of his art, and will find -them out, and probably the same instincts -will eventually show themselves in his -work as in the work of his predecessors. -Undoubtedly there are poets and novelists -today who through a mistaken cult -of the natural are striving for a strictly -contemporary utterance—rejecting, that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_160"></a>[160]</span> -is, all that they can recognize in our speech -as having a history. If their scholarship -were more complete, they would have to -reject even the meagre vocabulary of -word, image and legend they are now content -to use. But the writer who willingly -would avail himself of the full inheritance -in his art finds himself limited perhaps for -another reason—he finds that his readers -do not know the past, that many of them -cultivate an ignorance of it, and that, -therefore, if he uses it to speak with, he -may not be understood. It is part of the -discipline which every art imposes on those -who practise it, that they must speak in -terms intelligible to their audience. It remains -to ask, of course, who are the audience? -and the writer, if he is sufficiently -courageous, stubborn, or hopeful, may -choose to address a more intelligent audience -than he finds in his day, an audience -who he thinks will at last recover the traditional<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_161"></a>[161]</span> -tongue in which he speaks, and -for whom it will be worth his while to wait. -This may seem to some of us the only way -out, but we know it is a precarious way. -Such a brilliant belated justification came -to the Greek classics at the Renaissance; -it has come in music to such a giant as -Bach, who was, as we say, ahead of his own -day; but to expect it to come to us merely -because our contemporaries do not appreciate -us is entirely too obvious a self-flattery. -The sane artist will rather do his -best to say what he has to say in language -his day understands, and he will try also -to encourage his audience in the recovery -of a larger language, so that he may say -more to them.</p> - -<p>This question whether the reader has -sufficient command of the inherited language -of literature is always an acute -one for the author; the lasting successes -in literature have been made at those<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_162"></a>[162]</span> -moments when a knowledge of the past -was wide-spread, and the audience were -as familiar with the older literature as -the writers were. Historical as Virgil -seems to us in the <cite>Æneid</cite>, almost antiquarian, -he offered to his first readers -nothing they were not familiar with, -and little that would not immediately -kindle an emotion. In one sense then -he may be said to have spoken in a contemporary -language. But neither he nor -his audience would have understood the -doctrine that art becomes great by being -contemporary, and that it becomes contemporary -by discrediting the past. “To -have great poets, there must be great audiences -too”, said Whitman, and here, as -elsewhere, we are coming to realize, he -got at the permanent truth of the matter. -For it is a sound observation of literary -historians that a country exercises its impulses -toward art, in any period, as much<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_163"></a>[163]</span> -by what it reads of the older books as by -what it writes; the two activities must go -together if the contemporary great writer -is to get a competent hearing, and they -must be studied together if we are to estimate -justly the culture of an epoch. In -what was produced, some decades of the -eighteenth century in England look to us -destitute of poetry, but in those very moments -Spenser, Shakespeare and Milton -were widely loved, and enjoyed perhaps a -more humane and significant treatment -from the critics than they have often had -since. The weakness of contemporary -poetry in Addison’s time, in Warton’s -and Gray’s, was not that they knew the -elder masters, but that their practise departed -so widely from them and became -so contemporary. The revival in the romantic -age was brought about by rejecting -the kind of art the early eighteenth -century wrote, and by building on the still<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_164"></a>[164]</span> -earlier art the eighteenth century had the -wisdom to love.</p> - -<p>In our day and in our land the question -of the audience is peculiarly acute, and -it has been rendered more so by the intentional -efforts of those who believe that -literature should be contemporary. Even -without those efforts we, who come from -many countries, with different race memories -and with the legacy of different cultures, -should have had difficulty enough -to achieve a common language adequately -rich in the best things of the past and -welded into some continuity with our -American future. If we write in those -terms which to an Italian would be emotional, -we shall hardly stir the pulses of -a Scotchman or a Slav, and if we waken -the race-memories of the Spanish or the -French, we may leave quite cold the Dutch -in Pennsylvania or the Swede in Minnesota. -Our first hope, to which some of us<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_165"></a>[165]</span> -still desperately cling, is that we may lose -no one of these racial inheritances, but that -by a jealous conserving and study of each -of them, and by teaching them all to our -children, we may build up one of the -richest cultures that the accidents of migration -have ever permitted the race to -compose. The literature of America in -a thousand years would carry in its majestic -overtones the essential beauty of all -the civilizations that have made their entry -through our ports, the essential beauty too -of the wonderful Indian civilizations -which our European coming dispossessed, -and above these overtones, perhaps, the -far-off suggestions of the Greek and -Roman worlds and the immemorial East.</p> - -<p>But this hope, whether or not it could -be realized, is so far as we can see at present -a fantastic dream; our progress toward -it has been slight—better, to be -frank, we have made no progress, rather<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_166"></a>[166]</span> -we have lost ground. There is less general -culture of that sort in the United States -now than there was fifty years ago. It has -seemed wise to many of us, therefore, to -moderate our hopes, and to aim at mastering, -not all our heritages in common, but -at least one tradition, and that the tradition -of this country from the revolution -till the present day. Such a program -might be carried out in our schools—not -in the colleges, since only a fraction of the -country’s youth gets to college, but in -those early school years through which all -the boys and girls may reasonably be expected -to pass; and there would be nothing -illogical in burdening the schools with the -task, for the training of a common consciousness, -cultural or otherwise, in a land -of immigrants is the chief problem of elementary -education. We thought, then, -that we might all absorb our own past and -the few decades that preceded our coming,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_167"></a>[167]</span> -so that hereafter the spokesmen of the nation, -poets, dramatists, preachers, statesmen, -might at least touch some common -chords in us all by naming those who built -up the opportunities we enjoy. This program -is still in force in other departments -of study than literature, but the teachers -of literature have been largely won over to -the cult of the contemporary; so far from -building up in the land a great audience -for the great poets to sing to, many energetic -teachers of literature are persuading -these children, if persuasion is necessary, -to read only books of the day, about things -of the day, and by inference to neglect as -really negligible anything written yesterday -or written about other times and other -problems than ours. Our dream of a cosmopolitan -culture has shrunk in practise -to an educational discipline which will -make us more insular and provincial than -we are already, more selfish, more contemptuous<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_168"></a>[168]</span> -of other times and of other -peoples, and still further disinherited from -great art.</p> - -<p>The movement began a few years ago -in a protest against the narrow choice of -books permitted by the requirements for -entrance to college. Some of the schools -thought they could do their best work if -their teachers—and their pupils—could -select the books for this arduous study; -there could be some wise consulting of -taste, some adaptation to special temperaments. -So long as the choice was still to -be made from books of recognized merit, -it was unreasonable to deny this request. -But the trend toward the contemporary -developed quickly; if we consulted the -taste and the temperament of our students, -the children of many racial traditions, -we found that few of the older writers -were easy for them to understand; the -difficulty of bridging over the gap between<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_169"></a>[169]</span> -traditions was too great for many of our -teachers to solve, or perhaps they themselves -were not at home in the tradition -either of the books or of the students; and -the most graceful form of surrender was -to study only what was easy for everybody. -The process was paralleled in society -outside of the schoolroom, in the -change in ideals and in competence which -overtook professed criticism in our reviews; -but the heart of the matter was -and still is in the centers of education.</p> - -<p>A teacher of English in New York City -recently presented the case for contemporary -literature vs. the classics, in some -such argument as this: When she was in -college, she said, the faculty took such an -inhospitable view of the world about them -that only one author, of all those they -studied in literature classes, was still alive -when they studied his books. She and her -fellow students felt somehow cramped<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_170"></a>[170]</span> -and cheated, not to be studying more -books of which the authors were still living. -In other words, whereas the critics -in Mr. Shaw’s play could not judge the -work till they knew who wrote it, these -lovers of the contemporary could not estimate -a book till they knew whether the author -was in or out of the graveyard. In -these better days, the teacher went on to -say, she and her colleagues allow for the -natural desire of their students to read -what is written at the moment—a life of a -prominent man like Theodore Roosevelt, -the work of a columnist in the daily press, -the popular plays, the most talked-of -novels. Such reading, she explained, gives -opportunity for ethical or social or political -discussion in class; she meant, it -seems, that you can argue whether the -Middle West was fairly portrayed, and if -so, what should be done to cure it, or -whether we should have gone into the war<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_171"></a>[171]</span> -at all, or if so, what should have been done -to make the lot of the private easier, and -establish the officer on a less privileged -plane. Out of this open discussion of -spontaneous interest in current events, -will come, she thought, a finer taste for -the best in art.</p> - -<p>It is obvious that the training, such -as it is, which is to produce this finer taste -is a training not in art at all, but in Americanization, -if you choose to call it so, in -sociology or in politics. These purposes -are good in their place, but if they usurp -the classroom where literature as an art -should be taught, we need expect no aid -from the schools in training us to a common -culture, not at least so far as the word -applies to poetry, to romance, to the -drama, to the novel. We might Americanize -ourselves in literature by reading -our older poets—three of them, Whitman, -Poe and Emerson, of influence in the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_172"></a>[172]</span> -whole world today; we might read our -elder novelists, two of whom, Cooper and -Hawthorne, at their best were among the -prose-poets of the nineteenth century; or -we might read Parkman, an historian not -likely to be surpassed for the beauty of his -spirit, for the solidity of his method, and -for the romantic charm of his subject, by -any who will hereafter write about this -land. We might read Lincoln, about -whom we talk so much, and we might -profitably read Jefferson and Hamilton. -We might even discover the charm of the -colonial records, north and south, and the -heroic poetry of our frontier, as it pushed -through wilderness and across plain and -canyon, to face at last the Orient again -and our inscrutable future. This kind of -Americanization would produce class discussion -of some dignity, even though it -had nothing to do immediately with the -art of literature, for it would give us, not<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_173"></a>[173]</span> -only a sense of our common destiny, but -an escape from our own circumstances -into other days and other minds, and it -would cultivate the sympathy and the -imagination once thought to be the fruit of -literary study. But to discuss always and -exclusively only what is under our own -noses, to study a life of Mr. Roosevelt not -because it is a great biography but because -it is about Mr. Roosevelt, and to study -novels not because they are good novels, -but because they are about us, is to find -ourselves in the end just where we were -in the beginning, with our prejudices more -firmly rooted and our skin a bit thicker -to any joy or sorrow in the world not -our own. As for the ability to understand -great writing when it comes to us, we -have learned only this, that since Mr. -Roosevelt lived nearer our day than Dr. -Johnson, the biography of him is a better -biography and a more interesting one than<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_174"></a>[174]</span> -Boswell could write, and we need not read -Boswell; and since Main Street is nearer -to us than Salem, Mr. Lewis is a greater -novelist than Hawthorne, and we need not -read Hawthorne. Enough to know that -the whole contains the part.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_175"></a>[175]</span></p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>Well, then, says the teacher of current -literature, there never can be any great -books, for you approve of nothing contemporary, -and every book, unfortunately, -has to be written in its own time. Yes, -in a sense, anything you write, on however -remote a subject, will be of your time -and will represent it; Walter Pater was -expressing one phase of Victorian England -when he wrote <cite>Marius the Epicurean</cite>. -But the artist hopes to appeal to more -than the present generation; even the most -contemporary of our contemporaries, who -read no books of which the authors are not -living, cherish some ambition to have their -own works read after they themselves are -gone. And since the fame of a book depends<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_176"></a>[176]</span> -on its ability to meet the interest of -readers over a long period of time, the life -of our works will depend on two things—on -our gift for selecting the matter which -is permanently interesting to men, and -on the willingness or unwillingness of any -generation to be interested in the same -things as its predecessors. If readers are -now brought up to neglect as a matter of -course any works of literature that once -were loved, there will be no fame for any -one hereafter, and no masters of the art, -but only in each publishing season a nine -days’ wonder. But if human nature still -asserts its primal interests, in spite of mistaken -teaching, and continues to like in -the long run the same things that have -been loved in the past, then the writer will -finally be reckoned great who answers, not -the mood of his hour, but the spirit of those -constant demands. He will get his inspiration -from life as he knows it; he will<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_177"></a>[177]</span> -express it in an eternal form, as we say—at -least in a form so durable that instead -of our understanding his work through -the incident that inspired it, we shall know -of the incident through the work. Molière -has so immortalized one moment of his -times in his <cite>Précieuses Ridicules</cite>; without -the play, would we know much of the temporary -affectation? And to be quite -frank, has not something died in the play, -along with what was contemporary in it, -so that we enjoy it now with an historical -effort not needed to be at home, let us say, -with Falstaff? Tennyson really immortalized -the Charge of the Light Brigade, -for the incident on so many grounds has -since proved regrettable that we should -be glad to forget it, but for the poem, and -we begin to be sorry that the poem is -anchored to so much that was transitory. -Our own civil war poet, Henry Howard -Brownell, true genius if we ever had one,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_178"></a>[178]</span> -wrote his verses on the very scene, after -the fights he had passed through as -Farragut’s secretary on the flagship, and -the virulence of contemporary passion is -in his work forever, an embarrassing alloy. -But of the danger of being contemporary, -Dante is the great illustration. It is not -hard to see what an impact his great poem -must have made on his first hearers, it was -so immediate in its reference to persons, -places, incidents, crimes and disasters -which Florence, Rome and Italy well -knew; but what an effort it is now to recover -all those allusions to the times, indeed -how impossible! We wrestle with -them, if at all, because the greatness of -the poem bears up their leaden weight; -and the poem is great for what is least -contemporary in it, for the vision which -Dante drew from his masters, and which -he handed on to the future in images of -the past.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_179"></a>[179]</span></p> - -<p>The impulse to be contemporary is in -our time, and perhaps always was, an impulse -to tell the news. This impulse is -felt perhaps in all the arts, but most in -books and in the theatre, less in music, -still less in painting, and least in architecture -and sculpture. From these last we -can learn, if we need a reminder, what are -the conditions of enduring art, and what, -in contrast to popularity, is fame. Sculpture -and architecture, from the substantial -nature of their medium, must submit -to be looked at more than once, to be lived -with, finally to be judged by the good -opinions of many men over a long period -of time; and a good opinion of such work, -so lived with, will depend less on the first -impression than on habitual contact. For -such work popularity is difficult, if not -impossible. A book about the war may be -a popular book; the Farragut statue in -Madison Square is not a popular statue.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_180"></a>[180]</span> -What statue is popular? It can have only -the better kind of success, if any; like the -Farragut, it can be famous, loved and -returned to over an indefinite length of -time. For we can read a book once and -throw it aside, or hear music or see a play -but once, and then criticize it; it lies entirely -in our choice whether we shall read -or hear twice. How different our criticism -would be if it were based on at least -half a dozen readings and hearings! But -the bronze and the building are not easily -removed or ignored, and even the painting -has a good chance of being looked at more -than once. It is not surprising then that -the sculptor, like the architect or the -painter, attends to the conditions on which -fame is secured, since popularity is denied -him, and makes his appeal to revised judgments -and to second thoughts.</p> - -<p>It would be a misfortune to seem to say -that the author who misses popularity is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_181"></a>[181]</span> -necessarily an artist, or that even temporary -success is not to be admired. But -in American letters we are beginning to -wonder why our great successes are so -transitory; why a writer who sells more -copies of his first book than did Thackeray -or Dickens, does not continue like them -to reach a large public with succeeding -books; and why he does not, like them, -continue to be read after he has ceased to -write. The explanation suggested is that -most American writers, not only today but -throughout the last twenty-five years, -have written as journalists—have put out -their material not as life but as news about -life, and the critics have discussed it as -news, and the readers have come to look -for the news in it, and for nothing else. -Some novelists still writing began their -work with successful stories of local color, -which we read in order to learn about -Louisiana or Pennsylvania or the Middle<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_182"></a>[182]</span> -West, and having got the information we -were looking for, we went elsewhere to -look into other novelties. It goes without -saying that in this process we readers have -done injustice to many a work of art; <cite>Old -Creole Days</cite> and <cite>Main Traveled Roads</cite> -have something for the permanent reader, -as well as for the news-seeker, and <cite>Trilby</cite>—to -speak of an English book—is still a -magnificent romance of friendship and -chivalry, though it expired of its own success -as a bulletin from the Latin Quarter -and a document in hypnotism.</p> - -<p>At least, says again the lover of current -things, you must write in the language of -the hour. Some beauty is lost when the -poet does not speak in his native tongue, -or when we cannot read him in it. Well, -some languages are better than others; -Greek was a better language, more precise, -more varied, more forceful and more -colorful, than English or any of the modern<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_183"></a>[183]</span> -tongues. But all language changes, -as the works of art in language do not; in -literature we have this haunting paradox, -that through a temporary medium we can -build something imperishable. Much as -we may dislike literature in translation, -it is perhaps salutary to remember that -literary masterpieces must survive in -translation or not at all. In what language -were the parables spoken? If -Homer were not Homer still in English -or French or German, how much of -Homer would the world know? Some -bouquet of his own time is gone, but perhaps -we should not have liked it if it had -remained. At least we have kept what we -liked; we have kept what suited our spiritual -needs, we have loved Andromache -and Hector, and wondered in the old way -why such fine men as Achilles and Agamemnon -should quarrel, and have decided, -as all our fathers have done, that for so<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_184"></a>[184]</span> -beautiful a woman as Helen to waste her -time on so mean a fellow as Paris, there -must have been queer influences at work. -To live in art in this timeless way, is to -satisfy what is eternal in ourselves; it is -to leave behind us the limitations of our -hour, our place, and our language. And -unless art is wide enough for us to live in -it so, we shall trifle with it only for an -hour, and without regret let it go the way -of other contemporary things.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_185"></a>[185]</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_186"></a>[186]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="V">V<br /> -<span class="smaller">THE CHARACTERS PROPER TO LITERATURE</span></h2> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_187"></a>[187]</span></p> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p class="dropcap">Our impulse might be to say that any -character at all is proper to literature, -or to any phase of literature, for we -have long ago discarded that convention -of ancient story which introduced the hero -and heroine always as nobly born, or if at -first they were not gentlefolk, yet in the -last chapter they were shown to be prince -and princess in disguise. Our leading -characters now may have whatever origin -God wills; the author does not interfere. -No longer do we reserve the peasant, the -poor or the ignorant for the foot of our<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_188"></a>[188]</span> -list of <i lang="la">dramatis personæ</i>, nor do we smuggle -them into the scene at resting moments, -for comic relief. Since human nature -is the subject of art, and since the -Almighty (we quote Lincoln for this) -showed us where to put the emphasis in -human nature, by creating common folk -in the vast majority, we have even followed -the example with an excess of enthusiasm, -until the elect are pretty well -put down from their former seat in literature, -and in their stead are the socially -humble and the mentally weak. For a -hundred years or more we have been pressing -this charitable revolution. Wordsworth, -though not the first to try it, first -won a considerable hearing in English -poetry for the beggar, the pedlar, the afflicted, -the half-witted—a hearing for -them, that is, as central figures in the -poems where they occur; and shortly -afterwards the novelists, on the irresistible<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_189"></a>[189]</span> -tide of humanitarianism, invited not only -our attention but our admiration for persons -who hitherto had seemed obscure and -unfortunate. Dickens perhaps went too -far, we now feel; he demonstrated the -weakness of the gentry, and sent them to -the background of the story, where we are -willing enough they should remain, but he -also tried to endow the lower classes with -so much delicacy, tact, and spirit that his -leading persons seem to be gentry still, -masquerading in a temporary eclipse of -fortune, like the lost prince and princess -of the fairy tale. But he taught us how -to carry on his unfinished revolution; since -he stripped sentimentality, all that sort of -nonsense, from the gentry, we have known -at last how to strip it from the bourgeois. -Some of our novelists riddle the polite -world for us, others tell us the unflinching -truth about our middle classes. We have -no heroes; any character can get into our<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_190"></a>[190]</span> -literature, if we may use him as a target -rather than worship him as a god.</p> - -<p>It is too late to return, even if we desired -to do so, to the sentimental misreading -of social conditions against which our -modern realism, however grim, tries honestly -to protest, and there is a form of discourse -in which human frailties can properly -be discussed; social science or the -science of ethics would neither of them deserve -the name of science if we excluded -from their consideration any aspect of -human character or conduct—just as -medicine would fail in its office if we forbade -it to study any part or function of -the body. But it is not too late to ask ourselves -the difference between science and -art; between a story which represents our -physical actions with that conscience in -detail which would aid a medical diagnosis, -and a story through which Helen’s -body walks, a joy forever; between a record<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_191"></a>[191]</span> -of our neighbors just as they are, or -a bit meaner, and a picture of men and -women as we would gladly be. Anything -printed may be called literature, even last -year’s time-tables, but if we preserve in -the word an emphasis upon art rather than -upon information, we may ask after all -whether certain characters, or certain attitudes -toward character, are not essential -to art; or, putting it another way, we -may ask whether the type of character we -portray will not determine the kind of art -we produce, with or without our will, and -whether the kind of character we portray -will not finally classify our writing for -us as art or as social document.</p> - -<p>To have our novel appraised as a social -document may seem to us a compliment, -and we may be glad to escape the equivocal -verdict that our picture of life is art. -The terms are unimportant and our prejudices -in words may be respected. But the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_192"></a>[192]</span> -fact remains that some books we are to -read many times, and permanently, -whereas others are for a season only, and -may be read but once; and books which -must serve us in ways so different would -seem to need certain special privileges of -method and material—they may even be -permitted certain varieties of emphasis not -usually found in life. The temporary -writing helps us on our way, and we ought -to have one honorable name for it all—newspapers, -telephone directory, time-tables, -all our telegrams and most of our -letters. We stop over them only for a -moment, in order to go about our business -more conveniently. But the other kind -of books will detain us forever, or will try -to—and this kind of literature is art; we -return thither for no information and for -no immediate aid in our daily affairs, but -rather to taste again an experience we enjoyed -before, to meet old friends, to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_193"></a>[193]</span> -breathe an atmosphere which we crave, -and which is hard to find elsewhere.</p> - -<p>If this distinction needs often to be -made between the literature which is information -and the literature which is art, -it is because both kinds of book use the -same medium, and speech is the commonest -of mediums. Painting or music escape -such a confusion, but writing is a slippery -craft, now running to a bare record or to -good advice, now drifting into a music of -words, articulating a beauty that seems -ageless and impersonal, and sometimes -doing a bit of all these things at once. In -daily conversation, when we talk of anything -in human interest, we use the same -words as literature is made of; what more -natural than to conclude that literature -therefore may deal with any subject we -talk of? We resent the suggestion that -art should be narrower than life itself. -Yet if we admit any difference at all between<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_194"></a>[194]</span> -art and life, between literature and -our average conversations, between books -which give information and books which -give delight, and if art is the record of -that aspect of life we delight in not for -the moment but permanently, then art -is indeed narrower than life itself; outside -of it will remain the trivial things, -however likable, of our daily round, -which we forget gladly, so many other -pleasant and trivial things supplant -them; and outside of it also will remain -very important issues which we hope and -resolve shall be temporary—the grave -wrongs and errors which call not for -eternal contemplation but for reform. -Face to face with such problems, we often -feel that art is inadequate. What can -poetry do for the sick or the dying? What -solace is there in music or sculpture for -the wretchedly poor? The answer to such -questions is not in art but in conduct;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_195"></a>[195]</span> -death calls for fortitude, sickness must be -cured, poverty must be relieved; and if -books deal with such subjects, it is not for -a literary end, but to aid us in practical -remedies. Indeed, to have a literary ambition -as we contemplate another’s misery, -would seem possible only for a fiend; it is -in the merit of Mrs. Stowe’s story of -Uncle Tom that the book seems a protest -from the soul rather than a work of art. If -there are sins and misfortunes, it may be -necessary to spread the news, as though -the house were on fire, but if we really care -for our house we shall not linger to enjoy -the cadence of the thrilling call. On the -other hand, if we are to lose ourselves in -a book or a play, if we are to live in it -repeatedly, ourselves the hero, in love with -the heroine, and hating the villain, then -the book or play must give us an experience -in some sense better than the life -ordinarily available to us; who would<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_196"></a>[196]</span> -waste a moment on Cleopatra in a book, if -he knew where to find her in the world? -Or perhaps in life she was less charming -than Plutarch said she was, or than Shakespeare -showed her to be; perhaps we -could not be drawn irresistibly to her -until the poet made her better than she -was—made her, that is, a character proper -for the literature which is to be enjoyed -as art.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_197"></a>[197]</span></p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>The effect of the excellence or the inferiority -of the character on the book was -long ago observed by Aristotle, when he -said that tragedy and the epic—that is, -all serious literature—will aim at representing -men as better than in actual life, -and that comedy and satire will represent -them as worse. In this second kind of -writing, he added, satire came first, and -it was Homer who laid down the principles -of comedy, by dramatizing the -ludicrous instead of composing personal -satire. This famous observation of the -ancient critic has been too often read as -doctrine, as though Aristotle were telling -us what should take place in literature, -whereas he is recording what actually does<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_198"></a>[198]</span> -take place. If you wish to write a story or -a play in which the reader can lose himself -with delight, you must portray character -better than the reader, character which -in some degree satisfies and strengthens -his aspirations. If you wish the reader -to laugh at the world, or to scorn it, or -to feel the need of improving it, you portray -for him character in a condition inferior -to his estimate of himself; if you -wish him to profit by that wholesome self-observation -which we call the comic-spirit, -you mingle satire with tragedy—you show -him character which satisfies his aspirations, -so that he will identify himself with -it, and which at the same time is inferior -in some respects to what he would prefer -to be, so that he must laugh at himself. -He will have a tendency to save the day for -self-respect by laughing, not at himself, -but at human nature, and the universal -comic spirit will then have come to birth,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_199"></a>[199]</span> -akin to both satire and tragedy, but more -nearly a dramatizing of the ludicrous, as -Aristotle said, than a scoring of personal -faults.</p> - -<p>These principles, it goes without saying, -are not accepted by writers today; -the average author is not aware of them, -or if he is, he takes refuge in another remark -of Aristotle’s, that perhaps tragedy -was destined to develop into something -different from the type of poetry produced -by Æschylus, Sophocles and Euripides; -perhaps new principles, we say, -in the too familiar formula, are needed -for new material. So think many of our -poets and novelists who give us sordid and -wretched characters to contemplate, yet -invite us to feel toward them not the satiric -regret, but the old pity and terror -of noble tragedy. That the principles do -persist, however, very much as Aristotle -described them, is evidenced by the difficulty<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_200"></a>[200]</span> -the readers still have with such -books; the authors argue their case, or -critics argue it for them, but common humanity -remains unconvinced that misery is -a proper subject for permanent contemplation. -In our age especially, when the -impulse to social good works is highly developed, -it is a curious paradox that -writers should expect us to associate in -art, as habitual companions, with types -of character which in real life we should -hasten to rescue and to change. It is -generous of the writers to suppose that -in a humane age the reader will be ready -to discern the heroic even beneath handicaps -and afflictions, and probably the -reader is thus ready, but the writers forget -that in any age, particularly in a -humane one, we do not like to contemplate, -in the permanence of art, heroic -character smothered beneath handicaps -and afflictions. And in justice to the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_201"></a>[201]</span> -embarrassed reader it should be added -that often the character is not heroic at -all, and the only claim put forth for it -is that it might have been attractive if it -had not been smothered.</p> - -<p>Perhaps it is the influence of Wordsworth -that still spreads this confusion in -our writing. The effect of many of his -best known poems has never been wholly -satisfactory, not even to his admirers; he -drew moral lessons from objects humble -or mean, and since his own interest was -in the moral lesson, he sometimes was -careless of the emotional appeal which the -object, left standing as it were in the -poem, might make on the reader. In one -sense he was not a nature-lover, though -he had recourse to nature for ethical wisdom; -it was only the wisdom he cared -about, and we have an unpleasant impression, -which perhaps does him injustice, -that when he had got a moral idea out<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_202"></a>[202]</span> -of the primrose by the river’s brim, he -was through with the primrose for the -day. The same impression, unfortunately, -is made by his portrayal of humble -or mean characters. He obviously does -not identify his better fortunes with their -misery, nor does he enter dramatically or -imaginatively into their lives; he is content -to draw a moral from them, and the -reader, in his day and still in ours, is surprised -that misery in the picture, having -produced a moral, is promptly dropped -as though of no further concern. The -old leech-gatherer serves a purpose when -his courage against frightful odds cheers -up a moodish poet; the old beggar at the -door moves us to gratitude that another -man’s poverty keeps fresh in us our -springs of charity. Much good this does -the leech-gatherer or the beggar! And if -there is to be no help for them, their presence -is a bit disturbing in the background<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_203"></a>[203]</span> -of so much complacence. We wish there -were more tenderness in these poems that -talk so much of feeling. And when -Wordsworth deliberately sets out to enlist -our admiration for the heroic, we may find -ourselves facing such dumb human misery -as we have in <cite>Michael</cite>, the heroism of a -wrecked family and an abandoned farm. -With relief we turn to the passages in -the <cite>Prelude</cite> where the poet no longer -looks down benignly on the wretched, but -gives expression to the ideal life which he -himself desires to attain; there, where he -shows life better than it is, we can go with -him and lose ourselves in the vision.</p> - -<p>It is our poets who chiefly defy Aristotle’s -wise warning, and try with Wordsworth -to convert into a theme for meditation -what is really a subject for philanthropy. -Our novelists tend more and -more to give us an inferior world, but not -for our admiration; we may smile at it,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_204"></a>[204]</span> -or despise it, or try to cure it. This is -satire, an achievement in morals rather -than in art, and from the advertisements -on the book covers it is clear that the publisher -at least knows that the author is -revealing something medicinal, something -unpleasant but good for us. If we prefer -to write satires, we are at least achieving -our ambition. But the reader of the -American novel today, whether he reads -Mrs. Wharton, or Sinclair Lewis, or -whether he goes back to an earlier period -and reads W. D. Howells, is usually reading -about other people, rarely about himself; -he has noticed those faults in his -neighbors before. We have to go far back -in our literature to find a novel in which -the American future is implicit, a story -into which we can enter as into a world we -are glad is ours. Perhaps we must go back -as far as the <cite>Scarlet Letter</cite>, in which a -modern audacity of thought seems breaking<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_205"></a>[205]</span> -through an antique repression, and we -can identify profound speculations of our -own with the wisdom in Hester’s heart -or Arthur Dimmesdale’s. It has been -pointed out before how much Hawthorne -gained by making his chief characters -noble in the Greek way, tragic characters -better than in actual life; for the sin of -the woman and the minister was common -enough in the world among weak or vulgar -characters, and the impulse even in -Hawthorne’s time might well have been -to keep the story, for purposes of edification -or realism, in the low tone in which -it first occurred. But we cannot easily -take to heart the sins of people who are -obviously our inferiors; only the sins of -good people rouse in us tragic pity or -terror, for that is the kind of sin, if any, -we should commit. Hawthorne therefore -makes the minister a saint, and if Hester -is not a saint at the beginning, she is so<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_206"></a>[206]</span> -at the end of her ordeal, and in the sufferings -of both our own heart has been wrung. -In the <cite>House of the Seven Gables</cite>, however, -the reader is a looker-on rather than -an actor, for the characters are not better -than life, their experience is therefore not -ours, and since we cannot cure their unhappiness, -we are sorry to watch it. In -that story our greatest romancer was on -the road toward the modern habit of -satire, a road which he had marked out for -us clearly enough in some of his early -sketches and tales.</p> - -<p>The trend away from the literature of -art to the literature of satire is all the -more remarkable in our day because the -exigencies of satire compel the American -to deny wholesale his better self. There -might be some apparent reason for not -writing in the epic or the tragic tone if -in order to do so we had to assume virtues -we all knew we lacked; but why make a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_207"></a>[207]</span> -religion of writing satire, when to do so -we must conceal the few virtues we are -sure we have? Mr. Howells took it to -be his duty to tell the unvarnished truth -about human society as he knew it, but -you would not guess from his novels that -America ever produced so charming a -man as Mr. Howells and those literary -friends of his of whom, outside his novels, -he wrote lovingly. So Mr. Lewis pictures -America today—leaving out of the -picture the satirical criticism of America -in which he leads, and so Mrs. Wharton -shows us the narrower world of fashion, -with no one in it so gifted, so admirably -trained, as Mrs. Wharton. The best of -us is hard enough to express, as Rabbi -Ben Ezra knew, but how odd that we -prefer not to express it, whether difficult -or easy—that we deliberately conceal -what we have set our hearts on. We name -half a dozen characters from his plays in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_208"></a>[208]</span> -whom Shakespeare seems to be portraying -himself, and without too subtle a discrimination -we recognize ideals of our own -in all of them. Pendennis seems to be -Thackeray himself, and so seems Henry -Esmond and Clive Newcome, and we -flatter ourselves that the great novelist -incorporated in those portraits some of -our own best features. We—and Cervantes—are -incarnated in Don Quixote.</p> - -<p>The contrast between information and -art in our books, and the tendency to stress -information with a moral bent, are both -thrown into sharper relief by the success -of American architecture in expressing -more and more a significant and lasting -beauty. Nothing might seem at first more -utilitarian than a building, and few things -in our country seem less permanent, we -have such a passion for altering. Yet art -has made its greatest progress with us in -architecture, and the stages of the progress<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_209"></a>[209]</span> -have been accompanied by just such -a selection and choice of subject as Aristotle’s -remarks about character would -imply. In our cities a genuine impulse -toward beauty began to show itself two -decades ago in shop-windows. Where -else should beauty appear but in the enterprises -we care most about? Since we were -lovers of business, we began to indicate -the beauty that business has in our eyes. -The shop-window ceased to be, what in -country hardware stores it still often is, -a place where samples of all the merchandise -were displayed, an order card from -which you could plan your purchases; it -became rather a scene of loveliness to contemplate -for its own sake, an attraction -to hold you rooted to the spot rather than -a stimulus to hurry you inside to buy. -Probably the shop-windows in our great -streets could not be justified now on a -purely economic basis; they have been<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_210"></a>[210]</span> -lifted into the realm of beauty and are -things to remember. But for this kind of -shop-window not every article the store -sells is “proper”, in the Aristotelian sense; -nothing ridiculous is shown, though ridiculous -things are bought and sold, nothing -trivial is shown, and nothing that discloses -too publicly the animal conditions in which -we lead our spiritual life. With a different -selection of articles which the store -for our convenience must sell, we might -have a comic window, the sight of which -would cause us to smile at ourselves, or -a satiric one, which would teach us to -laugh at our fellowman.</p> - -<p>The buildings themselves, moreover, -have become beautiful by expressing what -we genuinely love to contemplate, and not -all kinds of buildings were proper to that -happy end. For mere sale and barter, -any shed in the market-place might serve, -but if we think of traffic in the large way<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_211"></a>[211]</span> -that Ruskin suggested, as something potentially -heroic and noble, as a feeding of -the hungry and a clothing of the naked, -as a soldierly occupying of outposts -against poverty and wretchedness, as a -campaign of conquest against nature, and -as an exchange at last of spiritual hungers -and satisfactions among men, then our -houses of business should look like temples. -So they begin to look, and only a very -blind critic here and there still fails to see -that so they should look. With our love of -traffic goes our love of travel. In this -country travel is necessary, but it is also -an ideal. Any sort of railway station will -serve as a place to buy a ticket or board -a train, and until recently almost any kind -of barracks did serve for those purposes. -But the haphazard building could not express -our delight in travel, our enjoyment -of distance and speed and punctilious -arrivings and departings. The pleasant<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_212"></a>[212]</span> -casualness of the stage-coach and the road-side -inn does not really appeal to us, except -in exotic moments; our religion of -travel is uttered in the Pennsylvania Station -in New York, and in other such structures -fast rising throughout the country, -where the ritualistic atmosphere, produced -by carefully selected elements from -the buildings of antiquity, have little to -do with buying your ticket and a great -deal to do with the American spirit. We -breathe more freely as we enter them, and -enjoy the space and the height; our instinctive -comment is, “This is something -like!” as though some part of us had found -expression at last. And if this success in -architecture is as yet in the field of business -and travel, among public buildings, -the reason probably is that in those fields -we know what our aspirations are. In -ecclesiastical architecture, by way of contrast, -we are less clear. We feel that if<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_213"></a>[213]</span> -the Woolworth building is so lovely, it is -but respectable to improve the appearance -of our churches, so we put up very wonderful -Gothic chapels and cathedrals—only -to find, perhaps, that they are a sort -of weight on our conscience rather than an -expression of our desires; we sometimes -try to cultivate the religion that produced -them, in order that so eloquent a language -may have more content in its words.</p> - -<p>When we turn back from our architecture -to our books, we have the right to ask -why poetry and the novel address themselves -exclusively to what is in essence -satire, to the portrayal of us as worse than -we are, or with our aspirations left out; -why we as readers must be invited to -absorb mere information about ourselves -and our country; why we so seldom meet -in the pages offered to us the kind of men -and women we admire or ought to admire. -The arts all express the same thing, at any<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_214"></a>[214]</span> -given moment, and if we are equally proficient -in them, they ought to achieve the -same grandeur and the same beauty. -Against the trivial and drab contents of -much of our poetry and the condescending -realism of much of our prose American -architecture now stands, a reproach and -an indictment; for the imaginative power -and sweep of our buildings is hardly discernible -in our books. The architects have -followed old wisdom, by making their -work ideal, better than life. The writers, -in a stubborn wrong-headedness, in defiance -of the readers’ psychology, portray -characters worse than in actual life, and -sometimes ask us to admire them.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_215"></a>[215]</span></p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>To ask what characters are proper to -literature as an art, and to point out that -the character better than life will express -our ideals, and that the character worse -than life will invite our satire, is only to -raise in another way the old problems of -the universal as against the particular in -art, of the contemporary as against the -eternal. To be strictly personal is in the -end to be contemporary, and to be strictly -contemporary is to give, whether or not we -intend it, the effect of satire. If our picture -of life is to appeal to the reader, and -to many readers, as their own world, not -simply as their neighbors’ private house -into which they are prying, it must have -general human truth beyond what is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_216"></a>[216]</span> -strictly personal; and if it is to be read -with that sense of proprietorship by many -people over a stretch of time, it must not -limit itself to the peculiarities of any one -moment. It is true that the writer himself -lives but one life and is circumscribed -by time and place; if there were no such -thing as imagination he would only record -what he is, for the enlightenment of others -who are just like him; without imagination -he would not know of a better character -than his, or of a worse one, and we -should be spared the discipline of satire, -but at the price of art. The problem for -the writer, as for any other artist, is to -imagine the lives of other men, and the -lives that he and other men aspire to; his -business is to select from personal adventure -what is generally important, and to -see it against the background of universal -experience. Can any one imagine universal -experience? Perhaps not, but the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_217"></a>[217]</span> -nearer he comes to this difficult success -the more readers the world over will find -meaning in what he writes. To have a -personal career is no ground for conceit -in an artist—every one has as much; the -achievement is to state our experience so -that it is the experience of other people -too.</p> - -<p>If we portray characters as better than -in actual life, there is no great difficulty -in making them seem universal; for it is -a radical gift in human conceit to fancy -that anything admirable or desirable has -a possible connection with ourselves. If -we do not at first discover what there is in -common between Romeo or Lincoln or -Achilles or General Lee and ourselves, -yet if we admire them we shall find the -resemblance, or try to create it. This is -the power of great imaginative art, that -the admirable things in it generate a kind -of universal emulation, and the story or<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_218"></a>[218]</span> -statue which has been said to imitate -nature succeeds at last in persuading men -and women quite naturally to imitate it. -The power of a great book over human -conduct, even its influence at last upon -what might seem instinctive conduct, is -immeasurable. In the troubadour art of -love before Dante’s time, a true lover was -taught to turn pale at sight of his lady, -and at the unexpected sight of her to -faint; Dante loved that literature, and he -grew pale and fainted by second nature—just -as women once learned to blush at -certain things, and afterward learned -not to blush. How many lives were -affected, for good or evil, throughout -Europe and America, by the alluring -power of Byron’s heroes and heroines? -The poet, then, who represents character -as better than actual life, as possessing, -that is, something that we desire but have -not, has already made his hero universal,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_219"></a>[219]</span> -and must some day accept the responsibility -of having dedicated his readers to -that general ideal. We may question -Byron on moral grounds by asserting that -his hero, after whom so many lives were -patterned, was really not deserving of any -imitation; just as an Oriental reformer -from India might tell us that the traffic -and travel of which our architecture is an -expression are both of them trivial enterprises, -mere distractions from the contemplative -ends of life. But such criticism -lies outside of art. To understand the -discipline which art imposes on us it is -enough to observe the kind of character -which does make an ideal effective in literature, -and the kind that precipitates us -into satire.</p> - -<p>The real difficulty for the writer is not, -then, in generalizing the characters which -embody his ideal, and which therefore are -better than in actual life; what he will<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_220"></a>[220]</span> -chiefly need for his success is to have the -ideals. But even with a consciousness of -deep aspiration he may wish to include in -the picture whole characters or parts of -character which are not what they should -be, and which yet are likable, even lovable; -and to give this double effect of inferiority -in some sense, together with -charm in some sense, is, it seems, very -difficult, for this is the effect of comedy, -and comedy is rare in any literature, -almost entirely absent from our own. If -you represent a character as worse than -in actual life, the condescending attitude -of the reader will not automatically draw -the portrait into some universal relation; -the writer must add something universally -admirable to the particular weakness we -look down on. Beatrice and Benedick -have exhausted their wit, and they are the -victims of a plot to marry them off to each -other; for such inferiority to their companions<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_221"></a>[221]</span> -we cannot admire them. But -Shakespeare makes them both loyal to -their friends and generous in their delight -in life, and Beatrice has the good sense to -know innocence when she sees it; these -qualities we can identify with our own -virtues, and for these we admire the hero -and heroine. The poet further generalizes -both characters by reminding us through -their meditations that to fall in love is -not the work of reason, and that even the -wittiest scoffers succumb; here too we -gladly recognize our own experience. We -can therefore smile at the foibles of the -young people, partly because these foibles -are incident to all human nature, and -partly because, even with the foibles, we -like to identify ourselves in imagination -with the supplementary virtues. Socrates -was trying to persuade Aristophanes and -Agathon, in the gray dawn after the Symposium, -that the art of comedy and the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_222"></a>[222]</span> -art of tragedy are the same; and so far -at least he was right, in that the universal -rendering which character must receive in -both, gives to the comic effect some of the -pity, though none of the terror, which -tragedy evokes. But Socrates did not say -that the art of tragedy is identical with -the art of satire.</p> - -<p>When comedy is at its best—that is, -when we have made the inferior character -universal by showing that its faults are -natural, or by adding to it some general -virtues—we may indeed go further and -say that comedy produces perhaps the -terror as well as the pity of tragedy, and -that the two kinds of writing are, as Socrates -said, but one. The tragic or epic -hero, portrayed as better than in actual -life, may have faults, but so far from despising -him on that account, we may not -even smile; we like him so much that the -faults seem his misfortune. Moreover, if<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_223"></a>[223]</span> -we refer the weakness of the comic character -to nature itself, how can we be hard -on the individual? And if we add to the -faults positive and lovable virtues, will -not the comic character seem at last to be -tragic? In English drama Falstaff is perhaps -the prince of comic characters, so -vitally imagined that he lives on the stage -apart from any plot; he is a living person, -with no virtues at all, yet infinitely likable. -He can be played to make the groundlings -laugh, but most of us after we have -laughed taste profound tragedy in what -we have laughed at. He is almost majestic -in those moments of cowardice when -he portrays himself exactly as he is—when -he sees himself, as it were, from outside, -and points to those aspects of his -frailty which belong to mankind. An -actor might play the scenes on the battle-field -in <cite>Henry IV</cite> so as to inspire, not -laughter at the fat knight’s depravity, but<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_224"></a>[224]</span> -a pitiful and self-accusing silence. When -he finds the corpse of Sir Walter Blunt, -just slain—“Soft! who are you? Sir -Walter Blunt!—There’s Honour for -you! Here’s no vanity!... I have led -my ragamuffins where they are peppered; -there’s but three of my hundred and fifty -left alive, and they are for the town’s end, -to beg during life.... I like not such -grinning honour as Sir Walter hath. -Give me life; which if I can save, so; if -not, honour comes unlooked for.”</p> - -<p>In French drama Molière brought -comedy to an excellence not matched, perhaps, -in any other literature, and no -imaginative writing is richer than his in -general ideas. We laugh at the amusing -situation, or delight in the frankly artificial -balancing of the plot, but on second -thoughts we fall silent, contemplating the -universal sweep of humanity, ourselves -included, which he has uncovered for us.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_225"></a>[225]</span></p> - -<p>The most obvious example for American -readers is in <cite>Tartuffe</cite>, where the unhappy -Elmire has difficulty in proving to her -husband Orgon that Tartuffe, whom he -greatly admires, is a treacherous friend -and is actually making love to her. She -finally admits Tartuffe to her room, having -first hidden her husband under the -table, from which he has promised to -emerge if Tartuffe should go beyond the -bounds of decency. Tartuffe, of course, -makes love in the clearest terms to his -friend’s wife, but Orgon remains concealed. -“Before we go any further”, says -Elmire, “just look down the hall to make -sure my husband isn’t coming.” “Why -worry about him?” says Tartuffe, “we can -lead him around by the nose.” Then -Orgon comes from under the table. -Where has the comedy brought us? Is it -not to a contemplation of our own vanity, -the source of the sense of honor in us all?<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_226"></a>[226]</span> -Are we laughing at Tartuffe and Orgon, -or are we thinking of ourselves?</p> - -<p>Falstaff and Tartuffe illustrate the -generalizing of inferior characters by the -ascribing of their faults to human nature. -A good illustration of the comic character -which enlists our admiration and is -a genuine ideal is Huckleberry Finn. His -ignorance, his poverty, and his lack of -humor would seem to disqualify him for -any heroic career in literature, yet he is -a veritable hero, in the sense that we gladly -put ourselves in his point of view and return -again and again to live for an hour -or so in his experience. The reason is that -along with his inferior qualities he has -characteristics and he has a fortune which -seem better than ours; he is loyal to Tom -and the negro Jim, he has a simple faith -and zest in life, and he has exciting adventures -and gets romance out of scenes -we should otherwise find dull. He flatters<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_227"></a>[227]</span> -us too by admiring people and things -which from his praise we know we should -treat satirically. To know what comedy -is, as opposed to satire, we have but to -read his story again and compare it with -any current indictment of the scene in -which his adventure was laid.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_228"></a>[228]</span></p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>If the principles of tragedy, comedy -and satire are as implicit in our psychology -now as when Aristotle described them, and -if the principles of decorum, of art, and of -the timeless and the impersonal in art, are -as rooted in life as they are declared to be, -there might seem to be no great need to -preach them; the practice of literature -would disclose them in spite of our ignorance. -Try as we might to make a lovable -hero out of an inferior character, he would -still emerge a figure in satire or, if we -generalized his faults, a figure in comedy; -in serious literature, only a character -better than in real life would give satisfaction. -Though we do not doubt that the -principles of art will thus be rediscovered<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_229"></a>[229]</span> -pragmatically by the unescapable discipline -of literature, yet it is something of -a pity to go through such lengths of experiment -in order to find out what was -known before. And the great danger in -our country is that we may not push the -experiment to the tedious but profitable -end at which sound knowledge awaits us; -we may grow weary of the discipline, and -take refuge in parody or in sentimentality. -These two avenues of escape from the -problem have cursed American literature -before, and signs are not wanting that -they now are the temptations of those -who yesterday were our “new” writers and -promised brave things. Face to face with -characters worse than in actual life, we -may find our own satiric attitude monotonous, -but to handle such material otherwise -than satirically, we must master the -art of comedy, and comedy is an art too -difficult. What Bret Harte and Riley<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_230"></a>[230]</span> -and Eugene Field did in such circumstances -was to obscure the meanness of the -subject by sentimentality, instead of -illuminating it by the comic spirit. Spoon -River has been celebrated before, though -we may not have recognized the subject -with the old sentimental surface removed; -much of our contemporary satire has been -the kind of surgical operation necessary -to separate the American reader from the -sentimentality which in his heart he likes. -Since it is in his heart, he may express it -again quite shamelessly, this time as a protest -against too much satire, and we may -have another welter of old oaken buckets -and old swimming holes and little boy -blues—the literature that provides the -satisfaction of a good cry, without the -over-exertion of tragic pity or terror. Already -we have again the familiar and -dilettante essay, the imitation of eighteenth-century -style, even in newspaper<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_231"></a>[231]</span> -columns, the interminable parodies of -Horace, which in this country have been -the advance signals of the sentimental -wave.</p> - -<p>We can but hope that the signs may -prove deceptive, and that literature in -America will not wait much longer for the -characters and subjects proper to it, and -proper to the dramatic hour we live in—characters -and subjects expressing that -better part of us which has given our land -its direction and its power, and expressing -also that other world of the spirit -which man builds for elbow-room to exercise -his genuine ideals in, and carries it -around with him, and sets it up to be a -tabernacle in the wilderness of this natural -world.</p> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Literary Discipline, by John Erskine - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITERARY DISCIPLINE *** - -***** This file should be named 62991-h.htm or 62991-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/2/9/9/62991/ - -Produced by Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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