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JULY, 1901 OCTOBEE, 1901. 


TOOK puaum am mMnm jMoinm. 

mam mat. 

VOL. cxonr. 



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Is oonstaatly sngagsd in the 

The Belief of thea)l8tpe$8ed Poor. 

The poor luro Yieited In their own homet by 
oar VlBitom. Indisoriialiuite Belief, therefore, 
is notediainisteied. 

The Aseistanee of the Better Class of 
nisehai^ed Prisoners. 

Only thoee deelriiig to do rightly ere aided 
from our Ponds. 

The Savins of Juvenile Offenders ft*oin 
a Life of Crime. 

They ate taken by us into one of our Pive 
Soys' Homes, sheltered from evil infioeneeL 
found employment, olothed and fed, and saved 
from * prim taint.' 

The AMistanee of Wives and Children 

They are left, not inneanentljyoaita homeless 
end foodless. ease is sad indeed— How 
sea we refuse to Mid them 7 

following Direotioi»:— 

The Tralnlnjr of Fallen and Destitute 
Women for Domestic Service. 
Homeless and Destitute Women are received 
at all hours of the day or night. Baoh case is 
dealt with as itsaversliy needs. 

The Providing a Holiday and Home for 
Poor Children. 

Xaoh year over 200 sickly little ones have a 
Fortnight's Stay in onr Ohildren's Holiday 
Home. About 1,400 have a Day's Bxonivion. 

The Providing a Permanent Home and 
Orphanage fdr the Children of 
Prisoners, and other Destitute 

Where the helpless little ones are sheltered 
and oared for, reoalvtng a sound Christian 

Ttlntary Centribndoiis am oor only source of iBCome. FfBancial 
Help is Btiifih seeded oof. Will you give it ? 

A. BBVm, B»q.» 
It SaiMiibKid S.O. 



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BAGEHOT (W.). #. d. 

Biogrspliioal Studies 8 6 

FROUDE (J. A.). 

Xiife and Xietters of Erasmus 8 6 

Cessar : a Sketch 8 6 

Thomas Oarlyle: 
a History of his Life. 

1796-1836. Svola. 7 O 

1834-1881. 2 vole 7 O 

GLEIG (Rev. G. R.). 

Life of the Duke of Welling- 
ton. With Portrait 8 6 


Xiife of Xiuther. With 02 liiufitra- 

tions and 4 Paosimiles of MSS. ... 3 6 


Memoirs. Translated. 2yols. ... 7 O 


Memoirs of Sir Henry Have- 
look 8 6 


The Early History of Charles 
James Fox 3 6 



Beggars All 3 6 


Micah CUarke: a Talo of Mon- 
mouth’s Behellion. With 10 BIub- 

trations 8 6 

The Captain of the ^Polestar,* 

and other Tales 8 6 

The Refugees : a Tale of the 

Hagaenots. With 26 Illustrations... 8 6 
The Stark Munro Letters ... 3 6 
FROUDE (J. A.). 

The Two Chiefs of Dunhoy: 
an Irish Bomance of the Last Oen- 
tury 8 6 


Allan Quatermain. With 20 illus- 
trations 8 6 

Allan’s Wife. With 84 illustrations 3 6 

Beatrice. With Prontisplece and 

Vignette 8 6 

Cleopatra. With 29 illustrations ... 3 6 

Colonel Quaritchf V.O. With 

Pronti^eoe and Vignette 8 6 

Dawn. WithlQ lUuBtrations... ... 8 6 

Brio Brighteyes. With 61 Illus- 
trations 8 6 


HAGGARD (H. R.) s. a. 

Heart of the World. With 16 

Illustrations ... 8 6 

Joan Haste. With 20 Illustrations 3 6 
Mr. Meeson’s Will. With 16 lUiis- 

trations ... 8 6 

Montezuma’s Daughter. With 

25 IlIustratlonB 8 6 

Nada the Lily. With 23 Ulus- 

trations. . 8 6 

She .* a History of Adventure, With 

82 Illustrations 8 6 

Swallow .* A Tale of the Great Trek. 

With 8 Illustrations ... 8 6 

The People of the Mist. With 

16 Illustrations 3 6 

The Witch’s Head. With 16 

Illustrations 8 6 

HAGGARD ( H . R. ) & LANG (A. ). 

The World’s Desire. With 27 

Ulnstrations ... 3 6 


In the Carguinez Woods, and 

other Btories 3 6 


The Heart of Princess Osra. 

With 9 lllustratious 3 6 

LANG (A.). 

A Monk of Fife : a Story of the 
Days of Joan of Arc. With 18 
Illustrations ... 8 6 


The Chevalier D'Auriac ... 3 6 


Flotsam: a Story of the Indian 

Mutiny 3 6 


Snap : a Legend of the Lone Moun- 
tain. With 13 Illustrations 3 6 


The Btrai^e Caseof Dr. Jekyll 
and Mr. Hyde; with other 
Fables 3 6 

STEVENSON (R. L.) and 

The Wrong Box 8 6 

STEVENSON (R. L.) and 

More New Arabian Nights— 

The Dynamiter 8 6 


The House of the Wolf: a 

Bomanoe ... 8 e 

LONGMANS, GBEEN, & CO., London, New York, and Bombaj. 




< if my advice were aeked as to what series of modern books 
would form the best nucleus of a good and inexpensive library, t 
think i should, without hesitation, recommend Messrs. Longmans’ 
« Silver Library.” Many of the most notably good books published 
in recent years are Included In the series. They are strongly and 
elegantly bound, and they cost only Se. 6d. each.’ — Daily Mail. 


FROUDE (J. A.). 

The Council of Trent 

... S 6 

The Divorce of Catherine of 

Aragon 3 6 

The BngUsh in Ireland. SvolalO 6 
The Hintory of England, from 
the Fall of Wolsey to the Defeat of 
the Bpanish Armada. 12 yols. each 3 6 
The Spanish Story of the 

Armada, and other Essays ... 8 6 
English Seamen in the Six- 
teenth Century 3 6 

i Short Studies on Great 8ub> 
j jeots. 4 vols. each 3 0 


Journal of the Beigns of King 
George King William 

IV., and Queen Victoria. 

8 vote. each 3 


History of the Indian Mutiny 
of 1857-8. 8 vols, ... each 3 


Complete Works. ‘Albany’ Edi- 
tion, With 12 Portraits. 12 vols, ea. 3 

Essays and of Ancient 

Borne, &o. with Portrait and 4 
lUustratlonB to the Lays 3 


History of the B.omans under 

the Empire. 8 vols. ... each 3 6 


Carthage and the Cartha> 

ginians. With Maps, Plans, 4ec. 3 6 



Poonlar Iieotnres on Scientiflo 
Subjects. With 88 Illustrations. 

* S Tols each 3 

Contents Vol. I. The Relation of Natural 
Solenoe to lienee in General — Goethe’s Scien- 
tiflo Researches— The Physiological Causes of 
Harmony in Music — loe and Glaciens — The Iiiter- 
aoUon of the Natural Forces— The Recent 
Progress of the Theory of Vision— The Conser- 
vation of Force— The Aim and Progress of 
Ptayeioal S(flenoe. 

OONTESTTB VoL, 11. Gustsv Magwis. In 
Memoriam — ^The Origin and Bignifloanoe of 
Geometrioal Axioms— The Relation of Optics 
to Painting— The Origin of the Planetary 
System— Thought in Medicine— Academic Free- 
dom la German Universities— Hermann von 
Helmholta : an Autohiographioal Sketch. 


CLODD (E.). .. a. 

Story of Creation : a Plain 
Account of Evolution. With 77 
lUubtrations ... 3 e 


lieisure Headings. By R* A. 

PROCTon, Edward Olodu, A ndrb w 
WnsoN, Thomas Foaim. and A. 0. 
Ravtakd. With Illustrations 3 0 

Ijight Science for Deisure 

Hours, first Series 8 6 

Myths and Marvels of Astro- 
nomy 3 6 

Mature Studies 8 0 

Other Suns than Ours 3 0 

Other Worlds than Ours ... 8 0 

Our Place among Infinities t 
a Series of Essays contrasting our 
Little Abode in Space and Time 
with the Infinities around us ... 3 6 

Pleasant Ways in Solenoe .36 
Bough Ways made Smooth .,8 6 

The Expanse of Heaven ... 3 6 

The Moon 8 6 

The Orbs Around ITs 8 6 

STANLEY (Bishop). 

Familiar History of Birds, 

With 160 Illustrations 3 6 

WOOD (Rev. J. G.). 

Out of Doors. With 11 llluBtrationa 3 6 
Petland Revisited. With331Uus. 3 6 
Strange Dwellings. With 80 Ulna 3 6 



Seas and liands. With 17 llius..., 3 6 

BAKER (Sir S. W.). 

Eight Y’ears in Ceylon. With e 

illustrations 3 6 

Bifle and Hound in Ceylon. 

With 6 lllUBtrations 3 0 

BENT (J. T.) 

The Ruined Cities of Masho- 
naland. With 1X7 lUostrations... 


BRASSEY (Lady). 

A Voyage in the ‘Sunbeam.* 
With 68 Illustrationa 

LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., London, New York, and Bombay. 

BOOKS published by ARCHI- 

Constable’s Illustrated Edition of 

The Works of 
William Shakespeare 

in 20 Imperial i6mo volumes with special coloured title-page 
and end-papers designed by Lewis F. Day, and a specially 
designed coloured illustration to each Play, the artists being 
L. Leslie Brooke, Byam Shaw, Henry J. Ford, G. P. Jacomb Hood, 
W. D. Eden, Estelle Nathan, Eleanor F. Brickdale, Patten Wilson, 
Robert Sauber, John D. Batten, Gerald Moira and Frank C. C(>wj)er. 
The title-page and illustrations printed on Japanese vellum, cloth 
gilt, extra, gilt top, gilt back, with headband and bookmarker. 

Price 2s. 6d. nef per Vol. 

The special features of this Edition are the 
Illustrations by Eminent Artists, reproduced in 
many colours, and printed on Japanese paper, and 
the TYPE, which is large enough to be read with 
comfort by all; the numbering of the lines, for 
convenience of reference; and the glos.sary which 
is given at the end of each volume. The text has 
been carefully edited from the original editions, and 
follows as nearly as possible that of the Folio of 
1623. A few notes recording the emendations of 
modern Editors that have boen adopted arc printed 
at the end of each play. 


Novels of George Meredith 

In 15 Volumes. Pocket Edition. 

Printed on thin opaque paper, specially manufactured for 
this edition, bound in red cloth, gilt lettered on back and 
side, gilt top. 2s. 6d. net per volume, or ^s. 6d. net in full 
leather per volume. 

Detailed Prospectus on application. 

Extract from the Athenaeum ” — 

“ Messrs. Constable & Co. have arranged to issue a new edition of the 
novels of Mr. George Meredith. The volumes will be of the size known, 
we think, as *pott octavo.’ After various experiments a special paper has 
been secured which is suitable for what will really be a pocket edition. 
Though recently there have been several reprints of books out of copy- 
right in a similar form, no living author’s works have, we believe, been 
issued in this style. The books will be as attractive as possible ; they will 
be bound in red cloth, gilt top, and will have no other ornamentation than 
the author’s autograph on the side. In view of the increasing popularity 
which Mr. Meredith’s works have obtained after many years, and the fact 
that the old edition has long been out of print, this pocket edition at half- 
a-crown seems likely to score a big success. The text will be that of the 
finally revised tdition de luxe. The shorter pieces, * The Tale of Chloe,’ 
‘Farina,’ ‘The Case of General Ople,’ and in fact all the short stories 
which Mr. Meredith has written, will be included.” 

The volumes will be issued in the following order : — 











SHORT STORIES: — The Tale of Chloe. The House on the Beach. 

Farina* The Case of General Ople and Lady Camper. 


Boswell’s Lift of Johnson 

6 Volumes. Crown 8vo. 

With an Introduction by Augustine Birrell. 
Illustrated with One Hundred Portraits selected by 
Ernest Radford. 

Bound in red buckram, paper label, gilt top. 

Sold only in sets. Price 36^. net. 

“The distinctive feature is the series of portraits of the actors on 
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Mr. Ernest Radford, who writes an excellent introduction to explain his 
method of selection. The portraits have been well reproduced.” — Times, 

“ Of all the classics Boswell is one of the very few that can always be 
read with delight. We should hope that it is beyond the sympathy of 
hardly any Pmglish people, and with almost every mood it is attune, , . . 
The whole of his (Mr. Birrell’s) appreciation of the book’s value and its 
causes, its size, Boswell’s perfection of method, his genius for portraiture, 
his immense pains, his freedom and glorious intrepidity — all this is excel- 
lently done, with due brevity and orderliness. The Edition is supplied 
with a series of portraits, about sixteen to each volume. They have been 
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traits that are to illustrate this edition. They have been selected and 
commented on by Mr. Ernest Radford, and give the book a merit of its 
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book in a form more pleasing or more likely to be generally desired than 
this. ” — Scotsman, 

“ The more editions of Boswell that are given to the world the oftener 
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The Man who Knew Better 

A Christmas Tale 

Author of “Tatterley.” 

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Travels Round our Village 

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A Ribbon of Iron 

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This is an account of a journey over the great Siberian Railway, and 
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A Journey to Nature 

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** Singularly light and readable, and may be commended as a healthy 
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what is cheerful .” — Pall Mall Gazette, 

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Lusus Regius 




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The title-page is an exact collotype reproduction, mutatis mutandis^ of the beautiful 
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Of this unique and highly interesting work 275 copies only have been printed, of 
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he wrote. . . . Great interest attaches to the unpublished MSS. that alone are printed 
and provided with introductions by the editor of the beautiful work, which Mr. Rait has 
inscribed to the memory of Queen Victoria, who before her death accepted the dedica- 
tion of these poems by her ‘ direct lineal ancestor.’ ” — Scotsman. 


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The Story of Bhanavar the Beautiful 

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The Tale of Chloe 
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of a finished literary artist.f. . . Its views are of the greatest possible 
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Ancient India as Described in 
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Burma under British Rule 


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The Prevention of Disease 


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Time Table of Modern History 

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(X>in®NTS OF No. 898. 


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Grant Richards, 1900. 

8. Histoire de la Musique en Russie. By G4aar Cui. 

4. Histoire de la Musique en Russie. By Albert 

Soubies. Paris: 1898, 868 

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2. Tuberculosis. The Journal of the National Associa^ 

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1901, 488 

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others. Af Henrik Pontoppidan. Copenhagen. 

2. Ur Gosta Berlings Saga, Antikrists Mirakler, En 

Herreg&rds Historie, Drottningar i Kongah&lla. 

Af Selma Lagerlof. Stockholm. 

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others. Af Thomas Krag. Copenhagen, . . 468 

[And other works.] 

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of the Fine Arts. 

2. The Glasgow School of Painting. By David Martin, 
with an introduction by Francis H. Newbery. 
London : George Bell & ^na, 1897. 

XII. — Speech of the Right Hon. Sir Henry Campbell- 

Bannerman, M.P., at the Reform C^ub, July 9, 
1901, 808 

[And other speeches.] 


^ CIS. 7-7 



OCTOBER, 1901. 


Abt. I. — UExpidition d'Egypte, 1798-1801. Par C. DB LA 
JoNQUiiiEE, Capitaine d*A.rtillerie brevets. Tomes I et II. 
8®. Paris ; 1900-1. 

T he French Ministdre de la Guerre has had the happy 
idea to publish a full documentary history of the 
expedition which Bonaparte led to Egypt in 1798, and has 
had the good fortune, or rather the good judgement, to 
entrust the giving it efP^t^ tOjUaptainjieJa Jonqui^re, of 
the Artillery, an oMcer already well knownby his excellent 
contributions lio' military histor}’. The%S.nlebf La Jonqui^e 
lives in the na'^al and colonial annals of the eight^uth 
century, which presumably explains how, by right of descent, 
the author of these volumes far excels the average French- 
man in his understanding of the controlling influence of 
sea-power > but what gives the work its exceptional value is 
that it is based entirely on the contemporary documents 
preserved in the public and departmental archives, and now 
printed from the originals or from official copies. In these 
papers there is, however, one serious gap, the occurrence of 
which, and the way it has been partially filled up, are best 
explained in M. de la Jonqni^re’s own words. After de- 
scribing how, in June 1802, Bourrienne wrote, desiring Fain, 
the keeper of the archives, to send him * tons les papiera 
* sur I’Egypte qui pourraient exister dans les archives du 
* gouvemement,* and how, in consequence, a considerable 
number of letters and despatches from Bonaparte, the 
Directory, Berthier, Baraguey d’HilUers, and others were 
sent, he continues :< — 

‘ Une note, de la main du baron Fain, nous apprend que toutes les 
pitoes, apris avoir traneorites sur les regmres qui aont dans Is 
voxi. oxoiv. HO. oooxorm. 8 

246 The French Expedition to Egypt in 179$. Oei. 


oftUnet de I'Empereur, ont, par ordre do So Majestdi dtd brMdofl on 
septembre 1807, avant le ddpart pour Bamboaillet. Boancoup do 
oes docTunents nous ont conaerrOs, «i oopie, par la CoUoctiOQ 
Napolton” (dont lea ^diteurs de la “ Correapondanoe’’ do I’Emparetir 
ont admis I’autoritd) et par lea publioationa ofEdollos ccmoemaat la 
campagne d’Egypte; maia qui pent garantir I’ezactitudo et aortout 
l’int^grit6 de quelqnea-nna de ces textes 7 ’ 

From other sources the gap has been partly filled ; bat the 
question naturally rises to our lips or our pen, Why did 
Bonaparte order this destruction? or, when ordering it, 
•why did he have copies preserved? Tarious suggestions 
of answers occur to us ; but what seems the most probable 
is that, mixed up with and in the military correspondence 
were expressions of political opinion or aim, or too candid 
appreciations of personal character or conduct. This is only 
a guess, and possibly very wide of the truth j but, in any 
case, it remains established that many of the most interest- 
ing letters have been edited or * censored ’ in the interests of 

For the rest, in all the published accounts of this cam- 
paign there has been a not unusual tendency to make the 
story smooth for the writer or the writer’s friends. There 
are, too, many points which have been ‘ I’objet de con- 
* troverses plus passionnees que document^es,’ concerning 
which later historians have, for the most part, contented 
themselves with borrowing from their predecessors, faith- 
fully reproducing their misstatements and their miscon- 
ceptions. The Memoirs, so many of which have been 
published, are especially untrustworthy. They were almost 
all written long years afterwards, when the rise, the great- 
ness, and the downfall of Kapoleon were added, as disturbing 
influences, to the ordinary lapses of memory. As a genenu 
rule, it may be said that no form of modern history is so 
inaccurate as the reminiscences of old men. Even if th^ 
wish to be honest, which is not always the case ; if theu: 
memory is exact, which it very frequently is not, ihere still 
remains the impossibility of clearing the past from the 

f resent, of separating later information from^ personal 
jDowledge. Of all this M. de la Jonquil has given some 
amusing instances, and, as to matters of faot, has confined 
himself to documents written at the time, by men in a 
position to know what was done, or, which is often of as 
much importance, what was believed. 

Stow of the French conquest of Egypt has alivays 
had a peoduar, though diverse, interest to bow French and 

mi. The French Fxpedmm to Fg^pi in 1796. 847 

IhigUsh. In IVance it has been jhclged mainly from the 
sentimental si{le» and people stiU look back on the oampmgn 
as hating laid the foundation for the influence and prestige 
which they claim to have held. The English have, perhaps, 
taken a more husinessdike view of it, and have considered 
it, equally in its political and military aspect, as a very hig 
blonder. Politically, they would accept M. de la Jonquidre’s 
exposition of the material results, in respect of which he 
says : * It must be admitted that the conquest of Egypt was 
‘ ephemeral, and that its prologue — the occupation of Malta 

* — directly caused one of the best ports in the Mediterranean 

* to fall into the hands of the English.’ We might even go 
further, and say that the ephemeral conquest of Egypt by 
the Erench, a hundred years ago, led not very indirectly to 
its present occupation by the English. Our concern, how- 
ever, is not now with this, but with the history of the origin 
and conduct of the expedition itself — an important and 
deeply interesting chapter in the life of Bonaparte. 

It has been frequently stated that the expedition was 
started, by the far-seeing ambition of Bonaparte, as a prehrde 
to the founding of an Eastern Empire, after the manner of 
Cambyses or Cyrus. It has, again, been spoken of as a deep- 
laid plot of the Directory for getting Bonaparte out of the 
way. Both suggestions have that carefully rounded-off 
appearance which the affairs of real life seldom show j and 
in M. de la Jonquii^re’s pages we hare the advantage of 
comparing fact with fancy, of tracing the idea in its origin, 
its birth, and gradual derelopement. Curiously enough, we 
find that the project of the occupation of Egjpt was the 
direct outcome of a very elaborate scheme for the invasion 
of England, which, though adopted by Bonaparte, and made 
his own, was at first the child of the Directory and the 
politicians of Paris. Austria was reduced, Prussia was 
pacified, Spain was cajoled; England remained the one 
obstacle, in the eyes of the Directory, to a general peace. 
England was therefore to be conquered; but how? was a 
proolem which did not admit of an easy solution. 

Eor the course of the war had been disastrous to the 
French navy. At the beginning of the war, in 1793, the 
French navy was, so for as ships went, at least equal to 
the English. If, to the careless examiner, the English navy 
^ms to have been more numerous, it was because the Eng- 
lish G^emment used then, and indeed till recently, to count 
all exisiing ships, whether effective or not — and many were 
not effoetive ; in size and weight of armament the French 


The Frmuih Expedition to Egypt in 1798. Oeii. 

0 / 

wBtd distinctly sQperior. Bat Totilon, tihe Blrst ot JtwoBf 
and other incidents of the war had done mnoh to alter this. 
So far as regards the French navy we may, in general 
terms, accept the figures quoted by M. de la donqui^e. In 
five years (1798-7) its losses by capture, shipwreck, fire, and 
in other ways amounted to ihirty*five ships of the line, sixty- 
one frigates, and 108 smaller vessels — and very many of 
these had become effective additions to the English fleet. 
By the Treaty of The Hague, in May 1795, the Batavian 
Impublic was bound to furnish twelve ships of the line ; by 
the Treaty of Madrid, in August 1796, Spain undertook to 
supply fifteen ; but Jervis at Cape St. Yincent, and Duncan 
at Camperdown, had quieted these threatening possibilities, 
and the French were not likely to be much the better for 
either of them. The English had, of course, lost some, but 
nothing like the fourteen ships of the line stated by 
M. de la Jouquiere, quoting from Troude ; * and, reckoning 
ships newly built and the many gains by capture, ‘the 
* disproportion between the two fieets had become over- 
‘ whelming.’ 

Ever since the beginning of the war, the Committee of 
Public Safety first, and afterwards the Directory — as, indeed, 
the old regal Government, long before the Bevolution — had 
entertained various projects for a landing in England or 
Ireland. M. de la Jonquiere considers that the most im- 
portant of these, which was actually attempted by Hoche 
in December 1796, ‘ had, notwithstanding its unfavourable 
‘ issue, proved that it was possible to surprise the passage 
‘ of the Channel.’ But the late Admiral Colomb subjected 
this attempt to a very searching examination, and proved, 
on the contrary, that, in the conditions under which that 
attempt was made, success was impossible. M. de la 
Jonquiere has probably not seen Admiral Colomb’s dis- 
cussion of the incident, which is buried in the ‘Journal 
‘ of the Boyal United Service Institution ; ’ f but he at 
least knew, though he has not said, that not a soldier of 
the expedition landed in Ireland; that Hoche never even 
got into Bantry Bay, where it was intended to land ; and 
that -the loss in both ships and men was extremely great. 

* The namber of ships of the line actually lost to the British navy 
during these years was eight. Troude's fourteen is made up by 
two 50-gan ships wrecked, one recapture, and three prises 
oecidiBbtRlly burnt 
t Yd. xxxvi. (1892), pp. 17-88. 

MmWa expedition came to iU dieaettx>iis imd in Jnnnaxy 
1797 ; and ae tine Directory believed — u» many botb in 
France and England have Eince< believed — ^tbat toe failnVe 
was merely an accident of bad weatber, toey lost no tii^e in 
preparing for a renewed attempt. Bonaparte was Still in 
Italy^ re^y for farther bostilities with Austria, and mainlv 
occupied in the acquisition of the Ionian Islands, of whiob 
he wrote to the Directory on August 16, 1797 : — 

* Lea iles de Corfou, de Zante et de C^phalonie aont plus intdr^saantes 
pour nous que toute lltalie ensemble. Je crois que, si nous dtiona 
obliges d'opter, il *vaudrait mieux restituer I’ltalie ^ TEmpereur et 
garder lea quatre lies, qui sont une source de richesse et de proap^rit4 
pour Dotre commerce, L’empire des Turcs s’^croule toua lea jours ; 
la possession de cea iles nous mettra k m^me de le soutenir, autant que 
cela sera possible, ou d’en prendre notre part/ 

To which he added : — 

* Lea temps ne sont pas ^loign^a ou nous sentirons que, pour d^tmire 
v4ritablement TAngleterre, it faut nous emparer de TEgypte. Le 

^ vaste empire ottoman, qui p6rit toua lea jours, nous met dans Pobliga- 
tion de penser de bonne beure k prendre des moyens de conserver 
notre commerce du Levant.’ 

A month later (September 13) he wrote to Talleyrand, then 
Foreign Minister : — 

^ Je pense que d^sormais la grande maxima de la B^publiqite doit 
^tre de ne jamais abandonner Corfou, Zante, etc. Nous devons, au 
contraire, nous y ^tablir solidement ; nous y trouverons d’immenaes 
ressources pour le commerce. . • . Fourquoi ne nous emparerionS'^ 
nous pas de Tile de Malte? L’amiral Brueys pourrait tr^s bien 
mouiUer et s’en emparer. , . . Avec Tile de Saint-Pierre, que nous 
a c^d^e le roi de Sardaigne, Malte, Corfou, etc., nous serons maitres 
de toute la M^diterranee. SHI arrivait qu’^ notre paix avec TAngle- 
terre nous fussions obliges de c^der le cap de Bonne* Esp^rance, il 
faudrait nous emparer de TEgypte. . , . L’on pourrait partir d*ioi 
avec vingt-cinq mills hommes, escortes par buit ou dix bitlments de 
ligne ou frdgates v^nitiennes, et s’en emparer.’ 

At this time Admiral Brueys was in the Adriatic, in 
command of a squadron, employed in taking possessiou of 
the islands. There was some idea of recalling him to join 
the concentration at Brest, but to this Bonaparte objected, 
writing that if the squadron should be wanted in the ocean 
it couU get there from Corfu in less time than from Toulon, 
and meantime would serve ‘ a boucher enti^rement toute 
^ PAdriatique k nos ennemig.^ If, after all, there should be 
peace, on its way back to Toulon it could put 2,000 men on 
shore at Malta — « Me qui, tdt ou tard, sera aux Anglais, si 

Z50 ^tFrmshlhspediii<m$oj^piml1f9^ Oet. , 

< mm ATOtts la sottise de m pas les pe^renir/ TaU«iji!«a^ 
xeplied that the Directoix agreed with hina da this 
aad on September 27 wrote t — 

* Le Directoire trouve 4 propos qne je vens derive d'ane mani^rd 
plus positire au sajet de la propusitiioQ qua rous &iteS de Vous 
assurer de I’ile de Malte. II importe de prdvenix I’Autarioha, I’Angle- 
terre et la Buasie It cet 4gard. . . . Ia possesi^on de cette lie, jointe 4 
I’Istrie et 4 la Dalmatie, ferait de rAutriohe uue puissunee maritime 
capable de donner des inquietudes 4 la France et 4 la Bepublique 
cisalpine, dont il est aisiS de pr4voir qu’elle ne pent jamais 6tre que 
I’minemie ; Malte lui donnerait lea moyens de troublcr la navigation de 
touts la M4diterran4c. 11 y aurait encore plus de dangers qne cette 
tie tomb4t au pouvoir des Anglais et des Busses.' 

Other letters to the same effect and more precise followed ; 
but the Treaty of Campo Formio, concluded on October 17, 
seemed to render immediate action unnecessary, and left 
the Directory free to devote itself to the English question. 
On October 26 the ‘ arm4e d’Angleterre ’ was formally 
ordered to assemble ‘ sur les c6tes de Toc^an,* and Bonaparte 
was appointed generabin-chief. Bonaparte, who was then ' 
at Milan, replied, on November 5, that, though badly in need 
of rest, he would never refuse the country’s call j that with 
a fleet well commanded and troops in reserve the army of 
invasion should consist of 36,000 men. On a report from 
the Ministre de la Marine it was estimated that they would 
be able to muster fifty-seven ships of the line — twenty of 
which were in the Mediterranean — besides what mi^t bo 
famished by Spain and Holland. Following on this, Bona- 
parte, who had returned to Paris, drew up a scheme for the 
assembling of this great force. It is exceedingly interesting 
in its detail, but we rnust be content with one example. 

Brueys, who was still at Corfu with six ships of the line 
and several frigates and smaller vessels, was to see that his 
ships had their full complement of men, was to fill up with 
provisions for four months, and to put to sea as soon as 
possible, preserving the utmost secrei^as to his destination. 
The route must be left to his own judgement, but as Jervis 
(Dord St. Vincent) was off Cadiz with twenty-two ships of 
^ line, it would probably be his best plan to pass to the 
SDuth of Malta, and hug the African shore all we way, so 
fhat any Spanish sympathisers with the English might not 
see him and send word to Jervis. He should try and pass 
tilurong^ the Straits by night, so as to be fifteen leagues to 
the fOAtih>west of Cape Spartel by daybreak, and then, under 
fowerniihi (eonrses) only, go fifteen leagues further to the 

, ' ' ' ' ' ' I < f , ‘ 

tm^-yresb and for^* moire 

to the northwest or north; Wheh in th0 la^thdo the 
Xde of B4 he -vras to run in due east^ and, if th# ;iidud % 
wofli^ uroit in Basque Boads for a &70umhle dp^jpqrlu^ 
but if the tdud was east, then he could turn noi^ s^irt 
c(Nutt of Brittanj, pass through the Baz de Sein, and so get 
uito Brest, Similar instructions were sent to Toulon, iKud 
the Prince of the Peace was to be asked (instructed) to order 
as many ships of the Uue, frigates, and other ressels as 
possible to assemble at Cadiz (closely blockaded by the 
English fleet) ; to be ready for sea by the end of April, with 
provisions for three months and 15,000 troops — ^si elle 

* (cette arm5e navale) n’dtait pas bloqu5e par dM forces 

* snpdrieures,’ and so to Brest, hugging the southern coast 
of Brittany, and also passing through the Baz de Sein. 

All this, on paper, looks so neat and well-arranged that 
an effort is perhaps necessary to remember what Utter 
nonsense it was ; that at Corfu Brueys could get neither 
men nor provisions, and that he was short of both ; that the 
ohances of his eluding the blockading fleets off Cadiz and 
off Brest were very small ; and that the Baz de Sein was 
not a passage that even well-found and well-disciplined ships 
cared to go through j or that the idea of the Spanish fleet 
— even if it could be assembled at Cadiz — ^putting to sea in 
face of that terrible Jervis, who bad given them such a 
dressing on St. Valentine’s Day, was simply absurd. 
Throughout the paper, though nominally drawn out in 
collaboration with the Ministre de la Marine, shows that it 
can only have been the work of a man who did not under- 
stand and never did understand the merest alphabet of sea 

Bat the great difficulty, as it appeared to the Directory, 
was the want of money. The ordinary Budget could not 
meet the exceptional expenses of the expedition, and public 
credit was almost uou-existeut. A portion of the debt had 
been converted into five per cent, stock, but even at twenty 
it was unsaleable. ’’ Other measures must be tried ; and as 
the invasion of England appealed to a popular sentiment, it 
was thought that * free gifts ’ might realise the sum required. 
An enormous number of such gifts came in, but the value 
was trifling; it is mentioned that l,375pemonB contrihuteda 
total of 2,672 francs, and that in one department 25,000 francs 
were made up * par une multitude de sommes minimes.’ As 
tibis sdieme had failed, a loan of eighty millions , 
amaotmoed on very favourable terins, with guarantor* , 

2S8 The Trmuih to JSjjfyjpt In 3 728^ 0<8!i 

iMmoaeB.iiO be paid oni of the eontribaiiotiflleTied inSagkiid 
after the viotories to be won there ; but the pubhe mid bo 
confidence in the guarantee nor apparently in the bontutee 
before the Tictories were won. The Directory then fiineied 
that some adranti^e might accrue to them, and certainly 
some injury be inflicted on the enemy, by greater stiingency 
in the prombition of English manufluitures, which, tiiough 
contraband, were largely introduced through Genera. Orders 
were accordingly given to the police, and on January 4, 
1798, a general search was made. English manufiustures 
were seized wherever found ; and among the rest a quantity 
of cashmere at Lyons, where it had been sent to be em- 
broidered and made into costumes for the Bepresentatives. 
Of course the tailors were loud and vehement in their 
denial, and the Bepresentatives were indignant. But the 
police, though apologetic, were firm ; the proof of an English 
origin was clear, and they could not suppose that the Bepre- 
sentatives wished their own law to be broken in their name. 
The seizure seems to have been maintained, but republican 
purity promptly superseded the too zealous Minister of 

The want of money, however, was not allowed to interfere 
with the preparations. In some way or other sufficient for 
the immediate necessities was raised, and orders for the 
troops were systematically arranged, so that, between 
January 19 and March 22, 46,757 men of all arms should be 
collect^ in the north and west. These, with 2,800 horses, 
were to be carried across the Channel in 648 boats gathered 
together along the coast from Boulogne to Dunkirk, and to 
be convoyed by the whole strength of the navy. On paper 
the boats and the ships seemed as likely to be in the 
appointed place at the appointed time as the soldiers ordered 
to go in them ; and Bonaparte seems at first to have taken 
for granted that they would be there. Some of the reports, 
however, were not quite satisfactory, and he spent ten days 
in the middle of February in making a personal inspection 
of the preparations. On the 21st he returned to Paris {uo- 
foundly dissatisfied with what he had seen and heard ; and 
^6n learnt that the squadron from the Mediterranean was 
more to be counted on than the ships from Brest or ^e 
boats from Boulogne or Dunkirk. 

On Eebru^ 2S he gave in his report to the Directory 
---a< f^pdrt interesting in itself, and more especially as 
marking Ute end of that particular project for the invasion 
of Enpimd, It occupies rather more than four printed 

1901. The lEhepedU^ to Bgypi v» 1798« 218 

pages, Ms the following are some of its more imporla&t 
■enteiioeB : — 

' Qtielqiiea efforts quo nous fassions, nous n’scqaerrons pss d*iei & 
plusieura ann^es 1» superiority des mers. Operer uue m 

Augleterre, sans etre maitre de la mer, est roperation la plus hardisi et 
la plus difficile qui ait ete faite. 6i elle eat possible, (/e9t m iurprmd^ 
le passage, soit en ychappant k Fescadre qui bloquerait Brest ou la 
Texel, Boit en arrivant sur des petits bateaux pendant la mut et apis 
une traversye da 7 & 8 heures, sur un des points de la proirinca 
de Kent ou de Sussex, Pour cette opyration, il faut de longues nuits 
et dis lors Fhiver. Passy le mois d'avril, il n'est plus possible de rien 
entreprendre. * . . Notre marine est aujourd'hui aussi peu avancde 
qu’A* rypoque oi Ton a cryy Farmde d’Angleterre, c’est-i-dire il y a 
quatre mois. . . . L’expydition d’Angleterre ne para it done dtra 
possible que Fannye prochaine ; et alors il est probable qua les 
embarras qui surriendront sur le continent s^y opposoront. Le yrai 
moment de se pryparer k cette expydition eat perdu peut-^tre pour 

This in itself is sufficiently definite, and admits of only one 
meaning; but it looks as if, after writing it, Bonaparte 
remembered, or was reminded, that public feeling was so 
bitter against England that there would be much discontent 
if the idea got abroad that the expedition had been lightly 
given up. He therefore — ignoring the conclusion he had 
just come to— passed on to speak at length of measures for 
hurrying on the preparations at the several ports ; but 
above all there must be money. After which he reverted to 
his original conclusion. 

^ S’il n'est pas possible de se procurer exactement Fargent deraandd 
par le pryaent mymoire, ou si, vu Forganisation actuelle do notro 
marine, Fon ne pense pas qu’il soit possible d’obtenir cette prompti- 
tude dans Fexycution que les circonstances exigent, il faut alors 
reellement renoucer k toute expydition d'Angleterre, se contenter de 
s'en (euir aux apparences et fixer toute son attention comuko tous ses 
moyens sur le Hhin. • . . Ou bien faire une expydition dans le Levant 
qui meDa 9 at le commerce des Indea. £t si aucune de ces troia opyra- 
tiouB n’est faisable, je ne vois plus d ’autre moyen que de oonclure la 
paix avec FAngleterre,’ 

If after this report there remained any doubt as to the 
impossibility of the expedition for that year, it was speedily 
removed. During the next two or three days other reports 
came in — especisdly from Brest — which showed the utter 
hopelessness of the task. The storehouses were depleted ; 
there was absolute want of everything ; want of hemp, of 
provisions, and, above all> of sailors. Without further delay 
the Directory passed to a consideration of the alternatives 


FreiuA MxpediHm to in 1798. Odb 

Boiiftparte had proposed, and. decided tmanimoosfy in &mta 
of the expedition to Bgyipt. Later on, when it began to 
appear that the result might be a terrible disastejr, the 
members of the Directory were equally unanimous in i^eir 
attempts to exculpate themselres individually, and to lay the 
blame of assent on ail the others who allowed themselves to 
be carried away by the fire and genius of Bonaparte, who 
was solely responsible for the suggestion. So said Bevellidre> 
L 6 peaux ; so said Barras : — 

* Quelques-uns de mes ooliegues et moi nous lui ftmes les objec- 
tions . . . il trouva rdponae a tout. Je n’en permstais pas moins mns 
mon opinion, celle do ne pas tenter une arenture aussi hasardeuse. 
Mais la majority se laissa en trainer par rassurance que le gdndral 
donnait d’une enti^re r^ussite, ct par les brillants rdsoltats qu’on a’en 

So also said Rewbell : — 

‘ Bans la malheureuse catastrophe d’Aboukir, je serais pout-^tre 
reste le seul censeur de la brillante expedition d’Egypte. ... La 
po8t4rit4 pourra peut-Ctre juger son expedition avec 86v6riy ; mais 
nos oontemporains ne seront pas surpris que mes oollisgues et moi nous 
ayons partagd I’enthousiasme g^ndral, et c6d4 & I’ascendant da g^nie 
d’un h4ros convert de gloire, qui r4pondait ^ toutea les objections.’ 

M. de la Jonqui^re thinks that Merlin de Douai came the 
nearest to the truth when he wrote : ‘ Si I’on ne pent pas 
* dire que c’est lui (Bonaparte) qui a 00090 le premier I’idSe 
‘ de cette expedition, du moins on peut assurer que sans lui 
‘ elle serait restee en projet.’ 

In reality, the idea, which had been afioat in French 
politics for quite a hundred years, was at this date first 
formulated by Talleyrand with the paradoxical intention of 
diverting the Government and the public from hostility to 
England. In England and the Dnited States Talleyrand 
had passed the revolutionary years, and on his return to 
France in September 1796, &ongh not burdened with any 
sense of gratitude to the country which had sheltered him 
in the hour of danger, he bad learned to understand it and 
its ways a little better than the great bulk of the French 
]^ple, or than his colleagues in the Government, when, in 
July 1797, he became Foreign Minister. He had especi^ly 
noted the colonial and commercial policy, and vnshed that 
France should endeavour to imitate it. But for this, peace 
and, if possible, alliance with England weie necessary ; and 
though The preaching peace with England at tl^t time 
woum only have drawn on himself ridicule and distruri}, he 
etui aitoed at turning the attention of his counlay away 

1901. 2%e 

&OW tibe waVi So oa Febroary 14 ^ 179 $, ^iribila the ISiii^b 
expedition was still the eagrostdngr topic cf titte dcyv he 
headed in to the Directory a long memoir on the rations 
of IVanoe with Egypt, dwelling on the opporttmii^ of 
occupying it, and the great advantages which would i^MRilt 
&om doing so. 

With the drawing up of this memoir and its presentation 
to the Directory Bonaparte had assuredly nothing to do. 
He was, indeed, out of Paris at the time, and for a week 
afterwards $ and when, years afterwards, he had it in his 
hands, the notes which he scribbled on the margin—* Quelle 

* folie i ’ * Cela est feauz ’ (»tc), and such-like — are proofs 
that the composition was none of his. And thus Oaptain de 
la JonquiCre holds that, as to the origin of the expedition 
to Egypt, we must distinguish two different and successire 
actions. First, that of Talleyrand, in taking up an old 
tradition of French diplomacy, giving to vague projects a 
precise 'form which could be immediately realised, and 
endeavouring to turn France from a contest which he 
regretted. Second, that of Bonaparte, who, finding himself 
obliged to postpone the invasion of England — ^a project 
which he had made his own, and to which, in later years, 
he reverted with redoubled determination — and recognising 
the impossibility of playing any great political part just at 
that moment, decided on an enterprise which inflamed his 
enthusiasm. The idea was not new to him ; he had men- 
tioned it in his letters ; it had seemed to him possible if it 
should be desirable. Kow that it was officially brought 
forward, officially sanctioned, he threw himself into it with 
all his marvellous energy and genius. On March 5 he pre- 
sented to the Directory a note beginning, * Pour s’emparer de 

* I’Egypte et de Malte il faudrait de 20,000 a 25,000 hommes 

* d’infanterie et de 2000 a 3000 de cavalerie, sans chevaux,' 
and giving a detailed statement of the available troops and 
guns, with suggestions as to what means of transport were 
to be found in the ports of southern France and of Italy. 
This was the foundation of the enterprise. 

But neither Bonaparte nor the Directory had any doubts 
About its being in its conception and its success a measure 
of hostility to England. The occupation of Egypt was 
to be a deadly blow to English commerce ; the immediate 
consequence of it was to be an effective alliance with Tippoo 
Sahib, and the despatch of 15,000 men to support mni 
against the English; and though they had no immediate 
a^ety on the score of English interference they cousidmed 

256 Th» IkepeddHon to IBgypi in 1798. Oct. 

it pradent tc^revent a knowledge of the project reaching 
the English Gfovemment. The presence of English prisoners, 
many of them on parole, in the seaports might mas be a 
sonroe of inconvenience or danger, and an order was given 
to have them all removed inland. A few days later a fhrther 
order was given that * tons les prisonniers de guerre anglais, 

* sans distinction de grade, seraient incarclr^s et rennis 

* dans les d^paxtements de Seine-et-Oise, Seine-et>Mame, 

* Ai8ne-ei>>Loiret.’ This, however, was mainly a measure of 
precaution ; for all concerned seemed to have persuaded 
tl^mselves that the English were too stupid to understand 
that they had any particular interest in the matter, and 
that, even if they did understand it, they had no fleet in the 
Mediterranean, and were powerless to interfere. This 
pleasing idea was, indeed, not long-lived \ and a little later 
every one, except perhaps Bonaparte, became exceedingly 
nervous about the chances of inWruption ; but in March 
the difficulty immediately before them was the poverty of 
the dockyards and the want of seamen. 

In England the belief then, as all through the eighteenth 
century, was that the French, by a well-arranged system of 
registration, could always man their fleets without difficulty 
or disorder, while the English, with minds not so happily 
regulated, could only do so by the barbarous and brutal 
methods of the ‘ press.’ In reality, under the republic or 
empire, as under the old monarchy, the French system of 
‘ classes ’ and ‘ inscription ’ broke down whenever the stress 
of war fell on it ; and the French ships were manned by an 
application of force, compared with which the English 
‘ press ’ was a mere nursery game. At the time we 
are speaking of, on a report from the Ministre de la 
Marine that great difficulties were met with in raising 
seamen ; that ‘ la malveillance et I’insubordination sont au 

* comble ; beaucoup de municipalit4s prStent leur appui aux 
‘ r4fractaires ; ’ the military authorities of Toulon were 
ordered to support the officers in charge of the ‘ inscription 

* maritime,’ and to furnish them with detachments of 
soldiers, who were to search the communes and those places 
— * ou se r4fagient les marins d^sertenrs, d5sob4issants ou 

* vagabonds, et les ramener a Toulon.’ Q^e difficulty, how- 
ever, was not to be easily overcome, and a month later — 
AprU 0— -the Commission d’Armement reported that — 

*£116 8 convenn aveo le gia4tal Dugus de fliire cantemoer lee 
troupes prts de Is mer, de Martigues ik Saint-Tropez, puis de les 
exnjdoyer, i un jom d^termin4, pour cernec les quarners maritimes et 

1901. Z%e Frmch Eatpmiotk to B^t ^ 1798^ 857 

reoh«rob«r 1 «b l^fnctaires. Oette mesnre t* •'ex^cater |AO«swmtimt. 
La conuttiaaion a jug^ qua, dana lea ciiconstances aetdaUe% u wait 
indiapffiiBable de reoourir k dea moyena encore pins rigonreox. Slle 
a pm nn arr6t4 par lequel tons lea patrons pSohenra qni n'ont paa 
atteint Pftge de 40 ana, et lea mattrea an petit cabotage qn! ne oom- 
mandent pas depoU troia mois an moina aont appelda k aervir sar les 
vaiaaeanx de la R4publique. Get arr6t4, quoiqa*il blease dea intdl4ts 
particnliers, quoiqa’il porte ni^me un prejudice notable 1 un mdtiar 
utile sous bien dea rapports, pouvait aeul nous foumir lea moyena de 
mettre lea ^uipages dea divers bS.tinienta sur an pied respectable.* 

Meantiiue the appearance of energj was kept up in the 
west. It was important that the attention of England 
should be diverted from Toulon, and a show of activity was 
prescribed in the ocean ports. On March 7 the Ministre de 
la Marine wrote that he had just been inspecting the dock- 
yard at Brest : * tons les ateliers sont dans la plus grande 

* activity ; les ouvriers sont contents et z4l63. Je n’entends 

* dire partout que : Vive la E4publique et p4risse TAngle- 
‘ terre ! ’ Cheers or huzzas are not very difficult to get 
from workmen in the presence of a magnate such as the 
minister ; but the very great activity did not produce any 

t reat results. They may, in fact, be summarised as the 
tting out the ‘Hercule,* to fall into our hands as she 
attempted to pass from Lorient to Brest ; the burning of 
the ‘ Quatorze Juillet ; * and finally the expeditions to 
Ireland, which were brought to a somewhat inglorious end 
at Ballinamuck and off Tory Island. These came later ; and 
all through the spring, while busy about the preparations 
for the Egyptian campaign, Bonaparte’s thoughts were still 
taming to what became more and more the darling project 
of his life — the invasion of England. On April 18 he gave 
in to the Directory a ‘ Note sur la guerre I. I’Augleterro,* 
which curiously illustrates this. He felt and knew that 
nothing could be done till the predominance of England at 
sea had been broken down ; but he had not realised how 
this was to be accomplished. He almost seems to have 
believed that an arrStS of the Directory then, or, at a later 
date, a decree of the Emperor, ought to be sufficient. It is 
well to see how he proposed to effect this : — 

‘ Que nous 'soyons en paix ou en guerre, il nous ihut 40 ou 
50 millions pour reorganiser notre marine. Notre amee de terre 
n’en sera ni plus ni moins forte; an lieu que la gnerro oblige 
I’Angleterre k mire des prdparatifs immenses qui ruinent ses finamms, 
ddtroisent I’eqprit de commerce et ebangent absolnment la constitution 
«t les moeura de ce people.’ 

258 Th 0 JPrmcJi in 0&t« 

We patise to call attention to the ^xtraordbaty techloaa^ 
ness of the assertions here made. The ^ditional expenditnte 
of 60 millions on the navy will not affect the expenditure 
on the army, but the increased burden which it will throw 
on England will ruin that country* 

‘Nous devons employer tout r4t<S b, armor notre escadre de Brest, & 
fairs exercer nos matelots dans la rade, k acbever lea vaiaaeaux <}ui 
sent en construction k Rochefort, k Lorient et k Brest. Si Ton met 
quelque activity dans cea travaux, nous pouvona esp^rer d’avoir au 
moia de septembre trente-cinq vaiaaeaux de guerre It Brest, y compris 
lea quatre ou cinq nouveaux que Ton peut construire It Lorient et it 

Similarly, 400 gunboats are to be collected or built during 
the summer, and their crews are to be trained. The Dutch 
are to collect twelve ships of the line at the Texel. 

* II aerait possible, apr&s Texp^dition que le gouvemement projette 
dans la M4diterran4e, de faire passer cea quatorze vaisseaux h Brest, 
et de garder implement les neuf vaisseaux v^nitiens, ce qui nouEi 
ferait, dans le courant des moia de vend^miaire et bruniairO (Octoher- 
November), cinquante vaisseaux de guerre fran^ais a Brest et presque 
autant de fr<5gateA.’ 

This sentence has a very remarkable bearing on two much- 
debated points, to which we shall presently recur — the sea- 
worthiness of the fourteen ships, and their waiting in 
Egyptian waters. 

* II serait possible alors do transporter 40,000 hommea sur le point 
d’Angleterre que I’on voudrait, en ^vitant m^me un combat naval si 
Tennemi 4tait plus fort, dans le temps que 40,000 hommes menace- 
raient de partir sur les 400 chaloupes et autant de bateaux pScheurs 
de Boulogne, et que I’escadre hollandaise et 10,000 hommes de trans- 
port menaceraient de se porter en Ecosse. Ex^cut^e de cette maniire, 
et dans les mois de brumaire et frimaire (November-December), 
invasion en Angleterre serait presque certaine. L’Angletexre 
s’^puiserait par xm effort immense et qui ne la garantirait pas de notre 
invasion. En effet, Texp^dition dans I’Orient obligera 1* Angleterre k 
envoyer six vaisseaux de guerre de plus dans Tlnde, et peut-6tre le 
double de fV^gates k rembouchure de lamer Rouge ; elle serait obligee 
d’avoir de 22 a 25 vaisseaux k Fembouchure de la M4ditetraii4e, 
60 vaisseaux devant Brest, et douze devant le Texel, ce qui formerait 
nn total de IDS vaisseaux de guerre, sans ceux qu’elle a aujourdhui 
en Amdrique et aux Indes, sans compter dix ou douze vaisseaux de 
50 canons, aveo uUe vingtaine de frigates, qu’elle serait obligee d’avoir 
pour a’opposer k Tinvasion de Boulogne. Nous nous conserverions 
toujours nudtrea de la Mdditerran^e, puisque nous y aurions neuf 
vahiieaux de construction vdnitienne.’ 

It might mem mah to Bay of anything that Bonaparte wrote 

mu m 

tbat iii is absolute uonsense; but if all tUs was out fcu a 
stoiy<-book9 it would be paralleled only hj Alnasobars d?eam, 
with Aluaschar’s foot taking the rdle of Nelson in Aboukiir 
Bay. Not the least curious thing about it is that» to the 
close of his career, Bonaparte preserved the same wMfauoy 
for stationing the English navy, forgetting or ignoring the 
Y^ry simple fact which, time after time, the English 
Admiralty tried to impress on him, that the stations of the 
English navy were determined in accordance with their views 
of the country’s needs, and not to suit the fancies or the 
hopes of an enemy’s general. He never understood that, 
with blockading squadrons at Cadiz, Ferrol, Rochefort, and 
Brest, the English held the inner lines of communication*^ 
a fact which no one would have detected more quickly than 
himself if only the armed forces had been on shore. 

With this, however, we have now no further concern. The 
main effort was being made in the south, at Toulon and 
Marseilles, in Italy at Genoa and Oivita Yeochia, and in 
Corsica* Here were fitted ont the ships of war 5 here were 
collected the transports $ here were embarked the troops. 
The dates which M. de la Jonqui&re lays down as marking 
the important stages in the equipment are : March 5 — The 
Directory issues the decrees for making powerful armaments 
in the Mediterranean ; April 12 — ^The Army of the East’ is 
definitely organised, the name giving precision to the resolu- 
tion ; May 4 — Bonaparte quits Paris to put himself at the 
head of the army and to watch over its final preparations. 
To these might be added, May 19 — The fleet sails from 

The difficulties in fitting out and manning the fleet, of 
which we have already spoken, had been very great, but 
they had been overcome— some of them, perhaps, in a very 
makeshift manner. The expedition, as it finally put to sea, 
consisted of 88,000 soldiers of all arms; 18,000 men— 
sailors with some soldiers — forming the crews of 14 ships of 
the line, with frigates and smaller vessels ; and 8,000 men, 
the crews of 280 transports varying in size from 400 tons 
down to 40. Of these transports about half were French ; 
the greater part of the rest were Italian; but there were 
maw Spanish, and a few representing almost every nation 
in Europe — Danes, Swedes, Turks, Greeks, &c. At the 
time of leaving there seems to have been no mention of the 
of war being undermanned, though it is repeatedlv 
said that the quality of the men, as sailors, was indifferent. 
In each ship of war a detachment of soldiers was borne as 

7 . 7-s 

260 Th$ JPrmeh EaspedUion io Egypt in 1706*' Out. 

pa^rt oomplenxent, in exactly the same way as in ISnglish 
ships a detachment of marines or soldiers in lieu of mariaiWi 
was borne. The difference — and it was an important ona-* 
was that these detachments were famished by the regiments 
embarked, and were immedktely subject to army oonhcoh 
This proved to be a Very serious defect in organisation ; but, 
in fact, the whole fleet— not the soldiers omy — ^was subject 
to the general commanding, in a way that is difficult for 
us to understand. 

From the time when, in command of the squadron in the 
Adriatic, Brueys was placed under the orders of Bonaparte 
he had accepted the role of a humble dependent ; and after 
he was appointed to the naval command of the expedition to 
Egypt his letters to Bonaparte are obsequious to an extreme 
degree. Putting the possession of mere animal courage on 
one side, he seems to have been a poor creature, and perhaps 
on that account better suited to the purposes of Bonaparte, 
who wanted an instrument, not a colleague. But the official 
documents now before us show clearly that Bonaparte was 
quite as much commander-in-chief of the fleet as he was of 
the army, and that he exercised the command in matters of 
detail, of which he knew nothing. We can understand that 
in such an expedition the general-in-chief may have a 
certain control over the movements of the fleet, but we can 
see no possible result but confusion and disaster when the 
general undertakes to direct the internal economy of the 
ships and the details of organisation. And this is exactly 
what Bonaparte did. Ho was to order everything — even to 
the way in which the ships were to be painted ; Brueys was 
to obey orders. Here are some instances of the manner and 
extent of his command : — 

‘ 22 Avril , — II est indispensable, oitoyen gdndral, que vous org^nielez 
BUr-le>cbainp I’escadre. Le citoyen Ganteaume, chef de diviaiOD, 
Tompliia lea fonotiona do chef de I’dtat-major de I’eacadre. Le oitoyen 
Casabianca seta votre commandant de pavilion. . . . Nos treize vais- 
seaox seront divisds en trois escadres. Celle de droite et de gauche 
semnt oompotdes chacune de quatre vaisseaux, et celle du centre de 
cinq. Chaqne escadre aura une frdgate ot uoe corvette. Les contre- 
amiraux Blanquet et Yilleneuve commanderont chacun une escadre. 
Le gdndral Deeres commanders le convoi. ... II aura aussd sous ses 
ozdres immddiats trois frdgates armies en guerre et un nombre de 
briokB bons marcheurs. . . . Avec ces b&timents il dolairera la marehe 
de I’esoadre. . . . 

*11 jifat.— L'escadro etant composde de 15 vaiaseaia, de 12 
ffdgatee, de plus de 200 bUtiments de convoi, vous deves pmoidre ie 
tatre et le pavilion d'emiral. 

lUhiiraf to 

jp 1^ 0 , «ioMiiui»>fl4Mi» ftttMlU pi wMolo# P 

Toos^'Iea joma, depute 9 liteuwi Jwi^Ctt^ 
P ii) |i p |‘a{«^pi4l depute t Meerea jaaqa’i^ 4, ahaqtte flMMwIli 
liiadpaiweatii Tbeara at aa in4t qp lu! Sj^ot inaiqiteipi,' 
ijMyaJPItfte dq vtdiaM«) i’ezarcicp d’apFeQttesagd poor montw 'mr l«4 
g| % ]op^ dea 

Sp'Ott ;^ ^nf j^iwj of dj&afs^ not a. queatios^ of tli$ 

,of 0^ the anomaly^qf tUote bebig 

|ipjiii»d*di^ ^6 tt^e^Bole aothority 6| ^he ganOlli^ 

^iiiei«4 «if 1*7 MaMne a^d tEe adpirftl .ia 

^^diiad^r ' X|ti~may^ pez^&pa, .bo la:^ly aibtribat^ io tbifli 
Pliit^ op^taa^ the ^eet' tbat the «bipB of Vaar Weifo 
l^iab^^ bp'^iib soldiera to a ibdat dangerous .extent. ' fn 
to 74-guniAt|w 
Pibdi^di/ IQO' soJflijM. ? TK^. * 'toniianV - of ,80 guns and.^a 
c'o]i^tos4eici| of ^6, bad '467. soldiers Ob board»W, in all»: 

, were'iiqb -quito so crowded,' ai^d 

itoto tb4>li£^t ineffective of We fleet ; but if, asr was quite 
within ^<e^ttog <!bfWo®®;'it bad met the .^pglisb fl^t at’sehi 
it wobld hbve been as bkek a daj for*France ds any iu be^if 
aniudt. Tjbere, were many ^bo could see and shudder ai 
this eXtrepo danger. rBonaparte does not seem to bare 
understood ft or believed' in .it ; and Some„. at least, of the 
scddiers in high tomtnand aeem to have thought that the 
numbers bu jtoard' would. give them a decided advantage. - 
Brigadier><$teneral Laugier; for iostance, on board the 
* Feuple Souverain,’ wroto-in Ms JournM ;'— ' ^ * 

‘ Clto^ue join on teit la iu.anoeuvre du caiio'n ; les soldats da terra 7 
montrent lour intelligence .et surtout lenr bdnne vplont4 ordiOaire. 
On fl’ocenpe do x^gler b ravanco" leS postes que deVront occtyi^r ies 
troupSa embarqu^es dabs le oas d’une rencontre laVeo I’ennemi et d’un 
tombait ■ Si nous aobntos'lnaUres de .nos teantOuvree li, tord du 
^ Peuple-Souverain,’' notre desseln est d’a^roober lee Vaisaeanx 
ettassote le pins p^ible or, quoique' nous ne eomptions pas absolu- 
Want Sbr la possibiiitd qp f abordage, qoi abceteairemsnt nonS seiait 
tkto avsntsgfniX, nOuS eapfpdaa qu'au moyen d’un feu de mouaqueterie 
bten dte%4 on em^totsrait les mStelots eqnemte de manoeu^ri on les 
teMtoudsUut au pimi^ de tihie/t se montrer ear le pent, on jstterait les 
^pptes «t tont ab moinson edtraineibit le vaisseaq enaeml.' 

jplf uonne Were ivere rumours of an bIngliW dqnadron. 
Illi^ ^legsploog befiwe an. English pbip qf war eope into 
and continutld in an exaggerated fcont* 
iltelt dedbito hews liras il^obght into the fleet on Jnne 
Wtoe Bii^glaalli shipa of the line r^er the oompand W 
foXh oxorr. np. oaoxavttu f 

Pretidk io Bthpi in ItfMi 


iMOMOn ttaa put into me voaaa ox imi 

iiAo, miled again on the 28thk Kcdsoo’s tkip turn lost %$bc 
lotemast. After th&t nothing more mne known. *9^ 
convoy fn)m Clvita Vecchia hod not joined, end Bcneyn was 
anxious about its safety; but Bonaparte refused to sanetion 
his sending away four of the Ships of the line to pirotcet it. 
Brueys seems to have been infected by his confidence, and 
on June 5 vrrote to Blanquet : — 

‘ Lorsque nous serons arrives 6. file de Malta, vons eerez charge, 
avec lea qoatre vaisseaux de Totre eacadre, do bloqaer le port de Malta 
et, fd la division anglaise arait fait la sottise de s'y enfermer, il feudra 
qu’etle voos parle pour en sortir. Nous ne serons d’ailleurB jatdais 
dloignds pour ne pas venir h vous, an premier coup de canon.' 

The orders under which the fleet had sailed, in this 
respect certainly suggested by Bonaparte himself, were to 
seize on Malta, for which — ^it was said— the English were 
negotiating, though it was more probable that the Grand 
Master, being OB' Austrian, would cede it to the Emperor. 
It does not appear that these suspicions had any foundation 
in fact, or were an;j^thing more than a pretext ; but since 
the day when the wolf ol^ected to the lamb’s muddying the 
water it has not been thought necessary for the suspicions 
of the aggressor to be based on fact, or even on probability. 
The detailed plan was therefore arranged beforehand, and 
when, on June 9, the expedition came off the island, a 
quarrel was at once made out of the Grand Master’s refusal 
to permit the whole fleet to come in to water. As a neutral, 
he could only allow a belligerent’s ships to water by four at 
a time. This was exactly the answer on which Bonaparte 
had counted, and at his dictation the Oonsul wrote expressing 
the General’s indignation at the refusal, and his determina- 
tion to take by force that hospitality which the Ordex was 
bound by the laws of its foundation to exercise. As if on 
his own account, he added that the forces at the dispoml Of 
ike General were bo great that resistance was Impossible, 
and therefore he besought him to come to terms at onoe. 
‘Eeslstance was, in fact, impossible. 

It 1^ often been said that the Grand Master was a 
traitor } that he was bought over by hard cash and premised 
advanti^s. This is not exactly correct. He was not a 
faiailfmr ipox gain, bat one only from incapacity. All through 
Hlf in^tiag lisquieti&g rumours oonoeming the armaiiadima 
aWl Italy had oO^ fe Kalta, htti the 0|«xid 
MmelfMiM ConnhU had thensiedees wlib. the 

ocnpijaotttre tibaA tEejr weir6 intended tot Haglitii^ Xt Ifu 
mtiw eliieaiwr to tibink ijK>| and as Bmsjrs, ir£o bad tottco^d 
at Malta on Hs way from Corfu to Toulo% kad daMrted Sn 
peaoo, they Judged tkat no bam to the Order was Inta&dadU 
But only a week before the Frenoh appeared, the Oraad 
Master had received a strong letter from the Minister of ^ 
Order at Bastadt : — 

‘ Je Tona pr4vieos, Monaeignetir, que I’exp^ditiqn oonsiddmble qni 
«e prepare t Toulon xegarde Malta et I’Egypte. . . . Yous aeros 
etrement attaqud. Frenez toutes les mesures pour voub ddfendrs 
oomme il faut. Les miniotres de toutea lea puissances amies de fOrdre 
qni sent ioi en sont instruits comme moi ; mais ils savent aUSsi que la 
place de Malte est inexpugnable, ou du raoins en dtat de r^sister 
pendant tools mois. Que Yotre Altesse Eminentissime y prenne 
garde ; il y va, Monseigneur, de votoe propre honneur et de la <son- 
serTation de fOrdre ; et ai vous cddicz sans vous Ctee dcfbndu, vous 
series d4sbonor4 aux yeux de toute I’Europe.’ 

Even this had not stirred to energy and to action the 
miserable imbecile who, at this critical moment, held the 
once glorious office of Grand Mastpr, The time was cer- 
tainly short, but the strength of the fortress was so great 
that little preparation was needed. The very least would 
have enabled the place to hold out for a few weeks, and 
Bonaparte could not spare days. But no preparation what- 
ever had been made, and the place surrendered at once on 
terms which Bonaparte, anxious to avoid delay, made as easy 
as possible — all the easier, perhaps, as he had no particular 
intention of giving effect to them. The Grand Master was 
to have a German principality and a pension of 300,000 ftanus. 
He got neither, though a sum of 600,000 ‘ k titre d’indemnit6 

* pour son mobilier ’ is said to have been paid. Every 
knight actually at Malta was to have a pension fox life of 
700 francs, or, if over sixty, of 1,000. Instead of that each 
one was paid 250 francs once for all> In return for th^ 
agxements Bonaparte, as representing the French Bepnhlic, 
trok over the full sovereignty of the island, with the arsenal 
and stores. A few days were occupied in organudng the 
garrison, and on June 19 the squadron saUed on a counm 
signalled as B.B. ^E. * This,* wrote General Belliard in his 
Journal, ‘ leads us straight to Alexandria, where it seems we 

* are to land. XJp to now welaavebeealsd. blvudfoIjA, and 

* eoold only guess whither we were going.* And Kleber 
tmofni I * H »T avait nas 40 personnes de rexpdditlon qffi 

* ISitent i^truites ^ la route qa*on aBadt prendre.* ' 

* he ea^ ^ hsid»heiiiintained tbSf lyere going to W 

* Cbeinea ; oliliAM had fovooxed the > 

^ doubt is oudod.’ ^ 

course given would bave taken tbe fleet straight 
AlexandriEi but {or some reason not stated^ end apparwtiiy 
not known, it was not kept to« Tjbe fleet steered lUore 
directly east, along tbe south coest of Crete, and so came 
to Alexandria on the curve of a bent bow. A note by 
Sulkowski, an officer on the staff-^^ bien plac4 anpr^s do 
^ Bonaparte pour connaitre ses pens4es et see preoccupations ^ 
—gives an interesting summary of the voyage : — 

<Les vents furent maniables pour nous jusqu*aux atterrsges de 
Candie. Lk ils renforc^rent et, quoique leur direction fCt bo^e, 
nous ne tardd.ines pas 4 sentir le danger dans lequel^ nous mettaient 
xnSme lea chances les plus ordinaires de la navigation. Uno seule 
nuit orageuse diasipa le convoi et fit mc^me perdre le conVoi aux 
vaisseaux de guerre. A la petite pointe da jour nous n’ap^ffimes aU 
bout d’un ciel n4buleux que quelques gronpcs de b^timents qui 
luttaient contre lea flots. Le reste s’ctait r^fugid sous la tetre ou 
errait sans obeir k nos aignaux de rallieinent. Heureusement le vent 
diminua et, soufflant constamment de Touest, iacilita k tons lea Vais'* 
seaux de reprendre la route. Get dy^nement ne nous coCta que yingt* 
quatre heures de retard ; mais il nous prouva ce qu^eCtt produit une 
tempdte. Deux jours plus tard une gal ere de Malte nous apprit la 
rentrde de la Justice ” et nous donna des details vagues sur Tappari. 
tion des Anglais. Dans cette incertitude on se prdpara au combat, 
toujours for 9 ant de voiles. . . . Le 12 [messidor (80 June)] nous 
reconnCmes terre.’ 

During the voyage detachments of soldiers were ordered 
to be furnished to the ships of war as part complement, 
those which they had at the beginning having gone towards 
forming the garrison of Malta — presumably because the 
commanding officers of the demi-brigades and the colonels 
of the regiments objected, as far as they could, to men 
being taken from their ranks. Now it was different# They 
were ordered to famish 160 men to the ‘Orient^ and 100 
to each of the two-decked ships, with a saving clause tjbat, 
we may be quite sure, only anticipated their choice—* Les 
^ bommes seront pris pr4f4rablcment parmi ceux qui sent 
^ incapables de marcher par des blessures venues aux jambes et 

* flktix cuisses/ How well the spirit of tbis order w#mi carried 
out is sbown by a complaint whicb, about a fortnight 

wrote to Bonaparte : * Les gamisons de nos vaisseatix 
^ emlit ^bles, et compos^es de soldats valStodimh^ 

* Jutmes ft insnboi^onnSs. D semble qn*on ait fait m cbolk 
^ d«i«ui toiro aim4e^ pour nous donner ee qu’il y await 4$ 

^ plus 

Jprmeik 1Bb^pt4iHefk ^ ^ t79C^ I# 

As tlw fleet flietr se^t At^xttndrift lli& £r%At9 
wee eet»t on aheed to see the IVenoh Oousnli aafl hinilifl In^ 
lUQiT lu^wi that he had of the state of the eottntiT* 9he 
t<^lhed the fleet on July 1, bringing the Oonsnl hinuMuf, 
with the startling news that only three days before the 
ihlglish squadron of fourteen sail of the line had been htf 
dieicendria. They had sent on shore a messenger for Ihdhiif » 
and had left the same evening, steering towards Cyprus. 
Here was aomething definite and unexpected. There had 
been the report of fourteen sail having been seen by the 

* Jnstice,' but it Was vague, and pointed to their being on 
the coast of Sicily. Now they seemed waiting for them on 
the coast of Egypt, and though they had gone towas’da 
Cyprus they might reappear at any moment. It became, 
therefore, necessary to get the troops on shore without a 
moment’s delay. 

This caused an important and immediate change in 
Bonaparte’s plans. M. de la Jonqui^re quotes at length 
from Solkowski’s notes, which explain how, in order to 
avoid crossing the desert with infantry, which, when weary 
and exhausted, might incur great danger from the cavalry 
of the Mamelukes, and to avoid the Nile, which the 
Mamelukes commanded with a numerous flotilla, Bonaparte 
had intended to land at Damietta and march on Cairo by 
easy stages, through a cultivated country, which afforded 
Uttie opportunity to the enemy’s cavalry. The urgency 
rendered this impossible. The troops had to be landed 
where they were, and, to keep up the communication with 
the fleet, Alexandria bad to be taken, though it h^ nothing 
to do with the objective of the campaign, which in the first 
insiajice was Cairo. Of this change of plan Bonaparte 
himself has told nothing j it would — he may have thought 
— be doing too much honour to the English. But in addi- 
tion to Snlkowski, to whose testimony he attaches great 
weight, M. de la Jonqui^re quotes the evidence of other 
liigmy plaeed officers, and amongst them Eleber, who says : 

* C’4st cette nouvdle qui d^termina pr^cipitamment uu 
* ddbarquemeut aux Marabouts; car le projet du ^ndral 

* avoit etS d’entrer dans le Delta par les deux boucnes du 

* Nfl.* It is thus fhlly established that Nelson’s flrst visit 
t6 Alexandria had an important effect. He had not snc- 
oeeded in catching ^e Erench fleet on its passage and 

* ttying Bonaparte on a wind ; * but the mere threat of bis 
pM^nee competed Bofloparte to change bis carefolly p^ 
pftfed plan, and enormously increased the difficnh^ of the 

2 ^ 

mUi Vfeneh MepeMtion io 172$. 0«fr. 

*S!hib burried landiog at Alexatidtia iiircdv^ ad ikWimlb ol 
ottafasiott and loss, wuh some drankenness, aaelt at )k»0 
tattgkt, by our newspapers, to consider peonliarlylittglllili $ a^ 
on tbe inarch 1^ Bamanhour to El l^hmanieh on the l^ile 
the sufferings of the troojps were very great, not only from 
the heat, I'^ich in Joly is deadly, bat from the want of 
provisions, for which there was no possible transport. The 
advance on Cairo followed. Into the details of it we do not 
propose to enter. They have often been related ; there is 
no opposite side to the story, and there are no controverted 
points of any general interest. We will only say that the 
battles with the Mamelukes, brilliant as they were, do not 
seem to us to call for the excessive self-glorification in 
which French writers have often indulged. We know the 
bravery of the Mamelukes ; we have ourselves often proved 
it in men of a kindred race ; but from the time of Cessar 
to that of Kitchener, discipline, skill, and superior arms 
have triumphed over rude valour and reckless daring. 
When we read of the battle of the Pyramids that the loss 
of the Mamelukes was estimated at about 2,000 men, that of 
the French at 20 killed and 120 wounded, we have a very 
clear idea of the category to which it belongs. 

Bat for ns the principal interest of the whole is in the 
action of our fleet, which, having failed to intercept and 
destroy the expedition on ite passage, presently returned to 
imprison it in the land of' its choice. The completeness 
wiw which it did this is faipiliar to ns all ; but there are 
many interesting questions as to the manner of it, some of 
which are now cleared up for the fiist time. In turning to 
these, it may be as well to refresh the memory of our 
readers by a brief recapitulation of our side of the story. 

On May 8 Nelson, with three ships of the line, four 
frigates, and a sloop, left Gibraltar to go off Toulon and 
ascertain, if possible, what -was being done there. Although 
the destination of the armament had been announced in the 
* Monitenr ’ of April 1, and (as we have seen) was known 
at Kastadt early in May, if not sooner, no whisper of it 
seems to have reached the English Government, and very 
oertaiuly had not reached Lord St. Tincmit when he sent 
aff Melson, or when, three weeks later, he sent off Trou- 
with ten ships of the line to join Mm. But the 
'frigwes, aad the sloop which were sent with him in the first 
iastahee had parted from him in a gale, and, hy some 
Vvoifri! saiettiliderstanding, had gone b^k to attd, 

Ihoagh seat into the Mediterrauean, they did nol fiiE 

la with n&t£i towardb the mid41d <>f Aagiwfeik It iMiii 
lhas ti}ai hd wan hti with thirteen ihipe 91 we Hne, it I>Q«> 
gna Rhipf aad aae little btig, to find out where the eneiuy 
had gone to* He had no intelligence, no instruotione, no 
indications, and by this failure of the fr^tes he had up 
loonti. If the frigates had been with him, the history of 
the next fifteen years would probably — we may almost say 
would certainly — ^haye been very different. As it we«» 
Helson conld not venture to detach ships of the line on 
Scouting duty, and had to do the scouting with the united 
squadron. At Naples, on June 17, he learned that the 
IVench fleet had gone to Malta. As he passed through the 
straits of Messina he learned that they were in full possesf 
sion of Malta, and had sailed again, steering east. Oontrary 
to his instructions. Nelson had all along believed that £!||^pt 
was the real objective of the expedition. He was nOw con- 
vinced of it; and, understanding that it had more start 
than it really had, he at once steered a straight course for 
Alexandria. It has been said that the French went by the 
how ; Nelson went by the string and sailed faster, so tlxat 
he arrived at Alexandria twenty-four hours before the 
‘ Junon,’ and nearly three days before the French fleet. Of 
the effect this had on the expedition we have already 
spoken. But Nelson, on his pai't, could not understand 
what had happened. It has been said that he ought to 
have had confidence in his judgement — to have seen that he 
must have passed the enemy on the way, and to have 
waited. But he had not acted on judgement, for he had no 
intelligence on which to form one; and his instructions 
named almost every place in the Mediterranean except 
Egypt. He had acted simply on the intuition of genius, 
and when it seemed to fail him he was obliged to fall back 
on the suggestions of his commander-in-chief. And so, 
quartering over the ground as he went westward, he put 
into Syracuse for water and fresh beef. After a few days 
there, he renewed the search, learned that the enemy had 
indeed gone to Egypt, followed them thither, found their 
fleet in Aboukir Bay, and destroyed it. 

The main incidents of the battle are known to every 
Englishman ; hut apart from some problems, peculiarly 
English, with which we are not now concerned, there ^ 
some points of very great interest, the elucidation of which 
can oi4y J>e given by French authorities. These M. de la 
^onqui^re now enables us to discuss in a satisfactory^ mannq|J< 
AH previons works, including even the very able history of 

to 17064 

(>|>^^ Chevalier/ are imperfect mi aw^e <cr Itaw 
iMf» The writera had m% that apportuaity of exattiaitig all 
the existing documcate which givea M* da la jroa<juieia*a 
work its exceptional value# 

Captain Chevalier had already toM us that three of Ihe 
French ships~the ‘ Guerrier/ the * People Soaveraiu,' acid 
the ‘ CouquSrant were worn out and had heeu condemned 
a year before. M. de la Jonquifere confirms this. The 
^ Conqu^rant * was judged to be so feeble that she was 
allowed only a reduced armament of 18- and 13-pounders 
instead of 86- and 18*pounders, and therefore also a reduced 
complement of men— *-560 instead of 706* ^ She was thus 
notably weaker than an established 74-gun ship, but remained 
very much stronger than the English 50-gun ship ^ Leandw,' 
with a complement of 348. As to the other twO, we have 
seen that Bonaparte — who had presumably made some 
inquiries — considered them, with the rest of the fleet, equal 
to a voyage to Brest and a winter cruise in the Channel* 
They had their full armament and complement of men, and 
were quite able to take — and did take — an effective part in 
the action. It may, of course, be said that, their timbers 
being unsound, the English broadsides broke through them 
with a smashing effect, which they would not otherwise have 
had. But if the * Guerrier,' for instance, had been newly 
off the stocks, she could not have been in much better case 
than she was after three 74-gun ships had made a target of 
her at thirty or forty yards distance; as had been illus- 
trated a few months earlier by the condition of the * Hercule,* 
a brand-new ship, after she had lain for a couple of hours 
alongside one English seventy-four. 

The statement on which French writers have laid more 
stress is that, on the day of battle, their ships were terribly 
undermanned. M. de la Jonqui5re repeats this with 
emphasis. He says : — 

* Les Equipages, au complet, auraient dO atteindre 11,168 hommea. 
Hais its pr^aentaient, le jour du combat, un deficit de 26 & 30 pour 100, 
resultant de I’incomplet au d<^part de Toulon, des pertes aubies, des 
hommes momentan^ment absents pour raison de service ou de saute. 
l/effeoti£ rdel ne pent done fetre 4valu4 qtf 4 8000 hommes envheu.' 

That of the English, whose ships had all their full complc* 

♦ * ISiStoire de la Marino Fran 9 aiBe sous la Preml4r0 B^puhHque*^ 

aad purely naval side of the ^o«y hto been hmy 
puhJi^edl^ the Navy Seconds Society in * Logs of the Great Sfih 
by Bear- Admiral T. Sturges Jackson. 

mi. 2%^ ^ Mm* ^ 

and no iidtr, lid eatittai^ kit 8,068. ti n^ylid Oattadliig 
to onr BiMoiml Tanity to find it Implied that 8,000 lireiufii- 
men ireve no maioh for 8,000 Bumtialiiiieit ; hdt tltie it, 
nmdiaps, not quite what M. de la Jonqai^ n>oant| and 
thevtfove, without oontradieiing the statement, it is trortli 
examining some of its details. These are :<^(1) Komhees 
inodmplete on leaving Tonlon. Of this no evidenoe it 
addneed ; and thongh Chevalier says the sam% he altq 
quotes no authority. Considering, however, the diffloul^ 
there certainly was in raising seamen, it is not at ail im*- 
prohahle that their numbers were short, and that their 
jdaoe was filled up, for the voyage, with soldiers, who were 
withdrawn. It was open to the commander>in>chief-~that 
is, Bonaparte — to have left them. (2) Losses sustained. 
Kone have been mentioned. There had been no engage* 
ment, no epidemio; there cannot have been more deaths 
than in ordinary course, which would make no inequality 
with the Bnglish. The same may be said of (3) Sickness* 
Ho exceptional outbreak is spoken of. If the ships were 
sickly, it was their own fault for not keeping them clean. 
But (4) Men temporarily absent on serrice is surely a most 
extraordinary way of counting. On August 1, according to 
the journal of a lieutenant of the ‘ Franklin ’ — 

‘ La Beconde escadre envoya des corv^es k tern pour cteuser des 
puits. Ohaque vaisaeau de I’aritide foumit 25 hommos de aa gamiaon 
pour protdger I’aiguade centre lea attaquea rditdr^ des Bedouins 
vagsbonda du pays. A 2 heurea de I’apr^a-midi, “ I’Heureux ” tignala 
12 voiles k rO.-N.'O. Effectivement, du haut dea mftta on kn 
distingua facilement. . . . Tons lea vaisaeaux firent alora le signal 
h lenra ohaloupes et canots de revenir k bord avec lea travailleurs ; ce 
qui ne fut exdcat5 que par quelques-aneB de cea embaroations.' 

This statement is corroborated by many others ; and besides 
these boats on shore for well-digging, there were others. 
Thxu Captain Trullet of the ‘ Guerrier ’ reports : — 

‘ Le grand oanot itait alld le matin & Boaette pour y prendre une 
pi^ oe mtture, servant ii remplacer la come d’artimon qui dtait 
rompua ; j’avsis aur oe sujet obtenu de I’amiral I’ordre pour expddier 
le canot et celui au commandant dea armea de Koaetlie pour ddlivrer 
la pil«» t I’offioier dn Guerrier ” que j’envoyai avec lo oanot artad 
de 23 kommes.’ 

The ^Conqudrant^ had also sent her * grand canot* to 
Bosetta ; possibly some others j other boats were on shore 
jjmt^g firowood, and returned or not as tb^ thought fit. 
Tilt east of the ‘ Bpartiate * is even more carious : — 

* Oe vakaeau re^t, vers 4 lieurm, Tardie d’envoyer son cepltaias 

270 5%6 Fri»eh h Jl^pi m t720* 0«lt 

di’«d|!tiU«ne BUa««rd pooir prendre ia wmrnm^nmt d« In biitt«rMi 4fi 
ffiorOeta dtabHe dans I’tle d’Abonkir. ... Lb eapitbine tdpiginbit 
infinimeat h eaVQjet le capitbiae d’axtili«ne de eon bord qnl Inl 
devenait de plus en plus ndceeaaire dans lb moment d’nne ad&it» 
certaine, et & se dbmuair, pour I’endoutLon de cet ordre» de rstmsmmtt 
d’un canot dont les faommea diminueraient d’autant I’dqnipege dea 
canons aunquels ils dtaient aiTecl^s ; mais ndanmoins lb cspitaine n’a 
pas era pouvoir ee dispenser de I’exdcution lUtdrale de I’ordre du 

None of these reasons for the absence of men from their 
shi|H3 can be accepted as establishing a deficiency in their 
numbers. The men were there ; it was for the ^miral to 
utilise them as he thought fit. The force of an army is 
always counted by the number of men actually at the dis- 
posal of the general in command j the absence of any of 
them from the scene of action may be the general’s faul^ or 
it may be his misfortune, but it does not alter the nnmher. 
The absence of these men in boats was as much the fault of 
Brueys as the absence from the battle of the ‘ Guillanme 
* Tell ’ or the ‘ G4n6reux.’ On the side of the English, the 
absence of the * Culloden ’ and her 600 men was an accident 
and a misfortune ; but it has not, we think, entered the 
head of any French writer — ^not even of one so scrupulously 
fear as M. de la Jonquidre — to omit either the ship or her 
men from his estimate of the English force. Nevertheless, 
it seems established that, by reason of Bonaparte’s with- 
drawing part of the men, and Brueys’ employing elsewhere 
part of those who were left, some of the ships were at a 
disadvantage in the time of battle. According to a journal 
quoted by Captain de la Jonqni^re — 

' A bord de “ TOrient,” uue partie de la batterie de 12 ’ (the main 
deck), * les canons de gaillard ’ (quarter-deck) ‘ et les obusiers ’ (car- 
ronades) ‘ de la dunette n’out point servi, faute de moude ; il n'y avait 
SUT le pout que des odiciers et quelques timoniers destinds aux mgbaux. 
Au lieu d’dquipages composes de matelots vigoureux et entendtts, nous 
n’avions presque que des en&nts.* 

This seems to speak of the bad quality of the ships’ oofe- 
panies as having something to do with the apparent deficiency 
of number. The writer of the Journal goes on ■ 

' Je me bomertd k remarquer que la discipline dtsit perdue dans 
I’srmde, qu'U y existait des germes d’inSurrection eontlre les gdudraux, 
^Ue I’d^isme et I'insouciance dtaient k leur comble. Les subordono^ 
lids k leurs chefs ni par la orainte ni par la oonfisnee ; des 
Iwaiwes ambitieux et remplis de vanitd croyaient leur mdrite Idsd 
pnroe quails syaient des superieuro. Je pe parle point de la tetalitd 
del effiflieti. J’en eoimais qui se spot totyonrs distioguda lesv 

1901 . fhe ^emh Mtp0iMHi»k in 1798 *, 

«a(jiTit£ «t lear niiiiA l>«««ooap oMlwOeat WuiKlitijp 

mitaietit «v«e ftoidaur la lifae da letua daveii^ # ediloeiiitiwlinil} 
dd&i^aiucaa^t aux mesores qns pmsonToit g^adital. Cm 

boniiBe% redereauB Fran^aia le jour du coidbat, out prea^ttA tous 
doaad iiveuTes 4clataates de courage et de satig>-£roid ; . . • WidB 
il dtait trap tard pour sauver I’eecadre de aa ruine, qua leux ioaottoimUie 
axait pr^parde.’ 

There is no doubt that all through the Bevolutionary irar 
the discipline of the French navy was extremely bad $ and 
bad discipline is extremely likely to lead to misconduct in 
the day of battle. The writer from whose journal we have 
just quoted thinks that instances of that were rare. 
Trullet, the captain of the ‘ Querrier/ says they were 
common. In a confidential letter to Bear- Admiral Yence« 
in Paris, he wrote : — 

‘11 me Buffit de vous faire coimaitre que la lacbetd* de pluateura 
oiHoiers a entraJnd celle d’une grande partie des (.'(luipagea ; car on en 
a Tu qui ont fui avec dee embarcationa cbarg^ea de monde, et 
d’autrea qui, en abandonnant lent poate, ont donnd lieu & I’abandon dea 
batteries, outre lea rapines qtii ont g6n(irales k bord do tous Ics 
Taisseaux ; ce qui pronve combien nos lois sont insuffisantcs pour la 
repression de ces d^Iits et combien on doit t'tre attentif pour le ohoix 
des officiers desquels dependent I’ordre, la discipline, endn la bonne 
composition des Equipages et, par consequent, le saint des forces 

Did the ‘ Orient ’ strike her flag before she blew P 
Kelson wrote that she did. He was so told by the English 
officers who were directly engaged with the ship ; they 
declared that she both struck and made distinct signs of 
surrender. Without any evidence that could counter- 
balance this, and more as a matter of sentiment, French 
vniters have always maintained that she did nothing of the 
sort. The journal of Laohaden^de, an officer of the ‘ Orient,' 
already referred to, seems to explain this contradiction. He 
says that Oanteaume, finding it impossible to arrest the 
progress of the fire, gave orders to flood the magazine ; but 
the fixe gained so rapidly that it could not be done. Ho 
gfoes on : — 

* lots il fut d4cid4 qu’on abandonnerait le vaisacau. Lfordre de 
cesser le feu flit donn4 dans la batterie ; et cliacun, occupd de son 
propre pdril, cheroba son salut dans la mer. Une oentaine d’hommes 
vemparctent de la ohaloupe et s’^loigntrenk; plusieurs s’embarqu^rent 
dans un eaaot t moitie incendid ; deux cents environ atteignircnt k fo 
mge les bStiuents environnanta ; tons les blessM deribrent la proSc 
des flammas. Je me jetai k la mer par un sabctd ; • • . quolque je 
ae Mehe pas aager, j'aftteignis une veigUe de grand bunier, star 

271^ 27^ !Prmtik h In 17$i» 

laujo^ j'attendU )e mottient <le r«nloia 0 li^ d» iOO homtifm 
ivrlkic^ Aijni cheroh^ im xeAiga sar dm mftttureB qui tittvIiroBiWtei l0 
i»»taH»w. A lOh. I il esuta ; notu fOues tons engloutii «t aenlaomi 
floixante d’entre nous piirent revenir aor I’eau et r^roorfamit anocive 
des d^bm sur laaquels Us ehercHrsat «n asile. Ces bois tonakiit pw 
quelque cordage k la carcasse coulee de T “ Orient; ” noua leetmea 
jiutqn'au jour sur ces ddbris flottanta fixds dana le yn^me lieUt et 
pendant cinq henres nous fUmes exposes k la cauonnade de I'arri^reo 
garde franqajiae ; nous e&mes 8 hommes de ta6a et plusieurs blewda.* 

Tbooi'li the minute exactness of the numbers and the time 
cannot but throw a shadow of suspicion on this testimcnj^y 
it is, we fancy, merely the manner of an unpractised writer, 
and the story may be taken as accurate in the main. We 
are thus permitted to suppose that after the order to 
abandon the ship was given, and what little discipline 
there had been was rdaxed, some poor creatures, half 
wild with terror, did strike the flag and make the signs 
of distress and surrender which were seen on board our 

why did the French remain at anchor, instead of meeting 
the Fnglish fleet at seaP M. de la Jonqui^re says that the 
BeaT'Admirals Blanquet and Villeneuve waited on Brueys 
on board the * Orient,’ and that, in a sort of informal 
council of war, Blanquet urged that the fleet should get 
tinder way and stand out to meet the English. Ganteaume 
and Villeneuve objected to tliis, on the ground that the 
ships’ companies were so weak they could not work the 
sails and the guns at the same time; they could not 
manceuvre and flght. Brueys agreed with these, and it 
was thus determined to fight at anchor. But, in fact, this 
was determined long before, in accordance with the traditions 
and experience of the French navy ; and though there had 
been some doubt as to whether the battery on me island of 
Aboukir was any protection, Brueys evidently did not share 
it, as is proved by his sending away Captain Blancord 
at almost the last moment. He had, indeed, such con- 
Mence in the support of that battery that he considered 
the weight of the English attack would fall <ni the rear^ and 
be met there by the ’ G^n^reux ’ and * GnUlaume TeU,’ two 
of the most powerful ships in the fleet. As the attai^ fell 
on the van, it has often been insisted that ViUenenye, 
wisth the rearmost ships, should have weighed, in order to 
BUj^^eitt the ships engaged $ but M. de la Jou4ni^re ^ints 
out that, se ifor as Yutoneuve was ecuc^ned, Bru^s>*-^viag 
qr dead«»was the oommauder-in-ohief till about half-patt 

ti^l, to S0pt lp|i t79pi itt 


imj* when the '‘Orient* Mew np» and th«t hd, ha^^n# 
italworitr to mere from hie Mlotted poet withont ardem. 
jBren in tiie Snglieh mkVf^ it took n Keleon to eet an 
example of eneh glorious disobedience. 

Bat what the I^noh have dwelt on with greateet Inidih 
tenoy^ os the principal cause of the disaster, is the obstinato 
disobedience of Bmeys in remaining in the Bay of Aboukhr 
af^ being formally and positively ordered by Bonapari^ to 
take the fleet to Corfu. This was asserted by Bonaparte 
himself, who wrote to the Directory within a few days of 
receiving the first news of the disaster : — 

‘lie 18 mesaidor’ (July 6) ‘ je suis parti d’AIeicandrie. J’torivis 4 
ramiral d’entrer, sous 24 houres, dans le port de cette ville, et, id son 
eieadre ue ponvait paa y entrer, de ddcfaaiger promptement toute 
I’artillerie et tons lea enets appartenant 4 I’armde de terre, et do ae 
rendre 4 Corfou. . . , Je auis done parti d’Alexaadrie daua la feroM 
cToyanoe que, aoua troia joura, I’escadre aerait entrde dans le port 
d'Alexandrie ou aurait appareill4 pour Corfou. . . . Le 9 thermiaor ’ 
(July 27) ‘le bruit denoa victoires et diff^rentes dispodtions rouvrirent 
noa Gommunicatioua. Je re 9 us plusieura lettrea de I’amiral, oh je vis 
aveo ^tonuement qu’il ae trouvait encore 4 Aboukir.’ 

This story, repeated with greater emphasis in ‘Les Cam- 
‘ pagnes d’Egypte et de Syrie,’ has passed into history, and 
has been very generally accepted. It has even been 'put 
forward as an Ulustration of the universal genius of the 
man who could see the danger hidden from the sailors, and 
provide for it. So far as we know, it has never been 
directly contradicted till now, when, with the clear evidence 
before ns, we recognise it as a base, cowardly lie, framed to 
lay the blame of his own blander on the shoulders of his 
dead colleague. The proofs of this brought forward by 
M. de la JonquiSre are incontrovertible. We have, for 
instance, the text of the order to go to Corfu, to which 
Bonaparte refers. It runs : — 

‘L’amiial Brueys fem entrer, dans la joum4e de demain, son 
escadre dans le port vieux d’Alexandrie, si le temps le permet et s’il 
y a le fond ntoessaire. . . . L’amiral fera, dans la joumde de demaiCi 
oonnidtre au gdn^ral en chef, par un rapport, si I’escadre pent entrer 
dsnn le port d’Alexandrie, ou si elle peut se d4fendre, embossde dans 
la nde d’ Aboukir, oontre une escadre ennemie sap4rieare ; et dans 
Is cas oh ni I’uu ni I’autre ne pourraient a'ex4cater, il devrs partir 
pour Corfou. . . 

Bat more than this, M. de la Jonqai4re sbows, by mauj 
indications, t^t Bmeys was himself anxious to go to Corfu, 
but wan prwented doing so by Bonaparte, who desir^fl to 

jlo 0(4i 

lukiRie the fiett on the coast in readiness to talEO him IiooIe mi 
soon as the campaign in Egypt woe jlnuhedt'and to MSlco 
pM^t in the expedition to England. We hare already had an 
easily statement* of this intention, and from this he seems 
nerer to hare departed. It is also clear that for want of pro- 
visions the ideet could not go to Corfu, and that Bonaparte, 
knowing this, made no effort to supply the want. And as a 
corroboration of all this— -the detailed proof of which Occu- 
pies mdny pages — we have the late expression of his belief 
^at nothing was to be apprehended from the English. 
Tids was written on July 30, two days only before the 
battle: ^Toute la conduite des Anglais porte 4 oroire 

* ^’ils sont inforieurs en nombre, et qu’ils se contentent de 
‘ l^quer 2dalte et d’erap^cher lea substances d’y arriver.* 
And though he did, at this date, add an order to go to 
Corfu, it was not to guard against any danger from this 
inferior enemy, but rather because, the enemy being inforior, 
the fleet might he safely divided. His words, which seem 
conclusive as to his intention, are : — 

' II faut bien vite entrer dans le port d’Alexandrie, ou vons appro* 
visionner prompteinent . . . et vous transporter dans le port de 
Cknrfou; car il est indispensable que, jusqu’a ce que tout ceoi se 
d4(ude, vous vous trouviez dans uno position a portde d’eu imposet & 
la Forte. Dans le second cas vous aurez soin que tons les vaisseauz, 
frigates T^aitiennes et fran^aises, qui peuvent nous servir restent k 

And M. de la Jonqui^re, commenting on this, points out 
that ‘ Tordre de ravitaillement envoys & Bamiette exigeait 

* un d41ai d^executiou d’au moins doaze d quinze jours, et 

* les quantites pr6vue8 dtaieut loin de suffire pour une 
‘ travers4e aussi longue que celle d’Aboukir k Corfou.’ 
There is a vast amount of evidence, direct and indirect, to 
the same effect, proving that of the many base, black- 
hearted lies which have been brought home to Bonaparte, 
this slander of his dead colleague is one of the basest. 
Clearly if — as Bonaparte believed — there was no danger 
from the English, or if — as Brueys, supported by the ex- 
perience of the American war, believed — the an<morage in 
Abonkir Bay was safe against the attack of even a superior 
force, there was no reason why the diet should not lie ^ere. 
]foueyB rightly declined to go into Alexandria, where he 
OiMild see certain destruction if the least adventurous enemy 
odme on hhu ; hut he was willing to accept the compromiMe 

* Ante, p. 268. 

irbielt Mm, a>ad waft in Aboidciz MIf* 

9^a idaa of hia being* wilfnlly of obstinately IlseWiflWit w 
tm ozder fimm Botiaparie will seem prewstwiQ tt* any one 
wbo bas notioed the obseqaioas tone of bis (mite8|»nidinod« 
The total destruction of the French fleet in the ba^O ef 
the IN’ile, and the consequent imprisonment of BonaFaztO 
and the French army in Egypt, necessarily led to a modjift* 
cation, if not to an entire change, in the general's views, 
tt has been suggested that the Syrian campaign of the 
following year was intended as a step towards the foundation 
of a vast Eastern empire. It seems possible that it was 
rather an endeavour to open a way of escape by Oonstanti* 
nople and the Adriatic. At present it is impossible to say ; 
bnt the farther volumes of M. de la Jonquiere’s admirable 
work will go far to the clearing up of this question, even if 
. the ohliquiiy of Bonaparte’s mind prevents our attaining 
absolute certainty. We hope, and indeed understand, that 
the publication of these volumes will not he long delayed, 
and that we shall then have the key to the solution ot the 
various problems rising out of the Syi'ian campaign, of 
Bonaparte’s escape, of the Convention of El Arish, and of 
the seemingly unnecessary interference of the English army. 
Meantime we possess our souls in patience, and express our 
gratitude to M. de la JonquiSre for this instalment of a 
most interesting and valuable work. 


Bom and ike NavdiUe4 

r <1 

Aat. II.— 1. Bom. By ISkiiiB Zou. Paris : 

Charpeutier, 1900. 

2. Belbeck tff Bamigdale, By Mrs. HchpbUt 'Wabd. 
lioadoQ ! Smith, Elder, & Go., 1S98. 

3. Eleanor. By Mrs. Hubpekt Wabp. London: Smiths 
Elder, & Co., 1900. 

4. "One Poor Scruple. By Mrs. WiIiPeid WAan. London : 
Longmans & Co., 1899. 

5. The Undoing of John Brewster. By Lady MaBEIi Hottabb. 
London : Longmans & Co., 1900. 

6. The Casting of Nets. By Eichaed Baoot. London s 
Edward Arnold, 1901. 

7. En Bowie. By J. K . Hotsmass. Paris : Tresse & Stock, 

8. The Vicar of St. Luke's. By Sibyl Cbbkb. Loudon : 
Longmans & Co., 1901. 

At the end of the eighteenth, as in the middle of the 
sixteenth century, the Eoman Catholic Church seemed 
to he on the verge of otter rain. Both declines were 
followed hy a return towards Catholicism, and an increase 
in the radiating, attracting power of the religion. In 
England, dating the first quarter of the nineteenth century, 
Catholicism was still dormant, as it had been for the pre« 
ceding hundred years, a lethargy due not so much to our 
own penal laws and the exclusion of Roman Catholics from 
public life, as to the fact that the Catholic post-Eeformation 
movement had everywhere died into torpor and acquiescence 
in the way of the world. The French Eevolution rudely 
awakened the Church from its sleep, and filled England 
with good or soul-awakened priests from beyond the sea. 
For a few abnormal years the enemies of the l^man Church 
were also the enemies of England, and a common enmity is 
a seed of reconciliation. At the same time the union with 
Ibelaad brought the Catholic question to Ihe front. For 
thirty years ti5e best Whig orators and writers annually 
triad to convince an incredulous public that Catholics, 
tibongh intellectually inferior, were UtoraUy and oivioany 
worse than any <ae ^e. All this had its bibet, and 
nM!Nthwh|]a<Bataonalism nndermined the i&fidlilKUify, in the 
rdd PrOfKWtant sense, of the Kble, uhile the idese wUeiA 
fiuetaa the doctrine of evolarion modified the basis w 


Borne and the Novdkfe, 


titeologic oontroverBj. Then came the Oxford MoTement> 
ooriouBlj coinciding in its culmination with the famine* 
driven migration of Irish Catholics across the Ohanne!* and 
thmi the deliberate attempt of the Boman See to reconquer 
England. ' But for the first half of the century there waa 
little more Homan Catholic life in England than there had 
been for a hundred years before. There were the few old 
Catholic families j there were priests, mostly of the domestic 
chaplain kind, no hierarchy. The Catholics led a dim life, 
neiuier interfering nor interfered with. They were as 
Crabbe depicts them in his * Borough * — 

* Among her sons, with ua a quiet few, 

Obscure themselves, her ancient state review. 

And fond and melancholy glances cast 
On power insulted and on triumph past.' 

So also appear the Catholics iu Scott's novels — isolated and 
secluded persons or families, remnants of a lost and hopeless 
cause, condemned by reason but exciting a kind of sympathy 
in the poetic imagination, like the ruins of Tin tern Abbey. 
In all Scott’s novels there is no sign of Catholicism as an 
advancing and often triumphant spiritual power, dominating 
the minds of men, thwarting wills, competing with ambition, 
interfering with the love of men for power, and the love of 
jvomen for men. Scott makes no more use of this powerful 
dramatic motive than Shakespeare does. Needless to say 
that no such storms invade the calm atmosphere of Miss 
Austen. Nor does the motive enter into the work of 
th§ leading mid-century novelists, whose minds had been 
formed before the full tide of the Catholicising Movement. 
Books like Newman’s * Loss and Gain’ and Eroude’s 
* Nemesis of Faith ’ were light-armoured controversy, not 
real novels. ‘John Inglesant* was the first novel of 
importance which mirrored the advance of Catholicism. It 
is an historical romance, treating of the time of the Civil 
Wars, but it was evidently written because the author was 
deeply interested in the religious conflicts of his own age, 
and saw much in them closely akin to the movements, 
aspirations, forces, and connter-forces, of the seventeenth 
century. ‘ John Inglesant ’ was skilfully and delicately 
written, the more so because, without thrusting the 
religious issues crudely to the front, the author makes his 
readers feel at every point the working of great forces 
behind the scenes. Outside this one book Mr. Shorthouse 
has not shown much creative power j in it he certainly 
TOL. OXOIV. NO. 000X0 vill. tT 

278 Borne and ike Noviddete. Get* 

Tom. Ingleawt is a real liTing person. The twBi&t monree 
i^votigli life ia his companj, sees scenes as it were through 
his eyes, comes into touch with other minds through him> 
feels with his idlings, and ia not left at the dose of the 
book with the impression that he has been listening to an 
historical, or political, or ecclesiastical lecture, illustrated 
by a puppet-show. 

Now this is rather the impression left by, at any rate, 
the later works of M. Zola. To say the truth, a norel 
M. Zola is heavy though instructive reading. If, like his 
‘ Borne,’ his novels count their purchasers by the hundred 
thousand, this must be due rather to the desire for know- 
ledge than to the desire for gratification of the dramatic 
sense. One feels that M. Zola has decided that hU time 
has come to write a book on the Roman question, that he 
has packed several large notebooks into a portmanteau, 
taken a ticket for Rome, filled his notebooks with careful 
observations of scenery, sunsets, buildings, historical and 
statistical information, the gossip of a section of Roman 
society, and that he has then, like a Royal Commission, 
reported upon the question which he is investigating under 
the gpiise of a novel. M. Zola has the formative power of 
taking infinite pains, but not in the same measure the 
masculine creative force of genius. If one reads first 
M. Zola’s ‘ Rome,’ and then, say, Tolstoy’s ‘ Anna Rar^nioa,* 
one perceives that the one l^ok is an illustrated lecture and 
the other is life itself. Mrs. Humphry Ward, on her smaller 
scale, has, we think, the same merit and to some extent the 
same deficiency, in this respect, as M. Zola. Not from her 
pen will there ever be bom a Consuelo, a Maggie Tulliver, a 
Beatrix Esmond, or an Anna. Perhaps the highest creative 
power involves a total absorption in characters, an inhabit- 
ing, so to speak, of imaginary beings, which is inconsistent 
wil^ conscientious study of * questions,’ as it is also with 
social and family obligations of ordinary life. Art is an 
exacting and jealous mistress. She will not share her lovers 
with science or with society. But creative genius in a high 
degree is ever a rare find, and gratitude is due to a writer 
like Mrs. Ward, who takes the greatest pains (also a rare 
merit) to supply her readers with the best which can 

give. ' By strong will, work, and honest purpose, she has 
sraiwd herself from the lower levels of ^Robert Elsmere’ to 
writing books of merit, like her two last novels. They 
oontoin the thoughts of a clear and reflective mind, anC 
although they will not belong to the small company of the 

1001. Soim and ^ JSfovdki*. 079 

Immortals, thof afford material to those who analyse the 
Itttellectaal moTemeUta of the a^. 

Both M> Zola and Mrs. Hamphrj Ward havo reoehtily 
made Borne and the Boman countr j the scene of a noTef. 

Froment, the leading character in M. Zola's * Borne,' 
is a French priest who has in his own country gone through 
the disenchanting experience of a man who visits Lourdes 
equipped not with faith, but with a liberal mind. Disgusted 
by what appears to him to be a theatre of low idolatry 
encouraged by priests for the sake of money, he returned to 
Paris, and lived for a while amid the miseries of the most 
wretched quarters, where the Christian religion seems to be 
of so small effect. The democratic note in some of the 
utterances of Leo XIII., especially in his ' Labour En- 
‘ cyclical,’ roused him to hope that a new life and movement 
may yet be born in and from the ancient church, and to 
embody this idea ho wrote a book to which he gave the fatal 
title * La Borne Nouvelle.’ The book traced the developement 
of the religion from its cradle as a communistic association 
of the poor and bumble to its enthronement as the triumph 
of the rich and powerful ; it described the misery of the poor, 
and pleaded that Catholicism should heal that misery by 
returning to its origins, and by becoming the bond of union 
among the people and the protection of the poor. Here 
was the chance for the one great international religious 
society if an inspired Pope could turn it into the true road. 
For, wrote the Abb^, the kings are overthrown and domina- 
tions levelled by the work of the French Bevolntion. The 
people can give itself to whom it chooses ; political liberalism 
is bankrupt because it has not satisfied the expectations of 
greater social welfare which it excited. Even science, in its 
progress, has reopened the unlimited field of the mysterious 
and the impossible. The time was surely come when the 
Pope, ‘ dismissing the great and rich of the world, should 

* leave in exile kings driven from the throne, to place himself, 

* like Jesus, with mbonrers without bread, and beggars on 
‘ the roads.’ Some more years of^fnisery, perhaps, and the 
people * will return to its cradle, to the unified Church of 

* Borne.* Christianity would become once more the religion 
of justice and truth ; the poor would reign ; the Pope alone 
would stand at the head of the federation of the peoples, the 
sovereign of peace ; the bond of charity and love^ would 
unite ful men } civil and religions society would coincide } 
and the kingdom of (Sod would come to pass. New Borne, 
at the old world-centre, would give to the world the new 

280 Borne and the Novd-iete. Oct. 

Bat the A.l>b4 Froment made final sui^ender of the 
temporal power part of his dream. Hor could he refrain 
from a page treating Loardes as a sign of the spiritual 
malady of the present distressed time, and, worse still, he 
used the expression ‘ new religion.* His hook was denounced 
to Borne, enemies striking through it at the liberal Catholic 
Movement, and he came to Borne to endeavour to defend his 
views. M. Zola powerfully describes the hopes and gradual 
disillusionment of the French priest. The A.bb4 discovered, 
or thought that he discovered, that the religion is not at 
Borne that which it is in the dim-lit aisles of Northern 
‘ cathedrals, the mysterious refuge of suffering souls, but is 
rather symbolised by the nou-mysterious superb basilica of 
St. Peter’s, is the embodied aspiration towards dominion, 
conquest, glory, the heir of the eternal craving of Borne for 
universal empii^. The Boman hierarchy, he thought, ‘ left 
‘ God in the sanctuary and reigned in His name,’ inspired 
by the most undoubting imperialist conviction that they 
were the legitimate rulers of the world, and that outside 
their system all was weakness, error, and anarchy. Unchang- 
ing dogma, like the old Boman law of their predecessors, 
was the rock upon which the system rested ; the devotions 
and superstitions, the hopes and fears, natural to man were 
instruments of their rule ; religious orders were their legions. 
The whole system held together ; it was impossible for the 
hierarchy to retain one dogma and abandon another, to 
sanction one devotion and condemn another of the same 
kind. This attitude is finely embodied by M. Zola in his 
strong and proud Cardinal Boccanera, the Boman aristocrat. 

* The truth ! — it is in Catholicism, Apostolic and Roman, such as it 
has been created by a long series of generations. What folly to wish 
to change it when so many great minds, so many pious souls have 
made it the instrument of order in this world and of salvation in the 
next I And if, as its enemies pretend, Catliolicism is struck to death, 
it must die standing, in its glorious integrity. You uuderstand, M. 
I’Abbl, not one concession, not one abandonment, not one cowardice. 
It is such as it is and cannot be otherwise. There can be no modifica- 
tion of divine certainty, of entire truth, and the smallest stone, taken 
from the building, is a cause of collapse.’ 

The words of Boccanera carry conviction. Ton cannot con- 
vert an old religion into a new one, any more than you can 
ttfrn an old oak into a young beech; though from a seed 
aotrit W an old religion in a favourable moment and soil a 
new refig^en may grow. 

Wheb, after long delays and diplomacies, the Abh4 

1901. Bwm and the NovelUts, 281 

IVpmexit at last obtained an interview with Leo itCZI., he 
fonud final proof that he had steered his aipr dream>ship 
upon a rook. The idealist came into collision with the 
ecclesiastical statesman, bound bj training, and indeed by 
position and duty in life, to move circumspectly and with 
regard to settled policy. In England a clergyman who 
questions almost every dogma in sermons and magazines, 
and perpetually attacks his own order and chiefs, may 
possibly, if by a happy accident sympathising secular 
persons are in power and office, become at least the dean 
of a cathediul, and on the whole most liberal-minded 
Englishmen are glad that it is so. The point of view of 
Borne is to regard the matter as analogous to civil or 
military service. Even in England a civil servant or soldier 
who publicly attacked the policy of his office or superiors 
would stand small chance of promotion. It is understood 
in our Civil Service that officials shall nSt write signed 
articles of party politics. Leo XIII. must regard the ex- 
hortations of a French priest somewhat as Lord Salisbury 
would regard the observations of a second division clerk 
who should ask an interview in order to remonstrate upon 
the foreign policy of the Government. * A priest,’ s^d 
Cardinal Boccanera, ‘ has no other duty than humility 

* and obedience, the complete annihilation of his being in 

* the sovereign will of the Church. And why even write at 

* all P For revolt already exists as soon as you express an 

* opinion of your own ; it is always a temptation by the 

* devil which puts a pen into your hand.’ But the spirit of 
Protestantism has sunk too deep into the character of 
Englishmen to let such views as these prevail to any large 
extent amongst us. 

It may be difficult to combine the professions of priest 
and prophet — of an official and a denouncer of official 
abuses — of a public servant and a public adviser or critic of 
policy. Some may think that division of labour is best. 
However autocratic, or even corrupt and erroneous the 
Church, there is always good and true work for a priest to 
do quietly within it, in satisfying the needs of men for public 
worship, in visiting the si^, advising the troubled, and 
consoling the afflicted. 

If, indeed, a priest is, like the AbbS Froment, at the end 
of his visit to Borne, convinced that the Church of Borne 
M a mere worldly organisation, and a more or less conscious 
imposture, turning to its own use the religious feelings of 
mudciud and seeking for wealth as a means to a purely 

282 Uome et/nd the Noveliete. 06t» 

eattmj dominion, then it is to him au embodied lie, and 
he bad better leave it. But what if, like the amiable 
I'ather i^uecke in Mrs. Humphry Ward’s novel * Eleanmr/ 
he quarrels with the Church authority upon the statement 
of morally unimportant matters of fact, biology, and pri- 
mitive history P Are reasons like these sufficient to justify 
a pledged priest in vrithdrawiug from the bond of onion P 
Hardly so, although the step may be justified by special 
circumstances in a case like that invented by Mrs. Ward. 
As a role, a step of this kind would show t^t a man did 
not see things in the tnte proportions of their relative 
importance. A wise priest, like Monsignor Martini in 
Mr. Bagot’s clever novel ‘Casting of Nets,’ might see 
clearly every moral and intellectual objection to his Church 
and yet believe that ‘ amid all the ambition and worldli- 
‘ ness, behind all the symbolism and the superstition, there 
* shines the light of a divine truth, which even the theo- 
‘ logians have been unable wholly to extinguish.’ Mr. 
Herbert Spencer has somewhere sai^ that if there lives a 
soul of good in things evil, so also there lives a soul of truth 
in things untrue. There is much to be said for the practical 
philosophy of the Vicar of Savoy. A French priest, when 
pressed in convei'sation with difficulties in his faith, said 
mmply, ‘ Monsieur, si je ne croyais pas, je ne serais pas mdme 
‘ honnSte homme.’ He meant that, whatever might be the 
case with others, it was not for him, a sworn servant of the 
Church, enjoying the benefits of her service, to refuse to 
accept, or to challenge, her roles and doctrines. This same 
sentiment lies at the bottom of a common idea that an 
Englishman ought not publicly to denounce the actions of 
his country, even if he believes them to be morally wroM. 
Criticism, it is thought, should be left to foreigners. To 
admit this to be true without reserve would be most dan- 
^rouB. Is the feeling a true one that a soldier, for 
instance, could not honestly kill an enemy whose cause he 
allowed himself to believe was entirely right? Unless ^ 
believes this of his own accord, he has by an effort of will 
to accept the judgment of his own Government, or, at ttie 
very least, say nothing against it. It is for this reason 
that Army and Church, and even State, are alike int<de- 
rable to men like Tolstoy, who place above everything the 
action of the individual conscience, and condemn all 
that pmf restrain or pervert it. While, hoiyever, these 
lnStlt»tio9ui do exist, those who choose to serve in them 
mist commute part of their liberty, if not of ^nght, yet 


Bohm the jShveUeU. 

of is^>eeoh. Thus, froih the question of the fi^decu of th^ 
piiesj^ one is driyen hack upon that of the existence of the 
Uhuroh. But the Church exists because it meets eletnen* 

tauT needs of men in some degree, and urill oease to exist 
if it ceases altogether to meet them. How &r a priest 
must give up his liberty of expression is, like everything 
else which relates to the compromise between empire and 
liberty, a matter of frontier delimitation. There seems to 
be at present within the Boman Catholic Church, especially 
in England and North America, some feeling that centrali* 
sation of rule should be relaxed, and the limits of pro> 
yincial, diocesan, and even individual liberty extended. It 

is a matter of ecclesiastical politics. 

Ear more within the province of drama or romance, 
although to many it is a painful and disagreeable motire, 
is the disturbing influence of the Boman Catholic Church 
in the relations of private life. The subject may be treated 
in a superflcial and partly comic way, as by Mr. Bichord 
Bagot. He depicts, amusingly enough, the failure of some 
shallow and intriguing women and priests to capture for 

the benefit of the Church a wealthy lord by the instra« 
mentality of his Boman Catholic wife. The attempt, os 
it deserves, not only fails, but leads to the conversion to 
the Church of England of the disgusted lady. No doubt 
there is among many Boman Catholics, especially English 
converts, a standing conspiracy to bring fishes into the 
net, which may be compared to the standing conspiracy 
among married women, with exceptions, to get all men 
married. No doubt, also, a ‘ great catch,’ a man of title, 
influence, and position, is in both cases attractive to the 

more vulgar kind of fishers ; and it often happens, in both 
cases, that the excess of the desire defeats its success, since 

no man likes to be obviously caught. Mr. Bagot sketches 
with cleverness the irritating air of superior relimous gen- 
i^ity which is to be felt in a certain kind of Catholic 
converts, and has, perhaps, its effect in attracting other 
shallow minds. The class-feeling which is so strong in the 
English atmosphere gets into religion. All this, however, 
is light comedy, and matter for more serious drama lies 

The feud between the Montagues and Capulets was a 
small hindrance to the course of true love compared with 
tlukt which lies between ardent and mflitant Liberalism in 
flumght an4 equally ardent and militant Catholicism. If 
the emisssiiy of Eciiu Laurence had not failed to deliver hii 


Borne and Ufoixiiiiet 


meMage, Borneo might have carried off Jalieti to eomo 
remote part of Italy, and lived with her in sweet human 
union oblmons of the foolish discords of Yefona. It is far 
more difficult for love to bridge, save for a short spell of 
passion, the gulf which divides extreme Liberalism from 
extreme Catholicism. Two souls fashioned in these opposing 
regions are not divided by circumstances only, but by 
nature. They are so unlike that they can rarely attract one 
another. Experience shows that the affection of man and 
woman works within boundaries. It requires a sufficient 
degree of unlikeness ; beyond a certain limit of unlikeness 
it decreases in power and finally disappears. With love, 
no doubt, all things are possible. Mrs. Humphry Ward 
may, we admit, be warranted in imagining so strange an. 
attachment as that between Helbeck of Bannisdale, a 
middle-aged man whose whole intellect and soul and life 
have long been surrendered to the service of Catholicism in 
its most uncompromising form, and Laura Fountain, a 
young unbred girl of strong character, formed at Cambridge 
in an academic modern atmosphere of unlimited freedom of 
thought under the influence of an aggressively agnostic 
father who allows nothing that is beyond the reach of 
scientific faculties. No wonder, however, that the attach- 
ment never for a moment cast out fear. Mrs. Ward’s object 
is to describe the contest in the heart of such a girl, brought 
to live in an old romantic Catholic house, and besieged by 
all the influences of Catholicism reinforced by the love of a 
man of superior character. At one moment the siege is all 
but successful. 

‘ The truth was that her will was tired out. Her whole soul 
thirsted to submit ; and yet could not submit. Was it the mere spell 
of Catholic order and discipline, working upon her own restless and 
ill-ordered nature 7 It had so worked indeed from tlie beginning. 
She could recall, with trembling, many a strange moment in Ilelbeck’a 
presence, or in the chapel, when she had seemed to feel her whole self 
breaking up, dissolving in the grip of a power that was at once her 
foe and the bearer of infinite seduction. But always the will, the self, 
had won the victory, had delivered a final “ No 1 ” into which had 
rushed the whole energy of her being. 

‘ And now — if it were only possible to crush back tliat “ No "—to 
beat down this resistance, which, like an alien garrison, defended, as it 
Were, a town that hated it ; if she could only turn and knock— knock 
humbly— at that closed door in her lover’s life and heart. One touch i 
One 1 ’ 

And imagined the bliss of yielding, ae many a 

woman tr0ilQl>Ung on the verge of surrender to a mortal lover 

Bomt emd the 



]«I8 itosaifified lihe iiot with teiror-inworen tfwdetoeilH 


‘ To nrliat awful or tender things would it admit her 1 That abb 
and flow of mystical emotion die dimly saw in Helbeck, a life within a 
life ; all that is most intimate and touching in the strugglo of the 
soul — all that strains and pierces the heart — the world to ^ioh these 
belong rose before her, secret, mysterious, ‘*a city not made with 
hands," now drawing, now repelling. Voices came from it to her that 
penetrated all the passion and the immaturity of her nature. . . . 
What stood in the way 7 Simply a revolt and repulsion that seemed 
to be more than, and outside herself — something independent and un* 
conquerable, of which she was the mere instrument.’ 

Laura cannot yield, and, equally unable to live without 
Helbeck, or with him, and his religion, is driven to the 
desperate solution of suicide. This issue does not strike us 
as convincingly inevitable, or even probable. The story 
does not make ns feel that the wound of love has gone 
sufficiently deep. We humbly submit that this is due either 
to want of naturalness in the plot or to want of dramatic 
power in the authoress. 

The plot of Mrs. Wilfrid Ward’s ‘ One Poor Scruple ’ is 
less ambitious and more probable. A worldly and clever 
woman, superdcially seductive, is exposed to a mighty 
temptation, and saved on the line by the right toxiching of a 
spring which brings into action the strong Catholic training 
of her childhood. The sin, to marry an ‘ innocent divorcee,’ 
was not much, or, indeed, was nothing at all in the eyes of 
the society wherein it gave her far most pleasure to live, and 
in exchange she would have had the kingdom of the world. 
Within her grasp were wealth, honour, power, a position 
coveted by all her friends, but her desire could not quite 
succeed iu defeating her trained nature. To wrin the world 
she had to break with the Catholic religion, and she had not 
the strength to do so. From the Catholic point of view, 
indeed, the obstacle was anything but ‘ one poor scruple.* 
The whole allegiance to the Church was involved. The most 
touching part, however, of Mrs. Wilfrid Ward’s really 
charming novel, which combines humour with pathos, is the 
stoiy of Mary Biversdale’s vocation. Here was a girl of 
strong character and simple intellect, an heiress, the 
daughter of a simple-minded hunting Catholic squire of old 
race, herself a gow rider to hounds, fond of the country 
)ife, of horses and dogs, torn from all this happy, natural, 
and contented existence, from the affection of parents 
resigned, but wounded to the heart to let her go, from hope 

286 Some omd tM Oet* 

oi home and children of her own^ to becoW 9k Bister Of 
Ohftritj, to be sent pexhape on an nnretnming journey to 
the interior of China, or to toil in the wretche^t qaartetfi 
ci liondon. The way to this altar of sacrifice i« delicately 
described. No human agent consoionsly operates on the 
will of Maiy Biversdale. But because she has been bom 
and bred a Catholic the idea of the higher vocation is always 
near her, or in her, and sho is turned into the path as it 
were by touches of an invisible finger. Slight things, a 
word heard in a sermon, a verse of a hymn snng by a hope- 
lessly denaturalised literary man posing for five minntes as 
a simple character, a favourite dog suddenly killed by a train, 
are for her signs and indications of the will of me great 
lover. Mrs. Wilfrid Ward shows religion restraining one 
woman from unlimited compliance with the way of the world 
and with the dictates of prudential reason, whue compelling 
another woman to surrender all that the world holds dear. 
In neither case do the ministers of the Church actually 
forbid or command, but there is the knowledge in the one 
case that the Church condemns, in the other that the Church 
approves the action. Persons like Mary Biversdale are 
inhabitants of heaven here on earth, haunted by the 
memory of their home, and longing to anticipate their 
return. The Church, with its immense experience, knows 
this, and leaves the gate open. It holds the keys to those 
abodes of ‘ solemn troops and sweet societies ’ to which the 
young, the beautiful, are sometimes called, it seems, from 
the joys and sorrows of life by an IrresistMe voice within 
them. However much it may have drooped from time to 
time in practice, the Boman Catholic Church has never 
abjured or condemned or feared the idea of religions heroism. 
And, for her reward, this Church has always had within her 
a fountain of redeeming vitality to save her from the 
consequences of invading worldlinesses. As in some other 
histories, the valour and devotion of soldiers has saved 
situations compromised by the errors of generals. 

If one reads a group of novels like wose to which we 
have referred, or H one studies the numerous accounts of 
the thoughts, feelings, and circumstances whi(di have led 
real persons to join the Boman Catholic Church, it is im- 
possible to avoid considering the question. What is the 
secret of the power and attraction of this reli^us society 1^ 
It is a question far too wide, of course, to alW the writer 
di a renew to do more tlum idake a few sui^estions. 

The counopolitan, many-nationed Chm^n, wldeh bat its 

llOV. Rohm an^.the 

oettire at Bom^ aod its citcmalerenoe eyei7whei«« is 
pukrded by soms as the salvation of the world, otbors as 
ill disoase, by most Englishmen as a great iastitotiou of 
questionable merit. It is certainly a living and not a dead 
Itoing, because it attracts and repels. It arouses love and 
hatred with a power possessed by no other international 
association. It excites every shade of feeling. Of tha 
wfiters, for instance, mentioned at the head of this article, 
a chance handfhl, as it were, of persons, M. Zola and Mr. 
Bichard Bagot are frank and convinced enemies of Ihe 
Ohnrch of Borne, or, at any rate, of its government, hierarchy, 
tone, and principles ; Mrs. Humphry Ward is, we think, 
more reluctantly brought to a similar condemnation j Mrs. 
Wilfrid Ward is a friend and adherent, and so is the author 
of the ‘ Yicar of St. Luke’s ; ’ and so, in a different way, is 
M. Huysmans; while Lady Mabel Howard in her clever novel 
skilfully conceals her sympathies or antipathies, or hangs 
balanced between them. One does not know whether the 
religious forces which rnin her hero’s life meet with her 
approval or not. It has often been observed that there is a 
fascination of dislike as well as that of like. The attention 
is fixed by a bated as well as by a loved person. The Roman 
Catholic Church, alone among Churches, seems to possess 
this two-edged fascination in a high degree. Englishmen, 
by nature and in the absence of theories, look at the Church 
of England rather as men look at a fine old family house. 
They regard it with pride, and with often deep affection, 
and have feelings, keen though discordant, as to the best 
way of living in it, or as to alterations and restorations. 
But one does not hear of any Spaniard or Italian or German 
or Frenchman experiencing either a violent attraction or a 
strong dislike towards it, nor, for the matter of that, towards 
the Church ruled hv the Holy Synod of Russia, nor that 
where the Patriarch of Constantinople holds sway. One 
does, on the other hand, hear from time to time of English 
Churchmen, or German Lutherans, or even Orthodox 
Bnssians being drawn by a singular attraction to join the 
religious communion which has its head-quarters at Borne. 
OooasionaUy a memeur, or a piece of autobiography, or one’s 
private knowledge, supplies some details of fhe operation 
of this attractive force. Now and then one has a picture 
of a person, beginning perhaps with a strong aversion to 
the Roman Church, even feeling it to be the * myaterv of 
• iniquity * and the centre of all that is anti-Cliristian, long 
firiiting against the drawing power, yet, in spite of au 

28 ^ SfitM anA th* NovMtU, Oot. 

iaraining and early biaa, notwithstanding the disapproval of 
friends, torn away in mid life, like ISTewman and j^ning, 
from position and settled career, to become a eitisen of 
this strange city, in whose history there is so much evil, 
and in whose practices there is so much superstition. How 
comes it that this Church exercises a power so disturbing 
throughout the world, so attracts and repels P 
One reason is, no doubt, the distinctness of this Church. 
It is Impossible even to argue that the Roman Catholic 
Church is the religious side or aspect of any one nation, 
race, or empire. A man who becomes a Roman priest 
enters into the service of a distinct, concrete, visible, united, 
self-governing, world-diffused, spiritual State. It is this 
distinct State which men love or hate, which attracts and 
repels, which kindles patriotism in its inhabitants and 
opposing patriotisms outside its borders. A movement in 
the English Church has in recent times roused kindred 
feelings. But why P Is it not because this new sacer- 
dotalism is a return towards the spiritual empire centred 
at Rome, of which the British race formed an integral part 
for a thousand years P It is, or seems to be, the veiled 
reappearance in England of the great Church of the West. 
Eastern Churches we may regard with friendly or anti- 
quarian interest, but they do not affect our practice or stir 
our emotions. If the sacerdotal movement in the Anglican 
Church excites among many Englishmen feelings of alarm 
and repulsion, it is because they believe this movement to 
be inspired, consciously or not, by the tradition, theory, and 
practice of the Church centred at Rome. They think, and 
think truly, that the part of the Anglican Church repre- 
sented by the ‘ English Church Union ’ is a country, to use 
a diplomatic phrase, within the Roman sphere of influence. 
Reconquest by Rome, that is the thing always, consciously 
or unconsciously, dreaded by a nation for more Protestant, 
on the whole, than its clergy. Most Englishmen have 
towards the Roman Catholic Church feelings of a complex 
kind. They admire it in a way, because it is ancient, con- 
sistent, strong, great, a conservative force ; they have no 
objection to its existence in other countries; they feel 
rather proud that a certain number of old English families 
should openly belong to it, but they have no desire to see 
'^s Church successful in England, and they are extremely 
adverse to the introduction of a decided sacramental and 
sacerdotal (flmraoter into their own Church. If Parliament 
is unwiHiug to give to the Church of England the power of 


JR(mie and the Novdiebf* 


kgidlation in matters of ceremony and doctri:pkev it is in part 
because there is apprehension that this power would he used 
to convert the English Church, its doctrines, discipline, and 
rites into a closer likeness of the Boman. 

The Church of Rome, then, is a spiritual country inhabited 
by men of almost every race, held together by a unity of 
allegiance to a government which possesses a aumfftuin 
imperiumf legislative, judicial, and administrative. This 
State claims the spiritual submission of the whole Christian 
world, and does not conceal its constant endeavour to achieve 
the conquest. This high claim repels most outsiders, but 
attracts a minority. The Roman Church presents the nearest 
present approach in an imperfect world to the idea of those 
who believe that the Catholic Church should be one in body 
as well as in spirit, visible, indivisible, self-governing, and 
coterminous with the human race. For a certain kind of 
mind the Roman Church has the attraction which a great 
capital has for the provincial. The provincial is not 
attracted to London by the fogs, and bad air, and noise, and 
high rents, and many unpleasing people who live there, but 
in spite of all this. So it is quite possible to imagine a man 
who dislikes much of the practice and can hardly believe in 
much of the doctrine of the Roman Church, yet is drawn to 
that spiritual city by its antiquity, and magnitude, and varied 
interest. That it is a non-national society is precisely its 
attraction to many minds. Mr. Wilfrid Ward^s excellent 
life of his father. Dr. W. G. Ward, shows the process of a 
logical and mathematical intellect building up an ideal of a 
great spiritual State, and soon discovering that only in the 
Roman Church was there to be found an at all adequate 
minor premiss to that (perhaps erroneous) major. Dr. 
Ward would not probably have chosen to speak of the 
Roman Church, in the words used by Newman on his ‘ con- 
‘ version,’ as ‘ the one fold of Christ.’ To him this Church 
rather presented itself as the solid centre of Christendom, as 
a strong, organised, militant State, waging constant war 
against opposing powers, the antagonist of the Revolution 
under its different forms and guises, ‘ An internecine oon- 
‘ flict,’ he once wrote, * is at hand between the army of 
^ dogma and the united hosts of indifferentism, heresy, 

* atheism, . . . Looking at things practically, the one 
‘ solid and inexpugnable fortress of truth is the Catholic 

* Church built on the Rock of Peter.’ Ward cared little 
for the argument from history, which so powerfully affected 
Newman, and he did not find in pure reason a secure 

SdO Bom md iho JSfowMo^ Oet. 

Ibamdaiion for the Ohrieiian edifice. 1^ the light of tomtm 
equally honest thinkers are led to diametriof^y opposite 
opinions. Ward was the type of those natures, at once 
emotional and intellectual, who find it necessary to build a 
house of reason for the instincts of the heart, and are diiren 
step by step to found it upon a reasoned acceptance of 
Authority. Of these men some find it snfficient to ascer- 
tain, to their own satisfaction, upon any question, the 
dictates of Authority by a perusal of books, study of the 
opinions of the learned, comparison of existing customs. 
Others require that the final decision, however (urived at, 
should be pronounced by a recognised and binding organ 
of authority, analogous to a Supreme Court of Appeal. 
Men of this last stamp, intellectual men of action (or men 
of intellectual action), naturally gravitate towards Borne, 
the one spiritual power which makes this claim to be the 
Supreme Spiritual Court of Christendom, and is recognised 
to be such by half of the whole Christian world. 

The ideal of visible unity, authority, discipline, and desire 
to approach it, led also into the Boman road the strong- 
willra and logical-minded Manning. ‘ If I stay in t^ 
‘ Church of England,* he wrote a few months before his 
change, * I shall end a simple mystic like Leighton. God 
^ is a spirit, and has no visible kingdom, church, or sacra- 

* ments. But that is to reject Christendom — ^its history 

* and its witness for God.’ Manning had the mind of a 

practical statesman ; to him the Calholic Church was one 
that decided and ruled. He was no more able to convince 
himself that the Church of Borne, the Church of England, 
and the Eastern Churches are one Chnrch because they all 
have episcopacies of apostolic descent, than he could have 
convinced himself that the British Empire and the United 
States America. are one State because they have a common 
origin, or that Sweden and Italy are one State because they 
ho& are monarchies. Men like Dr. I^usey and Mr. Glad- 
stone and a great host of ' English Churchmen attached a 
super-terrestrial meaning to the word ' church,’ or at least 
detached from the idea, not indeed the desirabiUty, but the 
necessity of visible and organic- unity. The Puritan dis- 
senter qses the word * church,’ when he does use it, in a 
sense more vague, and, as Anglicans refuse to accept as 
essential the centy^ Pontificate, so he refuses to accept as 
,esS«lirtiBl tbe historic episcopacy. To most Protei&nts 
Sgidni^ Itome Gto Church is a noble ideal city ho. the air, k 
poede ' a ravishing subject of contemplation fot 


Momt an4 the JfomUtie. 


mllgions pliilosopherB. Most men, wiseix p0r}ia|$«i uiiittQir 
tHomselves in this short life by maldng th« oest of the paiw 
tieular oirgattic chorches to which they belong. Thc^ <dcMfie 
their minds and dismiss the larger question, or hand li orer 
for solution to posterity. 

Newman, in his lectures on ‘ Eomanism and Protestantism,* 
published in 1837, after long and eloquent description of the 
Catholic Church, comes suddenly face to face with a great 
difficnlfy. It may be urged against him, he says, that — 

' Yon speak of the Church Catholic, of the Church’s teaching, and 
of obedience to the Church. What is meant by the Church Catholic 
at this day ? Where is she ? What are her local instruments and 
organs? How does she speak? How cau she be said to utter one and 
the same doctrine everywhere, when we are at war with all the rest of 
Christendom) and not at peace at home ? In the Primitive Ghuroh 
there was no difficulty, and no mistaking ; then all Christians every- 
where spoke one and the same doctrine, and, if any novelty arose, it 
was at once denounced and stifled. The case is the same, indeed, with 
the Homan Church now ; but for Anglicans so to speak, is to use 
words without meaning, to dream of a state of things long passed away 
from this Protestant land. The Church is now but a mere abstract 
word ; it stands for a genei’alised idea, not the name of any one thing 
really existing, which, if it ever was, yet ceased to be when Christians 
divided from each other centuries upon centuries ago.’ 

In one of the novels before us, the ‘ Yicar of St. Luke’s,’ 
the author makes the turn of the tide which carries the 
hero from the Anglican to the Boman Church begin at the 
same question. An ardent vicar, who has thrown himself 
into the van of the ‘ Anglo-Catholic ’ Movement, comes into 
collision with his more prudent bishop. Anglican episcopal 
authority is to him merely provincial, and he determines to 
challenge it in the name of the higher authority of the 
Catholic Church. Bat his mind has been for a time thrown 
off the old track by other forces, and to it suddenly pre- 
sents itself the question. What is this higher authority? 
‘ Authority,’ he reflects, ‘ we have the name ; we should he 
* lost without the name. Where is the thing? Where in 
‘ the final resort do we locate it ? ’ 

The nnsparing voice within him went on — 

‘Where and what (it said) is the Church to which you, Victorian 
Goring, inwardly submit, as you profess to do, your individual reason ? 
Where and what is the Church which teaches you the truth you confidently 
aad with an exclusive claim offer to others ae yourself being taught ? 
Define, define. Come, let us put the thing more exactly to the test. You 
deery private ^judgement. In what conjuncture of ciroumstanoee, at 
what moment, obedient to what rule, venerating what supremacy, do 
you ever humbly frrego the use of your own f ’ ' 

29^ Borne and the 

Kewman could give in 1837 no strong answer to his 
own statement of objections to the correspondence with 
realities of certain unnecessarj forms pf speech. He could 
only advise patient abiding. Already, -as he says in his 

* Apologia,’ in Spite of bis ‘ ingrained fears oif Borne ’ and of 
the decision of his < reason and conscience against her 
‘ usages,’ and of his affection for Oxford and Oriel, he had a 

* secret longing love of Borne.’ Even then he felt that this 
Church ‘ alone, amid all the errors and evils of her practi> 
‘ cal system, has given free scope to the feelings of awe, 

* mystery, tenderness, reverence, devotedness, and other 

* feelings which may especially be called Catholic.’ Eight 
years later he made his surrender to Borne, convinced that 
in matters of faith it was impossible to show why some 
doctrines should be accepted and others rejected, and that 
the choice lay between all and nothing. Perhaps, after all, 
the reasoning of the ‘ Essay on Developement,’ powerful 
as it is, may be but the outer sheath of the real process.* 
Newman, perliaps, worn out by endless questionings and 
discussions, fled to Borne as to a city of refuge from intel- 
lectual doubts. Weariness of toiling through vague and 
uncertain oceans of thought brings many spirits to Borne. 
They are like the Trojan women, who looked weeping upon 
the deep sea : — 

' Heu ! tot vaJa fessis 

Et tantum supercsse mai is ! vox omnibus una ; 

Urbem orant ; ttedet pelagi perferre laborem.’ 

To these storm-tossed and weary seals the Boman Church 
seems to say, like the Oracle of Apollo, once more to quote 
the poet so deep with universal meanings : — 

‘Dardanido! duri, quas vos a atirpe parentum 
Prima tulit tcllua, eadom vos uberc lajto, 

Accipiet reduces ; antiquam exquirito matrem.’ 

It is an impressive call, and it appeals to, and in some 
oases almost satisfles, tliat mysterions home-sickness which 
is for ever at the bottom of man’s heart. Newman may 
have been a prey to a strong illusion, but no man ever 
more ardently sought for truth and reality. Nor, when 
he became a Boman Catholic, although he had admirable 
0|>portunitie3 for seeing the drawbacks to that Church, 
did he perceive anything existing which was more near to 
his ideal. 

Tq arrive at a final conviction, or choice, aftw wandering 
through a mnltitnde of opinions, is, in one ^bere of things. 

t901. Bov^ and the Noveliete, 299 

that which marriage, after a series of tentative love afikirs, 
is in another. The heart of man is constantly drawn 
towards marriage. Too often the vision of peace is a mirage 
in the wilderness, yet in the direction where it seems to be 
man will go. Newman’s ‘ conversion ’ was the marriage of 
a restless heart. The same course of study led Newman to 
Itome and kept Fusey an Anglican, because Newman had 
and Pusey had not strong elective afiBnity to the Roman 
Church. Dr. Pusey, who was above all a man of learning 
and research, akin by his genius to the Caroline divines, 
calm and solid by nature, with ancestral roots deep in the 
most English of English soil, found the Church of England, 
considered as a branch of the Church Catholic, spacious 
enough for his desires. The passionate spirit of Newman 
craved for communion with a society more definite and 
concrete; making a more absolute claim upon intellect, 
emotions, and acts. 

The Roman Catholic Church, an ancient and constantly 
militant spiritual State, has acquired a tone of conviction 
impressive even to its enemies. The dogmatic style of the 
Vatican is unrivalled in its note of calm and sovereign 
certainty. The art of this Church in its public services 
and devotions is characterised by the same uniform tone of 
decisive action. Even the humblest Roman Catholics feel 
that they are citizens of no mean city. They have the 
conviction which makes the Eton boy (‘ too calmly proud 
for a look of pride ’) conscious, beyond all necessity of 
proof, that his school is above or beyond eveiy school. 
On one side of his school, the boy feels, there are lesser 
schools ; upon the other side, nothing but infinity. M. Zola, 
Mrs. Humphry Ward, and Mr. Richard Bagot, in describing 
great ceremonies at Rome, all note the profound belief of 
the Pope in his oflSce, the profound belief of the faithful 
in the Pope. Mr. Bagot, describing the impressions made 
upon the mind of a woman tending towards Rome, says : — 

‘ Nothing in Catholicism impressed her so much as the strong un- 
doubting faith which its members displayed in their Church, and the 
calm, tranquil conviction with which they regarded that Church as the 
sole exponent upon earth of the Divine will and authority. She felt 
that if she were once persuaded of the truth of the claim of Home to be 
the one and only legitimate repository of that authority she would be 
able to accept all the doctrines of the Roman Church which had 
fontiei;;^ appeared to her to be so anti-spiritual and superstitioua’ 

An Irish gardener, comparing his former mistress with his 
present, said, ‘The old lady was a real lady; she had 

TOXi. ozdiv. wo. oooxoviu. X 


ItoM& cind the Novetists* 


aristocracy. -—aii w this Church, and derived, it asserts. 

The power claimed by this ^nurcu, humblest 

not from the people but fro g. J into every police- 

prie.t, M *epo«rrftte State , 

man. Assertion of powe P to ahare in it, but 

“tal* tte tamMfte.a ’aimaent-ana the paerionate. 

afs a cSS 

Srinea in aaoia priest the aureoter:- 

•She fell f othr’mOT “e°ta° ^tentSl loters of 

sexless mystery, the pr * , herself their match. But in this 

herselfor other women, she knows^ embodied conscience, the moral 

man set apart she 8 woman, observant of her as a 

judge, who 18 indifferent to hw as fluttered 

ioul. Bound this attraction she i,g 4 guidance 

ffluce the beginning of things. T P p^ide, that she who, for 

and submission ; ^ the priest, spirit and immortal. She 

other men, is mere time she seems to herself to enter«riaTe,nolofn.«.,bMotGoa. 

Eleanor felt ‘ for \uman^ help that must 

a angry fi^and^L W Eonmn 

‘ always be felt by tn --ii» j < « hospital for sick souls, 
Catholic 9hurch ot disease which 

and certainly it is ^ ^j^ig direction, strong natures 

has driven ^ “^Jt\hat all Churches do “otprofws, 

among them. It the art of spiritual modical 

and in tendency of the Reformation was to 

treatment. Bu ^. .. j|. ^g^g as though a nation, m^g- 

ooufiue it within limits. was 

nant at routine and . ^pg which had the result 

practice of doctors, were “jfJXtures on hygiene, 

Sf restricting them for the most part te of 

and of preventing such a nation, 

patients. It is possible Buffer in the end, heoanse 

1001. Borne and the Novdiste. 305 

families, but there would always be many individuals in 
it who would cross the sea to find treatment which they 
conld not obtain freely at home. Some cases of disease 
req|uire strong treatment; the solitary consciousness of a 
guilty secret, for instance, may drive some natures to the 
verge of insanity. 

‘ My aching heart is breaking ; 

My burning brain is reeling ; 

My very soul is riven ; 

1 ihel myself forsaken ; 

And phantom forms of horror, 

And shapeless dreams of terror, 

And mocking tones of laughter 
About me seem to gather ; 

And death, and hell, and darkness 
Are driving me to madness.’ 

Lines, these, which Lady Georgiana Fullerton long ago 
wrote in her powerful novel, ‘ Ellen Middleton,’ based upon 
the working of the secret of a crime upon the soul of a 
woman. M. Hnysmans, in his painfully pathological novel, 
* En Route,’ describes the beginning of the slow and 
difficult cleansing in an austere Catholic monastery of an 
imagination stained with the almost indelible hauntings 
left by a profligate life, and the partial rectification of a 
will that has lost its spring of self-recovery. The spiritual 
director, when he has made a diagnosis of the case, 
recommends to the patient this cure, after certain pre- 
paratory treatment, just as a doctor might recommend a 
diet and a course of waters. The cure lies in the anti- 
carnal atmosphere of the religious house, the immersion 
of the stained soul in the waters of penitence and asce- 
ticism, the example to the man who has drunk too deep 
of the cup of pleasure of men who are able to refrain 
from drinking it at all, a mental and sentimental surround- 
ing wholly contrasted with that of the previous life iu the 
world. It is as though a man, poisoned by the corrupt 
air of a great city, were sent to live for a time in a tent 
amid high cold Alps, at the foot of the glaciers, and just 
beneath the eternal snows. Now, the Church of Rome has 
the authority of a great physician in long-established and 
continnoos practice to make those who wish to he healed 
take the necessary steps. Men too much relaxed to 
act Upon their own knowledge of what is best for them 
can so act under the moral force and supervision of an 
unqu^istiCned Authority. The foundation of the Roman 

206 Rome and the Noveliate^ Oot« 

Ohurch’s successful treatment of spiritual disease is ite 
unbroken and unvarying claim to the power of absolution 
— in other words, of magic healing; but to the actual 
task it brings the continuous practice of centuries, handed 
down, like law or medicine, in a strong profession. Mrs. 
Humphry Ward’s melancholy devotee, Helbeck of Bannis* 
dale, founds the whole religion upon the two facts of Sin 
and the Crucifixion. Accept these two facts, he said, and 
nothing else is really difiicult. 

* Miracles, the protection of the saints, the mysteries of the 
sacraments, the place that Catholics give to Our Lady, the support of 
an infallible Church — what so easy and natural if these be true ? Sin 
and its Divine victim, penance, regulation of life, death, judgement — 
Catholic thought moves perpetually from one of these ideas to 
another. As to many other thoughts and beliefs, it is free to us, as to 
other men, to take or leave, to think or not to think. The Church, 
like a tender mother, otfers to her children an innumerable variety of 
holy aids, consolations, encouragements. These may or may not bo 
of faitli. The Crucifix is the Catholic Faith. In that the Catholic 
sees the love that brought a God to die, the sin that infects his own 
soul. To requite that love, to purge that sin — ^there lies the whole 
task of the Catholic life.* 

It has been said by another writer that any one who has 
a deep sense of sin gravitates towards the Catholic Church ; 
yet the sense of sin and the idea of the remedy through 
the application of the suffering of a Redeemer, so far from 
being a specially Catholic idea, is, we think, even more 
strikingly manifested in those Puritan Churches which 
have rejected so much else of Catholic doctrine and practice. 
The central height of the religion stands out more boldly 
and nakedly on these level plains. What is peculiar to 
the Roman Catholic Church is that, more and more con- 
tinuously than any other, it has studied and made definite 
the technical process of healing of sin, not finding from 
experience of human nature that, as a rule, a conversion 
from a lower life to a higher one can be at once sadden, 
true, and lasting. The old priest in M. Huysmans’s novel 
bids the would-be penitent remember that the troubles 
which tormented him were well known, that there was 
no blind procedure in the matter, and that the mystic is 
an absolutely exact science, studied for centuries and 
enshriiied in many text-books. It can foretell in advance 
^ most of the phenomena which take place in a soul which 
' tho Lord destines to perfect life ; it follows spiritual 
^ operations as precisely as physiology observes the different 


Mome and the Novelists, 


* states of the body.’ The via pwrgativa mast be trodden 
before the patient can enter upon the via %UuminaHva, and 
then he is only halfway to the highest possible life. 

But many are called and few are chosen. Some are born 
saints, as St. Paul was bom a Boman citizen ; others, like 
St. Augustine, ore mostly ardent-natured sinners to l^gin 
with, and acquire their heavenly citizenship at a severe 
cost ; the vast majority are neither saints nor great sinners, 
nor ever stray far in either direction beyond the palings of 
the ordinary decencies and moralities. To this multitude, 
which includes the masses who lead a laborious life, who 
rise early and come wearied home in the evening, who marry 
young and bring up children — to this toiling multitude the 
Boman Catholic Church has much to give in the countries 
where it prevails. The merits of Papal policy or diplomacy, 
the casuistry and logical excesses of theologians, matter 
little to the men and women who strengthen their spirit by 
an early Mass, or find solace after toil at nightfall by 
kneeling awhile before some altar in a church dimly lit by 
votive tapers. Some may even think that the labour- 
ing poor in England were in some respects losers by the 
sweeping character of Tudor revolution. They lost on© 
source of consolation and gentle manners. The very 
number of sects which arose shows that the Church of 
England, as rebuilt, was not many-roomed enough to serve 
as a hostelry for widely varying conditions and tempera- 
ments. It was too much of an artificial, symmetrical 
creation, inspired by the academic mind of Cranmer, whose 
famous answer to the Devonshire insurgents shows how 
little a learned Cambridge tutor suddenly turned into an 
archbishop could understand the hearts and needs of the 
people. But, assuming it to be desirable, would it be 
possible to restore an ethos once lost, the inner spirit of 
traditions and customs long disused? It is doubtful, and 
the best of the English and Scottish race have found else- 
where religious compensations, adequate if not complete, 
for the lost religion of their forefathers. 

Every observant traveller in India and China has been 
struck by many and close analogies to the rites and prac- 
tices of the Boman and Eastern Churches. Monks, ascetics, 
hermits, penitents, priests, altars, sacrifices, incense, lights, 
processions, pilgprimages, rosaries, chants, wayside shrines, 
acts for the benefit of departed souls — all these are branches 
of that tree of universal religion which has its roots deep in 
the heart of man. The Christie religion, vitalised by the 


Borne and the Noveliate, 


primary ideas of tlie Iticamation, retributive immortality 
of the soul, and charity, and nerved by a great eoolesiastical 
organisation, took over from the ancient world and from 
the East the inheritance of these universal forms. The 
sixteenth-century reformers cut away all this natural out- 
growth, and left almost bare the stem of the tree. By force 
of will and reason some races, Arabs and Teutons, have 
been able to dispense with most of the Nature religion j but 
it is by an effort, and in all effort there is pain. The return 
to the natural universal religion is thus for so many people 
the return to repose. This religion was not made by the 
will and reason of man, but was bom of the needs of his 
heart, and therefore appeals strongly to his affections. The 
Church of Borne attracts the ecclesiastical statesman, be- 
cause it is in the spiritual sphere a great imperial system ; 
it attracts strong men of priestly disposition, because it 
gives a wide scope to their profession ; it even attracts some 
thinkers, because, given certain assumptions, it presents a 
consistent and logical intellectual whole; it attracts sick 
souls, because it claims to offer definite remedies; but it 
attracts the ordinary man or woman because it has preserved 
much of that universal religion which is the outward and 
visible form of desire. 

‘ Our towns are copied fragments from our breast, 

And all man’s Babylons strive but to impart 
The grandeui-s of his Babylonian heart.’ 

In this sense the heart of man is naturally Catholic, be- 
cause it finds in this religion the embodiment of its own 
desires. An eighteenth-century critic said rather deeply 
of Metastasio’s plays that they would always be popular 
with women, because they depicted things not as they are, 
nor as they ought to be, but as women would like them to 
be. Who would not desire to have intercessors in heaven, 
or to look to maternal tenderness and pity as well as to 
paternal power and justice, or to aid by acts the happiness 
of the loved and lost ? But to say that these beliefs are 
false, because natural, is an argument which goes far, and 
threatens the existence of more beliefs than those which 
were condemned by the Beformation, It is safer to hold 
that all beliefs natural to the heart of man, all instinctive 
desires that this thing or that should be true, even the 
detire of women that love might be more free, are not 
wiriiout relation to realities, and may be viewed wi^out 
too severe oondenmation by a philosopher conscious of the 


Rwne and the NoveU$t$. 


limitationfi of reason. Few can attain to that high region 
of peace where rare mystics dwell, and most men must drink 
of the torrent by the way. 

A believing Roman Catholic would of course go much 
beyond this. He would say that the attraction of his 
Church to minds which came within its sway was due to a 
divine magnetism inspiring it. So, for instance, the author 
of the ‘Vicar of St. Luke’s’ says that his ‘Anglican 
‘ convert * 

‘could not fail to be aware that this loftj uniformity, abounding 
freedom, unearthly flexibility, benign fertility, strange strength, win- 
ning beauty, world-wide coherence, and perfect lastingncss are due to 
a single prerogative, the possession and recognition of a deathless 
voico, which, according to a law strictly definite and mysteriously 
simple, speaks through the heirs of the Galilean fisherman, chosen 
personally, named significantly, endowed royally, by his Divine Lord 
and ours, and the voice asks for faith from men.’ 

The person who thought this would also think that the 
equally undoubted repulsion inspired by his Church is due 
in some cases to ignorance of its real nature, in 011161*8 to 
the eternal hatred of the world for a religion which holds 
up an ideal adverse to its pleasures and desires, its ambi- 
tions and patriotisms. He would ascribe the latest attack 
upon religious associations in France to the same spirit as 
that which prompted the earliest persecutions of the Chris- 
tians, and would maintain that hostile writers of the day 
were long ago anticipated by Celsns and Julian the Apostate. 
This was the line taken by Newman in his ‘ Essay on 
‘ Developement.’ 

On the other hand, it appears to most English and other 
Protestants that the attraction exercised by this Church is 
by no means of a divine, but of a very human, origin. 
They believe it to be the result of an art, perfected by 
centuries of experience and skilfully wielded, the art of 
hypnotising the minds of weak men and women. It is, they 
think, the art of a skilled seducer, exercised in another 
sphere. A like art was perhaps practised by the Judoisers 
of old, who compassed earth and sea to make one proselyte. 
It is the art of numbing the senses, throwing the mind into 
a kind of waking dream, and leading it through powerful 
suggestion. The practice of converging prayer for the 
‘ conversion ’ of an individual may be, they think, the 
scientific concentration of many wills upon one will for a 
party purpose. To those who take this view, the repulsion 
inspired by the Roman Church appears to be even more 

800 Borne and the Novelise, Oct. 

natural. History and experience, they say, amply justify 
the fear of the intrusion of priestly power into the affairs of 
private and civic life. They think that the instinct of national 
self-'preservation rightly naakes itself felt in the presence of 
a non-national, or even anti-national, society, and that history 
since the Beformation shows that nations which broke with 
Borne chose the wiser part. The Boman Church, they think, 
arrests intellectual and economic progress, encourages 
doubtful virtues, and saps those which are essential to the 
growth of the life of the human race. That Church re- 
quires the unconditional surrender of the individual in all 
matters of faith and morals, the abnegation of that free 
will and responsibility which is the great gift entrusted by 
God to man. Possibly this was less so in earlier ages, but 
since the Beformation, they apprehend, the Boman Church 
has adopted the avowed Jesuit principle of absolute surrender 
of will and intellect. In short, they hold, the issue between 
Protestantism and Catholicism is that between the freedom 
of man and the despotism of a profession, and they believe 
that priests, like soldiers, should be servants, not rulers ; 
and on a wider and more philosophic view they consider 
that the conflict is one between the principle of free growth 
and stagnation or decay, between the future and the past. 
They do not accept the view of some apologists that the 
Boman Church also moves forward in the true direction, 
though with prudence and caution. It seems to them 
rather that this Church developes the tares which the 
adversary mingled with the wheat in the very earliest days 
of the Christian religion. And who is this adversary ? It 
is, in their opinion, the Spirit of bondage to men, and rules, 
and forms, and ceremonies, against whom St. Paul strove 
with but partial success, since he still holds most of the 
Christian and all the heathen world under his magic spell. 


Native Life in Sovih A/rioa. 


Akt. III. — 1. The Natives of South Africa, By the SotrTH 
Afbioait Native Baoes Committee. London: John 
Murray, 1901. 

2. Report and Proceedings of the Gape Government Commission 
on Native Laws and Customs, 1883. 

3. Report and Proceedings of the Transvaal Industrial Corn- 
mission of Enquiry, 1897. 

4. The Glen Grey Act, 1894. 

5. Articles reprinted from ^The Bulawayo Chronicle* daring 
1901, entitled ‘ The Labour Problem in Rhodesia.* 


A T an immense cost, both of lives of men and of money, we 
are endeavouring to build up in South Africa a great in- 
heritance. The principles involved in the struggle are so large 
and so closely knit up with the conception of the British 
Empire, that we do not pause to think who will reap the 
harvest which is being so laboriously sown. It may be said 
that we are paying the usual price often paid before in the 
acquisition of our colonies, the price that must be paid by a 
growing nation forced by pressure of increasing population 
to lay strong hands on new territories for its maintenance. 
But this is not the case ; and the facts will show themselves 
more and more emphatically when the clouds of the present 
struggle have passed away. 

South Africa will never be a field for the superfluous 
unskilled manual labour of Great Britain. The large and 
growing population of native origin, which already numbers 
4,000,000, is firmly established on the soil, and provides an 
inexhaustible, though yet undeveloped, source of unskilled 
labour. There is, therefore, no place for the white immi- 
grant of this class. Not only is he shut out from possible 
openings by race feeling — no white workman will work as 
mate with a black — but by stress of sheer competition. The 
Kafir is his equal, if not his superior, physically; is intelli- 
gent and capable of easily acquiring a certain degree of 
manual dexterity; his standard of life is low in comparison. 
He can live cheerfully on mealie rations, at say 1«. a day, 
while the lowest wage paid to a white miner seems to be 
about 71. 10«. per month, and on this he would find it hard 
to live. For these reasons the two races cannot be con- 
sidered independently of one another. The whites are 

802 Indmtrial Progret$ and Oet. 

entirely dependent on the blacks for the developement of 
their interests in the country, not only for the means of 
exploiting its wealth, but even for the ordinary manual 
services of every-day life. In this position of dependence, 
from which they cannot escape, motives of self-interest, if 
not even of self-preservation, impel them to forge links 
binding tho natives to their service until they in their tom 
shall feel a corresponding dependence upon the whites for 
tho fulfilment of economic requirements hitherto undreamt 
of. For this purpose new needs must be created among 
the natives which can only be satisfied by working for the 
whites. The difficulty is that this process must necessarily 
be a slow one, as gradual as the social developement of the 

The greater the stake of the whites becomes in the 
country, the more imperative will be their demands upon 
the blacks. These demands have been for some time in 
advance of the response to them made by the natives, and 
are likely yet further to outrun it. Before the war complaints 
of scarcity of labour came from the Band, from Bhodesia, 
and elsewhere; and the determination to reap to the full 
the advantages of the removal of Boer rule from the Trans- 
vaal will make tho competition many times keener. 

The supply of native labour, in spite of good wages from 
which the native can save an amount out of all proportion 
to the savings of a European in a similar situation, is 
checked by substantial causes. The native is an agricul- 
turist at heart, and mining is a disagreeable type of em- 
ployment to him ; there are difficulties and dangers in his 
journeys to and from the mines, which are sometimes over 
a thousand miles from his home ; proper shelter and means 
of transport are often lacking ; he is deterred by the want 
of faith of some of the employer's, by the frauds of labour 
agents, and by bad treatment at some of the mines. But 
the greatest difficulty lies in his point of view. He wishes 
to marry, to have land and cattle like his fathers with the 
rest of his tribesmen, and he regards work at the mines 
away from home and wage-earning in general as a temporary 
opportunity for acquiring capital for these purposes. The 
custom of lobola — i.e. the marriage gift of cattle by the 
bridegroom to the bride’s father — stands in the way of many 
Kafir marriages. The practice is condemned by some mis- 
sionaries and others, who mistake its nature and ignore its 
good features, but it certainly brings the young Kafir early 
face to face with the need of capital, and sends him perhaps 

Idol. Native Idfe in South Africa. 003 

hundreds of miles to the mines in search of it. In Rhodesia 
the value of the custom as an incentive to work is so much 
ap|ireciated that it is proposed to make it essential to the 
lenity of native marriages. Owing to the high wages 
paid at the mines the native can usually earn sufficient to 
satisfy his needs in a few months. He thus attains to the 
realisation of his desire just as he has become sufficiently 
experienced to be of real value to his employer, who is in 
this way constantly losing his best hands. The point of 
view of the white employer is of coarse diametrically opposed 
to this. In his eyes the native is an individual to be tiaiued 
to be of use as a permanent portion of the industrial 
machinery, which must be kept going, full steam ahead, at 
the cost and sacrifice of ideals, black or white. But the 
native, if his mealies are ripe for harvest or his lands to 
sow, cares nothing if the industrial machine is stopped till 
his return. 

The two points of view are not easily reconciled. Either 
the white must be content with a succession of temporary 
and intermittent labourers, or the native’s tribal and agri- 
cultural life must go. In the meanwhile it is evident that 
much may bo done by better organisation of the inter- 
mittent labour at present obtainable. Its efficiency could, 
at any rate, be greatly increased by prohibiting the sale of 
intoxicating liquors. The native reserves are limited, and 
the pressure of increasing population is in some districts 
making itself felt. Education and substantial additions to 
the standard of living are important incentives to work. 
The desire for a looking-glass will impel the native to set 
about earning something. In Basutoland, out of an adult 
male population of perhaps 60,000, passes were issued to as 
many as 38,000* in one year (1898-99) to go out of the 
country to work. But racial feeling is strong against the 
education of natives, as the first stage on the road to political 
privileges and in the idea that it may possibly prepare them 
ultimately for competition with the whites in other than 
manual employments. Nevertheless, education on practical 
lines is necessary both to provide a stimulus to the forma- 
tion of habits of industry and to increase the efficiency of 
native labour. The missionaries who are engaged in this 
work are rendering a service to the community which is at 
present inadequately appreciated. It is to be hoped that 

• This includes those who may have gone and retained more than 
once in the year. 

304 IndAMtrial Progress and Oct. 

in the fhture their labours will receive more generous 
support both from the Imperial and Colonial Governments. 

Wo have described the natural obstacles to the rapid 
fulfilment of the white man’s purpose. They are deeply 
rooted in the habits of the South African races, and progress 
where racial habits are concerned is naturally slow. The 
white, therefore, presses for Government assistance and 
artificial measures to increase his labour supply. These 
measures may be divided under three main heads : (1) Im- 
portation of foreign labour, (2) Taxation as an incentive to 
work and stringent laws to enforce contracts of employ- 
ment, (3) Legislation to hasten the removal of tribal in- 
stitutions and to enforce individualism. 

(1) The importation of foreign labour is defended on two 
grounds — viz. the unsuitability of native labour, and the 
scarcity of labour owing to the unwillingness of the natives 
in some districts to work. For the sugar plantations of 
Natal, where the Kafir shows himself unfitted for the par- 
ticular work required, coolies indentured for five years have 
been imported from India. The result of this immigration 
has its special importance in the particular localities con- 
cerned, and does not immediately affect the rest of the 
colonies to any serious extent. The importation of Chinese 
into Rhodesia to supplement temporarily the inadequate 
supply of natives in the Rhodesian mines is quite a separate 
question, and is being earnestly debated now in Bulawayo 
and elsewhere. It is represented by the mine-owners that 
the Chinaman will only be admitted into the country under 
the most stringent conditions; that, if he comes, to quote 
an expression of local opinion, he ‘ must come as a hewer 
* of wood and drawer of water — as nearly a beast of burden 
‘ as it is possible to make the human animal into — and 
‘ when his task is done he must go.’ * But, even so, the 
proposal seems to be extremely distasteful to the general 
white community, who dread the advent of this perverse 
element in the country, and are disposed to be sceptical as 
to the possibility of preventing the Chinaman from ulti- 
mately competing with and supplanting white labour in 
Rhodesia as elsewhere. In the meanwhile it appears that 
steps are being taken by the Administration of Southern 
Rhodesia to engage Arab labourers, and the Aden authorities 
have been ‘ authorised to g^ve such facilities to the com- 

* See * The Labour Problem in Bhodesia ; ’ letter from Major 
Heany in * The Bulawayo Chronicle,’ March 1901. 

1901. Native Life in South Africa, 80S 

* paajr’s official as may be proper. They will also see that 
‘ the labourers fully understand the terms of their engage- 

* ment,andare under no compulsion to accept them.’ They 
will watch the experiment carefully, and stipulations hare 
been made for the enactment by the Administration of 
Southern Bhodesia of legislation for the protection of the 
labourers ‘ which shall satisfy the requirements of His 

* Majesty’s Government,’ and which shall be in force by the 
time the labourers arrive.* 

(2) The most powerful incentive to the native to work is 
acknowledged to be the desire for comforts or accessories 
which he is unable to acquire without money to pay for 
them; and it is obvious that taxation has a direct edbct 
upon his spending capacity. Many employers, therefore, 
advocate further taxation by way of an increase of the hut- 
tax already levied. Others support the arbitrary imposition 
of a special tax on all non-workers, such as the labour-tax 
imposed by the Glen Grey Act. The ann\ial hut-tax is now 
14«. a hut in Natal, lOs. in Cape Colony, and 20«. in Basuto- 
land ; the labour-tax of the Glen Grey Act is 10«., imposed 
upon natives who have not been in employment outnide their 
districts for three months in the year, unless the magistrates 
grant exemption on the ground of inability to leave their 
locations or of work within the locations for the prescribed 
period. Speaking generally, in the present method of 
taxation there does not seem to be any serious practical 
hardship involved. Nor does it give rise to much active 
opposition or resentment on the part of the natives. Except 
perhaps in the Transvaal, the taxes in force are probably 
not seriously out of proportion to the earning capacity of 
the natives, or an unfair contribution to the expense of 
administration. Even the much criticised ‘labour-tax’ of 
the Glen Grey Act works, so far as it opei’ates at all, without 
excessive friction. Nevertheless, the tax is already quoted 
as a precedent, and represents the thin end of the wedge, 
which there is a strong desire to drive further home. A 
measure on similar lines is actually being drafted for 
Southern Rhodesia, f and a hut- or poll-tax of 61. or 61., with 
exemptions for natives working for six months or more, has 
been publicly advocated. Whether the Imperial Government 
cer the other Governments of South Africa would encourage 

* See report in the ‘ Times,’ August 9, 1901, of answers given by 
Lord G. Hamilton to questions in the House of Oommons. 
t B. S. A. C. Report, 1898-1900, p. 12. 


Industrial Progress and 


suoli measares may be more than doubtful, but it is clear that 
the imposition even of moderate taxation for snoh purposes is 
the first step on a dangerous path. From the evidence given 
on behalf of the mine-owners before the Transvaal Industrial 
Commission in 1897, there is little doubt that pressure will 
be brought to bear on the Government, with a view to 
legislation of this kind for the purpose of providing cheap 
labour for the Kaud. That Commission declined to recom- 
mend ‘any measure that would be equivalent to forced 
‘ labour,’ or ‘ the imposition of a higher tax upon the Kaffirs.’ 
Forced labour in the sense of direct compulsion is not likely 
to be seriously advocated, but the demand for labour taxation 
is almost certain to be revived wherever the demand for 
cheap labour outruns the supply. To impose taxation, 
however, for the purpose, not of raising revenue for the 
benefit of those who pay, but of forcibly increasing the 
supply and cheapening the cost of manual labour, can 
hardly be regarded otherwise than as a perversion of the 
functions of the State. It is only natural that it should 
tend to cause a feeling of irritation among the natives, 
and, unless continuously maintained at an oppressive level, 
it is not likely to be effective. It is surely worthy of con- 
sideration whether less questionable methods of promoting 
the industrial developeraent of the country are not available. 
The South African Native Baccs Committee have drawn 
attention to the obstacles that at present hinder the free 
flow of native labour to the centres of employment, and until 
these obstacles have been removed and the Governments of 
South Africa have given due attention to the task of effi- 
ciently organising the labour supply, it is impossible to say 
how far that supply is inadequate to the industrial needs 
of the country. There is every reason to believe that a 
much larger number of natives would be induced to seek 
employment than do so at present. This conclusion is 
further supported by statements of responsible officials 
contained in the recently published Keport of tlie British 
South Africa Company. Speaking of the Batoka country 
of North-Western Bhodesia the acting Administrator 
I'eports as follows ; — 

♦The men, even at this distance, find their way to Bulawayo and 
Salisbury for work. I was constantly meeting boys who had just 
retumed from Southern Rhodesia or were going down, but they 
object to be taken down in a mob by an agent. Being improperly 
fed cm the journey, some of them run away, some die m routes and 
only a certain percentage arrive at Bulawayo, where, so I am informed, 

1901. Native Life in South Africa, 307 

they often wait a month to recruit their health before the^ are fit for 
work. Those who desert return to their kraals, and prejudice their 
brothers and friends against going down. One or two do suoh harm 
in this way that it takes months to eradicate it. Those who arrive 
safely work well, earn good money, buy hoes, etc., then return to 
their homes, and after a few months of idleness they leave again for 
the mines. ... I am of opinion that a far greater number travel 
south of the Zambesi than is generally imagined, and it only requires 
an organised bureau to enable the Barotse country to play a great 
part in the supply of native labour for Southern Rhodesia.’ (P. 98.) 

Mr. Ooryndon, the Administrator and H.M. British Resi- 
dent of the same country, states that he is ‘ of opinion that 

* with a more intelligent and energetic system of labour 

* agency the supply [of labour from that di3t];ict for the 
‘ Matabeleland mines] might be trebled.’ (P. 94.) At the 
same time, the term of service is usually very short, vary- 
ing from one to four months, sometimes to six months, and 
the general feeling is expressed that, were the mines all 
working full time, the labour supply of the country is 
not equal to the demand. If the developement of the 
gold mines continues to outstrip the growth of industry 
among the natives, we are left face to face with the funda- 
mental question whether the white man is justly entitled to 
press forward his enterprises without reference to the effect 
it will have upon the future condition of the natives. 

To protect employers the Master and Servant Laws of 
Cape Colony and Natal and the Transvaal Gold Law provide 
criminal remedies for breaches of contracts of employment. 
Even such offences as the refusal or neglect to perform 
stipulated work, or insolence to a master, are treated as 
criminal, and under the Transvaal Gold Law they are 
punishable by flogging. The singularly elaborate and strin- 
gent provisions of the Pass Laws on the Transvaal goldflelds 
were framed for a similar purpose — tho provoution of 
desertion from the mines. Employers of native labour, no 
doubt, have serious difficulties to contend with, and there 
seems to be a considerable consensus of opinion that they 
would not he sufficiently protected by purely civil remedies. 
Natives are often brought from great distances at their 
employer’s expense. If they break their contracts and 
desert, it is exceedingly difficult to trace them, and even if 
they could be found it would often be impossible to recover 
damages from them. In such cases a civil action would 
probably fail to give the employer any adequate redress. 
At tho same time the infliction of lashes for mere breaches 

308 Induftrial Progress and Oct. 

of contract or other delinquencies involving no grave offence 
against morality is difficult to justify. Apart from any 
ethical consideration, it may be questioned whether legisla- 
tion of this kind is calculated to attain the object in view. 
The vexatious provisions and drastic penalties of the Trans- 
vaal Pass Laws cannot but have had a deterrent effect on 
natives proposing to seek employment on the Pand. It is 
satisfactory to note that these enactments have already been 
modified by the Imperial Government. By recent proclama- 
tions all sentences of more than twelve lashes must be con- 
firmed by the High Commissioner, and the penalty of 
flogging under the Pass Law of 1899 has been abolished 
except for certain serious offences. 

(8) The policy of supplanting tribal institutions by the 
individualism of European civilisation entails legislation of 
a very far-reaching kind, and means a social and economic 
revolution for the natives. It begins with attempts to 
weaken the power of the chiefs, followed by their removal 
altogether. When once the chief is removed and replaced 
by the resident magistrate, the tribe loses its cohesion, and 
the step to local self-government is rendered necessary. 
This is followed by the survey of the land occupied by the 
disintegrated tribe, and the substitution of individual titles 
in lieu of tribal methods of land occupation. Any one who 
considers the history of native administration in South 
Africa during the last fifty years cannot fail to be impressed 
with the readiness shown by the natives to adapt themselves 
within certain lines to the requirements of colonial govern- 
ment. At the same time, misunderstandings on both sides 
have occurred, and where undue haste has been exercised 
disaster and reaction have been the result. The whole 
course of these changes is so beset with dangers, and has so 
great importance for the community at large, that we cannot 
afford to overlook the smallest points which may assist or 
retard the absorption of the mass of the native population 
into the general scheme of South African developement. 


The labour question and the problem involved in the 
break-up of the tribal system meet most conspicuously in the 
Glen Grey Act. The labour clauses of this Act have founded 
a definite precedent, which is not likely to be allowed to drop 
out of sight by those who advocate measures for compelling 
the native to work. The treatment of those who go out to 

1001 * 

NaUm 2ir^« m^Sondk tV|l 

WOrlC is a snfficienily important matiifiir in itself. But tlMMKi 
at present bear a small though increasing proportion to tl^e 
namVe population living permanently in the resertea 
looatums. ~ The majority will for a long time lire ll^ .tbe 
lam^ and it is the effect upon them of the individhalii^i^ 
legislation now being introduced that is liable to be btei!^; 
Icfoked. The natives of South Africa are prevented by these 
outside inflaenoes from working out their own civilisation 
in their own time. The process would in the natural course 
of events be a slow one, and past experience does not seem 
to provide us with a method of breaking up tribal institutions 
which shall be at once rapid and prosperous. The cases 
arising in India are not exactly analogous. It is true that 
in India each year brings up some instance of the attempted 
disintegration of a communal unit, either in the subdivision 
of village lands or in the secession of individuals from some 
coparcenary or brotherhood. But in none of these oases 
does the change take place with so complete a tribal con- 
dition for a stoting-point as is the case in South Africa. 
The step which the Kafirs are required to take is to span 
the whole distance at once, to do in a couple of generations 
what it has taken other races many centuries to accomplish. 

The change in view is not merely a subdivision of land in 
which a number of natives have jointly had rights of occupa- 
tion. For the native himself much more than this is in- 
volved. Hitherto the native’s claim to his land has been 
partly a right and partly a privilege shared with every 
member of the tribe, and g^ranted by his chief in return for 
everything that constitutes him a member of his tribe — that 
is to say, in return for his pemonal relation of obedience to 
his chief, of submission to any demands from him, whether 
for service in war or for contributions of work or cattle. 
This relation would continue on whatever laud his trike was 
settled, and controls his whole behaviour and moral attitude. 
Hereafter, on the other band, he is to prepare himself to 
become an inhabitant of a geographical area, owing his rent, 
taxes, rates, and so forth, as long as, and only as long as, he 
chooses to reside in the district. He is left to evolve the 
moral obligations of his new environment as well as he can. 
The tribal cohesion and mutual responsibility within which 
eveil'ything was straightforward to him, however onerous, are 
no Iwger there to support him. 

Where thOre is a chief it is obvious that the permanent 
allotment of the land in private lots is a serious shock to 
his power. The granting of lands to his men, their ejection 
roil, oxoiv. »o. oooxovni. x 

310 Industrial Progress and OnJt, 

if Hs displeasure is incurred^ ibe feeling that sdl tmdH 
tiieir lands from Ms fatherly hands, and owe him filial dailies 
in return, mnst have constituted the most powerful hoisd 
between the chief and his people. 

With regard to this matter, in the administration ati ’ 
native territories two opposite policies have hitherto been 
pursued. In some territories — e g. in Basutoland and in 
German South-West Africa — support is given to the chiefii, 
and their rule is encouraged and protected. Becentlj 
(1896), in the German territory,* the proposals of some tribes 
to divide up their lands among their members was rejected 
by the authorities on the main ground that it would do 
much to weaken the very power of the chiefs which they 
were anxious to preserve. 

In Cape Colony, on the other hand, partly owing to the 
course which events have taken and partly in fulfilment of a 
definite policy, many chiefs have been deposed or altogether 
removed, and their jurisdiction, where they have remained 
over their tribes, has been as much as possible transferred to 
resident magistrates. It is in these districts especially that 
experiments in Individual land tenure are being pressed 
forward. It is not proposed here to discuss the merits of 
these policies, but merely to consider their relation to the 
land tenure in the native districts. For the chief is the 
symbol of tribal unity, and with bis removal disappears the 
mainstay of tribal cohesion. 

Under tribal custom, the position of a landholder is simply 
that of a member of the tribe. If for any reason his 
membership of the tribe is terminated, either by his own 
misdemeanour or by the will of the chief, he ceases at once 
to have any rights in his land, which reverts to the chief. 
The chief is guardian of the land of his district to allot it to 
his tribesmen. He exacts no rent, but the members of the 
tribe are indefinitely obliged to render him personally 
whatever services he may require, to go out and plough, «ow 
and reap for him, and to contribute cattle or money when" 
ever either is demanded. If a man wishes to leave his 
land, he cannot pledge or sell his interest in it. The land 
reverts to the chief, who may then and there reallot it to 
whomever he will. 

Furthermore, by land and cattle he is able to support, 
biMide§ Ms immediate family, his father’s widows, his 

* Since 1668 chiefs have been prohibited from selling kmd OS 
living pledges cr eoneesnons without Gk>vemment sanction. 

190L Native Life in 8&wlh 811 

or or|>han collateral relations. He ditides bit 
|>r<^rty prospectively among his heirs during his lifetime, 
and, thottgh he may cancel any snch allotment in ease of 
need, any injnstioe he may commit may come np before his 
Idnsmen for reconsideration after his death. The poor or 
infirm members of the tribe are thus provided for. 

In those tribes where land is plenhfuZ a man will let his 
wives dig as much of the bush round his kraal as they 
cultiTate, pasturing his cattle on the remaining commonages* 
When a plot is exhausted by continuous crops or bad seasons, 
it is left to rest while some new land is brought under the 
hoe. In this condition of affairs his sons will very likely 
marry and build kraals of their own, being free to break 
land, with the leave of their chief, wherever there is room 
for them. 

In Basutoland, on the other hand, a stage has now been 
reached where the agricultural land is already fully occupied. 
The soil is rich and greater economy is practised. If a man 
asks the chief for more land, when he has an average*slsed 
allowanoe already, his greedy request will bo received with 
laughter. Here the eldest son takes the laud of his father, 
and the younger sons must either ignominionsly live on his 
charity or go out and work, either at the quarries, &o., 
within the country, or further afield. It would be possible, 
no doubt, to get a hut and keep cattle on the common 
pastures, but in order to make a start it would be necessary 
to earn some money somewhere. It has been the custom of 
the chief in Basutoland to allot enough for two small fields 
(one for mealies, the other for Kafir corn) to each wife his 
tribesman marries. He would perhaps also give the man a 
cow. But, as these more prosperous families are likely to 
have numerous children, this apparent accumulation of land 
in one family is counteracted and equalised in the nent 
generation by subdivision among heirs — the eldest son of 
each wife probably inheriting the gardens allotted at his 
mother’s marriage with the cattle set aside for the mainte- 
nance of her * house.’ 

In tribal communities, therefore, disparity in wealth in 
land between tribesman and tribesman does not seem to 
arise. In one case each takes as much land as he likes, the 
amo^t being naturally proportioned to the size of his 
fiunll^ and his powers of cultivation. In the other case 
addirional land is deliberately so allotted to increasing 
fiMnili#s, equality being re-established in the next generation* 
Another element leading to equality is the moral obligatio|« 

312 Induth^ PT^gree0:af>d _ 

'' •*' ' ^ , ' i' 1 ' " ^ r 

inherent to the tribesman’s porition, and great g$inerc^i% % 
roluntarilj shown by individuals in giving up ^eo^ 
of land to neighbours in need. No doubt this generosity 
, ' encouraged by the fact that each man bolds his land at the 
pleasure of the chiefs and justice would dictate that the 
chief should treat all his tribesmen to an equal share in the 
tribal privileges. 

Between the tribesman and his own family, as has already 
been said, the individual is debarred by his kinsmen from 
doing injustice with his own property, and this complex 
relation between a tribesman and his property is felt in 
regard to his cattle as much as to his land. His cattle are 
severally allotted and publicly known to be so allotted by 
him to the maintenance of his respective wives and their 
families. They are also liable not only for fines incurred by 
himself, but for the misdemeanour of his village and, in case 
of intertribal wrong-doing, of his tribe. This constitutes a 
very complete system of mutual responsibility, which is 
binding on the community until the crime has been traced 
to one particular individual, who is competent to relieve his 
neighbours by payment of the fine inflicted. Finally, it is 
his cattle which enable him to procure a wife, and which 
are thus the symbol of his status and of his very manhood.* 

It is unnecessary to contrast this picture with modern 
ideas of the freedom of the individual, with his definite 
liabilities to the public for rent, rates or taxes, &c., with his 
walled plot of ground over which he alone has exclusive 
rights whether the soil is rich or exhausted, and the value 
of which he can, by sale or mortgage, take vrith him, should 
he wish to move away from the district. 

But it is for two reasons important to appreciate the 
vastness of the gulf to be bridged : first, because of the 
attempts which are being made to hasten the process; 
secondly, because earlier attempts to pass the whole distance 
in one stride have pi’oved conspicuous failures. 

It is true that in some districts in Cape Colony the native 
communities themselves are becoming, under the influence of 
colonial government, ripe for some farther step along the 
toad to individualism, and it will be to their own disadvan- 
tage if progress on right lines is forbidden them. These kre, 
in particular, those districts where the chiers power has 

* Native tribal ouBtom is recognised and native law is administered 
act only in native territories like Basutoland, but also in the reserves 
and lowtiose in 0»pe Cotony and Natal. 

1001. m South J/neu. $k 

for 0 ome little time gireti way before the eontlioi of the 
magistrate, or where the chief has been remored altogether, 
and has been replaced by an appointed headman to whom 
the members of the community are not attached by the flame 
tribal bonds as to their hereditary chief, and under whose 
rule, therefore, injustices occur and the old complete restraints 
of tribal usage no longer prevail. For these communities 
release from the oppression of tribal tenure, now become 
inconvenient, and i^e establishment of some form of local 
self-government are called for; and for the latter the 
inhabitants are found to be not altogether unprepared by 
their tribal methods of joint responsibility. 

Under the local government clauses of the Glen Grey 
Act each location is placed under the control of a Location 
Board of three persons appointed by the Governor from 
among the resident holders of land in the location, after 
the consideration of their wishes and recommendations. 
Further, a District Council may be established, half the 
members of which are elected by the Location Boards out 
of their own members, the other half being appointed by 
the Governor. Besident magistrates and others report 
very favourably of the effect upon the natives of the local 
self-government thus granted.* 

But with respect to land tenure, too rapid changes in the 
past have nearly always met with failure, and have resulted 
in a set-back. It has been shown over and over again that 
time is required for the Kafir to acquire the self-reliance 
needful to the individual landowner.f He has never yet 
known what it is to have absolutely exclusive rights to and 
power to dispose of his land ; it has hitherto had no realisable 
capital value for him. The temptation, therefore, to mortgage 
or sell his land comes upon him irresistibly in many ways 
before he has got rid of the restless semi-migratory instincts 
of his tribal ancestors. 

It is not needful to multiply instances from the history of 
other countries of the necessity to proceed by stages. They 
are evident wherever one examines the history of land 
tenure. But it is important to realise that legislation 
limiting the power of the landholder in the disposal of hia 
allotments would be found, if considered by historical 
examples, to be not in any way contrary to precedent, and 

• The Natives of South Africa, p, 66, and Appendix A, pp. 

t Ibid, pp, 76ff. t 


Industrial Fro0re$$ and , Oe^ 

ihat rather the absence of special measures in this direction 
•must be considered as exceptional, and might well iMe 
regarded as an inconsiderate neglect of the duties of a 
paternal Government. 

Granting, then, that for the time being some halfway stage 
must be provided in South Africa for the native landholder, 
it may be convenient to consider what sort of encouragement 
and assistance is afforded him by the special legislation on 
the subject already in force in Cape Colony. 

There are, of course, natives who have left their tribes, 
who have been educated, and who perhaps have obtained 
the parliamentary franchise in the Colony. Some of these 
have bought land in freehold, in the same manner as whites, 
and are able to hold their own in the commercial world. 
But during the last fifty years a great many attempts have 
been made and experiments tried in the survey and sub- 
division of tribal land, and in its allotment to individual 
owners in freehold or quit-rent tenure. In most districts 
there have been many such holders who have shown 
themselves quite unable to stand under the weight of their 
new independence ; and almost invariably, where a free hand 
has been given, a tendency has been shown to revert to a 
system (pmctically a return to tribal ways) under which the 
land belongs to one individual, who allows the rest to squat 
or settle on portions of it with rather indefinite rights of 
cultivation and pasture in return for rent or labour. 

Attention is now concentrated on the working of the 
latest legislation on this subject. In 1894 the Glen Grey 
Act was passed, and since then has gradually been adopted 
^ several districts in the Transkeian territories of Cape 
dolony. Under this Act the land may be definitely surveyed, 
and to each householder there would be secured a building 
site, with an allotment containing, as a rule, 4 morgen (say 
8 acres) of agricultural land. He also obtains grazing 
rights over the reserved commonages. If the conditions 
of his title-deed, to which we shall refer again, are duly 
fulfilled by him, his holding belongs to him and his heirs in 
perpetuity ; but if his heir has already received an allotment 
under the Act, he must choose between hie former holding 
and the land in question, as no one may hold two lots at 
once.* A landholder has no power of sale or mortgage, end 

* This reaction must be viewed in special reference to the 
landholder’s former responsibilitieB towards perhaps an excepthHU^y 
large or incapable group of kinsmen. 

UfaHve Life in South ^^fiea, 016 

Inis land is inalienable &ozn bis beir male} exe^t with 
i^m tbe magistrate for reasons assigned. 

Btit besides this restriction placed upon bis Mwev of 
disposal) nrbicb has been very generally approved 0^ tbe 
oonditionfl of bis tenure are remarkable. The cost of sntvey 
and allotment is charged on the land, and his lot is al#0 
subject to a small quit-rent. If he gets into arrear in 
payment of the annual instalments, the land is liable to 
complete confiscation. Forfeiture is also incurred by failure 
fotf twelve months in beneficial occupation and proper 
cultivation, or by conviction of the holder of the crime of 
theft with sentence of imprisonment for not less than 
twelve months. It is left to the magistrate to determine 
whether the land has been beneficially occupied and property 

Against the payment of a small quit-rent, and against the 
amount of the other taxes levied on the holder under the Act, 
not much objection can be raised. Under tribal custom, the 
services and property of each family, being indefinitely at 
the call of the chief, it may be understood that the taxation 
under the new regime is not likely to be felt otherwise than 
as a proportionate relief. Beneficent despotism having died 
with the disappearance of the hereditary chief and his 
councillors, the substitution made by this Act of a represen- 
tative District Council for the distrusted rule of a headman 
must be considered good. Any rates which such a Council 
may levy should be fully compensated for in increased 
advantages secured by the public expenditure. But the points 
that challenge criticism are those relating to the possible 
confiscation of the allotments. Complaints are brought 
against the tribal system of land occupation in general on 
the ground that the real improvement of the plots is 
discouraged by the insecurity of the tribal tenure. And 
though perhaps the discretion of the magistrate may be 
considered by the native holder to be a firmer basis of tenuire 
than the pleasure of a chief, yet it may be questioned 
whether some similar discouragement may not eventually be 
firtt under the new conditions. In any case it is difficult to 
see how a feeling of true ownership can grow up under these 
circumstances — an appreciation of the full value of past 
labour and expenditure on the plot — without which it seems 
impossible for the native landowner to hold his own against 
tho temptations to sacrifice his position and * clear out * in 
rtmes of difficulty. 

The Glen Grey Act is a notable measure, but it imj^i 

816 Induttrial Progr«$a and Octu 

tiiat libose who are to prosper under its appUoatieu ttmst 
hare preriously attained a considerable degree of derelope- 
ment. Not only must they have become accustomed to the 
disappearance of their chief’s power, with all the dissolution 
of the larger solidarity which that disappearance implies, 
but also they must be ready to face the limitations of their 
resources by the restriction of the size of their holdings 
within surveyed boundaries, and the efiPect of that restric- 
tion upon the elasticity of their own family groups. 

The Act may be welcomed in some cases as a relief from 
the doubtful influence of a headman, appointed by the 
Government to replace the chief, in whose rule the com- 
munity have perhaps little confidence ; it may do much to 
kill the instinct to ‘ trek ’ in the face of difficulties which 
is an inheritance from their tribal past; it may militate 
against loafers and other encumbrances accompanying the 
growth of population. Will it, in the teeth of the insecurity 
of its land-tenure system, foster a feeling of ownership in the 
lot, a feeling of home in the house, Which is the first need 
of the black inhabitant on the break-up of his tribal 
traditions ? 

Moreover, the penalty of confiscation seems somewhat ill 
proportioned to the crimes or misdemeanours specified in 
the title-deed under the Act, and would probably be felt by 
other members of the family, quite as much as, if not more 
than, by the delinquent himself. This is an injustice it 
would be well to provide against by a fuller recognition of 
the rights of a family in the land of its head. The doctriue 
of education by experience must not be pressed too far. 
In early classical times the head of a household, though 
endowed with the complete enjoyment during his life of t£e 
estate of his fathers, was guilty of gross impiety if he did 
not hand it down intact to his heirs. Even later, when 
the power of sale and mortgage was admitted among the 
Athenians, State interference was insisted upon to prevent 
the existing holder from squandering his estate at the 
expense of future generations. In the event of a landholder 
being convicted of heinous crime, justifying the extinction 
of his rights as a citizen, his name was simply erased from 
his house and the property passed at once to his heirs. The 
rule of Kentish gavelkind, that the crime which sent the 
fiKtber to the gaol or the gallows sent the son to his place 
at the flsmily plough, passed into a proverb in Kent — *Tbe 
* fader to the bonde, the son to the londe,’ or in another 
form, * Tito Ihther to the bough, the son to the plough.’ 

1901. NaUm Life in South 4/HW. 

Though limitations ore not set in the Glien Gtej Aot to 
the discretion of the magistrate and Governor in the 
reallaiauent of the confiscated lot, there is nothing in the 
Act giving the kindred of the delinquent a prior claim 
over other deserving applicants. The course of historical 
precedents suggests that the confirmation of the family unit 
as replacing the larger tribal unit would be a safe and 
advantageous step in the dissolution of tribal solidarity. It 
would surely do much to strengthen the sense of respon- 
sibility of the individual in the management of the property 
entrusted to him, and would help to stiffen his back against 
the temptation to short-sighted or reckless dealing. 

The real danger ahead seems to be for those tribes who 
are not far enough advanced for local self-government, and 
who stiU cling to their tribal usages and their personal 
dependence as members of their tribes. 

The next few years in Basutoland promise some interesting 
light on this side of the subject. It is understood that all 
available agricultural land is fully occupied there, so that 
the tribesmen are already face to face with their limitations 
in this respect. It will be a new thing for a tribe to have 
a large section of its people detached from the land and yet 
perhaps commanding greater resources and comfort by 
reason of the wages they are able to earn outside. It is 
probable that for those members of the tribe who earn 
money thus outside the territory, and are not dependent on 
the chief for land — more than just for a building site — who 
are, in fact, excluded altogether from holding agricultural 
land, quite new relations will arise with the rest of the 
community, whereby the power of the chief and the 
solidarity of the tribe itself may be affected. As has been 
said, it is the declared policy of the Government in Basuto* 
land to maintain the tribal organisation and to continue 
unimpaired as far as is practicable the power of the chiefs 
during good behaviour. On tribal custom rests the sum 
total of the morality of members of the tribe, and if the 
tribal bond is removed it is vital that something equally 
strong and equally sufficing shall take its place. 

The quality of the rule of the existing resident commis- 
sioners and magistrates promises well that as long as the 
tribal feeling lasts the natives under them will not lose that 
respect for justice which seems to grow up among them 
nu&r tribal rule, or become, if their traditional restraints 
are not removed, less law-abiding in the future. Undue 
haste, thmrefOTe, in breaking down tribal restrictions is 


InduskvaX Progrim itnd Oet* 

greatly to be deprecated, and there appears to be bead ol 
some unirersal and far-sighted policy in the various methods 
of treating the South African natives. In view of the 
continuous flow of natives from territory to territory in 
search of work, the native problem in each colony does not 
seem to be confined within its own boundaries, but affects 
also the other colonies in South Africa. In the Transvaal, 
therefore, where the need of native labour is most pressing, 
and where the supply of labour is drawn from all the 
neighbouring territories, the problem can hardly be considered 
a local one. The importance of a strong central guiding 
hand on the spot seems obvious. It is of good omen for the 
natives that the first Commissioner of Native Affairs in the 
new territories is to be one who has had so much experience 
and success in the control of natives as Sir Godfrey Lagden. 
It is to be hoped that full opportunity will be given bim for 
the application of his experience to the problems before us. 
It is not merely a question of how to provide government for 
the natives residing in the Transvaal and Orange Biver 
Colony. The great diflBiculty lies in how to deal with the 
vast crowds of native labourers of all conditions who will 
come from other territories to work at the mines. _ These 
are for the time being removed from ties of tribe or kindred, 
and in many cases are quite unable to understand the 
conditions of the struggle around them. It is in their 
interest that their home life should not be broken up, that 
its influence should be maintained, if possible, in spite of their 
absence. It is in the interest of the whole of South Africa 
to secure good management for them daring the time of 
their contracts, and to prevent them from carrying degrading 
influences on their return home across the breadth of the 

Many will yet voluntarily come for longer or shorter terms 
with the sole intent of supplementing their tribal life wito 
what the additional capital thus earned will put within their 
reach. These vriU have also gained some knowledge of the 
ways of white and black in the great mining centres. But 
others, set loose perhaps, not to say driven out, by the Glen 
Grey Act or by the pressure of over-population, may not 
feel the call to return home quite so strongly as their tribil 
neighbours. Cannot some way be found for these, by whidh 
they may be saved the long and often troublesome joilrm^ 
to and from their homes, and at the same time the awkwax^ 
gaps in their intermittent labour be shortened for their eitt# 
ployers 9 Oat of the best of these natives it would seem ae 


t601« Native Id/e in IShnth Africa* 

i£ some sort of industrial population must etentually bo 
fonnod, and experiments are alroadj being tried by some of tbe 
<OU^]ring mines in creating native quarters or locations a mile 
or two away from the mines for the residence of natire 
funilies. These locations are specially watched, and pro* 
Tided with police ; schools are established ; and natiTes in 
these circumstances hare been known to work for eight yeara ^ 
oonrinuously for one mine. But often only a few members 
of a family are fit for employment in mines. Population in 
the Transvaal is exceedingly sparse, and a good deal of 
labour of a simpler sort and naturally more congenial to the 
native will be required for the farms. Is it impossible to 
establish groups of native families in farming districts in 
such situations that the most enterprising members may have 
comparatively easy access to the mines, while the weaker 
members of the family and some of the women can find 
employment on the land P If this could be combined with a 
small grant of land to the head of the family in which the 
rest could have a real interest and definite rights of control 
or succession, some of the dangers which beset the 
emancipated Kafir might be avoided. His moral instincts 
would not be robbed altogether of their traditional founds* 
tions, and at the same time a fair chance would be afforded 
him to cope with the economic revolution which now 
threatens to sweep him off his feet. 


Life in Poetry amd Law in Taate. 


Aet. IV . — Life in Poetry <md Law in Taste. Two series of 
Lectures delivered in Oxford, 1895-1900. By WiitiiiAiC 
JoHK CoTJBTHOPE, C.B., M.A. Oxou., late Professor of 
Poetry in the University of Oxford. London and New 
York : Macmillan & Co. 1901. 

A MAN who upon assumption of an office deprecates 
comparison with his predecessors is generally one who 
might well face the ordeal ; and it may be doubted whether, 
in spite of Professor Courthope’s modest exordium, a more 
thoughtful or profitable course of lectures than his own has 
ever been delivered from the Chair of Poetry at Oxford. It 
would be possible to urge that his canons of judgment are 
too strict, his limits of acceptance too narrow, his tests of 
excellence too exclusive ; but, in following him, the bounds 
of his subject must be constantly borne in mind. He has 
not set out upon a quest of collection ; nor is he bent upon 
enumerating all the forms and degrees of metrical composi- 
tion that have given, or may fairly hope to give, temporary 
pleasure to society ; but his object — no small or unworthy 
one — is merely to state the qualities which seem to have 
brought immortality to the masterpieces of various countries 
and ages. Minor poetry, as the term is commonly under- 
stood, he leaves out of account ; and rightly, for 

‘ mediocribus esae poetis 
Non homines, non Di, non concessere columnae ' 

is a dictum as true as it was when Horace penned the lines 
that laid it down. But in another sense of the words nearly 
all poetry is minor ; for the great masters may be counted 
upon the fingers, and the work of all other men falls below 
theirs; indeed, all their own smaller work is minor, for 
quality may be expressed for this purpose in terms of 
quantity. ‘ Hamlet ’ is a greater work than any group of 
the ‘ Sonnets,’ * The Commedia ’ than the * Vita Nuova,’ and 
so on. But the same qualities that have made the larger 
products of the same genius immortal are to be found in the 
smaller pieces wherever they too are of the highest order, 
and they accordingly live side by side with their more 
commanding and colossal brethren. 

There is another class of poetry which is also outside the 
ProfesBoris range of view. It is that which is content with, 
a lower motive, but, being such, is or maybe of consummate 
workmanship ; ‘ the idle singing of an empty day,’ as it wai 
oaUed by one of its most accomplished prodneem. Bminently 

1001. Idfe in Poetry and Law in Ta$te. 301 

graoefal, b\ifc wbicli fails, if tested for the noblest. ^ There is, 
too, such a thing as frailty in poetry, as there is in human 
Itoingi, which does not prevent it from being charmingt 
The Chloes of life and their adorers may be admitted to be 
mutually seductive, but they are not of the true type i they 
may have a thousand pretty qualities, but they lack the 
highest, and are marred too often by the lowest. So with 
many an attractive poem: it seduces, but it is not true; it has 
perhap8^ false melancholy, or sickly passion, or pessimistic 
views of life, or a despairing contemplation of death — a 
thousand errors, what you will. Its origin was not in the 
higher levels of the creator’s soul, though it may have been 
dressed in the fairest flowers of his fancy. It tends therefore 
to debase the reader, or at all events not to gratify the highest 
that is in him. Still it must be a pleasure to compose such 
things at whiles, as it is a pleasure at whiles to read them ; 

‘ Dulce est desipere in loco ; ’ but they ought not to live, 
and they will not. But poetry with an element of falseness 
in it must not he confounded with that which is only light 
and slight, thrown off with ease by the composer, to be read 
and enjoyed with equal ease by the reader. Such things 
have a value in their gracefulness, and fulfil a destiny by no 
means to be despised. Such are some, but far from all, of 
the little poems in the Greek Antliologia. They survive 
too, though after a time their form and flavour become 
antiquated, and they take their place among the mere 
curiosities of literature. 

Mr. Oourthope could not, of course, concern himself with 
all these things. In fact he would have derogated from 
the dignity of the chair if he had dealt with anything below 
the highest ranges of epic, dramatic, and lyric poetry. He 
accordingly considers them alone, while he sets himself to 
answer the two main questions which he propounds : first. Is 
there a law of life in poetry, to which the creator of work 
which is to live consciously or unconsciously subscribes P and, 
second. Is there a corresponding law in taste, by which the 
reader, not unconsciously, but consciously, should form his 
judgement ? Few persons upon reflexion would hesitate to 
answer both these questions in the affirmative. For, although 
the possibilities of mistake in the statement of law are 
obvious, they can be rectified from time to time; whereas the 
denial of its existence would be an error beyond reprieve. 
Wo admit cause and effect in all other phenomena ; why not, 
thuh, in the success or failure, enduring or transient influ- 
ence, of poetical creations P It is surely not more difficult 


Life in Poetry and Lam in Ikute, OdI* 

to imagine a law in poems than in snnaeta. But to state the 
law which inTolres one fate or the other is not to lay down 
rules by which one may be achieved and the other avoided* 
There is a danger in overlooking this distinction, for while 
on the one hand creators must not claim anarchy, on the 
other critics must not intervene to teach creation. Professor 
Courthope is quite right to lay stress upon the natural and 
perpetual conflict between liberty and authority, for in art, 
as elsewhere, the adjustment of the balance between them 
is a matter of the utmost nicety. The determination of 
moderns to be original, the craving of the public for novelty 
and variety, and the anarchical tendency coincident with 
these, are inseparable from a democratic age. But they are 
no answer to the question put upon behalf of authority, 

* Are there not tests by which production and taste can alike 

* be judged 9 ’ But while it is true that there is or are a 
law or laws by subscription to which poems are immortal, 
and through infringement of which they wane and die, and 
laws, again, by which alone mankind can arrive at a correct 
judgement of the art set before it, it is by means so sure 
where the enunciating authority should reside, or how it 
should be established and recognised. 

The Professor discusses in turn the claims of academies, 
coteries, and public opinion to be the seat of such authority, 
and the conclusion would seem to admit of being put sum- 
marily, that academies must be inadequate, even if they were 
possible, that coteries are manifestly unsafe, and contemporary 
public opinion is apt to be unsound. The French Academy, 
to take the most famous specimen of its class, was founded 
by autocratic nomination at a time which for that purpose 
may be well called the most powerful period of the French 
monarchy. The ‘ Forty ’ were named, and the subsequent 
principle and machinery of co-optation adopted, in an epoch 
when the aspirants to the honour were, at the most, few 
enough to be easily handled. Even then Cardinal Bichelieu 
saw that the success of the institution must depend upon 
the narrowness of its scope, and he accordingly announced 
its object to be the maintenance of the purity of the language 
of Prance. It exists now, a time-honoured corporation, and 
probably escapes serious ridicule or attack mainly because 
it does BO little. Its dictionary has been its chief work ; it 
has corrected a language, but it has not coerced a literature ; 
idle rigidity with which it has endeavoured to enforce style 
and limit the national vocabulary has failed, and the leadingw 
strings which it has striven to keep taut have always bew 

IJItOl. Life in Poetry an4 Law in Taste* 

i|tappe4 by any ahild of genius who felt himself hMuttered 
them. Beyond co>opmtion, the occasions of whiw do 
not) even as it is, escape dispute within its walls or criticism 
outside them, its action is mainly confined to the ^crowning* 
every now and then of some work, not as being supreme of 
its class, but simply by way of compliment to some author 
of already well-established reputation, who has not upon the 
occasion selected, or possibly on any other, fallen short of 
the academic standard of style. Not that we would be 
thought to undervalue style, or to belittle any process by 
which it could be saved from perverting or polluting influ- 
ences. But, we ask, what fountain of honour would in 
these democratic days he accepted for consecration P Who 
would be allowed to nominate P An unassisted monarch P And 
who could save a monarch, if disposed to take counsel, fi’om 
the influence of a clique? If a charter were to be asked 
for from without, how many hundred candidates would rise 
up and claim original membership? And how would the 
lists be kept out of the fingers of some ‘ mutual admiration 
* society ’ P Or, given honesty of intent and freedom from 
social pressure, who would be competent to name not merely 
a fit, but the fittest ‘ forty ’ P And when named, what would 
their office be, and what its sanction? As to style, the 
• voice of democracy would probably be loud in behalf of its 
own right to coin words and phrases according to its needs, 
without reference to beauty ; in other words, to foul and 
debase the national tongue very much as a manufacturer 
claims the right to pollute a stream. As to coteries, of 
course they are far worse. We have only to think of that 
which called Mr. Congreve ‘ divine,’ and which would have 
undoubtedly made him poet laureate as against Shakespeare, 
had the two men been contemporaries. As things now 
stand, public opinion, to a certain extent led by, and to a 
greater degree, be it remembered, suspicious of, professional 
criticism, is the final court of appeal in literature. But 

S ublic opinion is no more certain of being right in letters 
tion Uie House of Lords upon points of law. And, after 
all, the public is but an enlarged coterie, with a weakness 
special to itself. For as a small coterie is likely to go 
wrong ^om affectation, pedantry, and leaning too much 
upon the past, so public opinion would err from ignorance 
and the hrttaqmrie which ignorance engenders. 

But there is another matter that cannot be neglected 
while we are considering, not so much law in taste as the 
possible enunciation of it. It is not so much to criticism in 

Life in Poetry and Lem m Tad^ CMfe. 

abstract as to tbe concrete critic tb^ poet and ptrlu^lc 
elite object. They are ready to' admit the exiatrace of 
law, but they demur to the title of the lawyer. * The cri^^ 

* are the men who have failed,’ quotes Mr. Conrthope from 
Lord Beaconsfield. If this dictum be not exactly true, 
nobody could well quarrel with one very like it, that ‘ oritios 

* are mostly the men who have become conscious that they 

* cannot create.’ Either form of the aphorism points to the 
seat of dislike. It is to a priesthood with its claim to wield 
unentrusted power and to make cathedral utterances that an 
Englishman objects. But for this feeling more than one 
dogma might attain acceptance ; and so it is with criticism. 
If a critic were to explain to a poet how he came to design 
an epic or a tragedy, and how his process of execution had 
developed, down to the construction of a scene, or a pani- 
graph, or a choric stanza, the writer might presumably say 
to him, in all good humour, ‘ Sir, you are most interesting.’ 
But if the same critic were to begin to warn him that here 
he had transgressed a law, or that this and that ought to 
have been otherwise conceived or executed, he would probably 
be stopped with some such expletives as .Beethoven is said 
to have employed to the gentleman who ventoi'ed to rebuke 
him for having used ‘ consecutive fifths.’ But, on the other 
hand, a critic is quite entitled to recommend his own readers 
to seek or avoid certain books. With this no writer has a 
right to quarrel. But then he, again, is within his own right 
if he says both to critic and public, as Byron did so often in 
his letters to Murray and others, ‘ Take me as I am, or not 
‘at all.’ And this more especially if he have deliberately, 
and not flippantly, worked for a certain result by a certain 
method. Of course, if he be unconscientious or capricious, he 
must know it, and he ought not to publish. There are acts 
which a man may commit with impunity till he obtrudes 
them upon the public sight. When he does that he must 
expect public castigation. 

Aristotle himself began to show weakness when he pro- 
posed limitations to the tragic poet. To do so was to 
trench upon the Creator’s own province. There is scarcely 
an. extant tragedj,' ancient or modem,, which does not 
Violate some one of tbe canons or overstep some one or 
more of the boundaries prescribed by Aristotle. In ‘ Pro- 

* metheus ’ a perfect character is brought from prosperity to 
adversity. The monarch’s fate in ‘ Againemnon ’ leaves the 
false wife and traitorous friend triumphant. In ‘ Hippolytns^* 
a youth of s^tless and ideal purity is slain upon a false 

3901. Life in Poetry and Law in Taste* 825 

accusation of the very foulest of all domestic crimes. Even 

* CBdipus Rex * does not fulfil the condition of the only 
subject Which Aristotle considered admissible — -namely, that 
of a moderately good and just man, to whom misfortunes 
come through error or frailty. For CEdipus was the sport 
of fate from the day on which he was exposed upon Mount 
Citheeron until that on which he married Jocasta. Of 
course for the infinite variety of modern works tho code of 
Aristotle could not be expected to find room. They and 
their topics ^ overbear the continents ^ of Greek life, and deal 
with situations into which human motive and conduct had 
not then ramified. But the great philosopher's failure shows 
the absolute necessity which criticism lies under of dis- 
tinguishing between the enunciation of the factors of 
success and failure on the one hand, and the imposition of 
hard and fast rules for composition on the other. 

Not the less, however, is anarchy of taste deplorable both 
among poets and their readers. For the former it involves 
treason to their art and peril to their own immortality ; to 
the latter it brings a self-inflicted intellectual ostracism, 
banishing them from the realms of true beauty. ‘ l)e 
^ gustibus non est disputandum ’ may be a half-comic 
vulgarism, but it is underlain by a sad seriousness. If it 
mean in the public mouth, ^ I shall bestow my liking as t 

* choose,’ the best answer is still, ^ Your duty is to bestow it 
^ as you ought.’ But there is a retort, less direct, but 
hardly less condemnatory. ‘ By all means do so, but do not 
' claim for its object equality with the best things. If you 
^ choose to play the part of the dunghill cock in the fable, 

* play it ; you are entitled to crow with him, Your pearl 
^ may be all very w^ell, but I prefer a barleycoim.” But 
‘ both he and you would deserve a decisive tap over the 
‘ wattle were you to propose to reverse objectively the 
‘ relative values of the two articles.’ 

Both for conception and treatment the poet must to a 
great extent be a law to himself. Even the great masters 
of art cannot be to their successors the sole fountain of 
authority. Their own sudden and sporadic appearance is 
proof positive the other way. In each case theirs was an 
obviously new departure. Who taught them this, and what 
was their sanction for what was new in them ? The Greek 
tragedians may have owed much to Homer, and something 
to their predecessors in the lyric and satiric dramas ; but 
their own genius, both in invention and taste, made them 
largely their own lawgivers. And what did Shakespeare 



Life in Poetry anA Lavs in TmtOt Ock, 

know of Homer, Virgil, JEschylus, and Sophocles P Wbak 
even of Dante, or Petrarch, or Tasso P His own immediate 
predecessors had, indeed, taught him largely what to avoid, 
but not very much else. It is not unnatural that to the 
critic antecedent masters should seem to be the only 
authorities. He has to judge, and comparison goes for 
much in judgement. Besides, it is the duty of the critic to 
be timid. But even for him, and especially in dealing with 
new artistic departures, his own genius for taste — and there 
is such a thing — ought to do as much as genius in creation 
does for the poet. 

The Professor devotes some little space to the discussion 
as to whether metre — verse in fact — is essential to poetry. 
We hope that he will forgive us if we suggest that the 
question is somewhat over-academic and out of date. It 
was not inapt in the days of Aristotle, when prose was still 
a new and half-tried medium for imaginative composition. 
It is true that poetry only means creation, and that you can 
create both in prose and verse ; but long use has now limited 
the word ‘ poetry ’ to composition in verse, and it would be 
pedantry not to accept the consecration. We may admit 
that many of the best qualities of the poet are to be found 
in many writers of imaginative prose. Let us take Burke 
as an instance, with his essay ‘ On the Sublime and Beautiful.’ 
But such writers have elected not to be poets, and there is 
an end of it. Shelley’s eloquent words upon the subject, 
quoted by the Professor, have only the air of a generous 
paradox. Speaking generally, poetry should appeal to man 
I through his imagination, prose through his reason. But 
because occasionally writers of one or the other, and 
rightly, overstep the bounds of their respective domains, let 
us not refuse to concede that the latter exist ; rather let us 
admit and forgive the trespass, when the trespassers are 
worth it. Wordsworth, Milton, and Browning cross the 
boundary too often, and stay too long ; we pardon them. 
Plato, Lyly, Sir Philip Sidney, Sir Humphry Davy, Burke, 
and the great novelists make corresponding excursions ; 
them too, if the need were, we should pardon. We do not 
pardon many others, whom it would not be generous to 
name, because they are not worth it. Among the works 
which one is specially tempted to describe as prose poems 
are George Sand’s rustic novels, such as ‘ La Petite Fadette/ 
* Le Meunier d’ Angibaut,’ and ‘ Pran5ois le Champi,’ and 
Lamartine’s ‘ Eaphael,’ but we will not yield to the tempta- 
tion. Touigeneff’s * Senilia ’ are really rough notes fqr 

1901 . 

Life in Poetry and Law in Taste. ^7 

poems } bnt that is just why they are not poems. ^ The 
quotation which. Mr. Courfchope gives from Walt Whitman 
is neither prose nor verse, and would pass muster as an 
indelicate attempt to describe the ravings of a Browning in 
a madhouse. It is not irrelevant at this point to add one to 
the Professor’s reasons why prose came to supplant poetry. 
The preservation and distribution of written thought made 
memory less essential, and so poetry, which had been the 
chief handmaid to memory, less essential too. Thus men 
came to save themselves, by writing prose, the extra labour 
involved in writing verse. 

And now, what is the law to which the poetical master- 
pieces of the world, or the makers of them, seem to have 
subscribed? Professor Courthope states it several times 
through the course of his lectures, but nowhere more clearly 
than when discussing Milton and the claims of ‘ Paradise 
‘ Lost.’ He says there : — 

‘ Taking, then, the fundamental reasoning upon which Aristotle’s 
philosophical ideas of poetry are based, every great poem ought to fulfil 
three conditions : (1) It must be an imitation of the universal in 
nature ; (2) The concepTion‘'or the universal in it must possess an 
iifdtVidual character ; and (8) The opposite qualities which go to make 
up this individual character must be combined in complete harmony of 

With this declaration of the elements which are to be found 
invariably in the greatest poems no thoughtful and loving 
reader of them, and — could they be brought from the 
Castello in Limbo to be arraigned for the purpose — probably 
no creators of such work, would be found to quarrel. And 
this although, perhaps, while writing not one of them, 
except Dante, ever thought for a moment about immortality 
or the way to achieve it. Inspiration, along witli that 
instinct for self-discipline which is usually allied with the 
highest genuis, ensures the best work of the poet. As to 
rules of composition, he has probably known either of none, 
or of very few indeed. But if we are to have a terminology 
of qualities, this phrase, which names the test element in 
poetry the * universal,’ suflSces. It means the power of 
appreciating, seizing, and reproducing what is not only ' 
universally present, but would be recognised universally 
as being representative of the particular department of 
nature to be dealt with ; the reproduction to be made in a 
manner special alike to the artist’s own genius and to the 
society among which he lives and works. There must^ 
further, be the harmonious combination of the various, and 

328 Life in Poetry and Law in Taste^ Oct, 

very often conflicting, factors of which the whole picture to 
be presented has to be composed. Before the question 
arises whether a man’s poetry will live or die, he must be 
assumed to be dowered with a stock of artistic qualifications, 
in spite of the possession of which he may come to be set 
aside and forgotten. He must start with the gift of versifi- 
cation ; he must be such a master of metre that his blank 
verse, like Shakespeare’s, will fit epic, drama, and lyric 
equally well. Like Tennyson’s, it must be able to ring the 
funeral knell of Arthur, as in the original fragment, and to 
carry the message of ^ O swallow, swallow, flying, flying 
< south,’ so lightly as not to shake a sleeping maiden’s 
window-pane. As to more purely lyric measures, his power 
of treatment over them must enable him to make the 
liveliest, and apparently most comic, subserve the purpose 
of an epic march or a tragic lament. In short, he must 
have all the weapons and harness of his art. Then, if he be 
to live, we must find in him, over and above all these 
things, the crowning gift which alone involves greatness — 
the power of seizing those particular phases of every emotion, 
those qualities in every situation, which make the subject 
which he has chosen, and the art by which he has illustrated 
it, appeal to his own generation and to posterity — to man- 
kind, in fact, ‘ semper, ubique, omnibus.’ If he have this 
gift, he takes his seat in that rank of the immortals to 
which the extent of his endowment entitles him. Let us 
test this theory by a few applications of it. In Homer we 
find that his principal characters, Achilles, Agamemnon, 
Ulysses, Thersites, Hector, Glaucus, Sarpedon, act and 
speak under circumstances which might arise in, and in a 
manner that would appeal to, any age. Even now elders 
are apt to bore younger men with sermons upon the 
superiority of i^ast times and personages, and the famous 
retort of the son of Capaneus, ‘ We boast to be better than 
^ our fathers,’ is as handy now as it was when it was first 
made. The conviction of a lost cause is as present now to 
the heroes of it as ever it was to Hector when he sighed, 
* The day shall come when sacred Troy shall fall, and Priam 
‘ and the stout-speared Priam’s people.’ Shakespeare’s 
contempt for a mob is still keenly felt by many, who would 
express it, if they could, as he does in the first scene of 
^Julius Caesar,’ or in the later account which he makes 
Casca in the same play give his brother-conspirators of the 
proceedings at the Lupercal. Of like class is his immortal 
appreciation of the lean and hungry — that is, of the envious 

1901. Life in Poetry and Law in Taste, 329 

and splenetic man : ‘ Such men as he be never at heart’s 
* ease -whiles they behold a greater than themselves.* Many 
a vezed and weary statesman conld still fit that cap to a 
hundred heads. 

The ‘.®neid * battles -with a difficulty inseparable from its 
origin. It is derivative, and that not merely in form, in that 
it is epic, but in substance also. ‘ Write me an epic for 
‘ Kome such as Homer wrote for Greece,* said Augustus to 
Virgil. If all poetry be imitation, this makes the *^neid ’ an 
imitation of an imitation. And so in a great measure it 
was. Yet Virgil’s genius endowed it with a concurrent 
originality. Take the sixth book, which is the culmination 
of its beauty, for it is superior in motive to the fourth book, 
and its equal in treatment. Its weakness is that you feel 
that ^neas would never have gone down to hell if Ulysses 
had not made the excursion before him. Its strength is 
that its glorious vision of Rome and the Romans that were 
to be is all Virgil’s own. To the Romans, and even to the 
mediseval Italians, such as Dante, this panorama gave it the 
element of universality. So it does even to us, to whom the 
Roman Empire is yet one of the great ancestral facts of our 
European world. Still, the imperialism of Rome is not a 
religion to us, as it was to the Augustan society ; nor is it 
a passion or a topic to which the term ‘ universal ’ may bo 
applied, as it may to love, hate, pride, the fear of death, the 
melancholy of twilight, ambition, content, speculations on 
time and eternity, jealousy, fatuous trust, or the responsi^ 
bility of the suicide. For these and their due exhibition we 
must look elsewhere, and, happily, not in vain to Virgil 

What, then, does this universality mean, and whence comes 
it ? It means that quality, both of subject and treatment, 
in what men write which makes their writings appeal to 
large audiences in all times ; and it comes of the genius and 
self-discipline which enable the writer to express that 

As the elements of longevity vary in intensity in the 
works of different poets of the same epoch, and again in the 
individual works of the same man, so there is a like variation 
of such elements in the poetry generally of the same people 
at different stages of its developement. This variation 
depends upon two causes. First, that the highest and moat 
potent impulse of art is religion, and religion is most powerful 
in the earlier ages of a nation. Secondly, that in such early 
times imagination is strong and conception fresh, while per- 

3S0 in Poetry and Law in Taste. Oct. 

formance is likely to be crude aud imperfect; style is of 
later growth, and as it progresses its tendency is to supplant 
imagination, to interfere with the abnegation of self in the 
universal treatment of life and nature, and to substitute its 
own technical predominance, with a coincident exhibition of 
the individual character of the poet himself. There can be 
no doubt of the strong religious element in Homer. It 
permeates the ‘ Iliad,’ and even the later ‘ Odyssey.’ The 
fall of Troy and the home-coming of Ulysses are all 
along attributed to divine intent. Again, the growth of 
Greek tragedy was undoubtedly coincident with that of 
the sway of religion at Athens during the period succeed- 
ing the great deliverance of the Persian War. Nor can 
there be any doubt that the decay of tragedy was coin- 
cident, again, with that philosophical and cynical neglect 
of the gods of which Alcibiades was so fashionable an 
exponent. The same process is observable in the devotional 
painting of Italy, which rose, grew, and culminated alongside 
of Catholicism, but declined rapidly when the foundations 
of the olden orthodoxy were once sapped. Probably most 
people would agree that the two conflicting characteristics 
of imaginative conception and technical excellence never 
reached so perfect an equilibrium as in Sophocles, and that 
in Euripides, who was of a less grand, though perhaps more 
graceful, order than his two predecessors, the predominance 
of the second and lower element had begun its work. StUl, 
to take one instance alone, he rises to the full height of 
universality in his ‘ Hippolytus,’ where he deals with the 
unending problem of misdirected love, and that at once with 
a purity of purpose and a plenitude of passion which silence 
question. The lying accusation made by Phaedra upon the 
eve of an otherwise noble death is the one blot upon the 
drama. It was worthy of a woman who, like Potiphar’s 
wife, would have sinned if she could, but utterly below one 
who committed suicide rather than succumb. 

As to decadence in poetry, a subject to wliich, not un- 
naturally, Professor Courthope devotes mheh consideration, 
it may be that we are too willing to associate it with 
pendencies acting upon poets from without. It is commonly 
taken for granted that there have been certain ages in 
which it was impossible that a great poet could be bom, or, 
if born, that he should write up to the level of his powers. 
At first sight there would seem to be room for the surmise 
that genius may spring up singly or in groups of men at 
haphazard, that it may grow like fruit in clusters, and that 

1901. L<^e in Poetry and Law in Taste. 891 

jou must not expect to find a bunch upon eyery bough. 
But then, again, it- is not easy to refuse to admit that 
certain conditions of social and political life have a tendency 
to excite, even if they cannot evoke, genius, and others to 
discourage and cramp it, even if it were spontaneously to 
appear. It is clear that .^'schylus and Sophocles did find 
the religion of Greece an active force in Attic society, and 
teeming with unworked themes as material for their art. 
They were also stirred by the fervid political enthusiasm 
around- them. So Dante roused himself ‘ nel mezzo del 

* cammin di nostra vita ’ to find unoccupied and to take up 
the grand post of the Apostleship of Catholicism ; and so 
Milton found and assumed that of English Protestantism. 
And here one is tempted, somewhat digressively, to suggest 
that the ‘ grand style ’ is never achieved in any art without 
the spur of religious feeling. Without it wo should surely 
have never had the splendour of the finest passages in tho 
‘ Prometheus,’ the unsurpassed and possibly unapproachable 

* kommoB ' which closes the ‘ (Edipus Coloneus,’ the inscrip- 
tion over the gate of hell in the ‘ Inferno,’ or tho dialogue 
between Adam and Eve in the fourth book of ‘Paradise 

* Lost.’ The same cause of the ‘ grand stylo ’ is also illus- 
trated in the Greek temples, tho Gothic cathedrals, and 
even in the best churches of the Byzantine Order. It is 
equally present in the sculptures of the Phidian period, 
although destruction and mutilation force us to take this 
almost upon trust. The work of tho best Italian devotional 
painters, from Giotto and the Gaddi to Perugino and Paphael, 
happily survives to form another great and confirmatory 
series. The temptation to assert this belief is heightened 
by the difficulty of finding in Shakespeare anything which 
exactly fulfils what we mean by the ‘ grand styks.* The 
religion of Shakespeare is generally in the background. 
His lot was cast in the interval lying between the decay of 
Catholicism and the fervour of the Puritanism which 
inspired Milton. There is no doubt that he was religious, 
as all the greatest men are. But his creed was in abey- 
ance, and his is before all things a moral and mundane 
philosophy. He represented his epoch, which was, though 
pious withal, essentially busied with the secular side of 
man’s nature — war, commerce, ambitiion, statecraft, con- 
solidation of dynasties, patriotism, national rights. These 
were the subjects which he was called forth to treat, and we 
know how he assimilated them. We call him * divine,’ but 
only in the sense that his ‘ ingenium ’ was ‘ preehumauum,* 

832 Life in Poetry and Law in Taste. Oct. 

bad come to him ‘ divinitus.* The majesty of the destinies 
of Itome was a religion to Virgil, and his * Georgies * and 

* j3E!neid ’ are kept at the high level of his national faith. 
But Shakespeare had no one overmastering cult to raise his 
style to a pitch of habitual solemnity. Perhaps in him 
religion, tradition, patriotism, and every other source and 
factor of literary aspiration, were so happily and equably 
compounded that they gave to him, and to us, something 
better and more longlived even than the ‘ grand style.’ 

But to return to the matter from which we have digressed. 
It is most difficult to make up one’s mind as to the con- 
nexion between the conditions of social life and individual 
genius. If it be true that society InHuences the form in 
which genius robes itself, does it therefore follow that 
decay or abeyance of national spirit and civic impulse 
determine its measure ? One can easily see that the 
simplicity of the Homeric epic matched that of early Greek 
life ; that the lyric passion and lightness of Alceeus, Sappho, 
and Anacreon were adapted to or evoked by the limited 
civic j}.rca and social levity of life in the Ionian Islands and 
on the Asiatic seaboard. We further see that the tragedians 
seized on the rudimentary dramatic form, and expanded and 
perfected it, so as to make it ‘ a mirror for all the changes of 

* moral and religious feeling that transformed the Athenian 
‘ mind between the battle of Marathon and the Sicilian Expe- 
‘ dition.’ So one can understand how Shakespeare, and in 
a very minor degree Marlowe and Webster, enlarged again 
the skirts of drama, and accommodated in them all the 
various motives and memories with which English minds 
teemed in the days of Elizabeth. But it is not quite so 
easy to attribute to anything but accidenfrthe birth of an 
.^schylus or a Shakespeare just when he was wanted, just 
when the life of his country was about to be intense enough 
to afford material for him to work upon. .®schylus was 
born thirty-five years before Marathon, at a time when there 
was nothing particularly complex or stirring in Attic life. 
So Shakespeare was born in 1564, before the stress of the 
Elizabethan times had set in. He was twenty-four years 
old at the date of the repulse of the Armada; and oddly 
enough, if our memory be not at fault, he never alludes to 
it, even as he does, incidentally and under a veil of allegory, 
to the plots of the Catholic nobles in the ‘ Midsummer 

* Night’s Dream.’ His humble parentage and quiet inland 
birthplace alike point to fortuity in his appearance, and 
stamp his production as pre-eminently a freak of nature. 

1901. Life in Poetry and Lom m Taate, 8B3 

How much did such a man owe to his environment P As 
to form, much. Bat as to intensity, whatP Could he 
and iBschylus have been born in the fifth century a.D.P 
What would they have achieved if they had been P One 
is tempted to think that the appearances of such men 
should be traced to some recondite physiological law, and 
not to social conditions, and that their genius is the un- 
communicated lightning of their own mind. Still, it is 
certain that history affords no known instance of great genius 
bom out of due time. Great literary epochs have been 
coincident with great civic upheavals. On the other hand, 
the statical condition of Greece, during the Macedonian 
period and later, produced no poetic creations of any magni- 
tude or serious worth to the world. So scanty are the 
fragments of Menander that what he may have been we can 
only guess from the echoes of Terence, the ‘ dimidiate 
* Menander ’ of Julius Csesar, and the praises of Quintilian 
and the grammarian Aristophanes. During the long and 
languorous decay of Roman society there is a corre- 
spondingly gradual decadence of poetry from Virgil to 
Olaudian and below him. Probably the truth is that in 
wealthy and quiescent epochs a repressive and widespread 
dilettantism holds sway, and that cultivated gracefulness is 
encouraged to supersede the burlier literary growths proper 
to more stirring and turbulent days. It may be that, just 
as in the vegetable world shoots arrested lose the dignity of 
branches and become but mere bloom buds, so meu of 
genius who do not catch the contagion of a great time of 
civil movement are dwarfed into a low literary content 
analogous to the life around them. 

French poetry, perhaps, contains less universality than 
any other school. Molidre is a satirist, at times a farceur 
— a great one, doubtless — but the forms that ho made 
ridiculous were themselves highly special. The Pr4cieuse8 
had no ancestresses, and, thank Heaven ! have left no issue. 
The like may be said of the effete types of the male noblesee, 
from whom he loved to draw his specimens. Still, in M. 
Jourdain, George Dandin, Tartufe, he has produced inevi- 
table forms, indelible and widely human, whereby he is 
bound to live. This, although we look in vain in him for 
the many-sidedness, the magnificent exuberance, the mas- 
terly rollick, the large and kindly wisdom and tenderness of 
our own matchless playwright. We should agree with 
Professor Courthope, if we interpret him aright, in ascrib- 
ing the sectional character of much of French poetry, in the 

834 Life in Poetry and Law in Taste. Oot. 

days of the Provencals and the Trouv^res, to the accidents of 
BVench politics. Even since those days it has nsuaHy taken 
side with some one faction or another ; it has seldom sought 
to embody national character as a whole, and it lacks the 
element of universal application. Its interest is almost 
purely literary, and is such as rather to bespeak the atten- 
tion of the critic than the sympathy of mankind. Even 
Victor Hugo’s ‘ Legende des Siooles,’ perhaps its most 
ambitious challenge, can hardly be called an addition to the 
masterpieces of the world. 

But of German poetry it is true to say that it flashes its 
light not only over the prevailing qualities of German 
character, but over humanity at large. The Germans have 
hitherto been a race, a people, rather than a nation. The 
Holy Roman Empire was never a religion to its population. 
It was an exotic idea, translated to them as the result of 
military achievement by their rulers. It is doubtful how 
far it ever really touched the German heart. If it had 
struck deeply, we should surely have had while it flourished 
something analogous to what arose, as we have seen, in 
England under Elizabeth, in Rome under Augustus, at 
Athens after the repulse of the Persians, and during the 
growth of Athenian ascendency. But it was not so; the 
Empire rather left the German mind free to pursue that very 
bent which perhaps prevented the imperial idea from taking 
root — namely, the half-lazy contemplation, the patient 
thought, the affectionate and effusive domesticity, which 
turned to poetry as the comforter of weary hours, accepting 
legend and love-story, natural and supernatural, alike ; and 
even to this simple and sedative mental relaxation preferring 
the less definite and more dreamy self-indulgence which 
elaborate music supplies. There can be no question as to 
the superiority of Goethe to the rest of his countrymen, nor 
any as to his claim to a place among the great universal 
poets of the world. He must have heard 

‘ Onorate 1’ altissimo poeta ’ 

as soon as he showed himself in the shades. * Faust ’ is 
enough. Even to those who can only read it in translations 
universality gleams from it, like light from a star. Its 
subject is the clash of great passions and principles. Love, 
innocence, piety, frailty, guilt, repentance, justice, atone- 
ment, redemption, are all shown on the most magnificent 
scale, with, absolute fidelity, and yet with abundant reserve. 
The whole is illustrated by the most varied scenes of 

1901. Life in Poetry and Law m Taste. 306 

ancillaiy life and character, always subordinated to the 
derelopement of the main conception. So varied are its 
metres, so graceful its lyrics, and so essentially does music 
steep its composition, that to those who are sufficiently 
familiar with the great language which it has consecrated 
to its uses it must exhibit an almost unrivalled combination 
of lyric and dramatic elements. So overtowering is it that 
even a foreigner who had to confess but slight familiarity 
with Schiller, TJhland, and Heine, might still venture to 
assert, with well-assured positiveness, that it rears itself 
alone among the literary highlands of Germany, as Byron 
would phrase it, like a chief, 

‘ Whose castled crags 
Look o’er the lower valleys ; ’ 

or perhaps we might say, by way of conceding greatness to 
the other names just mentioned, it 

‘ Beholds the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs 
In dizziness of distance.’ 

Nowhere does Professor Courthope command fuller assent 
than where, in his lecture upon ‘ The Idea of Law in Eng- 
‘ lish Poetry,’ he lays it down that, while conforming to the 
grand principle of imitating the universal in nature, .a poet 
is quite right to imitate it according to the law imposed 
upon him by the character and history of his own people. 
In the first instance he appeals to his own countrymen ; his 
mission to foreign society is secondary. If he appeals more 
than any one else to his own people, he becomes the greatest, 
say, of English poets. It is from the added sway that he 
eventually obtains over foreigners that his claim is derived 
to be classed among cosmopolitan masters. The latter title 
is of course the higher, and it is clearly a tribute to the 
universality in his work. But his first destiny is to repre- 
sent his own people to themselves, to approve himself 
universal to them. If he succeed, and if they have a corre- 
sponding Tmiversality to his own, the larger immortality is 
assured to him. For there is a universal element in 
nations as in individuals. The Greek and Italian poets 
have become immortal, not only through their own but 
through their country’s genius. Doubtless Greece and Italy 
were favoured by that priority which enabled them to lay a 
first hold upon the general stock of ‘ communia.’ Moreover, 
the multiplicity of modern languages has tended to keep the 
poetry of each nation somewhat municipal, and to retard 
the cosmopolitan influence of poets. Greek was the on© 

386 Life in Poetry and Law in Taste. .06t. 

language of literary Europe till its domain came to be 
shared by Latin ; and for more than a thousand years after 
he wrote Virgil could be read untranslated from the shores 
of the German Ocean to the Asiatic seaboard. Still, Shake- 
speare, Goethe, Byron, have become European in spite of the 
confusion of tongues, and we hear that there are symptoms 
that Tennyson is beginning to follow in their wake. The 
same cannot be said of any French poet other than Moli^re, 
and probably he, and Corneille, and Itacine, owe much of 
such foreign recognition as they have obtained to their 
interpretation by the great school of actors who have been 
their evangelists in the capital for which they originally 

In his last four lectures the Professor leaves the general 
subject, and devotes himself to a consideration of the work 
of five of our own great poets — Chaucer, Milton, Pope, Byron, 
and Tennyson. The keynote to the immortality of the 
‘ Canterbury Tales ’ is well struck in the last few paragraphs 
of the lecture on Chaucer. Though the group of pilgrims 
is now five hundred years old, they are all alive and human ; 
save for their clothes, and that they are a company riding 
post, it would not be strange to meet them to-day. In fact 
they are a group of ‘ Universals,’ of evergreen types, whose 
sayings and doings fulfil the substance of Aristotle’s 
‘dictum ’as to the diSerence between history and poetry. 
History notes what did occur upon one occasion ; poetry, 
what might occur upon any'. In discussing Milton the 
Professor alludes to the difficulty which an unnamed prelate 
told him that he had experienced in persuading the young 
men and women of his acquaintance to read ‘ Paradise Lost.* 
Fortunately, we need not fear that the bishop’s difficulty 
points to any organic decay in the vitality of Milton. But 
to our thinking the explanation of the reluctance, which is 
itself interesting, is at once simple and twofold. It illus- 
trates, first, a widespread disinclination in this generation to 
have anything to do with times other than its own. This 
has been expressed to the present writer by persona whose 
opinions were otherwise respectable. A close and valued 
friend of his once confessed to him that he could hardly 
away even with Shakespeare, while his adoration for Words- 
worth and Tennyson was absolute. After much exhortation 
the good man repented somewhat before he died. But, to 
illus'bate this feeling from music, how large is the tribe of 
concert-goera to whom Mozart ‘ no longer says anything,’ to 
whom Beethoven is already somewhat antiquated, and who 

1901. Life in Poetry and Law in Tatie. 367 

openly say that they regard the tendency towards the older 
forms of melody as a snare I Is there not a similar oraze for 
‘modernity* in painting? And need we wonder that the 
same narrow feeling extends to poetry^ which is, after all, 
the least popular of the arts P It is a form of self-satisfac- 
tion. The epoch is heartily pleased with itself, and, self- 
contained and self-supplying, yawns over what is offered to 
it by its predecessors. The second head of explanation is 
more special to Milton ; it is that ‘ Paradise Lost * is still 
among the suspected category of * good ’ or ‘ Sunday * books. 
‘Prometheus’ is equally religious, but it is of a religion 
that is supposed to have passed away. Even Dante’s 
Catholicism is remote enough to be ‘put up with.’ Of 
course, this is no apology ; it is only an explanation of the 
working of poverty of wits and vanity of spirit. That 
‘ Paradise Lost,’ like its three great congeners, the ‘ Iliad,* 
the ‘ jEneid,’ and the ‘ Commedia,’ fulfils the conditions of 
the highest poetry on a grand scale is undoubted. It is an 
imitation of the universal in nature, it possesses an 
individual character, and the various elements that inform 
it are harmoniously combined and expressed. Mi\ Courthope 
places it on an equal height with the ‘ Commedia,’ and above 
the other two. Ought we not to demur to this classification 
of merit? He pleads that both of the Christian epics deal 
with the relation between God and man, whereas the Greek 
poet’s theme is only the wrath of Achilles, and the Homan’s 
only the supremacy of Rome. It would be easy to show 
that the religion of Homer and Virgil interpenetrates their 
respective work. But surely the main insistence should be 
that each poet in his turn and time took the best medium to 
his hand for the imitation of the universal in nature, and 
wielded it with consummate power. It has been justly said 
that morality is relative, and that you must not test the 
prominent individuals of any age by laws of life that have 
been slowly evolved since they ceased to live. Is this not 
true in the field of intellect? Mr. Courthope seems to think 
so when he himself makes the apology of Dante for having 
adopted the scholastic philosophy, the Ptolemaic astronomy, 
and the joint rule of pope and emperor, as parts of the 
divine order of this planet and of the universe. Why not 
justify Homer and Virgil in the same fashion P So great does 
he think the need of apology in the case of the * Commedia ’ 
that he says (page 338) : ‘ When Dante with his clear vision 
‘ looked abroad upon the world, he must have seen how ill 
‘ the existing facts of society fitted in with his theory of 

S38 Life in Poetry cmd Law in Ta$i». Cfet. 

* universal authority.’ Not to mention the scholastio 
philosophy and the Ptolemaic system, which Dante was not 
in a position to challenge ! The Professor goes on to say 
that ‘ in the three hundred and fifty years that intervened 
‘ between the writing of “ The Divine Comedy ” and the 
‘ publication of “ Paradise Lost ” the entire conception of 
‘ nature and society had altered.’ True, the basis of 
authority had been undermined ; the Reformation had 
shattered spiritual unity and scholastic logic; Copemictts 
and Galileo had dethroned Ptolemy ; America had risen from 
out the deep, a vast and hooded form, fraught with new 
messages, but whose visage had not yet been disclosed ; and, 
lastly, the democracy of metaphysics had begun. After 
such an agglomeration of change, with all such advantage as 
those results of time afforded it, ‘ Paradise Lost ’ was written. 
Of course, the outlook upon nature possible to it was larger, 
higher, grander, than in the case of any of its earlier kindred. 
So did the possibilities open to the ‘Iliad,’ ‘iEneid,’ and 
‘ Commedia ’ successively expand. And yet Mr. Courthope 
considers the ‘ Commedia ’ the equal of ‘ Paradise Lost.* 
We agree with him, but wo urge that a similar plea for 
equality, taking account of the advantage of starting-point, 
must hold good for the ‘ Iliad ’ and ‘ iEueid ’ too. We 
suppose, of course, that the writer of each o’f the four 
poems made an equally full use of the materials that 
existed for liim ; and this they all four surely did. Let us 
take an analogy from external nature. Mount Pilatus is 
between 6,000 feet and 7,000 feet high, but its base rests 
on the shores of the Lake of Lucerne, which is 1,500 feet 
above the sea. Ben Nevis is only between 4,000 feet and 
5,000 feet high, but it rises from the sea-level. Who, then, 
shall say that relative height alone makes one a finer 
mountain than the other? 

It is more difficult at first sight to vindicate for Byron a 
title to universality than for any other great poet. He 
seems of all others the apostle of self-consciousness. But 
it must be remembered that though the first inspiration of 
subject comes from without, we must all of us work upon it 
from materials existing within us. This might even be 
said, with the fullest reverence, of the Creator of the 
universe. Infinity in range and nature is the characteristic 
of His creation, because infinity is the only measure of 
Himself. A thought which would tend towar’ds a creed for 
which pantheism, in a new sense of the word, would be no 
misnomer. But may it not be said of Byron that he does 

1001. Ufa m Poetry and Law in !pa»U* 8B9 

select his subjects from without, but because they each 
reflect somethiug within him 9 It is in this way that Lara, 
Manfred, Conrad, Don Juan, have come to be called modes 
of himself. So far he is individual rather than universal. 
But, happily for himself and the world, he treated these 
modes in universal fashion. Take, for instance, his half* 
affected loneliness and self-loathing^, and his yet more 
affected detestation of his kind. He knew how to make 
these the vehicle for magnificent tirades against the un* 
doubtedly universal disorder, foulness, tumult, conflict, 
pride, meanness, self-degradation, of man in society, too 
often in contrast with the orderly beauty and untainted 
grandeur of external nature. We hear him exclaiming 

‘ How beautiful is all this visible world, 

How glorious in its action and itself ! 

But we who name ourselves its sovereigns, we 
Half dust, half deity, alike unfit 
To sink or soar, with our mixed essence make 
A conflict of its elements, and breathe 
The breath of degradation and of pride, 

Contending with low wants and lolby will, 

Till oUr mortality predominates 

And men are — what they name not lo themselves 

And trust not to each other/ 

This may be Byron, but it is also Man. And we may set 
against it the fact that he could recognise and depict, from 
the universal standpoint, and with a universally recognis- 
able perfection all his own, the sweetness of the simple, 
unstained, strenuous, and unambitious life. We may listen 
with him and to him again : — 

* ITark, the note, 

The natural music of the mountain reed — 

For here the patriarchal days are not 
A pastoral fable — pipes in the liberal air, 

Mixed with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd ; 

My soul would drink those echoes 1 ’ 

And on the same topic, and in a like strain, in answer to 
the question, appropriately enough, made in its place — 

‘ What is it 

That dost thou see or think thou look’st upon ? * 

ho can answer, or make his ^ Mode * answer : — 

‘ Myself and thee, a peasant of the Alps, 

Tliy humble virtues, hospitable home, 

And spirit patient, pious, proud and free ; 

Thy self-re.^^pect grafted on innocent thoughts, 



in Poetry and-Litw in Tuoto, 

Thy days of health and nights of sleep ; thy tolls 
By danger dignified yet guiltless ; hopes 
Of cheerful old age, and a quiet grave, 

With cross and garland over its green turf, 

^ And thy grandchildren’s love for epitaph.’ 

Is there not universality in such an outburst, albeit it is 
imbedded, or springs from, a hotbed of self-portrayal P It 
is half of Gray’s ^ Elegy ’ in nine lines ! Again, how universal 
is the thought which we have italicised below : — 

‘ Deem’st thou existence doth depend on time ? 

It doth ; but actions are our epochs* 

How many thousands of spirits, really choice, have felt 
with him the temptation to seek solitude because they have 
esteemed themselves already to be alone — solitude not 
merely in but with external nature ; to become, as he him- 
self puts it, ‘ a part of that around them ’ ! In such a mood, 
and to such a mood, he cries : — 

* My spirit walked not with the souls of men, 

Nor looked upon the earth with human eyes ; 

The thirst oi‘ their ambition was not mine, 

The aim of their existence was not mine. 

My joy was in the wilderness, to breathe 

The difficult air of the iced mountain’s top, v 

Where the birds dare not build, nor insect’s wing 

Flit o’er the lierbless granite ; or fo plunge 

Into the torrent, and to roll along 

On the swift whirl of the new breaking wave 

Of river-sticam, or ocean, in their flow. 

These were my pastimes, and to be alone.’ 

These last may not express human nature in the healthiest 
mood, but it is common human nature all the same. 

It would not be applicable to the purpose of this article 
to do more than touch a few of the points at which Byron has 
treated in universal fashion, and with individual character, 
external nature and the mind and heart of man. But has 
any poet, we may ask, portrayed the agony and despair of 
love after long loss in manner more supreme than in Man- 
fred’s appeal to the spirit of Astarte? Or can dignity, 
simplicity, charity, and earnestness go beyond his portrai- 
ture of the Abbot of St. Maurice ? Once more, are not the 
following lines the very last words to be written of self- 
condexnnation ? — 

* There is no power in holy men, 

Nor charm in prayer, nor purifying form 
Of penitence, * • « « 



Life in poetry and Law in 

Kor, greater than all these, 

The innate tottures of that deep despair, 

Which is remorse without the fear of hell, 

But, all in all sufficient to itself, 

Would make a hell of heaven — can exorcise 
From out th’ unbounded spirit the quick sense 
Of its own sins, wrongs, sufferance, and revenge 
Upon itself ; there is no future pang 
Can deal that justice on the self -condemned 
He deals on hie own soulJ 

And, if we may allow ourselves one last quotation, how 
could the dread of self-debasement, which has kept many a 
fine nature out of action, be more universally put than 

* I could not tame my nature down ; for he 
Must serve, who fain would sway ; and soothe and sue, 
And watch all time, and pry into all place, 

And be a Jiving lie, who would become 
A mighty thing amongst the mean.’ 

Has he not, too, saluted for us all the sun as possibly no- 
body else ever has or will? And the night, too, and Mier 
‘ starry shade of dim and solitary loveliness,’ in that passage 
where he uses the Coliseum to hymn not only night and 
moonlight, but change, ruin, and the beautifying lingers of 
Time, and the worship of the dreamer in the present for the 
stupendous, sovereign influence of the past? 

These passages and instances have all been advisedly 
taken from one drama, first, because ^ Manfred ’ is that one 
among Byron^s chief efforts which is supposed to he more 
full of himself and his theatrical affectation than any other ; 
secondly, perhaps we have done this with a touch of malice, 
because, so far as we remember, our Professor has only 
mentioned it to say that its plot is absurd. Of course this 
is true ; the supernatural story, undated as it is, and 
conceived in the nineteenth century, may be called absurd ; 
but its treatment is surely its redemption. We ourselves 
should be tempted to say that the lack of universality, from 
which Byron does undoubtedly suffer, and suffer much, and 
which is the consequence of the unquestionable strain of 
perversity in him, appears principally in his lyrics. These — 
such, for instance, beautiful as it is, as that beginning 
* When we two parted in silence and tears,* 

and dozens of others of like quality — refer only to incidents 
in an immoral career, altogether peculiar to the actors in 
them, and are, happily, not at all of universal appeal. 


342 Life in Poetry and Law in Taste. Oct. 

We part reluctantly with a volume which deals with 
perhaps the most interesting of all literary speculations, and 
■which we have treated perforce somewhat in episodic 
fashion. The book and its subject appeal to readers of 
poetry and to poets alike. To the former its message is, 

* Covet earnestly the best things, and, in order that your 
‘ appetite may be according to knowledge, accept, to start 
‘ with, the verdict of time. The ages cannot have conspired 
‘to keep alive the memory and to heap the renown of 

* unworthiuess, or to fill the niches in the Temple of Fame 

* with other than their fittest occupants. Longevity itself is 

* after all its own best title-deed. Take counsel, too, but not 
‘ slavishly, with those whose earnest desire to come forward 
‘ and advise is no poor certificate of their qualification for the 
‘ office.’ To poets themselves what more could it say 
than this: ‘Preserve your freedom, your individuality, but 
‘ remember the difference between liberty and license ; 
‘ indulge the impulse of your souls, but not perversely, or at 

* the expense of your immortality, if indeed you care that 
‘ your work should live ? To ensure this, so far as your 

* mental stamina and stature, your genius in fact, can reach 
‘ and endure, you must cherish and adopt the maxim which 

* a philosophic historian puts into the mouth of an emperor : 
‘ “ Atqui legibus soluti, legibus vivimus.” ’ 



Magic and BeUgion. 

Abt. V. — 1. The Golden Bough, fiy J. G. Fbasibb. Second 

Edition, revised and enlarged. London : Macmillan & 

Co. 1900. 

2. Magic and Religion. By Andrew Lang. London : 

Longmans, Green, & Co. 1901 . 

rPHE science of religion, if there be such a science, seems 
to have started the twentieth century somewhat un- 
fortunately. Other sciences pursue their allotted path, and 
daily add accessions to the sum of human knowledge, with- 
out so much as caring to inquire whether there be such a 
thing as metaphysics. Whether Nature really is uniform, 
whether the same cause ever happens twice, in what sense 
space and time can be said to exist, and whether matter 
really is, are questions which metaphysicians may bo pleased 
to discuss, but which for science and for common B<‘nse 
admit of no discussion. No science undertakes to demon- 
strate the existence of matter, and no theory of metaphysics 
will undertake to correct the deductions of astronomy or the 
inductions of chemistry. The physical sciences have with- 
drawn themselves from metaphysics, and by their withdrawal 
have been enabled to occupy a position which cannot be 
invaded by metaphysics. XJntil the uniformity of Nature 
and the universality of causation are impeached, the physical 
sciences reasonably consider themselves safe ; but whether 
belief in those laws has anything upon which to ground 
itself is a metaphysical question, with which science justi- 
fiably declines to concern itself. 

A similar attitude will doubtless be eventually taken up 
by the nascent science of religion with regard to the meta- 
physical problems which underlie it ; but as yet it has not 
learnt to assume the distinctively scientific attitude. There 
is a temptation, still too strong to be universally resisted, to 
use some of the facts established by the science of religion 
for the purpose of confirming or disproving the truth of 
religion itself. That involves exactly the same fallacy as 
tising some experiment in physical science to demonstrate 
the reality of matter or the truth of the law of causation. 
Or, to use an example which will serve to illustrate both 
sides of the case, a botanist who should appeal to his system 
of classification as proof of the real existence of plants, 
would be using exactly the same fallacy as one who should 
point to some exploded system of classification as proof that 
the plants classified by it never existed. The business of 

344 Magic and Religion. Oct. 

the science of religion is to classify religions, above all to 
classify them genetically, and to establish the laws of their 
developement and evolution. But it has no more concern 
with the truth of religion than physical science has with 
the reality of physical objects. The practical man of science 
conducts his investigations and experiments quite undis- 
turbed by any reflexion that a metaphysician may doubt 
whether matter exists, or whether what has happened in the 
past is any guarantee of what will happen in the future. 
With such questions the man of science has nothing to do ; 
and with similar metaphysical questions as to the truth of 
religion the historian of religion is similarly unconcerned. 
Whether there be any or no truth in religious beliefs, they 
have had their history and their evolution, and that 
evolution has to be traced and recorded by the historian of 

The division of labour, which places the work of tracing 
the evolution of religion in the hands of one set of workers 
and the task of evaluating religious truth in the care of 
another class, not only has obvious practical advantages, 
but must eventually be recognised as absolutely necessary. 
The materials for a history of religion are accumulating in 
such large quantities, that any satisfactory treatment of 
them will be only possible for the man who devotes his life 
to the one task of eliciting that histor3^ He will be fully 
engaged with the work of discovering and demonstrating 
the actual filiation of religious beliefs, without attempting 
to determine what, if any, validity they possess. Eventually, 
the science of religion will exorcise metaphysics from its 
domain as effectually as other sciences have already done, 
and will be as little concerned with the question whether 
there is any truth in religion as a history of science need be 
with the question whether science is ultimately true ; true 
or false it has a history, and the history is worth recording. 

But we can scarcely be said to have yet reached this con- 
summation. Both fears and hopes are entertained of the 
consequences which the science of religion may entail 
for religious belief ; and both are based upon the fallacy 
that the validity of the belief will in some way be affected 
by the theory which is entertained of its origin. This 
fallacy has played its part also in moral philosophy, but is, 
it may be hoped, exploded there ; whatever may be the way 
in which our morality has been evolved, and whatever it 
may have been evolved from, its binding force upon us, here 
and now, is unaffected. If there have been stages in its 

1901 , Magic and Beligion. 845 

dfivelopement, at every stage its demands liave been absolute ; 
and if its demands are now absolute, it may yet have staTOs 
of future developement. The fallacy is equally applicable 
to the history of science ; it is so obvious that it would be 
wonderful if no one had fallen into it. Science has had 
its evolution, has been develoi>ed from the humblest origins, 
from guesses and conceptions for which there was no 
lufElcient evidence, or which now are quite abandoned. In 
the face of such an unbroken continuity between the sur- 
mises of the savage and the modern speculations of science, 
what is more natural than to infer that there is really no 
more truth in the one than in the other P Doubtless the 
beliefs and morality of the savage are as binding upon him 
as ours upon us. But that fact cannot prove that ours are 
right and his are wrong, any more than that his are right 
and ours are wrong. If then we apply the theory of evolu- 
tion and the continuity of developement to religion, wo must 
inevitably find ourselves confronted by the same fallacy ; the 
religion of the savage is at least as imperative upon him as 
that of civilised man is on him who believes it ; and exactly 
the same difficulties lie in the way of proving the superiority 
of the more developed religion as in proving the siipcriority 
of the more evolved science or morality. 

If we accept, as practically we must, the view that every- 
thing has been evolved, we cannot tell from that one single 
premiss whether an evolved belief is true or false. We 
may admit that morality, science, and religion have been 
evolved, without committing ourselves to any view as to 
their truth or want of truth. A man might even undertake 
the business of tracing their evolution who had no concep- 
tion whatever whether they were true or not, and who 
simply ascertained that certain forms did as a matter of 
fact evolve out of other forms. When at last he had got 
all their forms, in their proper order of historic develope- 
ment, before him, he might proceed to inquire what, if any, 
truth there was in these beliefs. But, obviously, this in- 
quiry would be of a totally different kind from the former ; 
it is one thing to ascertain what beliefs have actually been 
held in succession, and a different thing to inquire whether 
those beliefs have any truth in them or not. An agnostic, 
in the proper sense of the word, might well be employed in 
endeavouring to determine the order in which beliefs were 
developed from one another ; the fact that he did not know 
whether the beliefs had any foundation or not might not 
militate against the successful discharge of his task. But 

846 Magic and Religion. Oct. 

the moment inquiry turns from the very important business of 
determining the order and nature of beliefs which, whether 
true or not, have been held, to the equally or more important 
task of inquiring what, if any, truth there may be in those 
beliefs, it is obvious that an agnostic — that is to say, one who 
does not profess to be able to say whether there is, or is 
not, any truth in the facts — must decline the inquiry. The 
only person who can undertake it is one who professes to 
have some knowledge of the truth, or some touchstone 
whereby to test the value of the various beliefs which have 
been or are held by men. Fortunately each one of us has 
his own private touchstone, and must and will use it; 
every one puts his own value on science, morality, and 
religion. But it is very much to be desired that we should 
not go about brandishing our touchstones at inopportune 
moments, and that wo should not after the fashion of 
primitive man convert them into arrow-heads. They may 
safely, and indeed with advantage, be laid aside so long as 
we are engaged in tracing the evolution, say, of religion. 

Mr. Frazer, however, in the second edition of his 

* Golden Bough,’ has intimated pretty plainly that in his 
opinion the science of religion has, or will have, before he 
has done with it, something decisive to say on the meta- 
physics of the question. His position is that the religious 
period in the history of mankind was preceded, and will be 
followed, by a period from which religion is entirely absent. 
Christianity, as a religion, not as a moral system, is but one 
modulation of a theme which has run through various 
religions in various keys, and which Mr. Frazer reduces to 
its simplest notes. Before the melody began there was 
silence ; when it has ceased there will be silence ; while it 
is playing there are certain vibrations going on, of which 
acoustics can render a scientific account ; but any further 
meaning for the soul, of which science can give no account, 
is, of course, valueless and unmeaning for every scientific, 
that is every rational, person. Mr. Andrew Lang, severely 
abstaining as always, from metaphysics in his ‘ Magic and 

* Religion,’ raises the question of tact, and seeks to show 
that religion was actually existent in the period which Mr. 
Frazer regards as non-religious, and that the theme of 
Christianity cannot be reduced to Mr. Frazer’s few and 
simple notes. 

Obviously, the question of fact must be settled first, before 
we can proceed to draw from it any metaphysical inferences j 
and the business of the science of religion is precisely to 

1901. Magic and Religion, 847 

settle sach. questions. But tlie average man is more 
interested, unfortunately, in the inferences which can be 
drawn, than in the difficult and delicate work of jp'etting the 
facts right. That it is possible to get the facts right and to 
^aw justiBable inferences from them he takes for granted. 
What he does not see is that in making this assumption he 
has settled the metaphysical question ; he has assumed that 
aU things are fundamentally and ultimately intelligible, 
however long the process of getting them right may be, and 
however many corrections we must make before we get them 
right. He has taken it for granted that the world is run 
on rational principles, and that its coarse is the visible ex- 
pression of an invisible intelligence. Unless this assumption 
is granted, the whole of science goes by the board ; until 
it is granted science cannot begin ; and only so long as it 
is granted can science continue. 

It is, therefore, impossible that science, how far soever it 
may be carried, should prove the assumption on which it is 
based. It is also equally impossible that science should 
eventually prove its initial assumption of the intelligibility 
of the universe to be false ; problems which for the time being 
do not admit of a satisfactory solution may prove that for 
the time being they are beyond our means of intelligence ; 
they do not show that they are, nor are they believed to be, 
unintelligible. The scientific ideal of the ultimate intelli- 
gibility of all things may, like all ideals, be beyond our 
reach, but of its reality no man of science has any doubt. 
That, with the progress of science, much of our science may 
have to be reconstructed, may be freely admitted ; but the 
admission casts no doubt on the original assumption of the 
rationality of the construction of the universe. It simply 
claims that our attempts to render it intelligible to us 
progressively improve. Even if, to carry out these improve- 
ments, we have to pull down whole blocks of scientifi.c 
buildings, and eventually are led to replace the whole of the 
old structures by new, we shall be acting throughout on the 
original assumption that there is an intelligence in things 
which it is in our power in some degree to comprehend. 

Mr. Erazer, however, looks forward to a period in which, 
as religion has superseded magic, and religion has been ex- 
ploded by science, so science ‘ may hereafter be itself super- 
* seded by some more perfect hypothesis.’ Now, the 
hypothesis on which science is built is that the universe is 
rational and intelligible ; and the hypothesis will be perf^t 
when everything in the universe is shown to come under it. 

348 Magic and Religion, Oct. 

It is imperfect so long as there are facts not yet brought 
under it. But it is difficult, indeed impossible, to imagine 
its being superseded. The only alternative to it is some 
hypothesis on which the universe is neither rational nor 
intelligible. The only conclusion, therefore, to which it 
seems possible on Mr. Frazer’s principles to come, is that 
as ‘ science has superseded its predecessors,’ i.e. religion, so 
science will be superseded by the more perfect hypothesis 
that the universe is not intelligible. Indeed, it is only on 
the strength of that more perfect hypothesis that we can 
understand that ‘ the earth and the sun themselves are only 
‘ parts of that unsubstantial world which thought has con- 
‘ jured up out of the void, and that the phantoms which 
‘ the subtle enchantress has evoked to-day, she may ban 
‘ to-morrow.’ On these principles, science, having exploded 
religion, as Mr. Frazer says, ‘ like so much that to common 
‘ eyes seems solid, may melt into air, into thin air.’ 

In the history of metaphysics scepticism as to the ultimate 
intelligibility of the universe is a recurring phenomenon. 
By any one who holds it consistently it must be regarded 
as fatal to any scientific view of the universe and to any 
science of religion. If, nevertheless, it is held by a student 
of science, it can only be because he fails to see the dis- 
crepancy between his science and his metaphysics ; his 
science is built on the very postulate which his metaphysics 
refuses to concede. Doubtless, it appears to him that his 
science leads to the very conclusion that his metaphysic 
requires, viz. that thought is a subtle enchantress, and that 
science will melt into thin air. But his science can only do 
so by renouncing its fundamental postulate of the rationality 
and intelligibility of the universe. If that renunciation 
were made at the beginning, there would be no science. If 
it is made at the end, science collapses ; and thus in neither 
case is there any support for the metaphysical theory to be 
gained from science. 

Mr. Frazer’s position, however, is that the science of re- 
ligion will prove that religion ‘ rests on the sands of superstition 
‘ rather than on the rock of Nature.’ Without for a moment 
undertaking to pronounce on the quality of the foundations 
on which religion is built, we must point out, in the 
interests of the science itself, that the science is not con- 
cerned with the nature of the foundation. That religious 
beliefs of various kinds are, and have been, held, and that 
their evolution can be traced, is all that the science of 
religion requires us to concede. Whether they are built 

1901. ■ Magic and Religion. 849 

on sands or on rock is a question with which science declines 
to concern itself ; whatever their substructure, certain 
structures have been built upon it, and with them and their 
succession alone does science undertake to deal. The 
moment we desert the beliefs men have held in order to 
inquire into the question whether religion is really true, we 
abandon science for metaphysics, or pull back the science 
of religion into the slough from which we ought to help 
her to emerge. It is essential to have scientific freedom to 
deal with the evolution of religion ; and that freedom can 
be had on the simple understanding that science has no 
more to do with discussing the truth of religion than with 
discussing the reality of matter, or the validity of the laws 
of thought. 

Abandoning then such discussions as these, with which 
the science of religion has not to do, important though they 
be, we find ourselves concerned with the evolution of 
religious beliefs. Mr. Frazer holds that there was a period 
in the evolution of man when such beliefs were absolutely 
wanting. They were as entirely absent from the mind and 
consciousness of man, as man himself was wanting from the 
earth in its earliest geologic stages, or as morality and moral 
systems are from the lowest living creatures. In itself this 
seems to be a perfectly legitimate speculation ; it has no 
more bearing on the totally different question of the value of 
religion, than any theory of the origin and evolution of 
knowledge or morality has on the questions of the value of 
knowledge or the binding force of morals. However humble 
the origin of science or of morality may have been, their 
value for us in their present state, here and now, cannot be 
decided by that consideration ; it belongs to another inquiry. 
Whether there was ever a period in which religion or morals 
or science was absent, even to the very rudiments, from the 
consciousness of man, is a question of fact. Whether 
the facts which will decide the question can ever be I’e- 
covered, remains to be seen. Mr. Frazer is of opinion that, 
as regards religion, the facts proving its absence are 
recoverable and recovered. Mr. Lang, on the other hand, 
maintains that so far back as we have knowledge of man — 
and beyond that point he is not concerned to go — we find 
him in possession of religion and believing in a high God 
or gods. 

In the issue thus raised, Mr. Frazer, from the nature of 
the case, occupies a position easily assailed and hard to 
defend ; he has taken upon himself to maintain a universal 

350 Magic and Beligion. Oct. 

negative, and to demonstrate in tlie earliest period of 
haman evolution the total absence of even the most 
rudimentary elements of religion. But Mr. Lang’s position 
too is not without its difficulties ; his point of view is one 
which had once been common, but which has been given 
up tacitly or avowedly by most students of the science of 
religion. They have generally taken it for granted that 
monotheism must be a late stage in the evolution of religious 
belief, and that it was preceded, even in the case of the 
Hebrews, by polytheism and other more rudimentary forms. 
They will, therefore, consistently with their premisses, be 
inclined to regard Mr. Lang as erring in one direction and 
Mr. Frazer as erring in the other : Mr. Frazer may be wrong 
in asserting the original absence of the very germs of 
religion, Mr. Lang may be wrong in asserting the original 
presence of a high God. 

Mr. Frazer proceeds in the establishment of his universal 
negative partly by a priori argument, partly by an appeal to 
facts. Beginning with the former, we have no difficulty in 
admitting that there are two fallacies which have played, 
and do still play, a largo part in determining the actions of 
men : one is the belief that like produces like, the other that 
control over one of two associated things involves control 
over the other. These fallacious beliefs flourish amongst 
low races and amongst low members of higher races of men. 
We have only to assume, what is highly probable, that 
these fallacies were universal and dominant amongst primi- 
tive men, and in that assumption we have Mr. Frazer’s a 
priori argument to show that the original state of man was 
a non-religious state. The argument, however, scarcely 
seems sufficient to demonstrate the conclusion. The fallacies 
in question are widespread at the present day ; and in the 
vast majority of cases the people who fall victims to them 
have some sort of undoubted religion. Primitive man also 
may liave held both the fallacies and some form of religious 
belief. If these fallacious beliefs were by their very nature 
such as could not be held simultaneously with any form of 
religion, Mr. Frazer’s a priori argument would have been 
conclusive. But there is obviously nothing in them of such 
nature : most people who hold them also hold some form of 
religion ; and so may primitive man have done from the 
first. Mr. Frazer, of course, does not argue that belief in 
these fallacies is incompatible with belief in religion. What 
he suggests is that these fallacies are easier to fall into than 
is the fallacy that rivers and trees, stars and sun are alive, 

1901i Magic and Religion. 051 

or are worked by living things inside tbem. They may be 
easier, but the other also is very easy. The savage who 
saw a locomotive move promptly said there must be a man 

Mr. Frazei'’s a priori argument cannot be held to be 
decisive. We must turn, therefore, to his appeal to facts. 
This appeal resolves itself into a citation of the aborigines 
of Australia, who are summoned to show that they do 
believe in magic and that religion they have none. To 
prove a universal negative, and show that no primitive men 
had any, even rudimentary, form of religious belief, it is 
obviously desirable not to rely on a particular example. It 
would be easy for an opponent to argue that this is only one 
instance, and is not enough to prove the whole case. Or it 
might be maintained that behind the Australian aborigines 
of the present day lies a long and unrecorded history ; their 
totemism, in its purely social and non-religious aspect, has 
certainly gone through many and probably slow changes. 
They may once have had religious beliefs, of which sc-arcoly 
an etiolation now survives. But Mr. Lang adopts none of 
these courses. Mr. Frazer has quoted the Australian abori- 
gines as having no religion. Mr. Lang undertakes to prove 
that they have religion. But, inasmuch as Mr. Lang, to 
prove his case, draws upon authorities whose works are well 
known to Mr. Frazer, though the passages on which Mr. 
Lang relies are not cited by Mr. Frazer, the question is at 
once raised why Mr. Frazer pays no attention to those 
passages. The presumption is that they are quoted by Mr. 
Lang because they testify to the existence of religion in his 
sense of the word, and that they are neglected by Mr. Frazer 
because they have no reference to religion as he understands 
it. This presumption seems to be confirmed by the fact 
that the word is differently used and differently understood 
by the two writers. Mr. Frazer formally defines his sense 
of the word : ‘ A propitiation or conciliation of powers 

* superior to man, which are believed to direct and control 

* the course of nature.’ Thus, if this definition be correct, 
the object which man strives to attain by means of religion 
is exactly the same as that at which he was aiming in Mr. 
Frazer’s supposed pre-religious period. In that pre-roligioua 
period man’s sole object, according to Mr. Frazer, was to 
direct and control the course of nature, and he believed that 
he could, and to some extent actually did, control it by 
acting on the principles that like is produced by like, ana 
that control over one of two associated things gives control 

3S2 Magic and Religion. Oct 

over the other. Then, according to Mr. Frazer, when these 
two fallacious principles were found by experience to be 
failures, man set about finding some other and more suc- 
cessful means for directing and controlling the course of 
nature. He resorted, for some reason or other not stated 
by Mr. Frazer, to the idea that the course of nature was 
controlled by some power or powers superior to man ; and 
he set about the task of getting those powers to work the 
way he wanted them. He endeavoured to propitiate and 
conciliate them, and his endeavours constitute religion ; and 
thus the object of man in his religious period is exactly the 
same as it was in his pre-religious period — viz. to direct 
and control the course of nature for his own ends. The sole 
difference between the two periods is in the means adopted : 
in the first period the means was the fallacy that like pro- 
duces like ; in the second period the hypothesis that nature 
is controlled by powers superior to man. 

Thus, on Mr. Frazer’s definition of religion, the object of 
religion is the purely practical purpose of controlling nature. 
If then the Australian aborigines practise ceremonies or 
entertain beliefs which avowedly have no connexion with 
any such practical purpose, we can understand that the 
evidence for such ceremonies and beliefs would be registered 
by Mr. Frazer under some other head than that of religion. 
Mr. Lang however inclines to a wider definition of the word : 
he would not deny ‘ the name of religion to the speculative 
‘ belief in a power superior to man, and to the moral belief 
‘ that he lends a supernormal sanction to conduct, and to 
* the emotional belief that he loves his children.’ We may 
now perhaps understand why Mr. Frazer, defining religion 
in one way, says there is no religion amongst the Australian 
aborigines, whilst Mr. Lang, understanding the word in 
another sense, maintains that there is. Amongst the 
Australian aborigines there is practically no attempt to 
manipulate the course of nature to their own ends by 
propitiating superior powers : there is therefore no religion 
as Mr. Frazer understands the word. On the other hand, 
there is, on the testimony of Mr. Howitt, who has been 
initiated by the Murrings and the Kumai, a belief in a great 
Father of the tribe, who was once on the earth, and now 
lives in the sky, a beneficent father and kindly though 
severe head-man of the whole tribe. There is therefore 
religion in Mr. Lang’s sense of the word. 

There is of course the possibility that the beliefs on 
which Mr. Lang relies are not part of the original and 



Magic cmd BeUgion. 

native equipment of the Australian aborigines^ but bare been 
borrowed by them from other and more advanced pewles. 
^is view has been advanced by Mr. B. B. Tylor. ft is 
carefully examined by Mr. Lang» and at the present stage 
of the controversy the evidence seems to be in favour of 
Mr. Lang, and against the borrowing theory. The dates, 
BO far as they can be fixed, indicate the presence of the 
beliefs before they could be borrowed. Prayer, which is an 
invariable concomitant of the higher religions, and would be 
inevitably taken over with them, is characteristically wanting 
amc^gst the aborigines. Above all, the beliefs are confined 
to the men, who have been duly initiated, and are unknown 
to the women and children ; whereas, if the beliefs had been 
communicated by Europeans, they would have been com- 
municated to women as freely as to men. 

The definitions of religion are so numerous, we might 
almost say so innumerable, that it is vain to expect that 
either the definition given by Mr. Erazer, or the one 
suggested by Mr. Lang, will commaiad universal or oven 
general consent. The most that can be expected is that a 
majority of students will incline to one in preference to the 
other. But it is clear that Mr. Frazer’s theory of the 
evolution of religion will only act so long as his definition 
of religion is accepted. That definition is that religion does 
not embrace the speculative, moral, and emotional elements 
enumerated by Mr. Lang, but has the purely practical object 
of enabling man to control nature to his own ends by 
propitiating or conciliating the superior powers which 
regulate it. We must therefore accept Mr. Frazer’s definition 
to begin with, if we are to follow him in his sketch of the 
evolution of religion. 

He begins with incarnate gods, that is to say, with men 
in whom a god has either temporarily or, it may be, per- 
manently taken up his abode. Mr. Frazer does not make it 
quite clear how the idea originated that a god might become 
incarnate in a man. He has, in his second edition, if not 
changed his views on the subject of magic and religion, at 
any rate, in his own words, come ‘ to see clearly now what 
‘ before was hazy ; ’ and there are passages still standing 
{e.g, i. 129, 130) which we think belong rather to the hazy 
than to the clear vision. They made it fairly plain how in 
the first edition a man-god might originate ; but in the 
second they make his origin to be one which it is difficult 
to reconcile with Mr. Frazer’s now clearer views. Suffice it, 
however, that it is essential to Mr. Frazer’s present theory 

SS4 Magic and Religion, <!)ct. 

to start from the fact that gods are supposed by the savage 
to take up occasionally their abode in man. So long as they 
do so, the savage has no difficulty in propitiating or 
conciliating them, and so controlling nature to his private 
ends. The danger is that when the man dies in whon^ the 
god is resident, the god wiU depart and escape from the 
hands of the savage. Mr. Frazer therefore surmises that 
the savage anticipated this danger, and provided against the 
loss by taking care to have another human being ready into 
■whom the god might migrate when the first ceased to be 
tenantable by a god. The savage had only to do ^this 
regularly, every yeai*, to provide a fresh receptacle for* the 
god, and the god would never escape from the savage ; the 
savage would always be able, through the god, to regulate 
nature as he liked. If the savage behaved in this way, then 
Mr. Frazer’s theory of the evolution of religion can begin to 
work, and he is in a position to suggest an explanation of 
the Christian religion. 

It is, however, to be noted that Mr. Frazer himself calls 
attention to the fact that for the present one link in the 
chain of his argument is purely conjectural, and that he 
freely admits he cannot substantiate it, at present, by facts. 
No instance is known or can be produced in which a savage 
endeavours to make the god, resident in one human body, 
migrate into another, ‘Of this transmission I have no 
‘ direct proof ; and so far a link in the chain of evidence is 
‘wanting.’ So long as the link is missing, Mr. Frazer’s 
theory of the evolution of religion cannot, of course, be 
regarded as proved. But it may be regarded as probable, 
nevertheless, if the rest of the chain can be produced. If 
the divine king or incarnate god, the man in whose body the 
god is temporarily resident, is put to death by his wor- 
shippers, then we are bound to as'k ourselves what is the 
motive and object of such a strange proceeding ; and we are 
not likely to hit upon a better conjecture than Mr. Frazer’s, 
that the object is to shift the god out of that body. We 
may in that case, as Mr. Frazer says, fairly suppose that 

* when the divine king or priest is put to death his spirit is 
‘believed to pass into his successor.’ But it is precisely 
here that Mr. Lang meets Mr. Frazer, examines in detail all 
the instances he gives, and comes, justifiably in our opinion, 
to the conclusion : ‘ So recalcitrant is the evidence, that of 
‘all Mr. Frazer’s kings who are here said to be gods, or 

* to incarnate gods, not one is here said to be put to death 

* by his worshippers. And of all his kings who are here said 

1901. Magic and Religion. SfiS 

‘to be put to death, uot one is here said to incianiate q. god * 

At present, therefore, we mast clearly wait for more 
evidence in support of Mr. Frazer’s theory, before we can 
accept it. We want evidence to show that men who are 
worshipped as gods are killed by their worshippers, and 
that they are killed for the purpose of driving the god out 
of one human body into another. In the meantime, as Mr. 
Lang says, ‘ we know scores of cases of god-possessed men, 

‘ but none are killed because they are god-possessed.’ In 
the absence, however, of any direct evidence to show that 
gods were transferred from one human body to another by 
their worshippers, in order that their worshippers might 
keep the god, and therefore the world which he regulated, 
under their own control, it is possible that there may be 
indirect evidence, in the shape of ‘ survivals,’ to support 
Mr. Frazer’s position. Such indirect evidence he does 
indeed produce. It has, of course, the inherent weakness of 
that kind of evidence : what is regarded by one student as a 
survival from one kind of custom may be regarded by another 
as the survival from a wholly different custom. And it has 
the special weakness that the original custom itself of 
transferring a god from one body to another has not yet 
been proved. 

The first survival which we will take is alleged to be 
contained in the proceedings at a Persian festival named 
the Sacsea. At this festival the custom was for the slaves 
in all households to take the place of their masters and be 
waited on by them. In the royal household at the end of 
the feast the slave is said to have been executed. This 
execution seems to be sufficiently explained by the fact that 
the slave chosen to act in the royal household was a criminal, 
and was bound to be Executed, festival or no festival. In 
other households the slave is not represented to have been 
put to death. Mr. Frazer, however, detects in the slave 
executed the survival he is in search of, and conjectures that 
originally in Babylon the king was executed every year, as 
Mr. Frazer’s theory requires ; that then the king may have 
substituted his son for himself, when the annual time of 
execution came round ; and that finally a condemned slave 
was executed instead of the king’s son. This chain of 
reasoning is highly hypothetical, and scarcely seems, even 
if we admit it, to serve Mr. Frazer’s purpose. The essence 
of Mr. Frazer’s theory is that the god in the divine^ king 
would escape from tl^e control of his worshippers, if the 



Magic and Bdtgion. 

divine king died unexpectedly ; whereas if another human 
tenement is provided, and the divine king is executed in 
time, the god is transferred and preserved to his worshippera. 
But if the divine king is not slain, even though his son or 
his slave be executed, the god remains in the old king, and 
is not transferred. The execution of son or slave is useless 
for the purpose : it effects no transference. Possibly, however, 
Mr. Frazer does not feel this to be a real difficulty in his 
way ; the original object of executing the divine king may in 
course of time have come to be forgotten. In that case 
the custom, if it survived, would have become a genuine 
‘ survival : ’ it would continue to be maintained religiously, 
though no one had an idea what its original object was ; and 
so it would be easy for a substitute to be provided and 
accepted. This is quite a plausible line, but it scarcely 
seems to be the one to be adopted or intended by Mr. Frazer, 
because later in his argument it becomes essential, when he 
is dealing with Christianity, to maintain that the meaning 
and object of the custom had never been forgotten, but was 
always the transference of a god from the body of one human 
being to that of another. 

In any case we are left with the initial difficulty of the 
theory, on which Mr. Lang insists. Mr. Frazer requires us 
to believe tliat in Babylon, which seems to have been in a 
civilised condition at least six thousand years ago, the king 
was killed every year. The royal family would soon be 
exhausted if they were sacrificed annually ; and how many 
men would volunteer for the post? ‘No individual king,’ 
as Mr. Lang says, ‘ would ever accept the crown.’ Strong 
evidence would be required to demonstrate the existence of 
such a practice ; and Mr. Frazer produces none. His posi- 
tion simply is that if we assume this custom to have existed 
at Babylon, and if we further assume that son or slave came 
to be executed in place of the king, then the execution of a 
slave after the Sacma may be regarded as a survival of that 
original custom. On the whole, we cannot help feeling that 
it is easier to make no assumption and consider that the 
Saceean slave was executed, because he was, as we are told 
by the only authority who mentions the execution, ‘ one of 
* the prisoners condemned to death.’ 

In the form, however, which Mr. Frazer’s theory of the 
evolution of religion finally adopts, his explanation of the 
Sacsea becomes indispensable ; it explains the Jewish feast 
of Parim ; and Purim explains the origin of Christianity as 
a religion. There are, however, indications that this line 



Magic and BeUgion* 

of filiation was only adopted by Mr. Frazer after some hesi- 
tation ; and Mr. Lang emphasises the fact that this hesita- 
tion manifests itself in some self-contradiction. Mr. Frazer 
puts the origin of Purim at one time before, at another 
during, and again after the Captivity. If it originated 
during or after the Captivity of the Jews, it may have been 
simply the Sacsea borrowed from Babylon. If it is prior to 
the Captivity, it cannot have been. Mr. Frazer finally 
adopts the former view and its consequences. One of those 
consequences is that we are left in the dark, as far as Mr. 
Frazer’s theory of the evolution of religion is concerned, as 
to the nature of the religious history of the Jews before 
they were brought in captivity to Babylon. Perhaj^s we 
are to assume that, before they were brought to Babylon, 
they were in the pre-religious stage of evolution ; and that 
there they learnt what, on Mr. Frazer’s theory, is the central 
feature of religion — viz. the annual transference of a god 
from one human body to another. The only alternative 
to this assumption seems to be, on Mr. Frazer’s theory of 
religion, that the Jews when brought to Babylon were 
already in possession of this central mystery. But if they 
had been, for generations and centuries before the Captivity, 
in the habit of annually sacrificing their kings or their 
king’s eldest and other sons, they would have nothing to 
learn from the Saca3a when they became acquainted with 
it, and nothing to boiTOw from it. 

But Mr. Frazer prefers to assume that the Jews had 
everything to learn, and that they did borrow the Sacma, 
and called it Purim. What, if any, religion they had before 
the Captivity, therefore, remains undetermined by Mr. 
Frazer’s theory. The religion they had after the Captivity 
rs revealed by Mr. Frazer’s reconstruction of the Feast of 
Purim and his reinterpretation of the book of Esther. The 
work of reconstruction starts from the Persian feast of the 
Saccea, or rather from one of Mr. Frazer’s interpretations 
of the meaning of the feast. We have already said that 
the central feature of religion, on Mr. Frazer’s theory, is 
the transference of a god from one human body to another, 
which transference is effected by killing the first human 
being. We have also said that the transference cannot be 
effected if the first human being is not killed, but is sup- 
posed to get a substitute killed in his place. But Mr. 
Frazer, in showing how the Sacfea originated, did not seem 
to feel this as a difficulty. That it is a difficulty, however, 
becomes apparent when Mr. Frazer proceeds to evolve 

358 Mag'^ and Religion, Oct. 

Purim out of Sacsea. For that evolution the first thing 
that has to be postulated is that at the Sacsea there were 
two human beings, one in whom the god weis resident, and 
one into whom he was induced to migrate when the first was 
killed. There is, of course, no evidence to show that two 
slaves were employed in any such way at the Sacesa. Nor 
does Mr. Frazer’s former view contemplate or provide for 
their employment. But Mr. Frazer must assume their 
employment if he is to explain Purim. He has also to 
assume, what our authorities on the Sacasa do not state or 
intimate, that each of these slaves had a female consort. 
It is only by thus exceeding the evidence, on the one hand, 
by the introduction of three supposititious characters, and, 
on the other hand, by assuming that transference of a god 
from one .human body to another at the Sacsea, which he 
had previously appeared to reject, that Mr. Frazer can begin 
to reinterpret the book of Esthei’, reconstruct the Feast of 
Purim, and explain the religion of Christianity. It would 
seem that Mr. Frazer’s work at this period is somewhat 
hypothetical and not entirely free from internal inconsis- 

The book of Esther gives an account of the origin of 
Purim. It was a festival to commemorate the escape of 
Mordecai, by the assistance of Esther and the hanging of 
Haman. In the book of Esther these characters, together 
with Vashti, the wife of Xerxes, do not figure as gods and 
goddesses. But on Mr. Frazer’s theory they were all origi- 
nally divine figures, and in the book of Esther wo have but a 
piece of folklore (dating, according to Mr. Frazer, from the 
fourth or third century d.c.), in which tliey are represented 
as human, simply because the folk had ceased to conceive 
them as divine. Originally, howevci”, they were divine. 
Mordecai was the Babylonian god Marduk j Haman was 
Hummun, an Elamite god ; Esther was the goddess Ishtar ; 
and Vashti was probably an Elamite goddess. The way for 
Mr. Frazer’s theory is now fairly clear. The central rite 
of religion is the transference of a god from one human 
body to another, in order that the god may always remain 
in the hands of his worshippers and be amenable to their 
wishes. If the human body in which he was resident died 
unexpectedly, the god would disappear; consequently a 
young and healthy body was chosen for his residence, and 
at the- end of every year he was transferred from that resi- 
dence to another human body. The god was resident in 
the human body named Haman ; that body was killed at 



Magic and Religion. 

tbe end of a year ; and the god was transferred to the other 
body, called Mordeoai. One function of the god was to 
promote the growth of vegetation and the increase of the 
flocks ; for the performance of that function he was united 
to a consort; and by the operation of that sympathetic 
magic which, on Mr. Frazer’s own theory, had to be dis- 
credited and cast aside for gods to be invented at all, the 
union of the god and his consort, the King and Queen of 
the May, secured the fertility of domestic plants and 

Of all this there is, of course, no trace in the book of 
Esther. As early as the date of ite composition the folk had 
lapsed into utter oblivion of the fact that any of the 
characters were divine, that there was any sympathetic 
magic in the proceedings, and that there was any transfer- 
ence of a god from one body to another. Neither is any 
such transference or sympathetic magic alleged by Mr. 
Frazer to be recorded in connexion with the worship of 
Marduk or Hummun, or with the festival of the Bacuoa. 
The suggestion simply is that if we suppose it to have con- 
stituted the central feature of their worship, and to be at the 
bottom of the story recorded in the book of Esther, then 
we have a direct line of filiation between Babylonian, Per- 
sian, and Jewish rites and beliefs. There is, as Mr. Frazer 
has warned us from the beginning, no instance known to 
anthropology, from any quarter of the globe, or from any 
ago of man, in which a god is believed to be transferred 
from one human body to another. But if we suppose that 
belief to have been active and operative throughout historic 
time, we have the clue, in Mr. Frazer’s opinion, to the 
evolution of religion. 

We have, therefore, to follow that clue, under Mr. Frazer’s 
guidance, until it explains Christianity as a religion. Mr. 
Frazer’s explanation of that religion simply is that the 
Crucifixion was effected in order to transfer a god from 
the body of Christ to the body of Bai'abbas. Mr. Lang 
contests that explanation at every step. He calls attention 
to the fact that every year at Purim there must have been, 
on Mr. Frazer’s hypothesis, a Haman slain ; and that the 
one single instance, exclusive of the Crucifixion, which 
Mr. Frazer produces of such slaughter, is not alleged, but 
is conjocturally supposed by Mr. Frazer, to have happened at 
Purim, and to have represented the death of Haman. He 
demonsti'ates that the feasts of Saceea, Zakmuk, Tammuz, 
and Purim, which Mr. Frazer regards as but different names 

360 Magic a/nd Religion. Oet. 

for the same festival, took place at different dates of the 
jear, and that none of them coincides with Easter, And he 
concludes by emphasising what he considers to be a funda- 
mental and fatal inconsistency of Mr. Frazer’s argument: 
it is that, whereas in the Sacsean festival at^abylon the 
killing of the god had come, according to Mr. Frazer, to be 
confounded with the execution of a criminal, in the Jewish 
Purim, which was borrowed from the Saceea, the godhead 
of the criminal was so universally recognised by the Jews 
and throughout Asia Minor that the recognition * shed 
* round the cross on Calvary a halo of divinity.’ 

That this inconsistency is inherent in Mr. Frazer’s argu- 
ment seems manifest. His interpretation of the original 
meaning of the book of Esther is only possible on the 
assumption that the divinity of Human, Mordecai, Vashti, 
and Esther had come to be entirely unknown to the Jews at 
the time when the book was composed, and in after ages 
when it was accepted as giving the real explanation of the 
feast of Purim. Yet at the same time we are required by 
Mr. Frazer’s theory to believe the Jews firmly held that 
Haman and Mordecai were gods. If they did hold them to 
be gods, the book of Esther could never have been written. 
If they did not, Mr. Frazer’s theory of the Christian religion 
breaks down ; Haman and Mordecai had no divinity to 
transmit to Christ and Barabbas. 

As we have already said, Mr. Frazer warns us that his 
theory of the evolution of religion rests on an hypothesis. 
He has been led by a study of the facts to surmise that the 
central feature of religion is the transference of a god, 
resident in one human body, to another more vigorous body, 
in order that he may remain permanently accessible and 
amenable to the wishes of his worshippers. Mr. Frazer is 
unable at present to produce any example in which such 
transference is desired or supposed to take place. But the 
tacts seem to him to point steadily to the hypothesis that 
such transference was always the central feature of religion, 
though no clear or unmistakeable example of such supposed 
transference is known to us. The facts on which he relies 
are the Babylonian feast of Zakmuk, the Persian Saceea, the 
Jewish Purim, and the Crucifixion ; and the question is 
whether the facts recorded in connexion with them do point 
so unmistakeably to Mr. Frazer’s hypothesis as to make it, 
if not a necessary, at any rate the most plausible explana- 
tion, and a serviceable working hypothesis. The facts 
actually recorded do not seem to us at present to point 



Magic and Religion, 

definitely in that direction. It is not recorded that any 
person was killed, for any purpose whatever, either at the 
feast of Zakmuk or at the festival of Fnrim; and if a 
human sacrifice took place annually at Purim or any other 
Jewish feast for centuries, we should have some evidence on 
the point. The slave executed after the Sacsea was a oon- 
* demned criminal, and there is nothing to show that his 
execution was part of the Sacsea. It is not recorded that 
Barabbas was regarded as a risen god. In fine, the facts 
which are recorded seem to be those which do not support 
Mr. Frazer’s hypothesis ; and the facts which point steadily 
in favour of the hypothesis are precisely those which are 
missing from the evidence. When evidence shall have been 
brought to show that a person was annually killed as part 
of the proceedings of Zakmuk, Sacsea, and Purim, it will 
then be time to consider whether Mr. Frazer’s theory or 
some rival explanation is the more probable. But until 
that evidence is produced it seems premature to proceed 

There remains the question whether Mr. Frazer’s defi- 
nition of religion is affected by the fact that his conjecture 
remains a pure conjecture to the end. We cannot see that 
it is in the least affected. His definition is that religion is 
‘ a propitiation or conciliation of powers superior to man, 
‘ which are believed to direct and control the course of 
‘ nature and of human life.’ His conjecture is that when a 
god is supposed to be resident in one human body men seek 
to transfer him annually to another, lest by the unexpected 
death of his temporary body he should escape. Even 
though the conjecture be unproved, as Mr. Frazer admits, 
and improbable, Mr. Frazer’s definition is not impeached. 
Powers superior to man may be propitiated or conciliated, 
even if man never attempts to transfer them from one 
human body to another. Indeed, it may be suggested that, 
as such transference is neither a process of propitiation nor 
a process of conciliation, it is not a part of religion as 
defined by Mr. Frazer. It seems rather analogous to the 
transmission of energy, and to belong to that circle of ideas 
which is characteristic, according to Mr. Frazer, of the non- 
religious periods of man’s evolution ; superhuman energy, 
when divine, can be stored and transferred like electricity, 
at man’s will, no propitiation or conciliation of the divine, 
or of the electric, current being necessary. Thus Mr. 
Frazer’s conjecture, if proved, might be difficult to harmonise 
with his definition of religion. But, proved or unproved, it 


Magic and Religion, Oct« 

l0aTes untouclied and unmentioned large fields in the area 
of religion marked out by Mr. Frazer’s definition— -e.jf. all 
the gods who are not supposed to have migrated from one 
body to another or to have taken human form at all. 

* Should I live/ says Mr. Frazer, * to complete the works for 

* which I have collected and am collecting materials, I 

* dare to think that they [critics] will clear me of any sus- * 
‘ picion of treating the early history of religion from a 

* single narrow point of view.’ In the ‘ Golden Bough ’ he 
has but been working on one single problem, that of 

‘ The priest who slew the slayer 
And shall himself be slain.’ 

Whether his solution of that one particular problem in 
the science of religion be or be not finally accepted, the 

* Golden Bough ’ will remain, until Mr. Frazer himself 
surpasses it, in this department of knowledge the greatest 
work produced iu this generation. The ‘ Golden Bough ’ is, 
in Mr. Lang’s words, ‘ an extraordinary mass of erudition.’ 

1001 . 

Mecent Russian Music in Rutland. 


Abt. VI. — 1. Borodin and Liszt. By AliFBSID Habsts. 

Translated with a Preface by Bosa Newhaboh* London : 

W. Beeves. 

2. Tschaikowshy : his Life and Works, with Extracts from 

his Writings, and the Diary of his Tour Abroad in 1888* 

By Bosa Newmaboh. London : Grant Bichards. 1900. ' 

3. Histoire de la Musigue en Bussie. By CftSAB Cm. Paris. 

4. Histoire de la Musigue en Bussie. By Albert Soubibs. 

Paris : 1898. 

^TtHAT during the last five or six years there has been an 
“*■ extraordinary ‘ boom ’ of Bussian music in London, 
especially at the Queen’s Hall, cannot be contested. To 
account for this sudden move with any certainty seems quite 
impossible. It may have come about in the natural course 
of events, as prompted by the fashion set by France and 
Belgium. In France M. M. P. B^la'ieff, a rich Bussian 
musical enthusiast, instituted Bussian concerts at the Paris 
Exhibition of 1878, and in 1885 opened a music-publishing 
business in Leipzig for the benefit of his musical com- 
patriots. In Belgium, especially at Antwerp, Brussels, and 
Li^ge, the Countess Mercy- Argenteau made successful pro- 
paganda for Bussian music. On the other hand, it is pos- 
sible that M. Belaieff, as a music-publisher, may have 
brought his influence to bear in extending a knowledge of 
Bussian music in England ; and perhaps the fact of Mr. 
H. G. Wood, the conductor of the Queen’s Hall orchestra, 
having married a Bussian lady, a very competent vocalist, 
and full of enthusiasm for her musical compatriots, may 
have had something to do with this unexpected move. For 
many years previously the admission of Bussian works into 
our concert-programmes had beeh few and far between. 
On looking thi’ough the programmes of the Philharmonic 
Society’s concerts from 1813 to the present date, and those 
of the Crystal Palace, founded in 1865, which, taken 
together, seem to furnish a thermometer of musical doings 
in England during the respective periods of their over- 
lapping existence, we have the following results. At the 
Philharmonic Society the first appearance of a Bussian 
composer was that of Anton Bubin stein in 1857} Tschai- 
kowsky followed in 1888, Borodin in 1896, Glazounoff in 
1897, and Bachmanioff in 1898. Bubinsteiu and Tschai- 
kowsky figured repeatedly, Borodin twice, and each of the 
others above named but once. 

364 Bec&ni Russian Music in Engla/nd, Oot. 

At tbe Crystal Palace Glinka’s overture to ‘ Life for the 
‘ Czar,* a ‘ Capriccio brillant ’ for orchestra, and * La Jota 
* Aragonaise,’ were brought forward by Mr. Manns in 1860, 
and the overture to ‘ Russian and Ludmilla ’ and ‘ Kamarins- 
‘ kaja ’ in 1874. In 1876 Tscbaikowsky’s concerto in B flat 
minor for pianoforte (Mr. E. Dannreuther) and orchestra 
and overture to ‘Romeo and Juliet’ were heard for the 
first time in England. Soon after this the then board of 
directors of the Crystal Palace politely sent a request to Mr. 
Manns that in future he should not inflict such jaw-breaking 
foreign names as those of Tschaikowsky and Scharwenka 
upon the audience of the Crystal Palace Saturday concerts. 
But for this a boom of Russian music might have come off 
at a much earlier date than it has done. However, this 
ruling of the Crystal Palace directors was not without its 
good effect, for Mr. Manns took his revenge by treating us 
to a right royal dose of Berlioz, for which, under other cir- 
cumstances, we might have had a long time to wait. On 
the rule laid down by the directors of the Crystal Palace 
being abrogated, as in process of time it was bound to be, 
Mr. Manns has of late years taken up the running in 
making us acquainted with modern Russian music. And 
it should not be overlooked that, to a large extent. Dr. 
Richter has done the same, both in London and in the 

In speaking of Russian music, of whatever date, it is 
impossible to omit all mention of Glinka (1804-1857), who, 
as the founder of the modern national School, has been 
regarded as the ‘ Patriarch-Prophet of Music in Russia.’ 
Michael Iwanowitsch Glinka was born at Novopaskoi, 
near Smolensk, Russia, and died at Berlin. Though his 
musical studies, which began at St. Petersburg, and were 
subsequently prosecuted in Italy, Prance, Germany, and 
Spain, might have led to his becoming a cosmopolitan in 
musical art, he has justly been estimated as the eai’liest and 
most representative of national Russian composers. By 
his critics he has been variously spoken of as the Mozart 
and the Berlioz of Russia, both of which appellations, 
paradoxical as at first it may appear, have by no means 
been inappropriately applied to him. On the one hand, 
he has been compared to Mozart on account of the fresh- 
ness of his melodic inspiration; and, on the other, to 
Berlioz because he went far beyond any of his predecessors 
or contemporaries in enlarging the bounds of his country’s 
music. While sojourning in Berlin in 1834, the late Pro- 

1901. Becmt Busaian Music in England* 305 

fesaor Dehu recognised in his compositions a wonderful 
originality, arising from the spirit of his country’s folk- 
songs and dances, with which he was fully imbued, and 
encouraged him to make it his aim to found a Bussian national 
School of Music. The result of this advice, among other 
minor attempts, was the composition of the two operas — 
‘ Life for the Czar ’ and ‘ Busslan and Ludmilla * — by which 
he is best known. 

Dargomijsky (1813-1869), a contemporary of Glinka’s, 
had much in common with this master, and was the com- 
poser of several operas, which met with success in their 
day. His ‘ Gosatchoque ’ (Cossack Dance) was heard at tho 
Queen’s Hall on January 9, 1897. 

Anton Rubinstein (1830-1894), though a Russian by birth, 
has by most of his critics been most properly regarded as 
a cosmopolitan pianist and composer. As a pianist, his 
technique was hardly second to that of Liszt’s ; but, as he 
always seemed to play on the spur of the moment, he could 
not be taken as a reliable guide. We have had experience 
of his being encored in a piece, when on playing it a second 
time he gave quite a different reading of it. What a con- 
trast to the practice of Von Biilow, who, unless indisposed, 
always exactly adhered to the reading which he had pre- 
viously made up his mind was the correct one ! On these 
grounds Biilow was by far the better guide. As a composer 
Rubinstein possessed extraordinary facility, and was most 
prolific, trying his hand in almost every class of composi- 
tion. But he seems to have made it a general rule that 
when he had once written a thing down nothing would 
induce him to alter and improve it. An exception, how- 
ever, should be made to this remark, in deference to the 
fact that in the case of his ‘ Ocean ’ symphony he finally 
extended it, not to its advantage, to seven movements. 
Though in the main we agree with C^sar Cui’s estimate of 
him as a composer, it is astonishing to find that critical 
musician and composer speaking of Rubinstein’s talent as 
having some affinity to that of Brahms and Raff, though it 
is more varied, thanks to the employment of Oriental and 
national Russian themes. With !l^ff, in matter of practice, 
there may have been some affinity, but with Brahms surely 
none, except so far as Brahms possessed the same facility as 
Rubinstein. But it was not a fatal one, for he spared no time 
in revising his compositions and making them as perfect as 
was in his power. Rubinstein, on the other hand, figuratively 
speaking, often sent his to the printer while the ink was still 

366 Recent Bneeian Music in Mtgland. Oct. 

■wet. In thus interpreting M. Cui’s remarks we may be doing 
bim an injustice, for it is perhaps possible that he was merely 
speaking of Brahms, Bubinstein, and !Baff as ultra-conser« 
vatire musicians, whose first desire was to support the most 
classical writers — e.g. Bach, Beethoven, and others. It is 
interesting, therefore, to quote what Bubinstein has said on 
this point. In his interesting little book, ‘Music and its 
‘ Masters : a Conversation ’ (published in English by 
Augener & Co.), he sums up his musical creed by saying ; — 

‘I regard Palestrina as the beginning of music as an, art, and 
reckon from him as the first epoch of our art, which I call the organ 
and vocal epoch ; and as the greatest representatives of this epoch and 
its point of culmination I recognise Bach and HiindeL The second 
epoch, which I call the instrumental epoch {i.e. the developement of 
the pianoforte and orchestra), 1 reckon from Philip Em. Bach, with 
Haydn and Mozart until Beethoven inclusive, recognising the last as 
the greatest representative and point of culmination of this epoch. 
The third epoch, the lyric romantic, I reckon from Schubert, with 
Weber, Mendelssohn, Schumann, and Chopin, whom I recognise as its 
last representative.’ 

Great as bis admiration was for Glinka and Tsebaikowsky, 
Bubinstein does not seem to bave bad mucb regard for bis 
younger musical compatriots, whom be regarded as amateurs 
rather than as professional musicians, and with good reason, 
for, at bis time, unless a man bad private means, it was next 
to impossible for him to live by music alone in Bussia. 
Thus most of the composers, of whom we have to speak, 
bad a double calling. To some extent this was an advan- 
tage, for surely the man who has had other occupations 
during the day comes fresher to his musical work in the 
evening or in holiday-time than the man who for his daily 
bread has been giving music-lessons every day, and all day 
long, as but too often happens with us. 

"V^at Bubinstein’s countrymen have most to thank him 
for is the fact that it was at his instigation that the Conser- 
vatoire of Music in St. Petersburg was founded in 1862. 
He was its first director, doing good work, and remaining 
in oflSce until 1867. On moral grounds, as a preventive 
of gambling and drunkenness, he also did good service by 
memorialising the Bussian Government and advocating the 
institution of theatres and opera-houses in various provincial 
cities for the benefit of the common people. He also, with 
good results, set forth the advantage of establishing con- 
servatoires or music-schools in every town, and insisting 
upon the teaching of the elements of music in every school. 

1901. Recent Russian Music m England* 807 

Verily, thanks to his initiation, it may he said that Russia, 
which before his time was somewhat behindhand, by the 
institution of an Imperial Musical Society, has become 
a musical nation. Perhaps liis most original idea was 
that of transforming oratorio into sacred music-drama, as 
is apparent from a letter which appeared in the ‘ Signale * 
of June, 1882, reprinted from a work entitled ‘ Vor den 
^ Coulissen,’ edited by Joseph Lewinsky. He wrote therein: — 

‘So, thinking of the stage, I wrote my “Paradise Lost,’' tlien re- 
modelled it for the concert-hall as an oratorio, and finally, instigated 
by the idea which 1 have never given up, I gave it the dramatic form 
of sacred opera. The same thing was done with “ The Tower of 
Babel,” and as I do not even now give up the hope that my plan will, 
earlier or later, be taken up, I am writing in this way my “ Cain and 
Abel,” “ Sulamith,” “ Moses,” and “ Christus ; ” whether the day of 
representation comes or not — no matter.’ 

What a bitter disappointment it must have been to him 
to find himself forestalled by Wagner in his ‘ Parsifal ’ ! 

M. Cui appraises Rubinstein in his early days as a direct 
successor of Mendelssohn, and complains that though ho 
introduced genuine Russian themes into his compositions he 
treated them in a thoroughly German manner. He regarded 
him as an indefatigable composer, but not an epoch-making 
one, and therefore puts him down in the second class. 
Among some of his works which he applauds he includes 
the orchestral fantasia, ‘ Don Quixote,^ for its vitality and 
spirit, but is evidently ignorant of the fact, of which we 
have personal knowledge, that he intended it as a skit upon 
what he called the ‘ donkeyism ’ of music — meaning thereby 
the programme-music of Berlioz, Liszt, and others. That 
Rubinstein at a later date changed his attitude towards 
programme-music is apparent from his ultra-realistic piano- 
forte illustration of Burger's ballade ‘Leonore.' Rubinstein, 
a most prolific composer, was the author of six symphonies, 
five pianoforte concertos, thirteen operas — including the 
oratorios, or music-dramas as he preferred to call them, 
specified above — several cantatas, over a hundred songs, 
and a vast quantity of chamber music, pianoforte pieces, &o. 
It was his most cherished desire to be recognised as a great 
dramatic composer j though often appreciated and feted, he 
died disajppointed, and unhopeful for the future of musical 
composition. Wagner, his successful rival in dramatic 
composition, he did not appreciate. According to his idea, 
musical creation, as far as the pianoforte was concerned, 
died with Chopin ; and he thought the outlook but gloomy 

S68 Recent Bneeian Mvsic in England. Oct. 

for its resurrection. A fair number of his works have been 
brought to a hearing in England. Four of his symphonic 
works, three of his overtures, several of his concertos, many 
examples of his ballet music, and his oratorio ‘ The Tower 
‘ of Babel,’ not to mention a long array of pianoforte pieces, 
have been brought forward at the Crystal Palace, if not 
also elsewhere. It seems unnecessary to specify or further 
dilate upon the above-named works, but the guess may be 
hazarded that it is by his pianoforte concertos, owing to 
their adaptability to the requirements of pianists, and by 
his songs, some of which are of extreme beauty, that his 
memory will be kept green. His literary and critical 
ability, though somewhat onesided, seems to have been of a 
high order, as indicated by his ‘ Erinnerungen ’ (‘ Beminis- 
‘ cences ’), 1839-1889, and his ‘Music and its Masters.’ 
To those who desire to know more about his personality 
and musical opinions, both these little books may con- 
fidently be recommended. 

In 1856 two young men, who were passionately enamoured 
of musical art, found themselves at St. Petersburg, the 
capital of Bussia, and the musical and intellectual head- 
quarters of that country. The one was M. A. Balakireff, 
and the other Cesar Cui, and here they took up their abode, 
and some time afterwards were joined by Bimsky-Korsakoff, 
Modeste Petrovitch Moussorgski (1839-1881), and A. P, 
Borodin (1834-1887). They soon instituted an artistic 
society for discussing the position of music in Bussia and 
its possible future, for which they laid down rules, and thus 
became the founders of what is known as the ‘ New Bussian 
‘ School.’ They turned their attention more to operatic 
than to symphonic works; arid for the former — with the 
view of emancipating their country from the thraldom of 
Italian opera, which at that time they regarded as too much 
in vogue, and for which they hoped to substitute a style of 
opera more worthy of their countr}' — they suggested the 
following rules ; — (1) Dramatic music must always possess 
an intrinsic value as absolute music, even when taken apart 
fi’om the text. (2) The vocal music should be in perfect 
accordance with the meaning of the text. (8) The scenes 
of which an opera is composed must be entirely dependent 
upon the relations between the characters, as well as upon 
the general action of the piece. These principles, according 
to M. Cui, are closely allied to those of Wagner ; but the 
methods of attaining the same ends differ essentially in the 
two schools. While Wagner (he says) generally coucen- 

1901. Recent Bmaian Mtiaic in England. 869 

trates the whole musical interest in the orchestra, entrusting 
to it the representative tliemes of certain characters, the 
Russians generally reserve the most important musical 
phrases for the singers, whom they make the real inter- 
preters of the composer’s intentions. Thus it will be seen 
that the new Russian school claims its descent from Glinka 
and Dargomijsky rather than from Wagner. As for instru- 
mental music, having studied the works of Berlioz and 
Schumann, they seem to have looked forward to progress 
being attained through the example set by these great 

Here it seems to be the place to remark that previous to 
the time of M. Oui and his associates what passed as speci- 
fically Russian music was based for the most part upon 
Russian folk-songs, which in turn seem to have been evolved 
by Nature’s musicians from the style of the music of the 
national Greek Church, which in early times seems to have 
been the only model they can have had to work upon. The 
musical ritual of the Orthodox Russian Church, with which 
we happen to know that the late Dean Stanley, by no 
means musically inclined, was immensely struck on visiting 
Russia, is characterised by its frequent use of the so-callod 
Greek tones or Church modes, and this same peculiarity 
pervades many of the old folk-songs, and therefore points to 
their common origin. We do not remember ever to have 
seen this point discussed, and therefore offer the above 
remarks as suggestive rather than as authoritative. But 
we think that when, as often happens, a musical work is 
spoken of as ‘ thoroughly Russian ’ or ‘ too Russian ’ for 
acceptance in England, the intention conveyed is that it is 
too closely based upon folk-songs or Church music. Here 
it may be remarked that especially in Moscow Church 
music has been cultivated in an extraordinarily high degree. 
It has recently been brought to light by Herr N. Fiudeisen, 
in the ‘ Zeitschrift der internationalon Musik-Gesellschaft ’ 
for May, 1900, that there exist hundreds of Church works 
by Russian composers, in three to forty-eight parts, which 
have not been published. Of the so-called Church cantatas 
in twelve parts, no less than four hundred and seventy-seven 
have come to hand. That from the middle of the seventeenth 
century Russia (as he states) had productive composers and 
a school of counterpoint of its own has hitherto been 
unknown to the rest of the world. Our above suggestion 
that many of the older Russian folk-songs owe their being 
to the Church will probably be combated on the ground that 

370 Beemt Eussian Music in Englmd. Ckrt. 

necessarily the folk existed long before the Christian 
Church, and that therefore it is an open question whether 
the folk were indebted to the Church or the Church to the 
folk. It seems, therefore, impossible to determine what 
should have led a primitive folk to the adoption of scales, 
except so far as the pentatonic is concerned, so opposed to 
the dictates of Nature, and of irregular rhythm, having 
often indiscriminately three, five, or seven beats in a bar. 
The whole matter seems to be a mystery, which we should 
be glad to see cleared up. In farther regard to the old 
folk-songs, it should perhaps be pointed out that, as they 
belong to different periods, some may owe their origin to 
the Church ; others may be said to have made themselves 
and to have been handed down by oral tradition. In pro- 
cess of time they were heard by modern musicians, who 
wrote them down and furnished an accompaniment. A 
notable example of this occurs in Tschaikowsky’s string 
quartett in D, in which he has introduced a movement 
based upon a folk-song which he heard sung by a plasterer 
who was working on his premises just under his window. 
Several extant collections of Russian folk-songs were con- 
cocted in this way. 

To return to Balakireff, Cui, Rimsky-Korsakoff, Mous- 
sorgski, and Borodin, the famous ‘ five ’ who have been 
recognised as the founders of the ‘ New Russian School,’ 
and in farther explanation of our remark that at their 
date, unless they had private means, musicians in Russia 
could not live by music alone, it should be added that 
Balakireff, who studied at the University of Kasan, was self- 
taught as a musician ; that General Cui (to give him his full 
title) was a professor of fortification at the St. Petersburg 
Engineering Academy ; that Rimsky-Korsakoff was a naval 
officer; Moussorgski an officer in the famous regiment of 
Preobrajensky ; whilst Borodin was a chemist, and has 
appropriately been spoken of as the * most chemical of 
‘ musicians and the most musical of chemists.’ 

A word or two is due to the doings of this famous five. 
Balakireff, born in 1836 at Nishnij Novgorod, made a suc- 
cessful d^but as a pianist in St. Petersburg in 1856, where, 
in 1862, he founded the ‘ Eree School of Music,’ which 
Rubinstein regarded as having been started as a rival of and 
in opposition to the Imperial Conservatoire. Here he did 
good work, and after conducting opera in Prague during 
1886, in 1887-90 conducted the concerts of the Imperial 
Music Society at St. Petersburg, where he introduced com- 

1901. Recent Bussicm Mueic in Bhglvmd* 871 

positions bj Berlioz and Liszt to the Busaian public. His 
principal works include a symphonic poem, ‘ Tamara,’ heard 
at the Queen’s Hall under Lamonreux on April 18, 1896 ; 
music to ^ King Lear ; ’ three overtures on Bussian, 
Czechish, and Spanish themes, of which the first-named 
was brought forward at the Queen’s Hall on September 26, 
1899; an Oriental fantasia, ‘Islamie,’ one of the few of 
his compatriot’s works which Bubinstein included in his 

* Historical Becitals.’ Besides minor works, he published 
a fine collection of Bussian folk-songs. 

Cui, who has posed more as an acrid musical critic and an 
inveterate opponent of Wagner, against whom he never lost 
an opportunity of warning his countrymen — a Bussian 
Hanslich, in fact — than as a composer, and whose expressed 
opinions should not therefore be too implicitly relied upon, 
is nevertheless the author of six operas — viz. ‘ William 
‘ Batcliff,’ produced at St. Petersburg in 1869, ‘ The Prisoner 

* in the Caucasus’ (1873), ‘Angelo’ (1876), ‘The Mandarin’s 

* Son ’ (1878), ‘ Le Plibustier ’ (Paris, 1894), and lastly 
‘ The Saracen ’ (1899), none of which as yet seem to have 
proved themselves to be of a lasting character. A ‘Suite 
‘ Miniature ’ (September 1, 1897), a cantabile for cello 
(April 30, 1899), and his ‘Premier Scherzo’ (September 29, 
1899) have been heard at the Queen’s Hall. If we mistake 
not, except for a few songs, these are all of his works which 
as yet have found their way to England. 

N. A. Bimsky-Korsakoff was born in 1844 at Tichvine, in 
the Bussian Government of Novgorod. His musical talent, 
which was not hereditary, manifested itself at an early age. 
At six or seven he began to learn to play the pianoforte, 
and at nine composed an overture &c. He was destined, 
however, to serve in the Bussian Navy as an officer of 
marines before he took seriously to music as a profession. 
In 1866 he entered the Naval College at St. Petersburg, 
whore he soon started a small vocal class among his fellow- 
cadets, who used to meet together for the practice of the 
choruses from Glinka’s ‘Life for the Czar’ &c., under his 
direction. While pursuing his naval studies he was also 
instructed in music by Ulich and Kaneely, and lost no 
opportunity of being present at the best musical and operatic 
performances which St. Petersburg supplied. It was during 
this period that he sketched part of his first symphony, 
which he now set to work to orchestrate, sending the manu- 
script from time to time to his friend Balakirefi’ for liis 
advice and correction. In 1866 he returned to St. Peters- 

872 Becint Russiem Mime in England. Oct. 

btirg, having been promoted to the rank of seconddieutenant. 
He now re-scored the entire work, and it was brought to a 
first hearing at a concert of the Free School for Music, 
which some years previously Balakireff and Cui had founded 
at St. Petersburg. In 1871, while still serving in the 
Bussian navy, he was appointed Professor of Composition at 
the Conservatoire of Music in St. Petersburg. On retiring 
from the navy in 1873, he was made Inspector of Naval 
Bands. ^It is splendid practice, such as I never dreamed 
of,’ he wrote to M. Stassoff shortly after his appointment ; 
‘ I orchestrate a great deal for the bands, and hear my 
‘ music performed.’ As Balakireff’s successor, he for a short 
time filled the post of Principal of the Free School of Music. 
In 1883 he was appointed assistant conductor to Balakireff, 
and when in 1886 Balakireff started the patriotic enterprise 
known as ‘ The Bussian Concerts,’ it was to Korsakoff that 
he entrusted the conductorship. 

Among the most important of his published works may 
be enumerated three operas — viz. ‘ The Maid of Pskov * 
(1873), ‘A Night in May’ (1880), and ‘^The Snow Maiden’ 
(1882). His instrumental works include ‘ Sadko,’ a legend 
for orchestra (18GC), ‘ Antar,’ a symphony (Op. 1 5), both of 
which have been heard in Germany ; a sympboniette (Op. 31) ; 
a third symphony (Op. 32); a fantasia on Bussian themes, 
for violin and orcliestra (Op. 33) ; a Capriccio Espagnol for 
orchestra (Op. 34) ; a symphonic poem, ‘ Scheherazade ’ 
and a ‘ Fantaisie Busse ’ for violin and orchestra. Most of 
these have been heard at the Crystal Palace, the Queen’s 
Hall, and Bichter concerts, and it would be easy to extend 
the list. To the above should be added a number of original 
songs and two collections of 140 Bussian folk-songs, taken 
down from oral tradition, as welcome contributions to 
musical literature. 

In an interesting and instructive preface to her transla- 
tion of M. Habets’s ‘ Borodin and Liszt ’ Mrs. Newmarch 
writes ; ‘ Moussorgski is the ultra- realist of Bussian music. 
* His compositions, which are sometimes repellent but always 
‘ full of his dominating personality, are of all the works of 
‘ this school the most antipathetic to Western taste.’ No 
wonder, then, that as yet his works do not seem to have 
reached these shores I Mrs. Newmarch goes on to say : — 

‘ His greatest work, the opera “ Boris Godounoff,” exemplifies at 
once his merits and defects; a vigorous declamatory style, great 
descriptive powers, a lack of poetry and lyrical charm. There is no 
overture or instrumental introduction of any kind to “ Boris 


I801» Bmnt Musaian Muii^ in England 

Godounoff/^ and a large portion of the text ol this mngular work in 
written in prose. Gui describes it as being neither opera nor musi£h 
drama^ but an historical chronicle set to music. Through all hia works 
xuna the same vein of sombre realism. But his realistic atmoapherSi 
lihough oppressive, is never sordid. He has grasped the passion as 
wdl as the humour of the Russian people, and depicts them with atl 
art and truth of expression that cannot be too highly praised.’ 

A- P, Borodin (1834-1887) was born at St. Petersburg. 
On his father’s side he was descended from the Princes 
Imeretinsky, the last kings of Iineretia, the most beautiful 
of the ancient kingdoms of the Caucasus, and thus inherited 
the Oriental type characteristic of these fine races. Prom 
the age of twelve Borodin began to study science, in com- 
pany with young Schtchigleff, a little prodigy, who afterwards 
devoted himself successfully to teaching music. During the 
interval between two lessons in chemistry the pair occupied 
themselves in playing the symphonies of Haydn, Beethoven, 
and especially Mendelssohn, as pianoforte duets. His first 
composition was a concerto for flute and pianoforte, written 
in 1847 at the age of thirteen. While studying, chemistry 
at the Academy of Medicine, under Professor Zinine, music 
was not neglected. At this time he was a great admirer of 
German music, and, to use his own expression, was ‘irn** 
^'pregnated with Mendelssohnism,’ but the influence of 
nationality was gradually growing upon him. In 1856 he 
was appointed surgeon to one of the hospitals of the terri* 
torial army, but his hospital work did not interfere with his 
music. It was at this date that the national influence began 
to preponderate over the German, a psychological evolution 
which ill a great measure was due to his meeting with 
Moussorgski. Henceforth Balakireflf became Borodin’s real 
and only master, as he had been of Cui, Rimsky- Korsakoff, 
and Moussorgski, teaching them the technique, the msthetios, 
the instrumentation, and, above all, the true spirit of a 
musical work. Under the influence of Balakirett the last 
traces of Mendelssohnism were driven from his mind, and at 
Balakireff’s suggestion he set to work with ardour to com- 
pose hjs symphony in E flat. Thus his musical career may 
be said to date from 1862. 

In 1858 Borodin had taken the degree of Doctor of 
Medicine, and in the following year was sent abroad to 
complete his scientific studies. He remained away three 
years, spending the greater part of this time in Erlenineyer’s 
laboratory at Heidelberg. During one of the excursions ha 
made from that place he made the acquaintance of Mile* 


874 Beeeni Rtmian Mmic in Wngtand. Oot* 

0. S. Protopopowa, an excellent musician, -w ko initiated him 
into tiie styles of Chopin and Schumann, and eventually 
became his wife. Daring this period he made but one ess^ 
in musical composition — ^viz. a sextet in D for strings. It 
was performed in Heidelberg in 1860, but was not heard of 
again. ‘ This was still quite Mendelssohnian ; I composed 

* it to please the Germans,’ he wrote to his Adend, 

On returning to Bussia in 1862 he was appointed assistant 
lecturer in chemistry at the Academy of Medicine. He was 
an ardent advocate of the admission of women to the higher 
education, and helped to found the School of Medicine tw 
Women at St. Petersburg, where from 1872 he taught 
chemistry, and warmly interested himself in this institution 
until his death. 

On resuming our account of Borodin’s musical career and 
the composition of his first symphony, which was begun in 
1862 but not finished till 1867, it should be remarked that 
during this period his genius was completely transformed 
under the^influence of Balakireff and the concerts of the 
Free School of Music. As M. Stassoff has remarked, 
Balakireff, Bimsky-Horsakoff, and Moussorgski were better 
prepared than Borodin to reflect the national influence ; like 
Glinka, they had spent their youth in villages in the heart 
of Bussia, while Borodin, except for his travels in Germany, 
had hardly ever left the capital. Still, the national character 
makes itself clearly felt, especially in the trio of the Scherzo 
and in the adagio of this symphony, which was first heard, 
under Balakireff’s direction, at a concert of the Bussian 
Musical Society on January 4, 1869, when its success was 
assured. The success of this first symphony had a decisive 
influence upon Borodin’s artistic career. The critics, how- 
ever, were unfavourable, and even.M. Seroff wrote in the 

* Golos : ’ ‘ The symphony by somebody of the name of 
‘ Borodin pleased very few hearers, and only the friends of 

* the composer applauded and recalled him with enthusiasm.* 
On the other hand, Liszt, whose judgement will not be 
challenged, at a later date ( 1880 ) wrote to Borodin ;** I am 
' very remiss in not having told you, what you know better 

* tiian I do, that the instrumentation of your renowued, 

* symphony in E flat is written by a master hand, and 

* accords perfectly with the composition. It was a keen 

* enjoyment to me to hear it at the rehearsals and at the 

* concert at Baden-Baden. The best connoisseurs, as well 

* as a very numerous public, applauded you heartily.* Alter 

‘ 1901, Meeent JBmaidm Music «» England, 870 

tliuf work, wHoh woald be safficient of itself io eliuM 
Borodin among the greatest musicians of ottr time, he 
occupied himself especially with vocal compositions, which 
need not be here summarised. * Prince Igor’ may be 
accounted as the most important of his dramatic works, 
though he did not live to complete it. Tt was finished by 
his friends, Bimsky-Korsakofi:' and Glazounoff, and is said 
to contain beauties of the first order. 

While styi teaching at the Academy of Medicine, to the' 
duties of which he was thoroughly devoted, and which he 
never seems to have neglected, Borodin set to work upon a 
second symphony (in B minor). No wonder that, begun in 
1871, it should not have been completed until 1877, when, 
after having been repeatedly performed in Belgium and 
Qermany, it was warmly received at home. M. Stassoff, in, 
his article *Vingt-cinq Annies de I’Art Busse,* which 
appeared in the * Messager de I’Europe ’ in 1883, writes : — 

‘ Like Glinka, Borodin is an epic poet ; he is not less national than 
Glinka, but the Oriental element plays the same part in him as in 
Glinka, Dargomijsky, BalakireiF, Moussorgski, and fiimsky-KorsakofT. 
He is reckoned among the oomi>osera of programme-music. Like 
Glinka he can say : “ My unfettered imagination needs a text as a 
positive idea.” Of Borodin’s two symphonies the second is the more 
perfect, and owes its power not only to the matured talent of its 
author, but still more to the national character with which its very 
subject invests it. The old heroic Russian form predominates, as in 
” Prince Igor.” I may add that Borodin himself has often told me 
that in the Adagio he intended to recall the songs of the old Slavonic 
iagans (troubadours) ; in the first movement the assembling of the 
old Russian princes ; and in the finale the banquets of the heroes, to 
the tones of the ffvzla and bamboo ftute, amid the enthusiasm of the 

To this M. Habets adds : ‘ The studies to which Borodin 

* had devoted himself for “ Prince Igor ” were not lost in 

* the working out of his second symphony. At this time 

* his mind was haunted by the picture of feudal Russia, and 
‘ this picture is wonderfully reproduced in the symphony.* 

Another important and successful work of Borodin’s is 
his symphonic sketch, ‘ Dans lea Steppes de I’Asie Centrale.’ 
He says himself of it, in a letter to his old friend Gktvrousch- 
kiewitoh, at whose house he began his artistic career: 
*It has gone the round of Europe, from Christiania to 

* Monaco, and, in spite of its patriotic programme (the 

* success of Russian arms in Asia), this work has been 

* encored almost everywhere, and often repeated by desire, 

* as at the Strauss concerts in Vienna and the Iiamooreuic 

37d Recent Russian Music in England, Odt* 

* concerts in Paris*^ To this it may be added that it vmM 
heard on November 17, 1896, at Queen^s Hall, where hie 
^ Danse Polovtsienne,’ from ^ Prince Igor,* was heard on 
A.pril 3, 1897, and his symphony in B minor (No. 2) on 
January 29, 1898. He began a third symphony (in A minor)> 
but did not live to finish it. 

This seems to be the place to speak of two most interesting 
and extraordinarily clever works — viz. that entitled * Para- 
^ phrases’ and a String Quartet, dedicated to B61aiefiF, and 
based upon the musical notes contained in his name, B flafc> 
La, and F. Of the first named, M. Habets states that 
Borodin collaborated with his friends Bimsky- Korsakoff^ 
Liadoff", and Cui in a work, apparently humorous, but really 
of a serious nature, entitled ‘ Paraphrases,* consisting of 
twenty-four variations, and fourteen little pieces, for piano, 
on a favourite theme, obbligato, ‘ dedicated to little pianists 

* who can play the air with one finger of each hand.* This 
theme, consisting of four bars, must be played by the first 
performer on the upper octaves of the piano, while the 
second player performs the paraphrases, for which more 
than a mere tyro is needed. For this work Borodin wrote 
three pieces, by no means the least interesting, entitled 

* Polka,* ^ Marche Fun^bre,’ and ‘ Eequiem ; * this last, in 
which a liturgical chant is developed as a fugue upon the 
popular and persistent air, is especially striking. 

In one of his latest letters of 1886, Borodin relates the 
origin of this work. He writes : — 

‘I take the liberty of sending you, for your little girls, my — or 
rather our — “ Paraphrases,” twenty-four variations and fourteen little 
pieces for piano on the favourite theme of the “ Coteletten ” polka, 
which is so popular with the little ones in Russia. The origin of this 
work is very funny. One day Gania (one of my adopted daughters) 
asked me to play a duet with her. ** Well, but you do not know how 
to play, my child.” “Yes, indeed, I can play this,” and she started 
off witii the above-named polka. I had to yield to the child’s request, 
and so I improvised the polka which you will find in the collection. 
The four keys — C major, G major, F minor, and A minor — of the 
four parts of the polka, in which the unchanging theme of the 
** Coteletten ” polka makes a kind of €a?ito fermo or counterpoint, caused 
much laughter among my friends, afterwards joint authors of the 

Paraphrases.” First one and then another wanted to try his hand 
at a piece in this style. . . . Finally we were requested to publish 
this work. Rah ter became the proprietor and publisher.’ 

This work fell into Liszt’s hands. He was so delighted 
witit it that he wrote an extra variation for the second 
edition, which was complemented by a set of Siganrure$i 

1901. iUcmt Smticm Jftwio m Unglcrndt > 977 

(medlej) oontributed by N. Stcberbatoheff (186S), wbo> 
thoQgb he has issued some sixty works, principally for 
pwnoforte, does not as yet seem to have found his way to 

We commend a reading of this remarkable work to 
students of Eussian music as a rough and ready way of 
drawing distinctions between the idiosyncrasies of the al^ve- 
mentioned composers, who jointly were its authors. If 
Borodin had not himself told us that while he began with 
the classics, Korsakoff began with Glinka, Liszt, and 
Berlioz, and subsequently moved into an unknown sphere, 
we think that we should have made the discovery for our- 
selves. Borodin and Liadoff seem to be the most genial of 
the concoctors of this strange piece, Korsakoff the most 
advanced and versatile, while Cui and Stcherbatcheff, in 
spite of their unquestionable cleverness, are prominent for 
their scholastic dryness. 

The String Quartet, mentioned above, though it may be 
more properly regarded as an artistic trick than as an 
inspiration, is well worthy of attention, on account of the 
close way in which the notes B flat. La, and F, run through- 
out each of its four movements, which were severally 
contributed by Bimsky-Korsakoff, Liadoff, Borodin, and 

A word or two seems due to Liadoff and Glazounoff, of 
whom we have not yet spoken except by name. 

A. Liadoff, bom at St. Petersburg in 1855, studied at the 
St. Petersburg Conservatoire under Johansen and Bimsky- 
Korsakoff, and in 1875 was appointed there as professor of 
harmony and theory, and also to a similar post in the 
Imperial Chapel. Since 1894 he has conducted the concerts 
of the St. Petersburg Musical Society. Ilis works, chiefly 
for pianoforte, are technically difficult, but of an elegant 
and distinguished originality. His ‘ Valse Badinage * was 
brought forward at the Queen’s Hall on August 20, 1899. 

Alexandre Glazounoff, born at St. Petersburg in 1865, is 
still too young to have found a place either in Grove’s or 
Biemann’s musical dictionaries. It is but fair to state that 
Theo. Baker’s ‘ Biographical Dictionary of Musicians,’ pub- 
lished in New York, by G. Schirmer, in 1900 — the most 
Up-to-date work of the kind that has come to hand — con- 
tains a short notice of him, and a long, but by no means 
exhaustive, list of his compositions. We prefer, however, 
to ^uote from a programme-book of the Bichter concerts, at 
which his sixth symphony has been twice performed s — 

37$ Recent Buenan Mnde in England* Oot* 

* X7nljl:e most of his musical compatriots, who, is order to 

* keep soul and body together, have had to combine some 
« other profession with that of music, Glazonnoff had the good 

* fortune to be born of wealthy parents, and thus, on leaviug 
< school, was enabled to devote himself entirely to music 

* and musical composition.’ Erom A. Soubies’s book 
we learn that he studied under his countryman, Bimsky- 
Korsakoff. He seems to have been a sort of musical 
prodigy, for at seventeen, when his equals in age were still 
groping about as apprentices, he had already composed his 
first symphony (dedicated to his master), which, on its pro> 
duction at St. Petersburg, and subsequently in Germany, 
was most favourably received. This was followed by five 
others, the last of which, dated 1896, has been repeatedly 
heard hers. M. Soubies gives a list of his compositions, 
which might easily be extended. Among the most im^^ 
portant ot them, after the symphonies, are the symphonic 
poems or pictures ; ‘ La Mer,* ‘ Le Carnaval,’ ‘ La Poifit,* 

* Le Printemps,’ ‘ Des T^nebres a la Lumi^re,’ ‘ La Bapsodie 
‘ Orientale,’ * Le Kremlin,’ and ‘ Stenka Bazine,’ two over- 
tures on Greek themes, several marches, and a iantaisie for 
orchestra. In the domain of chamber-music he has written 
a string quintet, three quartets, five novelettes, several 
solos for violin, viola, and violoncello, with pianoforte 
accompaniment, besides vocal pieces, &e. ‘To-day,’ says 
M. $onbies, ‘son bagage est €norme,* and closes this list 
with tbe following remarks : — 

‘ It is impossible to speak in detail of this long list of works, which 
are pervaded by a vigorous individuality. The time is not yet come 
to pronounce a final judgement upon them. They do not yet belong 
to history. It is the same with music as with painting, in which 
history may be said only to begin for the artist when his works have 
passed from the Luxembourg to the Louvre. As some may think, 
M. Glazounoff might appear to be too confident in his extreme facilily. 
His strong technique tempts him to indulge in excessive complication 
and far-fetched devices. His style is sometimes exuberant (touffit). 
But, independently of his remarkable ability, be has ideas, feeling, 
warmth, taste, sense of colour, and the power to imbue himself with 
a national style, while at the same time he bends gracefully to the 
requirements of his subjects, which are of the most varied kinds. 
Apart from the theatre he may be said to have been successful in 
every branch of musical art. His is a personality which holds its 
own among tlie foremost, the most distinguished, and the most brilUant 
composers of our time.’ 

Ill addition to bis two sympbonies (Hob. 5 and 6), bis 
‘Soanes du Ballet,’ bis ‘Oamaval* overture, bis fantasia 

IdOL Smtim Mvsie in England* S7t^ 

'i<a orchestra (Op. 53), and his ballet suite *&timds d* Amour,* 
hUiTC l^en heard at the Qoeen*s Hhll between September 
1896 and November 1900. 

A. S. Arensky — whose fine trio, if not also his equally 
commendable quintett (both for pianoforte and strings), has 
been made familiar at the ‘ Popular ’ Concerts, which were 
founded in 1859 by Mr. S. Arthur Chappell, and from the 
management of which we learn that, after doing good 
service for so many years, he has now retired — was born at 
Novgorod in 1862, and after studying at the St. Petersburg 
Conservatoire (1879-82) under Johansen and Rimsky-Kor* 
sakofi, was appointed a professor at the Moscow Conserva- 
toire, of which he became Principal on the death of Nicholas 
Rubinstein, who, according to the testimony of his more 
famous brother Anton, was a better pianist than himself— 
an opinion which has not been generally shared. But there 
are some still living who will not have forgotten that on 
his repeatedly appearing many years ago at the late John 
Rlla’s Musical Union he was regarded as a very acceptable 
pianist. In addition to Arensky’s chamber-music works 
mentioned above, his first symphony and his ‘ Silhouettes * 
from his second suite were brought forward at the Queen’s 
Hall in 1897. 

M. P. Asantchevski (1838-81) — whose name has been 
recalled to us by the very favourable mention accorded to 
him in the ‘ Brother Musicians ; Reminiscences of Edward 
* and Walter Baehe,’ by their sister Constance Bache, 
recently published by Methuen & Co., a book which ought 
to appeal widely to British musicians — studied under 
Hauptmann and Richter at the Leipzig Conservatoire 
(1861-2). He lived in Paris (1866-70), where he bought 
the library of Anders, and, adding to it his own, presented 
them to the St. Petersburg Conservatoire, which thus 
possesses one of the finest musical libraries in the world. 
Succeeding Zaremba, he was Director of the Conservatoire 
from 1870 to 1876. Later on he devoted himself to oom- 
pofiition. For many years past we have been familiar with 
some of his pianoforte works, especially some remarkable 
dhets, and cannot help thinking that attention might well 
be bestowed upon his orchestral works. 

A word or two seems due to a few other Russian com- 
ubsers who have been on their trial at the Queen’s Hall, 
^i^e * Esquisses Caucasiennes,’ by H. Ivanoff, of whom no 
bdvtaia inforniation has come to hand, were heard there on. i 
Jgk^mher 7, 1899. 

880 Receni Busstan, MuHe in England Oot; 

S. Naprdvnik, whose ^Bomanoe and Fandango* ware 
heard there on September 3, 1897, was bom at Edniggrits 
in 1839. He was educated at the Prague Organ School 
during 1853-4, and, after acting as a teacher there, was 
appointed in 1861 Kapellmeister to Prince Yussnpoff at 
St. Petersburg, and in 1869 conductor of the Bussiau Opeia. 
From 1870 to 1882 he was Balakireff’s successor as conductor 
of the Symphony Concerts of the Musical Society. He is 
a distinguished pianist, conductor, and composer of several 
operas, &c. 

S. V. Eachmanioff — whose ‘ Trio Eldgiaque ’ was heard for 
the first time in London on February 22, 1898, at a concert 
given by Herr Walenn, and whose pianoforte concerto 
(Op. 1) was performed by Miss Evlyn Suart at the Queen’s 
Hall on October 4, 1900 — was bom at Novgorod in 1878, 
and studied under Siloti and Arensky at the Moscow Con- 
servatoire, where he won the great gold medal in 1891. 
He has composed an opera (‘ Aleko ’), a pianoforte concerto, 
a trio 41egiaqne, and other works. 

Bimsky-Korsakoff was represented at the Queen’s Hall 
by his overture ‘ La Nuit en Mai ’ on August 23, 1895 ; by 
his ‘Capriccio Espagnol’ on September 24, 1896; by his 
symphonic poem * Scheherazade ’ (Op 35) on Decembers, 
1896; by his dance suite from ‘Mlada’ on November 12, 
1898 ; by his ‘ Antar ’ symphony. No. 2, on September 19, 
1900; and by his Fantaisie Busse for violin {Tsaye) and 
orchestra on May 31, 1900. Of these, the dances from 
‘ Mlada ’ had been previously heard, for the first time in 
England, on October 10, 1896, at the Crystal Palace, where 
also his ‘ Capriccio Espagnol’ has figured. 

Of works by A. Bubinstein (of whom we have spoken 
at length above) heard at the Queen’s Hall may be 
enumerated the ballet-music from his opera * Feramors ’ 
(September 12, 1896), his pianoforte concerto in D minor 
(October 12, 1898), and his pianoforte concerto in E flat 
(November 19, 1900). 

A ‘ Danse Cosaque ’ by A. N. Seroff was brought forward 
at the Queen’s Hall on September 15, 1897. This com- 
poser, who was bom at St. Petersburg in 1820, and died 
there in 1871, was a lawyer by profession, and in 1850 held 
a government appointment in the Crimea, but soon turned 
wholly to music, beginning as a critic of advanced views 
and an adherent of Wagner. On making his d&tnt as a 
dramatic composer in 1863 with his opera ^Judith’ the 
Czar granted him a pension. His opera ’ Bogneda ’ (1865') 

1901. Beemt Buwian Music in En 0 hndn 

Iia4 equal good footing, and ho set to work on two othdlr 
dramatic works, both of which, in his zeal to complete 
*> Wrazyia* (‘ The Power of the Enemy ’)» he left unBnishod. 
He was not more fortunate with this, as death overtook him 
while it was still incomplete. It was eventually scored by 
Solovieff, and on its production in 1871 became extremely 
popular. Following the example of Wagner, SeroflF was his 
own librettist. He wrote music to Schiller’s ‘ Glooke,* an 

* Ave Maria ’ (composed in 1868 for Adelina Patti), and a 

* Stabat Mater.’ He lectured on music at the Universities 
of St. Petersburg and Moscow. As a national composer he 
has been said to rank next to Glinka in Bussian estimation. 

To complete the tale of Bussian works brought forward 
of late years at the Queen’s Hall involves the compilation 
of a long list of works by Tschaikowsky. Of his six 
symphonies. Nos. 3, 4, 5, and 6 and ‘ Manfred ’ have been 
heard, some of them repeatedly. Among his orchestral 
suites we should specify Nos. 1, 2, 3, ‘ Casse Noisette,’ and 

* Mozartiana.’ The list of overtures includes ‘ L’Orage,’ 
‘ The Year 1812,’ ‘ Borneo and Juliet,’ ‘ Triomphale,’ and 
‘ Voy^vode.’ Among fantasias or symphonic poems we 
have to enumerate ‘ Francesca da Bimini,’ ‘ Fatum,’ ‘ Tem- 

* pest,’ ^ Hamlet,’ ‘ Caprices d’Oxane.’ Two of his concertos 
for pianoforte and orchestra — viz. those in B flat minor 
and G major, and that in D for violin and orchestra, have 
also been heard. To these we have to add (for orchestra) 
the ‘ Capriccio Italien ’ (based upon Italian folk-songs which 
he learnt in Florence), the ballet ‘ Dornroschen,’ the 

* Marsch Slave,’ a ‘ Fest Marsch,’ and the ‘ Bococo ’ varia- 
tions for violoncello and orchestra. 

By way of extending, if not completing, the list of 
Bussian works recently brought forward in England, it 
should be added that within the last few years Bimsky- 
Eorsakoff’s symphonic suite ‘Scheherazade’ (Op. 86), his 
suite from the opera ‘Sn4gourotchka’ (‘The Snow Maiden’), 
Tschaikowsky’s symphonies, Nos. 4, 5, and 6 (the latter 
repeatedly), his pianoforte concerto in B flat minor, his 
overture to ‘ Voy^vode,’ and that to * Hamlet,’ his suite 
‘ Oasse Noisette,’ his suite No. 3 in G, have been heard at 
the Bichter concerts in London, if not also in th% provinces. 

At the Crystal Palace Bimsky-Korsakoff’s characteristic 
dances from ‘ Mlada,’ his ‘ Capriccio Espagnol,* four of 
Tsohaikowsky’s six symphonies, both of his pianoforte con- 
certos, and other works, including his suite du ballet, ‘ La 

* Belle au Bois Dormant ’ (Op, 66x), have been produced. 

382 Be^mt Bustim Mime in Sngltmd, CMi* 

Were we to turn our attention to oluiniber-inaEtio, the Uikt 
might be widely enlarged. At the head of his chamber- 
mnsie easily stand bis three string quartette and his trio 
in A minor (for pianoforte and strings), dedicated * to the 

* memory of a great artist * — viz. N. Bubinstein. 
second movement of this consists of a theme and variations^ 
in which are embodied Tschaikowsky’s memories of N. Babin* 
stein and his musical characteristics at various periods of 
his life. * It would be possible,’ says M. Bashkin, ‘ to label 

* each of these variations with an appropriate title.’ That 
apart from pianoforte pieces, songs, &c., it is complete as it 
stands, we do not undertake to say. 

It will be seen from the above that far more attention has 
been bestowed upon Tschaikowsky than upon any of his 
compatriots, and, we think, with good reason, for surely he 
towers above them all as facile prineeps. So much more 
has been written in Bnglish about him than about any of 
his countrymen, that it seems unnecessary here to do more 
than sketch the outline of his artistic life. Those who are 
curious about him cannot do better than consult Mrs. 
Newmarch’s book, already referred to. Besides a pretty 
complete sketch of his life, extracts from his * Collected 

* Writings ’ (for besides being a composer Tschaikowsky 
also worked as a musical critic) in elucidation of his 
musical tastes and sympathies, criticisms and descriptions 
of many of his works, it contains a translation of the 
diary of his tour abroad in 1888, now published for the first 
time in English. Beaders of German may be recommended 
to consult Iwan Knorr’s ‘ Peter Tschaikowsky,’ contained in 
the series of ‘Berahmte Musiker* (Berlin, 1900). Though 
he goes over much the same ground as Mrs. Newmorch 
has done, he adds some valuable criticisms and explanations 
of many of Tschaikowsky’s works. 

Peter Ilich Tschaikowsky (1840-93) was born at Votiinsk, 
in the government of Yiatka. His father, a mining 
engineer, later on moved to St. Petersburg, where he wan 
appointed Director of the Technological Institute. The boy 
was educated at the School of Jurisprudence, and later on 
obtained a post in the Ministry of Justice. Thus, like most 
Bossian composers, Tschaikowsky commenced his mnsioal 
enfreer as an amateur. But that he was a bom musician is 
evidenced by the fact that while still a small child ho 
evinced that he was endowed with that somewhat rare 
of a sense of absolute pitch, for if a note was strack on ^ie 
piimoforte by another person he had no difilcsdty in sayings 

I$0].« JBumm Mntic Mn^la^ 889 

^epnmtely wliat it was. He is said to liare oomi>o«kd 
meiodies ia bis bead long before be knew bow to write them 
down. A remarkable story is told of bis readiness in oom* 
posing by mental application only and witbont the aid of an 
iOiStrument. On falling ill from overwork, bis doctor sent 
him away for a change of air, and strictly enjoined him not 
to tooob a piano or write a note of music. He obeyed this 
injunction in the letter, but not in the spirit. He took no 
ransic paper with him, but when be came back be bad a new 
staring quartet (that in E flat minor) thoroughly matured 
in bis brain, and bad only to write it down ! As an instance 
of bis amazing facility, it has been related that, on bemg 
commissioned by the editor of a St. Petersburg magazine 
to write twelve short pieces, to appear monthly, under the 
general title of * The Seasons,’ be, being afraid of forgetting 
this little commission, told his servant — who was devoted to 
him— to remind him when the date came round for sending 
off a piece. The man never forgot, and every month be 
used to say to his master, * Peter Ilich, this is your day for 
* sending to Petersburg.’ Tschaikowsky would go to bis 
desk, dash off the composition, and despatch it by the next 
post. No doubt it had already been matured in his brain. 
So much for his extraordinary facility, but with his greater 
works he spared no pains to mako them as perfect as 
possible. While still engaged in his duties at the Ministry 
of Justice, Tschaikowsk}’ joined the classes held in con- 
nexion with the Musical Society, and subsequently, without 
throwing over his official duties, entered the Conservatoire. 
Here he came under the observation of Anton Bubinstein, 
who at once recognised his great musical ability, and advised 
him to devote himself to music, and to music alone. Thus 
it came about that, on a Conservatoire being opened at 
Moscow in 1865, he was appointed to a professorship there. 
Here he remained until 1877, fulfilling his duties as pro- 
fessor, and spending all his spare time in composition. 
Suddenly he married, and as suddenly separated from his 
wife. This adventure so preyed upon his mind that for a 
time he was on the verge of insanity, and owed, perhaps, 
life and reason to the devoted care of his brother Modeate, 
who, as soon as he was able to travel, took him to Clarens, 
on the Lake of Geneva. This did much to restore his health, 
and after a visit to Venice he returned to his duties at the 
Mncow Conservatoire in the autumn of 1878. Daring all 
this time he had been hard at work on some of the most 
imptnftant of his compositions. 

984 Beeenl Busaian Muaie in Magland, 0«t. 

In 1880 H. Bubinstein suggested to Tsobaikowslcjr that be 
should compose a pi^e (ff occasion for the oonsecration of iSie 
Temple of Christ in Moscow. Besides the Church festival 
Bubinstein wished to organise a musical one, which should 
embody the events of the year 1812. Hence the composition 
of the work, which treats of Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow. 
The composer considered it quite mediocre, having only a 
patriotic significance, which made it unsuitable for any but 
Bussian concert rooms. It seems strange therefore that, 
next to the ‘ Pathetic ’ symphony, it should have, in London 
and elsewhere, become one of the most popular of this com- 
poser’s works. That it should have been preferred here to 
his * Francesca da Bimini ’ — one of the most beautiful 
examples of programme music ever written — seems strange 

Up to about this time Tschaikowsky had been in an 
impoverished condition, and had been obliged to eke out a 
living by musical journalism. He was released from such 
anxiety by the generosity of an art-loving lady, whom he 
seems never to have met in the flesh, who towards the close 
of 1877 granted him an annuity of 6,000 roubles, so as to 
enable him to devote himself henceforth to composition 
alone. His gratitude to this generous benefactor finds its 
expression in the dedication of his fourth symphony ‘ To 

* my best friend.’ 

Life in Moscow had become distasteful to him, and hence- 
forth he mostly resided at his country house near Blin, 
the solitude of which suited his disposition, and was favour- 
able to composition. Hence he made occasional excursions 
for the purpose of conducting his new works in Bussia and 
elsewhere. In 1888, 1889, and 1893 he visited England at 
the invitation of the Philharmonic Society, at whose concerts 
he conducted several of his works, and on the occasion of. 
his last visit was ‘ doctored ’ by the University of Cambridge* 
Beturning to Klin, he went, after a rest, to Hamburg for 
the first performance there of his opera ' lolanthe.’ On his 
return home he completed his sixth and last symphony 
(Path^tique ). Writing to a friend he says ; ‘ I was travelling 

* the whole of the summer, and only had time to instirn- 

* mentate the symphony which I had sketched during the 

* previous winter. I shall bring it to a performance in 

* Petersburg on October 1 6, and in Moscow on December 4. 

* It seems to me that I have succeeded ; at least, I have 

* seldom worked at a composition with so much love and 

* devotion ! ’ It was duly performed at St. Petersburg oh 

ilJOl* Heemt Jiussim Mmie in 80lf 

the date meniionedy and was but coolly ireoeiri^* Wbcti, 
three weeks later, it was repeated by the Imperial Masical 
Society, the occasion was an ^ In Memoriam * concert, ^ven 
in honour of the composer, who in this short interval had 
fallen a victim to death by cholera. 

This sixth and last symphony of the renowned Bussian 

S oser was first heard in England at a concert of the 
armonic Society on February 28, 1894, and was 
repeated on March 14 following. Then, and wherever it 
has since been heard, it at once made its mark as an extra- 
ordinarily meritorious and remarkable work. Indeed, it 
might be spoken of as furnishing an unparalleled instance 
of a symphony attaining so wide a popularity within so 
short a period- From its qualifying title — ^ Path^tiquo * — 
it may fairly be inferred that it has an underlying ^pro- 
‘ gramme/ and certainly it is to be regretted that its 
composer has not more explicitly stated what that is. 

No better characterisation of Tschaikowsky as a composer 
has been given in a few words than that advanced by Mr. B. 
Dannrauther in the ^ Dictionary of Music and Musicians/ 
edited by the late Sir George Grove. He writes therein : — 

* Tschaikowsky makes frequent use of the rhythm and tunes of 
Russian people’s songs and dances, occasionally also of certain quaint 
harmonic sequences peculiar to Russian church music. Ilis composi- 
tions, more or less, bear the impress of the Slavonic temperament — 
fiery exaltation on a basis of languid melancholy. He is fond of 
huge and fantastic outlines, of bold modulation and strongly marked 
rhythms, of subtle melodic turns and exuberant figuration, and he 
delights in gorgeous elTects of orchestration. His music everywhere 
makes the impression of genuine spontaneous originality.' 

Tschaikowsky was a prolific writer and the author of no 
less than 104 published musical works. No wonder then 
that we are compelled to restrict ourselves to saying a few 
^words about some of the most important of his works which 
have been brought to a hearing in England. 

The symphonies claim our first attention. In regard to 
the performance of these, Bournemouth, strange to relate, 
has been more fortunate than London, for at that singularly 
musical and favourite seaside resort all six of them, in 
addition to * Manfred/ which virtually counts as a symphony, 
though not so entitled, have been produced during the last 
two years under the direction of Mr. Dan Godfrey, jun. 

We learn from Herr Iwan Knorr^s book about Tsehai- 
kowsky that his first symphony ‘ Winter Dreams^ (Op. 13, 
G minor) was comi)osed soon after his appointment to a 

Bv^m Mv^e 

at the Motoow Conservatoire in 

'Ivirrites : — */„ 

* Though the title of this work points 16 a poetical programme tkk its 
basisy the composer only furnished its first two movements with s^ifio 
titles — ^viz., ** Dreamings on a Winter Journey ” and Bogged Country : 
Cloudland,” It follows the customary sonata-form. If its instru* 
mentation does not stamp its author as a full-blown colourist, as that of 
his later orchestral works so amazingly has done, it betrays no signs of 
the uncertain hand of a beginner. Nevertheless, a certain excess of 
youthful ardour in the way of far-fetched modulations pervades tlie 
first movement, which, though of a melancholy and dreamy oharacter, 
is the most successful of all. . . . The second movement comprises 
some beautiful folk-song-like motives, but from want of contrast in 
them is somewhat monotonous. The national element is the least 
apparent in the Scherzo, which belongs to a much earlier date. In 
his earlier orchestral works Tschaikowsky sometimes oversteps the 
boundary which separates power from roughness, so the Finale of this 
symphony in its general effect is but too often overladen with brass 

Commenting upon liis second symphony the same author 
writes : — 

‘ The second symphony (Op. 17, C minor) may most appropriately 
be characterised as the Bussian.” An andante sostenuto serves as an 
introduction to the first allegro. After a short tuiti the horn enters 
with an elegiac theme, which seems to have emanated from national 

*In the way and manner in which Tschaikowsky unceasingly 
illumines this theme, at one time entrusting it to the plaintive voice of 
the bassoon, at another to a droning orchestral tutti, when it is treated 
in canon with the boldest modulations, until at last it dies away in 
gentle horn-tones, it is made clear to us how valiantly the artist 
since his first symphony has proceeded on his way towards the attain*^ 
ment of pre-eminence. The terse and sharply defined quick move- 
ment, apart from its masterly form, teems with original ideas, especially 
as regards the song- subject, which is genuine Tschaikowsky. 
remarkably effective andantino marziale takes the place of the usual^ , 
slow movement. It consists of a fantastic march, commencing with 
scarcely audible drum-taps, and at the end, as if in the furthest 
distance, dying away into silence. It forms one of the few fragments 
which Tschaikowsky rescued from his early opera Undine,*’ the 
^core of which he destroyed. The Scherzo is of far more im- 
portance than that of his first symphony. Brimful of life aild 

htUpiour, it richly abounds in harmonic and rhythmical surprises. Its 
h^hly original Trio strongly savours of genuine folk-tunes. In spite 
ot ^its apparent poverty of thematic material, the Finale is remarkable 
for the hurried swing which bears it along. Its princiiml : 

which censiste of four bars of a well-known folk-Sohg, has only a" >> 
singly and aho^lweathed melody fi>r its antithesis. , ;i 

|#01. Snmitm Mwic 387 

‘ Thi« bokmgs to those of Techsikowahy'a JBoretoents wfaioll 
are oalonla^ to call forth violent oi^KMaition. A certain obatinato 
fMbniUve growth (Urn Uchsigkeit), whose unbridled ontbreaks of force 
ate eometimea disturbing, perrades it. Nerertheless, one cannot but 
wonder at the skill with which Tschaikowsky, by means of surpvisil^ 
modulation and bold harmonisation, by artistic counterparts and 
^zzllng orchestration, always succeeds in obtaining new effects.’ 

We now come to some of Tscbaikowsky’s works of which 
we have had personal experience. On the occasion of his 
third symphony (Op. 29, D major) being heard for the first 
time in ^England at the Crystal Palace on March 4, 1899, 
it was annonnced as ‘ The Polish,’ a title which, Mrs. 
Newmarch remarks, it has ‘ in some mysterious way 

* acquired.’ We are glad to be in a position to solve the 
mystery. It is simply this ; In the course of conversation 
with the composer Mr. Manns asked him whether, in con- 
sequence of the Polish rhythms which pervade it, one would 
not be justified in entitling it the ‘ Polish.’ To this 
Tschaikowski readily acquiesced. Hence the adoption of 
the title given to it at the Crystal Palace. It is laid out in 
five movements, which include — (1) an Introduction : Tempo 
Ai mania funebre, and Allegro hrillante ; (2) Alla Tedusca ; 
Allegro moderato e sempUtie (consisting of a slow German 
waltz) ; (3) Andante elegiaco ; (4) Scherzo : Allegro vivo ; and 
(6) Pinaie : Allegro con fuoco (Tempo di Polacca). Con- 
cerning it the Russian musical critic V. V. Berezovsky 
writes : 

‘ Tschaikowsky ’s symphony No. 3, in D, belongs to the year 1875, 
and is contemporary with the well-known Concerto in B flat minor for 
pianoforte and orchestra, and the S6r6nade M41ancolique for 
violin and orchestra. It is distinguished from his first two symphonies 
by the completely Western character of its music, which partly 
reflects the spirit of Schumann and partly the brilliance of the French 
< school,’ 

Besides objecting to its title ‘ Polish,’ Mrs. Newmarch 
deiqtirs to the statement put forward in the Crystal Palace 
Programme hook of the day that ' to those who like to attach 

* a poetical meaning to all the music they hear, it may there- 
^ foire be suggested that this symphony treats of Poland 

* xhouming in her oppression and rejoicing in her regenera- 

* tiou,* on the ground that there is not enough that is 
ffeauinely Polish in the musical material of the work to 
rasiify this assumption or the title which it has received. 
Cba. the ground that one of its movements is headed * Alla 

* ^fedesca/ she argues that it might just as well be called 

888 Recent Bneeian Mmic in Octf 

‘ The Germaci/ We leave it to others to decide u|>ou theea 

The fourth symphony (Op. 36, F minor) belongs to the 
year 1877- It has thus been characterised by Mrs. 
Newmarch, who writes : — 

* The fourth symphony is remarkable for a display of humour some^ 
what rare in Tachaikowsky’s music. Of all the Russian composers, he 
seems the most deficient in this quality. He has not the keen 
appreciation of national humour which belongs to Glinka. Still less 
can he make himself one with the peasantry in their noisy revelry, or 
in their “levity of despair/* as Moussorgsky does. Tschaikowsky^s 
humour, as we see it in the “ Casse Noisette ** suite and other works 
of a lighter calibre, is always elegant and restrained ; elsewhere it is 
very fitful and generally overcast by the prevailing shadow of his 
melancholy. But in this symphony it flows more freely, which seems 
strange when we remember that he was working at it during a time of 
great mental depression. Humour, of a gentle description, peeps out 
from the Andante^ and becomes more marked and lively in character 
in the Scherzo, one of the moat captivating movements Tschaikowsky 
ever wrote. This movement {Allegro — pizzicato oBtinato) is a rare, if 
not niiique, instance of a long symphonic movement in which the 
strings play pizzicato throughout. The Finale {Allegro con fuoco) 
includes varied presentations of the Russian folk-song, “ In the fields 
there stood a biroli-tree.’* * 

The first inovemeat of the fifth symphony (Op. 6i, B 
minor) is prefaced by a short Introduction {Andante) based 
upon a theme which, it should be observed, crops up again 
in each of the subsequent movements, and thus constitutes, 
as it were, a certain bond of union between them. With a 
half-close on the dominant the Introduction leads directly 
to the quick movement {Allegro con anima). Its leading 
subject, which has somewhat of the character of a Eussian 
national dance, calls to mind the ^ Gross vater-Tanz ’ which 
both Beethoven and Schumann have made use of. The 
second movement {Andante cantabile, con alcuna licenza) 
opens with eight preludial bars of a solemn chorale-like 
character, leading directly to the first principal subject, 
consisting of a suave melody given out by a solo horn, 
against an accompaniment of sustained chords by the 
strings. Dovetailed with this a solo oboe superimposes an 
equally suave melody upon the continnance of that of the 
horn. A duet-like character is thus imparted to it. The 
third movement {Allegro moderato) takes the form of a waltz, 
and is so entitled. Purists, forgetful that the greatest 
masters have admitted the most delightful dance- measures 
into their symphonic works, as their minuets sufficiently 

IdOl* Recent Rmeian Mmic in England* 880 

testify, and unmindful of the fact that Berlioz has intro* 
duced one of the most graceful waltzes in existence in his 
^ Symphonic Fantastique/ will probably object that a wait/* 
is out of place in a symphony. However that may be, this 
waltz of Tschaikowsky’s, by reason of its graceful and ro* 
fined character, bids fair for a place by the side of that of 
Berlioz. The Finale opens {Andcmte maestoso) with an ex* 
tended treatment of the introductory theme of the first move-* 
ment, now transposed to the major key. An alteruativo 
theme is interpolated in its course. With a change of 
signature to that of E minor, and of tempo to allegro vivace, 
the quick movement is proceeded with. The developeunent 
of its leading subject at length gives way to two alternative 
themes, the extension of which leads to the second subject 
proper. This completes the tale of the subject-matter, the 
further developement and recapitulation of wliich follow in 
duo order, and in a very interesting and erTi'ctivt' manner. 
For the peroration the signaiui'e is changed for that of 
E major, and in this way the symphony closes triumphantly 
with a Coda based upon the opening theme of Ihe first 

Of so familiar a work as the sixth symphony PatluHiqiie ’) 
it seems needless to say a word more than wo have already 
said above. To speak in detail of the overture's, concertos, 
suites, &c., which have been brought forward in England 
would carry us far beyond our limits. Sutfice it to add 
that all have been more or less warmly received, and that 
many may be regarded as established favourites. 

In attempting to popularise Russian music in England, 
we cannot help thinking that too much, rather than too little, 
has been brought forward. English concert-audiences, as a 
rule, are slow in recognising the worth of works which they 
hear for the first time. A concert-giver’s b(3si policy would 
therefore seem to be to accord scvcimI repetitions of those 
works, of the worth of which he has previousily convinced 
himself, rather than to be continually trying experiments 
with new ones. The question naturallj^ axuses : Has Russian 
music come to stay? With Tschaikowsky it certainly has ; 
but with the others who can say? Time alone can 


B J> 


2%e Macedonian Problem and ita Paetora, 


Abt. VII. — 1. La Macfdoine. La Question Mac4donienne 
dans r Antiquity, au Mojen Age et dans la Politique 
Actuelle. Par le Dr. Cleanthes NiooeaIdes. Berlin : 
J. Baede, 1899. 

2. Turkey in Europe, By * Odtssbus.’ London ; Ed. Arnold, 

‘ T A Macedoine ’ is a work containing a great deal of 
useful information about the past and present con- 
dition of Macedonia. But the usefulness of the book is 
somewhat marred by its polemical tone. In spite of the 
author’s reiterated protests to the contrary, the reader feels 
in every page that the boob is at once an answer to and an 
attack against theories and claims put forward in other 
books. M. Cleanthes Nicolaides writes as a patriotic Greek, 
and his work, as an able exposition of the views of patriotic 
Greeks on Macedonia, is of great interest ; but it should not 
be forgotten that there are equally interesting treatises 
on the subject by patriotic Bulgarians, Servians, and 
Boumanians, all of whom write ably and convincingly — 
each from their own particular point of view. 

Far superior in every respect is the work which stands 
second on our Ust at the head of this article. ‘ Turkey in 
* Europe ’ bears the stamp of a mind not only thoroughly 
familiar with its subject, but conscientiously impartial in the 
treatment of it. We have seldom read a book on Turkey 
indicating so minute an acquaintance with the country and 
all phases of its life, private as well as political, accompanied 
by so wide a sympathy with all classes of its inhabitants. 
This is especially true of those parts of the work in which 
the author deals with the actual condition of Turkey. His 
keen observation and many-sided experience enable hiift to 
present a picture both striking and suggestive, and illumined 
by flashes of humour which, though often unexpected, are 
never felt to be forced. Our praise of the purely historical 
chapters, however, must be somewhat qualified. In his 
sketch of the former relations of the Christian races among 
themselves the author, it seems to us, allows himself occa- 
sionally to be influenced by the statements of prejudiced or 
interested writers, and such are the majority of those who 
have treated of the subject. His estimate of the Greek 
Church, for instance, is, in our opinion, unduly severe and 
utterly at variance with the feelings of reverence and grati- 
tude entertained towards it by its own members — feelings 


The Macedofdan Problem And ite Paotors. 


which would hardly have existed had the Church been, as 
the apthor maintains, a willing tool of oppression in the 
hands of the Sultans. It is the fashion among the variotis 
anti-Greek propagandas to decry the attitude of the Greek 
Church under the Turkish dominion, but we should scarcely 
have expected a writer of the sagacity and usual fairness of 
* Odysseus ’ to be misled by the one-sided statements of 
obvious opponents. Again, as a rare instance of omission 
might be mentioned the author’s silence on the curious and 
interesting sect of the Dolmes, or Jewish converts to 
Mohammedanism, of whom there are several thousands in 
Adrianople, Salonica, and other parts of the Ottoman 
Empire. However, these minor defects do not detract from 
the value of the work as a whole, and those who are best 
qualified to pronounce an opinion will, we feel cei'tain, bo 
■toe readiest to acknowledge its great merits. The chapters 
bearing on Albania and Macedonia are particularly valuable, 
owing to the importance of those iirovinees and the com- 
parative scarcity of trustworthy information concerning 

Macedonia and Albania are the two great centifes of 
unrest in the European portion of the Sultan’s dontinions, 
and whenever the Eastern drama is opened again it is pretty 
safe to prophesy that the first scene will be enacted in one 
or other of those provinces. That such an event is not very 
distant is a matter upon which few people acquainted with 
the Near East have any doubts. Count Goluchowski, the 
Austrian Minister of Foreign Affairs, in his speech before 
the Foreign Committee of the Hungarian Delegation on 
May 22, emphasised the gravity of the situation, and his 
utterances were everywhere considered as a proof that the 
state of things in the Balkan Peninsula is more critical than 
is generally supposed. This view is corroborated by tho 
testimony of many competent witnesses, such as tho Vienna 
correspondent of the ‘ Times,’ whose recent letters lay stress 
on the dangers arising from the disorganisation prevalent in 
the Macedonian and Albanian vilayets. 

Of the two provinces Macedonia seems to us to afford tlu' 
more serious cause of apprehension. Maladministration 
has there reached its high-watermark. The economic ex- 
haustion of the country is only equalled by the moral 
degradation of its inhabitants. Bebellion or utter ruin is 
the only alternative left to a population groaning under a 
yoke of almost unparalleled severity. That recourse has not 
yet been had to rebellion is chiefly due to the fact that 

392 The Macedonian Problem and its Factors^ Oct, 

Macedonia is a house divided against itself. Heartily as 
the Christian races hate their common oppressor, they would 
rather be ruined by him than agree on a common plan of 
action. This intensity of racial antipathy and antagonism 
and the number of the rival races are precisely the 
features which lend such a peculiar interest to the study of 
Macedonia, as compared with Albania, and render it a source 
of grave peril to the peace of Eastern Europe. 

It is the object of the present article to set forth the 
situation briefly, both ill its administrative and in its political 
aspects, as it impresses observers who have recently had 
the opportunity of studying the Macedonian problem on 
the spot. We shall begin by describing the evils arising 
from misgovernment, and then iiroceed to discuss the rela- 
tive position of the subject races towards each other and 
towards their masters. 

First and foremost among the causes which have reduced 
the people of Macedonia to their present state of slow star- 
vation must rank taxation. Official information on this 
root of all evil is naturally unobtainable ; but it is possible 
on the spot to gather important details on the subject from 
the taxpayers themselves ; and the conclusion forced upon 
us, after carefully sifting and comparing the evidence, is 
that the Macedonian farmer, under the most favourable 
conditions, cannot expect to enjoy more than one-third of 
the fruits of his labour. The rest goes to the payment of 
taxes,* These taxes, heavy though they are, as seen on 

* How great is this burden can be dimly realised from the follow- 
ing table, which does not pretend to be an exhaustive list by any 
means : — 

For exemption from military service {Bidel asherieli) : 37^ piastres, 
paid by each male. 

For repair of roads {Yol parassi) : IG piastres per head. 

On personal industry {Tedjeret ) : 5 per cent, on income. 

On real property : Buildings {ImlaJc\ 4 per thousand on value. 
Land, 2 piastres per stremma (= 1,600 sq. metres}. 

If the buildings on the land are let out, the proprietor pays doiible 
the above. 

Tithe: This tax varies from 10 to 15 per cent., according to hind, 
the average being 12J per cent., and reaches its height of iniquity in 
the case of vines; first, a duty of 12^ per cent, is levied on the 
grapes, then 15 per cent, on the wine pressed therefrom, and, lastly, 
an additional impost of 15 per cent, has to be paid for the arrack 
distilled from the skins of the same grapes. So it really amounts to 
42^ per cent. 

Further, an export duty of 8 per cent, is levied on all kinds trans- 
ferred from one district to another. 

1901. The Macedonian Problem and its Paetora. 893 

paper, are further aggravated by the thousand and one 
methods of extortion so well known to the Turkish tax^ 
gatherer and tithe-farmer. 

The military tax, which is but another name for the 
obsolete capitation tax (Kharadj), theoretically applies only 
to those Christian males who are able to bear arms. The 
age limit is from fifteen to seventy. But, as though this 
were not enough, every Christian male is made to pay the 
tax from the moment of his birth to that of his death, and 
even after. The way in which the impost is levied is very 
characteristic r the number of houses of a certain village is 
multiplied by 5, the total thus obtained is divided by 2, 
and one-half is taken as representing the male population. 
This number is again multiplied by 37^, and the result 
arrived at in this delightfully primitive fashion represents 
in piastres the lump sum which the village must pay 
annually in order to obtain exemption from a service into 
which no Christian is allowed to enter. The same method, 
or want of method, applies to the assessment of all taxes 

The road-tax is a substitute for the corvee of olden times. 
It is regularly collected, but never devoted to its avowed 
object. Roads, in the civilised sense of the term, are 
unknown in Macedonia. Goat tracks and river beds are 
the usual equivalents. Indeed, road and river often are 
convertible terras, as the road of to-day is often the river 
of to-morrow, and vice versa. Bridges are only suffered to 
exist in the shape of picturesque ruins. Floods are the 
inseparable companions of spring, and not uiifreqiiently 
they sweep away whole villages, which have to be rebuilt 
every year. 

The tax 8n industry was established with the view of 

All the above taxes were increased by an addition of 6 per cent, 
since 1900. 

Of minor duties on produce need only be mentioned the weighing 
fee of ^ piastre per load of 100 okts. 

On live stock (Djihh par asst) : ranging between 2 and 6 piastres 
per head of cattle. 

Education tax : 2 per cent, on income. 

To these must be added the ecclesiastical taxes, or bishop’s rates 
( Despotikoi phoroi)^ the principal of them being a duty of 1 5 piastres 
per ‘ married couple.’ 

The piastre is equal to a little over 2d., and the Turkish pound 
{lira) to about 185., but their real value, in view of the extrema 
scarcity of either coin, is considerably greater than that of the English 

894 The Macedonian Problem and its Fatdore, bet. 

famishing a fond for the erection of public works. In 
point of fact it is generally appropriated by the local 
officials as compensation for the arrears due to them by the 
Treasuiy. It is assessed by an arbitrary estimate of the 
individual’s income, and varies according to the humour of 
the collector. The same remark holds trae with regard to 
the valuation of real property. A little transaction coming 
under our personal observation threw considerable light on 
the ways and means by which those who can afford it may 
be let off. An individual, for whose veracity we can vouch, 
had just built a cottage at Salonica worth about :gT30O. 
One morning there came a message couched in the^ oblige 
ing terms ; ‘ Dear Sir, — Would you like to have your house 
‘ appraised at i;T 150 ? ’ The owner naturally enough 
answered that he had no objection to such an arrange- 
ment. Soon after the MouJchtar appeared, and smilingly 
said that it could be done for a consideration. A bargain 
ensued, and the owner, by paying down £T 1 to the collector, 
saved himself £T| per annum for all time. From this 
instance one can form an idea as to the scale on which 
systematic fraud must be carried on. It can safely be 
asserted that wealthy men suffer least from extortion. It 
is the small freeholder who, being too poor to offer a 
satisfactory bakshish, is usually made to pay for the sins 
of his betters. 

It would be both tedious and superfluous to multiply 
examples of extortion on the one hand and corruption on 
the other. A few figures will suffice to render the inde- 
pendent farmer’s position clear : — 

Tithe 12^ per cent. 

Imperial taxes . . .15 „ ^ 

Export duty .... 8 „ 


It must be noted that the tithe is invariably raised to 
25 per cent, and more by the tax-farmers. These worthies 
often refuse to accept payment in kind, and appraise the 
crop — while still standing in the field — with a keen eye to 
their own interest. If the owner protests, and refuses to 
capitulate, they go away, leaving the produce exposed to 
the mercy of the weather, until the peasant is brought 
round to a .more practical view of the situation. The 
inevitable bakshish helps to raise the other figures in like 
manner, so that it would be nearer the truth if we estimated 
the farmer’s liabilities at 70 per cent, of his income. 

10O1» The Macedoniom Prohlent and itn Factor$% 89S 

Thus far6s th© freeholder. The landless tepant is even 
worse off. He generally works on what is technically 
known as the metayer system. That is, he pays either one- 
half or one- third of the produce — according to agreement— 
to his landlord, who in the vast majority of cases is a 
Turkish Bey or Agha. The estimation of the crop is left 
entirely to the landlord’s clemency. The latter, when 
harvest is just over, makes his appearance on the 
accompanied by a body of armed satellites, and proceeds to 
lay hands on as much of the produce as he chooses to con- 
sider himself entitled to. Protests and prayers are un- 
availing. The peasant, next to eternal punishment, dreads 
nothing so much as this day of reckoning with his earthly 
master. Necessity has sharpened his wits, and he often 
exhibits a marvellous fertility in the invention of expedients. 
The use of underground cellars is not unknown to him. Nor 
is he blind to the advantage of a swift -footed steed capable of 
carrying some portion of his hard-earned crop out of harm’s 
way. But fortune does not always favour the efforts of genius. 
Besides, Turkish landlords, like H.M. school inspectors, 
have an embarrassing partiality for ‘ surprise visits,’ and 
the unfortunate peasant is at the best content if he has 
managed to conceal enough to keep himself and his family 
on short commons through the winter. What really tries 
his ingenuity to the utmost is the all-absorbing need to 
provide as much as will satisfy the tax-gatherer, and, tossed 
as he is from pillar to post, he often has to appeal to the 
local authorities to come and claim the tax before the 
landlord’s arrival. He knows that of the two the latter is 
the lesser evil. The landlord will flog him, but cannot put 
him in prison, whereas the tax-gatherer can do both, 
g It would hardly be overdrawing the picture if the pro- 
ceedings were described as a lively game at football in 
which the peasant stands for the ball, while the tax- 
gatherer and the landlord, with their respective myrmidons, 
figure as the rival teams. By the time the match is over 
both sides are rather the worse for the scrimmage, but 
neither is in half as pitiable ^ plight as the much-kicked 
human ball. 

The time when taxes fall due is, according to official 
regulations, the month of March — the beginning of the 
financial year. But in this, as in everything else, custom, 
or rather caprice, runs counter to law. At any time of the 
year the peasant is liable to be pounced upon for payment 
at the shortest possible notice or without any notice at all* 

896 The Macedonian Problem and its Factors, ,Oot. 

The cruelty and savage disregard for decency which attend 
these erratic visitations are sometimes impressed with painfal 
vividness upon the English traveller. Last autumn the 
scene of the drama was Nigrita, a small but comparatively 
prosperous township in South Macedonia. The district, 
thanks to its position in an open plain, is little infested 
with brigands, and, as it is entirely inhabited by Christians, 
it enjoys a greater measure of comfort and freedom than 
falls to the lot of places with a mixed population. The 
Mvidir and his few dependents, having found by experience 
that self-effacement often conduces to harmony, leave the 
people alone. The absence of the Turk was evident in the 
character of the inhabitants — in their open and cheerful 
countenances ; in their unconstrained and vigorous move- 
ments ; and especially in the genial and unaffected manner, 
equally free from adulation and from suspicion, in which 
they exercised their hospitality. 

It was the season of the vintage, and the peasants were 
employed in gathering their grapes and enjoying in antici- 
pation the pleasures of the juice ‘ that maketh glad the 
‘ heart of man,’ when one day a rumour suddenly spread 
through the village that the Taxildars, or tax-gathei’ers, 
had arrived at Serves, the seat of the Moutessarif of the 
district, and would on the next morning but one be at 
Nigrita. The effect of the news was instantaneous. All 
joy vanished at once, and a dark shadow seemed to have 
fallen over the place. It was the shadow of the vulture 
hanging over its prey. 

The mayor summoned the council of the notables in 
haste, and they set about drawing up the lists of taxes and 
assigning to each individual his rightful share. It was a 
sad, yet somewhat amusing picture that those twelve red- 
capped, spectacled old men presented, as they sat cross- 
legged in a ring upon a mat spread under the shadow of the 
church belfry. Two young men volunteered to assist the 
elders in their work as secretaries. The registers were 
produced and opened upon two empty petroleum cases, 
which served as tables. The name of each householder was 
read out, his financial position was discussed, the sum 
deemed his due was marked down, and in default of blotting 
paper w'as dried with sand picked up from the ground. In 
this fashion they continued their work for hour after hour, 
shifting their mat as the sun shifted his position in the sky, 
so as to keep in the shade. A short interval was allowed 
for a frugal midday meal, moistened with new wine. 


1901. The Maeedonicm Problem and ite Factore, 

and then bach to work again : time and taxes wait for no 

It was all done in such a brisk and businesslike manner, 
with so strong a sense of the leniency due to age or 
physical deformity, and withal with so perfect good 
humour, that it was impossible not to admire, while pitying, 
those rustic members of a rustic parliament. No sooner 
had this council of elders ’ concluded its labours than the 
Taxildars arrived with a strong force of gendarmerie. Those 
of the inhabitants who had been unable to get the money 
ready at the notice given had to suffer for their remissness. 
The prisons were crammed with such ill-fated mortals, while 
the narrow streets of the village rang with the cries of 
others dragged thither to the accompaniment of blows and 
the cracking of the whip. The cattle of some, the mules of 
others were seized and confiscated. Tliose who had neither 
cattle nor mules were mercilessly robbed of their household 
goods and chattels. Neither tlie maiden’s trousseau —the 
loved labour of many a long winter’s night — nor the family 
meal tub was spared. Over and above this misery the 
men-at-arms were quartered upon the peasants, had th(‘ best 
of everything, and in return beat their hosts and insulted 
their wives and daughters. Finally, not content with this, 
they claimed a backshish before they could be induced to 

The picture would not be complete without a reference to 
the uncleanly troop of Jewish brokers and money-lenders 
who, like a flock of carrion crows following in th<» wake of 
an army marching to battle, accompanied the Taxildars in 
the hope of an easy prey. Nor were they disappointed. 
Besides the confiscated property, which was put up to sale 
and disposed of for an old song, many a farmer was forc(*d 
by the urgency of the case to part with his crop at a nominal 
price. The Jew’s ready cash was for the farmer the only 
means of retaining his liberty, and those who know what a 
Turkish prison is will hardly wonder at the peasant’s anxi<>ty 
to keep out of it at any cost. 

What is the return made to the peasant for all the suffer- 
ing he undergoes in order to pay his taxes? Wimply nil. 
A tax, as has been stated before, is never spent on the 
amelioration of the condition of those who pay it. TJie 
sums collected, after having passed through various hands 
and helped to feather various official nests, reach the 
Treasury so diminished that they barely suffice to defray the 
current expenses of the Government. Such money as can 

898 r/w Macedonian Problem and ite Paetort, Ooti 

be spared is devoted to the strengthening of the miUtUrTy 
position of the Empire, upon which the whole fabric of 
Turkish tjranny ultimately rests. A look around the 
country is enough to satisfy any one that the Saltan is 
fully alive to the importance of a well-appointed and 
efficient army. Signs of extraordinary military activity are 
visible everywhere since the last Greek war. Old garrisons 
are reinforced and new ones created. The army has been 
supplied Avith Mausers; barracks and military hospitals 
crop up in unusual numbers, and by a peculiarly hard irony 
of fate they are built with the money of the Christians. 
So called ‘Voluntary Contributions’ are the order of the 
day. Every one has to contribute to the utmost of his 
ability, the alternative being imprisonment and flogging. 
Thus the slaves are forced to rivet the chains by which their 
own slavery is perpetuated. 

The results of this criminal misuse of what in happier 
lands is considered a public trust are obvious to the least 
intelligent traveller. Want of means of communication 
and want of security have stunted production. Commerce 
languishes under the bane of heavy customs, which prohibit 
exportation and encourage foreign imports. Mines and 
quarries remain unexploited, and the earth is condemned 
to guard its treasures while the inhabitants are starving. 
On a rough computation one half of the soil formerly culti- 
vated is now forced to lie fallow, while the produce of the 
other half in the presence of foreign competition hardly 
yields one half of the former profit. In travelling through 
the country the eye is everywhere met by the saddening 
sight of deforested mountains and of broad plains which, to 
judge from the luxuriant growth of the weeds which flourish 
on them, could easily be made to support three or four times 
the actual population. Bogs and marshes stretch unchecked 
over miles of land which, with ordinary drainage, could be 
turned into arable soil, instead of being, as it is, the prolific 
nursery of pestilential microbes and malaria. Scarcity of 
capital encourages usury, and the peasant proprietor, after 
one or two bad years, sinks to the level of a pauper. 

Bobbery is another cause of impoverishment. The peasant 
is plundered not only by professional brigands and outlaws, 
but by the very persons who are paid to protect him. No 
sooner is he out of sight of the karahol, or wayside guard 
station, where he has been forced to leave part of the 
produce which he carries to market, than he is as likely as 
not to fall in with some of the numerous gangs of Albanian 

1001. The Macedonian Problem and U$ Faehrg, 


ruffians who, armed to the teeth, roam about the country 
in search of booty. To these must be added the bands^ of 
Wallachian shepherds, a nomad population who also enjoy 
the freedom of the plains. But the most serious and most 
constant danger to the peasant’s peace are the many settle* 
ments of Mooadjirs, or Mohammedan refugees from the 
Tarions emancipated States of the Balkans, who migrated 
into Macedonia from time to time, and who live by cattle- 
lifting, horse-stealing, and murder. Not unfrequcntly these 
gentry act in collusion with the Turkish landowners. One 
day an Englishman’s muleteer left him in the middle of the 
road, saying that he had some business to transact with an 
Agha, or Turkish landed proprietor, in the neighbourhood. 
Soon after he returned, and, on being asked, explained that 
he had been to negotiate with the Agha for the return of 
two horses of his which had been stolen a few nights back. 
The Agha, of course, denied that he knew anything about 
the matter, but at the same time he hinted pretty clearly 
that he might possibly be able to recover the animals for the 
muleteer, adding that £T 6 would not be an exorbitant 
compensation for his trouble. He finally consented to accept 
£T 4, and the next morning, sure enough, the horses were 
restored to the owner by the Agha’s own groom, who ]>re- 
tended that he had been obliged to look for them all over 
the country, and claimed a backshish for his trouble. It 
would be impossible to imagine an English squire of the 
present day acting in the sumo manner, though on the 
Borders hardly more than two centuries ago such a talo 
would not have been incredible. 

However, all these grievances wax pale before the terrible 
pest of brigandage, which has done more than anything 
else to bring the country to its present state of desolation. 
Many are yearly driven to the mountains by the tyranny of 
the Turkish landlords, others seek in them a refuge from 
the clutches of Turkish officialdom, while not a few embrace 
the brigand’s career from sheer love of independence. ‘ Bettor 
‘ one day’s freedom than forty years of slavery and prison ’ 
is a popular maxim very frequently acted upon. The hope 
of speedy enrichment is also an attraction which goes far 
to minimise the risks of mountain life, while the slothful- 
ness and the venality of the authorities inspire the brigand 
with the assurance of impunity. The ranks of these free 
agents of evil are further swelled by the creatures of the 
revolutionary committees who profess to be actuated by 
motives of pure patriotism, without, however, disdaining to 

400 The Macedonian Problem and it$ Faetort, Oct. 

combine with them the pursuit of less ideal objects. The 
districts near the frontiers, affording as they do greater 
facilities for escape, are those most commonly infested with 
brigand bands, but there is hardly any part of Macedonia 
quite free from the scourge. Their activity begins with the 
return of spring, and for six or seven months in the year no 
man worth robbing dares travel in the interior. As a rule 
the greatest precautions are taken by travellers to keep their 
movements secret, and mounted gendarmes or private armed 
attendants are constantly employed. It can easily be under- 
stood that under the circumstances agriculture and commerce 
are extremely precarious occupations. The Turkish landlords 
are able to protect themselves, because they are armed, while 
the Christians, who are forbidden to carry arms, are at the 
mercy of every ruffian. The wealthier of them are forced 
to entrust the management of their farms to bailiffs, and 
are often satisfied if they receive one half of their income. 
Smaller proprietors, who are obliged to reside on the spot, 
do so in perpetual terror, and only save themselves by paying 
tribute to the brigands. 

Brigandage is not in all cases a regular lifelong pursuit. 
Many resort to the mountains for a change from the mono- 
tony of the plains. The brigand of one day not unfrequently 
is a farmer the next, and a brigand again on the third. 
These amateur scoundrels are more difficult to deal with 
than their professional competitors, but, provided they are 
wise enough to enter into an agreement with the authorities 
before they leave the spade for the musket, they enjoy the 
same measure of immunity from persecution. 

You hear casually, for instance, from a muleteer, how 
his friend had been sent to prison for having left his field 
in order to join ‘a painty got up for a short expedition.’ 
Their operations were crowned with a success which they 
did not deserve. A rich merchant fell into their hands. 
They held him to ransom, and, ha%'ing divided the spoil in 
a friendly way, they each returned to their homes and 
resumed their everyday occupations. But unfortunately 
they had counted without their host. In other words, 
they had forgotten to square the authorities, and the latter 
thought it was a good opportunity of doing a stroke of cheap 
justice. The others got wind of the danger and made good 
their escape ; but the friend was surprised by the gendarmes 
in his field, taken to Salonica, tried, and sentenced to several 
years’ imprisonment. To the comment that it was g. pity 
his friend had not taken the authorities into his confidence. 

1901. The Macedonian Problem and iU Faciori. 401 

the replj came at once, * It was foolish of him, bat then, 

* you see, he was young and new to the business. He will 

* know better next time.’ 

These words contain the key to the situation. Beciprooal 
benefit is the basis of this unholy alliance between the 
guardians of the law and its sworn enemies. It pays the 
authorities to connive at and even to encourage brigandage 
in two ways : first, it is a direct source of revenue, as they 
get a percentage of the profits ; secondly, it affords them 
opportunities for squeezing money out of the peasants. An 
accusation of complicity can be brought against any one 
who has the wherewithal to buy himself off. If intimidation 
fails, torture is employed until the victim is forced to prove 
his innocence by the only argument to which the Turk is 
ever willing to listen. For this reason, although troops may 
be found stationed in all the principal centres, the brigands 
are seldom molested. 

The causes of this phenomenal state of things are not far 
to seek. It should be remembered that posts in the Govern- 
ment service are, as a general rule, purchased. The usual 
course for a place-hunter is to betake him to the capital atid 
spend some time looking about for a patron. When Ins has 
succeeded in his quest he proceeds to open negotiations 
with him for the place for which he deems himself specially 
qualified, or, indeed, for any place that happens to be on sale. 
The place found, he steps into it, and hencoforlli his only 
care is how to make by it enough monc*y to satisfy the 
claims of his patron and his own cupidity. In this manner 
a numerous and daily increasing bureaucracy of needy and 
greedy employes is recruited. 

Needless to say that justice under the circumstances 
simply means the survival of the richest, and that a lawsuit 
generally ends in a trial of rival purses, the longest invariably 
carrying the day. The all-pervading nature of official 
corruptibility was never brought so vividly home to the 
writer as when one day he had a public functiotiary intix)- 
duoedto him as ‘the only man in the Sultan’s service who 
‘ had never been known to “ eat money,” ’ that being the 
local phrase for accepting a bribe. The astonishing part of 
it was that the man, instead of resenting the doubtful 
compliment, acknowledged it with a smile which plainly 
showed how far he deserved it. But let us try to be just to 
these creatures of a system corrupt beyond redemption. 
The fault is not wholly theirs, and great sinners as they are 
they are more sinned against than sinning. From the 

402 The Maceddnum Problem and its Pachrs. Oet. 

highest to the lowest they all are robbed at headquarters, 
and are, therefore, forced by sheer instinct of self>pre8er7a> 
tion to rob those over whom an impartial Providence has 
ordained that they should rule. Even when they do receive 
their salary it is curtailed by a percentage deducted as a 

* voluntary contribution ’ towards the needs of the Treasury. 

Institutions which in other countries are regarded as 
unalloyed blessings are in Turkey turned into instruments 
of oppression and extortion. Such is, for instance, the 
Post OflS.ce. All letters committed to the oflScial messengers 
who carry on the postal service in the interior of the 
country are opened and minutely examined. This process 
is repeated at every station through which the letter has to 
pass, and by the time it has reached its destination it is 
reduced to such a state of dilapidation as to be valueless. 
The accidents to which a packet is liable are in direct ratio 
to the value of its contents. If it contains money or money’s 
worth, the chances against its safe arrival are multiplied in 
proportion to the amount. It is infinitely worse if the 
Turkish ofl&cial’s eye has detected, or thought that it has 
detected, some treasonable allusion in a letter. In that case 
both sender and recipient are immediately arrested as 
suspects and — held to ransom. There are numerous in- 
stances of persons sentenced to long periods of imprison- 
ment and exile, on no better evidence than that supplied 
by an ambiguous or careless phrase in a letter, and still 
more common are the cases where such an accusation is 
brought forward simply as a pretext for extortion. 

Whatever the Turk does and whatever he leaves undone, 
they both lead to the conclusion that bis object is to kill the 
goose which lays the golden egg, and the only wonder is 
that he has not yet succeeded in attaining his end. An old 
farmer, with the shrewdness peculiar to his class, summed 
up the whole situation in these words ; ‘ The Sultan, sir,’ said 
he, shaking his grizzled head in despondency, ‘ is just like a 

* bad tenant who knows that ho will soon be turned out of 

* his estate, and so tries to make the most of his opportunities. 

‘ He will fell and burn down so long as he has a chance. 

* What does it matter to him whether he ruins the estate, 

* since he will have to clear out one of these days P ’ The 
old farmer in these words echoed the sentiments shared by 
all his fellow-countrymen. These people have lived for more 
than four hundred years on the hope that every spring 
will witness the tyrant’s departure. It is this hope which 
enables them to bear the crushing weight of their many 

1^01. Ths M^doniim Problem and its Paciors. 400 

wrongs, and surely no class of people ever stood in greater 
need of a sustaining hope than the peasants of Macedonia. 

We have hitherto endeavoured to draw a faithful picture 
of the poverty, the oppression, and the thousand and one 
different ways by which the Christians are made to feel the 
bitterness of the slave’s lot. The principal caases of the 
material exhaustion of the country may be briefly recapitu*- 
lated as follows : a wretchedly framed and more wretchedly 
administered fiscal system ; a corrupt and indolent bureau- 
cracy ; want of justice, of security, and of means of commu- 
nication. To these evils must be added the moral degradation 
arising from the social subjection in which the Christian is 
held, from the insults heaped upon him at the least provo- 
cation, and from the high-handed insolence which always 
marks the Turk in his dealings Avith those whom he con- 
siders as so much property entrusted to him by Allah. 
The discontent which results from this state of unmitigated 
misery is intense, all the more so because it has to be pent 
up within the bosoms of the sufferers, and is not allowed 
any of those outlets which in other countries serve as safety- 
valves to popular indignation. Nor is it confined to Mace- 
donia. The traveller sees eloquent signs of it in every part 
of the Sultan’s dominions, and everywhere it is a source of 
danger not to be ignored. But in Macedonia this danger is 
farther accentuated by the fact that the animosity nourished 
by the subject races against the tyrant is equalled, if not 
surpassed, by the hatred of those races for each other. 
Sacial and politicial antagonism is at the bottom of this 
hatred which finds expression in the relations of everyday 
life, in mutual recriminations and denunciations to the 
authorities, no less than in frequent outbursts of open 

The Turkish Government fosters this antipathy' to the 
utmost of its ability. Its policy seems to be based on the 
principle divide e.t impera, and it misses no opportunity of 
encouraging a division calculated to weaken its adversaries. 
Since the schism by which the Bulgarians cut themselves 
off from the communion of the Greek Church, in 1870, 
religious fanaticism has been added to the previous racial 
antagonism between Slav and Hellene, and the Porto makes 
excellent use of this new factor in the Macedonian problem. 
By granting now and again to the Bulgarian Exarch tho 
right of establishing schismatic bishoprics in important 
centres it advances Bulgarian interests at the expense of 
the Greek. At other times it pursues an opposite coarse 

404 The Macedonian Problem and its Factors. Oct. 

and enables the Greeks to score off the Bulgarians. The 
Servians and the Bonmanians also come in for an occasional 
mark of favour, to the disgust of the others. In a word, 
the Porte’s programme is to play off one race against 
another, and, by judiciously throwing a timely faggot into 
the fire, to keep the heat of hostility among the Christian 
elements at a convenient height. 

This state of antagonism is of comparatively recent growth. 
There was a time when all the Christian races under the 
Sultan lived in perfect harmony. The names of Greek and 
Bulgarian, of Servian and Roumanian were unknown, and 
all national designations were sunk in the one name Roum, 
just as all national distinctions were sunk in a common 
allegiance to the orthodox Patriarch of Constantinople. 
This ecclesiastic was regarded by the Turkish Government 
as the spiritual head of all the Christian subjects 
{rayahs), irrespective of origin or language, and was held 
responsible for their good behaviour. Tlie Christians, on 
their part, looked upon the Patriarch as a common fhther 
and common guardian of their rights, in the same way as 
they looked upon the Sultan as their common tyrant. It is 
to the credit of the Greek Church that, in spite of the extra- 
ordinary opportunities for national amalgamation and 
absorption which it possessed, it never attempted to rob any 
of the races within its pale of their language and their 
national character. It insisted on the Bible being read in 
the original tongue, but that was due to the conservative 
spirit common to the Western no less than the Eastern 
portions of the Catholic Church, and not to any political 
motive. Had it abused its spiritual authority for the attain- 
ment of temporal ends, there would be no Macedonian 
question now, except in so far as the relations between 
Christian and Mohammedan are concerned. Thus for many 
a long century there was no national difference to set one 
Christian against another. They all lived at peace with 
each other, bound together by common interests and common 
hatreds. But there came a day when these bonds were rent 
asunder. This was the day on which one province after 
another gained its independence. Emancipation awoke the 
national sentiment and the desire for expansion. As none 
of the new-born States had been allowed to embrace within 
their frontiers the whole of their respective races, they all 
began to strive towards extending to the brethren left in 
slavery the blessings of liberty which they themselves had 
tasted. The Greeks naturally considered the work of inde- 

1901 . Tiie Macedonian Prohlem and its Factors. 405 

pendence incomplete so long as the majority of their fellow- 
countrymen remained under the Turkish yoke. The 
Bulgarians had also reason to claim several thousands of 
Slavs beyond the boundaries of their principality, and 
so had the Servians. This legitimate ambition gradually 
gave birth to a number of propagandas, each bent on 
arousing the national sentiment and strengthening the 
interests of their several races. 

To the Bulgarian and Servian propagandas in Macedonia 
was later added a Boumanian mission with a similar end in 
view. What business the Roumanians really have in Mace- 
donia is a mystery to the uninitiated. The geographical 
position of Roumania precludes the hypothesis that she 
aspires to territorial expansion in that direction. The only 
possible explanation of Roumanian activity in Macedonia is 
that she wants to establish claims on the country, that she 
may have on the day of the distribution of prizes something 
to offer in exchange for acquisitions nearer home. But, be 
the motive what it may, the fact remains that the Roumanians, 
though less successful than the other aspirants, are equally 
energetic in their efforts to create a strong Roumanian 
interest in Macedonia. The Koutzo-Wallachian communities 
scattered over parts of Macedonia (chiefly in the west and 
south-west) are claimed by them as members of their own 
race. But the relationship, doubtful at the best, seems to 
be all on one side. The Koutzo-Wallachs, with some few 
exceptions, stoutly refuse to recognise any ties of blood be- 
tween themselves and the inhabitants of Roumania. The 
origin of these tribes, which speak an idiom closely akin to 
Latin and largely mixed with Greek, and which have led 
from time immemorial a normal shepherd’s life, is an historic 
puzzle better left to the investigations of the learned. What 
concerns the political student is the fact that no effort of tho 
Roumanian propaganda has as yet succeeded in evoking the 
faintest echo of responding enthusiasm or sympathy on their 
part. The Koutzo-Wallachs have indignantly repudiated 
any connexion with the Roumanian ‘ brethren ’ across the 
Danube, and have emphatically declared their intention to 
remain faithful to the cause of Hellenism, which their fathens 
had espoused, and with which they have always identified 
themselves. The Roumanian propaganda founded schools 
and churches in various parts of the countrj^, but it soon 
found itself compelled either to close them for lack of 
students and congregations or to support them at n cost out 
of all proportion to the results attained. We may, therefore, 


406 The Macedonian Prohletn emd &9 Mtctere, Oct. 

dismiss tlie Boamanian factor firom tlie problem as of Ume 
or no practical value. 

The Greeks, the Bnlgarians, and the Servians, however, 
cannot be dismissed so easily. Their claims are real, and 
recognised by very respectable portions of the population of 
Macedonia. It is between them that the straggle for 
supremacy has reached its highest pitch. Had th^ each 
confined themselves to separate spheres of exertion, there 
would have been no cause for collision. Unfortunately 
they have not always been willing to limit their activity 
within definite bounds, and in some cases they have found 
it impossible to do so. Both Servians and Bulgarians, and 
more especially the latter, have long entertained the ambi- 
tion of reaching the JSgean Sea, and in their endeavours 
to accomplish that end they naturally clash against each 
other, and only agree in ignoring the rights of the Greeks, 
who stand in the way. Hence a state of perpetual and 
passionate rivalry between Slav and Slav on one hand and 
Slav and Hellene on the other. Apart from this chief cause 
of enmity the geographical distribution, or rather inter- 
fusion, of the various nationalities renders the work of 
impartial separation of interests extremely difficult. How- 
ever, after a careful and cautious examination of the 
ingredients of this seething hodge-podge of races and 
languages known as Macedonia, it is possible to arrive at 
some more or less clear idea as to their relative positions 
in the cauldron. 

Discarding the administrative division of the country 
into vilayets, and looking upon it as an entire unit, includ- 
ing the territory bounded in by the Bulgarian and Servian 
frontiers on the north, with the ridge of Mount Schar on 
the north-west, by Albania and Epirus on the west, by 
Thessaly and the JEgean Sea on the south, and by Thrace 
and Eastern Roumelia on the east, we get the province 
generally called Macedonia and administratively consisting 
of the vilayets of Salonica and Monastir, and the Sandjak 
of Uskub, which belongs to the vilayet of Hossovo. This 
appears to us to be the most moderate delimitation of Hie 
province, although some authorities would have the Vardar 
for its western frontier, while others would include the whole 
of the vilayet of Kossovo in it. Having accepted the aboye 
aa the boundaries of the province, let us now proceed to 
form some idea as to the way in which the varioas 
nationalities are distributed over the area included witl^ 
those boundaries. 

1901. The Mwedomm Problem amd iU Faetore. 


Wot this purpose Macedonia maj be dirided into three 
parallel zones — south, middle, and north. The first eom- 
prises the atrip which extends along the littoral to the Gulf 
of Balonica and the territory adjacent to Thessaly in the 
south and Epirus in the west. This is the only district 
oecupied by a homogeneous population, and is purely 
H^enic. The corresponding zone in the north is Slay, the 
Bulgarian element preponderating in the eastern and the 
Seryian in the western portions of it. The intermediate 
zone, which forms the central third of the province, may be 
considered as debateable ground. It is in this zone that a 
truceless strife between Slay and Hellene is waged with 
unremitting vigour. 

In point of numbers the two parties are fairly well 
balanced, but, owing to their geographical position, they 
are so hopelessly intermingled that the labour of sepa- 
rating and sorting them would baffle the efforts of the 
astutest statesman and drive to despair the most indus- 
trious ethnologist. Language is not always a criterion of 
nationality, as there are many Bulgarian-8j)eal£ing districts 
which yet side with the Greeks. The inhabitants of those 
districts regard themselves as Hellenes by descent, and 
account for their loss of the Hellenic speech by pointing out 
that circumstances had obliged them to adopt the language 
of the Slay labourers whom they employed under the 
Byzantine Empire, or of those wlio had been afterwards 
pressed into the service by the Turkish landlords. This 
theory is certainly countenanced by an impartial comparison 
of the two races. The Bulgarian is a bad linguist, and must 
have found it extremely difficult to master Greek, while 
for the keen-witted Greek it was an easy task to learn tl>o 
language of the men with whom business trausactionn 
Iwrought him into daily contact. The Bulgarian imposed 
his language by sheer force of stolidity, while the Greek 
lost his by reason of his vei’satility. Similar conditions 
produced a similar effect on the Christian populations oi 
Asia Minor. Both Greeks and Armenians there speak 
generally Turkish, and, were it not for their religion, they 
might easily be mistaken for Turks. An examination of 
the physical characteristics of the inhabitants of such 
districts also tends to convince one that this explanation, in 
some cases at least, is more than plausible. The sharp 
delicate features of Greek, though Bulgarian-speaking, 
peasant easily distinguish him from his less handsome and 
less intelligent neighbour. As an instance of this class of 

408 The Macedonian Prohlem and ite Faefore, 

districts may be mentioned the Eitzza of Yenidj4, to the west 
of Salonica. The peasantry of that district, though using 
the Bulgarian language in everyday life, still suppoit Greeh 
schools and will have none but a Greek education for their 
cUldren. On the other hand it is worthy of notice that 
there is no Greek-speaking population anywhere entertain- 
ing the slightest wish to identify itself with the Bolgarians 
by adducing a similar or any other argument in explanation 
of its use of Greek speech. The Greek language, wherever 
it is spoken, may therefore be taken as a conclusive proof of 
the national sentiment of the people, though the reverse, as 
has been stated, does not always hold. In other districts 
again one finds the Bulgarian language predominating in 
the open country, whereas Greek is the language generally 
spoken in the chief towns. Melenik, which lies on the very 
Ime indicated as forming the southern frontier of the in- 
disputably Slav zone, is a case in point. In the country 
around the town one hears nothing but Bulgarian, while 
the town itself is almost as purely Greek as Athens, and 
the upper class of the inliabitants boasts direct descent 
from the Byzantine aristocracy. The dialect of this, as of 
several other districts, is an evidence of the general pre- 
dominance of the Slav element among the agricultural 
classes, in contradistinction to the city population. The 
names of cereals and of agricultural implements, for instance, 
are mostly Bulgarian, while all words referring to the pur- 
suits of town life are Greek. Occupation is also in many 
cases an index to nationality. The husbandman is often 
of Slav, the tradesman of Hellenic descent. 

In towns like Nevrokop, to the north-east, and Petritz, to 
the south-west of Melenik, the two elements are mixed, and 
it is in such places that an insight can be gained into the 
fierceness of the antagonism between the two parties. Alle- 
giance to the Greek Patriarch or to the Bulgarian Exarch 
forms the distinctive badge of either nationality, and the 
racial feud is identified with and intensified by difference 
in religious views. Last autumn, at Petritz, when the feast 
of the Panaghia, or Holy Virgin, the chief local festival, was 
approaching, the inhabitants were preparing to celebrate it 
with the usual eclat. There are two churches in the town. 
One of them has remained in the hands of the Greek, or 
Patriarch’s, party, while the other has passed into the 
possession of the Bulgarian adherents of the Exarch. To 
the latter church is also attached the cemetery which once 
was the common burial-ground of the inhabitants. Since 

iOOl. The Macedonian Problem and its PactoYt. 400 

the split of the community into two hostile factions the 
Bulgarians hare ceased frequenting the open space where 
the festival used to be celebrated, and insist on holding 
their revels in the churchyard. The Greeks regarded this 
ns an insult to the remains of their fathers buried therein, 
and hence originated a disturbance only quelled by the 
timely interference of the police. Brawls often ending in 
bloodshed were the order of the day, and even a stranger, 
by stopping at an inn or patronising a shop kept by a 
partisan of either cause, might have unwittingly drawn 
upon himself the enmity of the opposite party. 

All the districts in these midlands of Macedonia present 
the same spectacle of violent antagonism frequently resulting 
in murder. Very characteristic is also the way in which 
the two sides assert their rights and try to advance their 
respective interests. The Greeks, enjoying the advantages 
of ancient prestige and of long possession of the field, 
generally maintain a defensive attitude, while the Bulgarians, 
acting under the direction of the Macedonian Committee, 
which has its headquarters at Sofia, play the part of 
aggressors. Their propaganda has for its object to tear 
away from the orthodox Church as many of its members as 
possible. Formerly they were content to pursue this aim 
by the establishment or the seizure of schools and churches, 
and by obtaining from the Porte concessions, which the 
latter was willing enough to grant in accordance with its 
policy of inflaming racial hatred among its subjects. But 
things altered lately. The recent financial crisis in Bulgaria 
curtailed to a very considerable extent the resources of the 
Committee, and has rendered the continuation of a peaceful 
and more or less legitimate campaign impossible. The local 
authorities, which were habitually bribed in order to lend 
their countenance or their connivance to acts of violence, 
could be bribed no longer, and the Bulgarians soon realised 
that if, owing to lack of funds, they closed their schools 
and ceased to subsidise the authorities, their cause was 
doomed. The patient work of years would bo annihilated 
in a single day. They therefore changed their tactics. 
Cold steel was adopted as a substitute for silver, grown 
scarce, and a reign of terror was established. A draft of 
the regulations of the Macedonian Committee, seized among 
other papers by the Turkish authorities during the arrests 
of the Bulgarian agitators last February, throws a lurid light 
both on the extent and on the methods of that organisation. 
According to this document Macedonia was divided into a 

■410 The Macedonian Problem emd iia Factors. Oct 

number of districts, and eacb district u^as placed under the 
jurisdiction of a revolutionary committee with a band of 
brigands at its command. The commission of political crimes 
> — ^at is, the assassination of dangerous adversaries>-~wa8 
expressly mentioned as one of the duties of these bands, and 
minute instructions as to ways and means were supplied. 
In short, their programme was nothing less than the 
intimidation, or, failing that, the extermination, of their 

The Greeks, on the other hand, still adhere to the old 
plan of sccui-ing their end by means of education. Their 
schools, supported in some cases by literary societies in the 
free kingdom, but still oftener by the communities them- 
selves, flourish everywhere, and the only fault that one 
might find with them is that the education thus abundantly 
supplied is not always directed into those channels which 
would produce the greatest amount of good to the inhabi- 
tants. Each of the bigger towns, for instance, boasts a 
Gymnasium, or high school, preparing youths for the 
university, and smaller places have lower schools, conducted 
on similar lines, whereas it would be more to the advantage 
of the country if, instead of a classical education which it 
can ill afford to suppoid:, more attention was paid to its 
agricultural, industrial, and commercial needs by the 
establishment of practical schools. However, this is an 
error on the right side, and Macedonia, so thr as Greek 
education goes, is rather an over-educated than an under- 
educated province. In addition to intellectual superiority, 
secured by the maintenance of schools, the Greeks also 
enjoy the advantage of holding the bulk of commerce and 
industry in their hands. These two forces render Hellenism 
in Macedonia, as in most other parts of the Ottoman Empire, 
a civilising element of paramount importance. 

The straggle between Greek and Bulgarian in the middle 
zone of Macedonia finds its counterpart in a similar struggle 
between Bulgarian and Servian in the north, and between 
Servian and Albanian in the north-west, while still further 
to the west the latter maintains an equally lively feud with 
the Montenegrins. How this war of races will end it would 
be hazardous to prophesy. They all aspire to supremacy, 
and they all, each according to their means and lights, work 
keenly for the acquisition of proselytes. 

In contemplating the above elements of discord one must 
not lose sight of the Mohammedan population which is 
sprinkled sdl over Macedonia. This partly consists of oH 

1901. The Macedonian Jptohlevii and ih Factors^ 411 

settlers, some of whom, under the name of Koniaiti, date 
their migration into the country farther back than the time 
of the Ottoman conquest. They are supposed to be the 
descendants of Asiatic mercenaries employed by the 
Byzantine Emperors in their interminable wars with the 
sarrounding barbarians and with Frank invaders, and subr 
sequently paid for their services in allotments of land. 
Another class of Mohammedans consists of the descendants 
of those who ‘ came over with the conqueror.’ A third 
comprises native communities forced to embrace Islam at 
various periods in order to escape persecution. And, lastly, 
as a fourth category might be mentioned the refugees who 
flocked into Macedonia from the neighbouring provinces 
when the latter passed under Christian rule. 

In default of trustworthy statistics the population of 
Macedonia, as delimited above, may be taken at about 
1,800,000 all told. Of this number the Mohammedans 
form quite one-third ; the other two-thirds are made up of 
Greeks and Slavs — the first preponderating — with a small 
proportion of the mysterious Koutzo-Wallachs, who, os lias 
been stated before, for the most part identify themselves 
with the Greeks, an equal proportion of Jews, residing 
chiefly in Salonica, and a still smaller number of gipsies — 
a race representatives of which arc to be found in nearly 
every district, some encamped on the outskirts of towns 
and others settled within them. The Albanians of Uskub 
and the adjoining regions are included iu the Mohammedan 
third of the population. 

The mere enumeration of the races which claim the Sick 
Man’s inheritance in Macedonia is sufUcicnt to show how 
difiicult it would be to venture on a forecast as to the 
eventual settlement of tho Macedonian question. The 
problem becomes still more appalling when we consider 
that, beyond and above those races, there are two great 
European Powers immediately interested in the fate of that 
province. Bussia openly poses as the champion of the Slav 
cause, which, in the long run, is her own cause, while 
Austria, though in all probability entertaining no wish to 
increase her domestic difficulties by adding another hetero- 
geneous element to her mosaic of an empire, is forced by 
her powerful neighbour’s policy to act as though she aspired 
to a direct annexation of the country. The former attempted 
by the treaty of San Stefano to achieve her end, and would, 
have succeeded but for the opposition of tho Powers who 
took part in the Congress of Berlin. Austria, by the acqui«> 

41 i The Macedonian Problem and its Faetoiri, Oot. 

sition of Bosnia and Herzegovina, has taken the first step 
southwards, and, by the constraction of the Vienna- Salonica 
railroad, has paved the way to further progress in the 
same direction. At the present moment various con- 
siderations compel both Powers to maintain an attitude of 
self-restraint. But there is no doubt that on the first 
favourable opportunity they will pounce upon Macedonia 
with an eagerness proportionate to the length of their 
abstention. Meanwhile they each seek to further their 
respective interests by establishing rival spheres of influence 
among the Balkan States. Up to within quite a recent 
period Bussia held Montenegro and Bulgaria as two pawns 
in the game, while Austria reigned supreme in Servia. 
But after King Alexander’s marriage the game assumed a 
new phase. That event disturbed the relations between 
Austria and Servia to the advantage of Bussia, who suc- 
ceeded in ousting Austria, and, by establishing her own 
influence in Servia, she added that kingdom to her other 
instruments of panslavism. Austria hastened to restore 
the equilibrium thus destroyed by entering into an alliance 
with Boumania, and by bringing about a rapprochement 
between that country and Greece. This entente between 
the two non-Slav States of the Balkans may or may not 
amount to an alliance, but in any case it is sure to serve 
the purpose of checking, for a while, the progress of the 
Slavs. It happened at a most opportune moment. The 
Bulgarian agitation had reached its climax. The economic 
reasons mentioned above forced the Macedonian Committee 
to show its hand and to precipitate matters. Possibly an 
understanding with Servia and Montenegro also had some 
influence in its determination to bring the Macedonian 
question before the eyes of Europe. By frequent assassina- 
tions, both of Greeks and Mohammedans, it hoped to pro- 
voke reprisals on the part of the former and a massacre by 
the latter. In such a case, it was expected, Europe would 
intervene, and through Bussia’s influence settle the question 
in favour of the Slavs. Unfortunately for the calculations 
of the Committee the Greeks remained passive, and the 
Turks, availing themselves of Bussia’s preoccupations in 
the Far East, proceeded to comprehensive arrests, which 
made the movement collapse. The repressive measures 
taken by the Turkish authorities convinced the partisans of 
the Committee in Macedonia that the Sultan was too strong 
for them, and that they had nothing to hope for from Bussia. 
This Power, being unable to aid the Slav movement at that 

1901. The Macedonian ProbUm and its Factors. 


moment, disavowed it, and joined the other Powers in 
oounselling a peaceful policy to Bulgaria and in permitting 
a free hand to the Sultan. The consequences of this atti- 
tude were disastrous for the Macedonian Committee. Many 
of its followers, seeing that its power for good or for evil 
was on the wane, deserted its ranks, and others who had 
been forced to join by sheer terror thought the present a 
good opportunity for declaring their real sentiments. 
Things were at this point when the Grseco-Boumanian 
understanding came to deal a fresh blow to the Slav cause. 
The object of this entente is to preserve the status quo in 
Macedonia, and resist all proposals of reform so long as 
there is any danger that reform might favour the interests 
of the Slavs to the prejudice of the other nationalities. This 
policy is certain to be successful for the present, although 
it is equally certain that we have not yet heard the last of 
the Macedonian Committee. 

Meanwhile the only party who really gains by this state 
of affairs is Turkey. While the subject races and their 
champions stand eyeing each other askance the Sultan 
reaps the fruits of their mutual jealousies and prolongs his 
stay in Europe to their common detriment. 


Schooiroom Glatsiea in Fiction — a 

. O^t. 

Ae.t. VIII. — The Child and his Booh. By Mrs. Field. 

London ; Gardner, Barton, & Co. 1891. 

T N these later days, when one publication follows upon the 
heel of another, and when each work of current fiction, 
eagerly demanded and received with acclamation, gives place 
to its successor and passes with ever accelerating speed into 
the limbo of forgotten books, the novel of classic^ reputa- 
tion survives rather as a tradition than as a living influence. 
From * Clarissa Harlowe’ to ‘Marius the Epicurean,* the 
immortality of the classic is for the general reader the 
perpetuation not of the book but of its fame. Its vitality is 
merely the vitality of a name. Bichardson may claim his 
specialists, Fielding his. Miss Austen has her devotees, to 
whom her characters and dialogue ai'e familiar as the plays 
of Shakespeare or the Homeric epic. George Eliot is an 
intellectual cult. Scott is — must we acknowledge ? — n dying 
enthusiasm. And if Thackeray is still fully appreciated by 
one class of readers, and Bickens — as much by virtue of his 
demerits as by virtue of his genius — still appeals to the 
wider audience of public libraries and penny readings, they 
are exceptions, and disprove little. In the favour of the 
ordinary novel reader, the novel of the hour, whoso success 
is as ephemeral as, for that hour, its interest is engrossing, 
is an all-potent rival to the classic of bygone years, and 
while the classic rests dustily upon the shelf, the book of 
the week circulates by thousands, and novelty records one 
more triumph over worth. 

But if the classic of the grown-up world lives rather in the 
renown of its reputation than in the knowledge of its con- 
tents, the schoolroom classic — boy and girlhood possessing, 
it may be, some strain of conservatism lacking to maturity — 
retains a living vitality which the caprice of invading fashions 
leaves virtually intact. It is of course apparent that the 
schoolroom is not sole arbiter in its own literary market. 

* You,’ wrote Charles Lamb, Apropos of his Travels of Ulysses, 
to William Godwin when the philosopher was applying his 
philosophy to the production of juvenile books — ‘you, or 
‘ some other wise man, I have often heard say, “ It is children 

* “ that read children’s books when they are read, but it is 

* “ parents that choose them.” * Yet, if the judgement of the 
book-buying authorities is the primary agent in the accepta- 
tion of mis or that volume, that judgement itself more often 
than not is evolved from childhood’s memories. If the class!- 

1901. Schoolroom Claostcs in Fiet%on^-*a Suitvey, 41iS 

cal imprimatar proceeds from the arbitrant above, its genesia 
may still be traced to a pre-existent schoolroom. The re-read 
story which stamped itself upon the donor’s imagination in 
his own youth, or the story which he takes as resemblinjf 
the probably extinct favourite, is selected as the gift-booc 
for the new generation, and it in its turn, and generations 
to come in theirs, will select according to no other rule. 
In this manner a classic, or a classical school, of child 
fiction arises, a product of past recollections blent with up^ 
growing tastes, and by such processes books which fifty, a 
hundred years ago (and for schoolroom literature a hundred 
years may count as a hundred centuries) took their place iu 
the first rank, retain it to this day. 

Moreover, if the purchaser and chooser of books does iu 
truth belong to ‘ the years that run down the hill,’ the chUd- 
recipient has a scarcely less weighty power— not of choice, 
but of rejection. It may be said all, and certainly much that 
is utterly valueless, comes as grist to the mill of any eager 
child-reader. But it is also true that while for the most 
part, always granted the child be of the reading drdcr, any 
new book will secure its reading, while, so to say, ten 
books will bo read, only one among the ten — even so the 
proportion is overstated — will be re-read ten or half ten 
times. And each new generation brings its own demands, 
it exacts its own ideals, and to a modified degree imposes 
its own fashions upon the literature submitted to its choice. 

One element, however, conducing to the mutability of 
popularity in other departments of literature is with 
children partially non-existent. With the elder world style, 
the manner of expression, is of almost paramount impor- 
tance ; not the thing written but the writing of it is a main, 
sometimes a solitary, always an essential factor, iu success. 
And perhaps nothing has more unexpected developements, 
nothing suffers such swift eclipse as the particular flavour 
attaching itself to that use and arrangement of words which 
constitutes a style. In course of a decade, or less, thc‘ 
language which impressed one generation changes iutt> 
pomposity; custom can profane, in an inconceivably short 
qpace of years, words and epithets which were the written 
symbols of the simplicity and dignity and strength of passion 
to the basest usages of vulgarised emotion. Every^ day 
bears new witness to the fact that all particular and individual 
excellences in verbal modes are affected irrevocably by the 
taint of common appropriation. Words change their level, 
language loses its caste, and the novelist’s diction mast 

416 Schoolroom Classics in Fiction — a Survey. Oct. 

perpetually conform to fresh standards, and ideas must 
re-apparel themselves in modern dress. 

All such re-apparelling is of secondary import -when the 
sphere is not the drawing-room but the schoolroom* The 
manner of narration is at a discount so long as it conforms 
to certain well-established rules in directness of progression, 
vividness of presentment, and simplicity of construction* So 
the story in episode and incident arrests the attention and 
stimulates the curiosity of the child, the telling of it 
remains a means to an end, and language is relegated to 
play the part of a mere conveyancer of facts. Further, one 
root quality which underlies the art of the successful child’s 
book is the capacity of the author to appeal to the eye, to 
produce a pictoi’ial effect, and tell his tale, as it were, with 
a paint-brush. ‘ The threads of a story [should] come from 
‘ time to time together and make a picture in the web.’ 
E. L. Stevenson says in his ‘ Gossip on Eomance ’ : ‘ The 
‘ characters fall from time to time into some attitude to 
‘ each other or to nature which stamps the story home like 
‘ an illustration. Crusoe recoiling from the footprint, 
‘ Achilles shouting over against the Trojans, Ulysses bending 
’ the great bow, Christian running with his finger in his 
‘ ears ; these are each culminating moments in the legend, 
‘ and each has been printed on the mind’s eye for ever.’ 

Another secret of popularity is the adaptability of the 
incidents, or of some easily grasped particulars in the story, 
to a child’s almost universal dramatic and imitative instinct. 
In other words, the story should be actable. ‘ Fritz, who is 

* a great soldier,’ says the Hoffmann teller of children’s 
stories, in recounting the effect of ‘ The Little Nutcracker * 
on its schoolroom critics, ‘ was delighted with his name- 
‘ sake’s army, and the battle carried him away altogether. 
‘ He cried, “ Poo and poof and schmetterdeng and boom 
‘ “ booroom ! ” after me in a ringing voice, jigged about on 
‘ his chair, and cast an eye towards his sword.’ And 
Stevenson also, to quote him in another essay, has divined 
or remembered that the actor is inborn in the child. * He 
‘ works all with lay figures and stage properties. When his 

* story comes to the fighting, he must rise, get something 
^ by way of a sword, and have a set-to with a piece of forni- 

* ture, until he is out of breath. When he comes to ride 

* with the king’s pardon he must bestride a chair. ... If 

* his romance involves an accident upon a cliff, he must 

* clamber in person about the chest of drawers.’ And when 
— for this is more or less nursery lore — some few years 


1901. Schoolroom Classics in Fiction- — a Survey, 

ha7e passed and the primitive instinct to dramatise fiction 
is on the wane, a less elementary but nearly related instinct 
must be reckoned with. The story to please must be one 
into which he can throw his private personality. In the 
first instance he makes an obvious effort to bring the narra- 
tive into his own regions of action and experience ; in the 
second, be puts himself into the narrative. A child is, iu 
the realm of fancy, an egoist. A story into which he can- 
not project himself imaginatively will, we take it, remain a 
dead letter of the brain. He is invariably the central figure 
of his inventions. No hero is a hero into whose life he 
cannot inject a portion of his own, the fame of whose high 
adventures he cannot in day-dreams ascribe to himself, in 
whose glories he cannot feel some glow of participated and 
appropriated honour. Feat upon feat may be achieved by 
the adventurer of the fiction, exploit on exploit, heroism on 
heroism. To the child-reader it is all one whether ho bear 
the name of Crusoe or Christian, of Jason in ‘The Argo- 
‘ nauts,’ or of any hero of lesser fame. Still he pavaphx’ases 
with unconscious plagiarism the ‘ anch’ io’ of the young 
Correggio, still the groundwork of his interest is based upon 
the assurance, ‘ I also am a hero.’ 

It is a stock-in-faith upon which books of adventure have 
traded for nearly two centuries of schoolrooms. When 
Grimm, Andersen, and all the fairy classics of the first 
ages of youth — the jewel age which antedates the golden, 
and to which we far more easily in later years return — are 
drifting into the unacceptable region of the unbelieved, 
realism in its first claims demands of fiction that it should 
present not maybe yet the actual, but the credible, the 
possible. It is then that the book of adventure has its 
reign. Worlds unrealised, unexplored seas, undiscovered 
countries, must figure in the tale, but worlds that may be 
thought to exist, countries with shores of solid rock, with 
bays, and creeks, and harbour — seas real ships might sail. 
And fiction must picture them plain with compass and map, 
longitude and latitude, and the full similitude of veracity. 

And to supply such demand at the very epoch when the 
whole question of children’s literature was occupying the 
attention of the authors and publishers of a day rife with 
theories of education and flooded with manuals for the 
guidance of Nature, in 1719* Eobinson Crusoe appeared, 
and attained in no long time that post of popular honour 

* Mrs. Field’s date 1714 is erroneous. 

418 Schoolroom Clcusies in Fietion — a Bwrv0g4 Otyfe. 

from whioh no rival in the field of schoolroom fiction, has yet 
■whcdly dislodged it. 

Whether the grown-up world, for whom Defoe wrote, 
would have perpetuated the renown of Crosoe without the 
concurrence of the schoolroom we may well question. 
author was fifty-seven years of age when it appeared. He 
had twelve more years to live and to write. Yet of the 21fi 
works, small and great, written daring that lifetime of 
authorship, there is scarcely one — ‘ The BKstory of the 
‘ Plague,’ ‘ Captain Singleton,’ and, possibly, * Moll of 

* Flanders * excepted — that has not sunk into the oblivion of 
the unread, certainly none, even among the novels following 
the track of Crusoe’s success, which would have served fior 
the foundation-stone of a literary immortality. 

The popularity of Crusoe was attested by the * Eobin- 

* sonades,’ which in Germany alone were produced to the 
number of some sixty volumes during the ensuing fifty 
years. But while the elder readers amused themselves 
with imitation and plagiary, the younger had sighted in 
Crusoe a prey to be wrested from matnrily for its own 
uses, present and future ; and Defoe’s ^facsimile of nature ’ 
may be regarded as the prototype of that long line of 
books of adventure which in our own time added a new 
classic to fiction in ‘Treasure Island.’ Nor was Crusoe 
the only act of successful appropriation belonging to that 
period. A second raid upon works intended for the library 
of their elders resulted in the annexation of Swift’s acrid 
satire. ‘ Gulliver’s Travels,’ divested of social and moral 
significance, were incorporated in collections of schoolroom 
tales, the first adaptation to the exigencies of the juvenile 
library of the Voyages Imaginaires of French fiction, of 
which another satire, Cyrano de Bergerac’s ‘ Excursion to 
‘ the Moon,’ was an earlier model. 

‘ The Travels of Baron Munchausen,’ the composition, in 
a literal sense, for much is borrowed, of Eodolf Eric 
Baspe, a German mineralogist— the charm of whose talents 
seems to have covered a variety of somewhat disgraceful 
transactions — followed in Gulliver’s train at the distance 
of some three-quarters of a century. It bore as its fi^rst title 
the name of ‘ Gulliver Eevived,* and was as promptly 
adopted by the schoolroom. ‘ Who is the author of 
“ Mundiaugen’s Travels,” ’ asks Southey twenty years after 
its first jmhlication— ■* a book which everybody knows, be- 

* cause all boys read it?’ It anticipated with its bold 
excursions into the marvellous tiie wonder journeys of Jules 


Schoolroom €Umio$ m FisUon — a Survey* 

Vetne, mach as aaother fiction, the 'Bofamson Saiste* of 
Humboldt’s tutor, J. H. Kampe, anticipated many desert 
islaud or desert inland tales of the type followed by the 
popular * castaway stories ’ of Anue Bowman and May ne Heid 
and MarriotL A conventional, if wholly inefiectual, attempt 
is made in one and all to preserve the tradition of actuality 
inaugurated by Defoe. That semblance of truth — which 
has caused ‘ Bobinson Orusoe ’ to be classed * ^as one of the 

* great realistic books of the English language ... an 

* example of the possibility of rendering scenes wholly 

* inmginary, and, in fact, impossible, truer to the appre- 

* faension than experience itself, by the narrator’s own air of 

* absolute conviction and by unswerving fidelity to truth of 

* detail ’ — has, no doubt, been the endeavour of all suc- 
ceeding works, so called, of adventure by sea, by land, 
forest, mountain, or within the circles of the Arctic zone. 
But writing, as later writers have written, avowedly for 
the schoolroom, the influence of the prevalent tendency to 
moralise or instruct has induced certain essential differ- 
enoes, apart from difference of genius, between Defoe and 
his copyists, which detract of necessity from their attempted 
realism. Defoe truly moralises, as was the fashion of his 
day, and he moralises at even gp:eater length than those 
who came after him. But— and here lies the distinguishing 
mark — his hero is of that type now made wearisome by 
incessant imitation, which we may call the non-h<*roi(* 
hero. Integrity, indifference to gain, loyalty, courage, and 
gfenerosity are the inevitable attributes the authors who 
write for a boy-publio attach to their hero. Defoe’s hero, 
although he is not altogether lacking in such moral qualities, 
betrays, and is intended, one must believe, to betray, de- 
ficiencies in all. One instance will suifioe. The sordid 
selling of the boy-slave who had been Crusoe’s comrade in 
captivity and became his companion in his perilous escapo 
from their Moorish master, is an incident characteristic 
of the nnheroic manner of Defoe’s method. ‘ He [the 
‘ captain of the ship who had taken both on board] offewid 

* me fiO pieces of 8 for my boy Xury, which I was 
‘ loth to take ; not that I was unwilling to let the captain 

* have him, but I was very loth to sell the poor boy’s liberty, 

* who had assisted me so faithfully in procuring my own.’ 
We all remember that the * lothness ’ is overcome and that 
the 00 pieces of 8 find their way to Crusoe’s money-chest. 

• The Age of Dryden. R. Garnett, LL.D. Bell & Sons. 189o. 

420 Schoolroom OUmim 4)» Ficivm^a Boroey. Oct* 

Xb this matter of the unheroio hdro-o'Whidh bo 4oubt in*' 
duces a certain impression of actuality — Stevenson and the 
'whole Stevensonian anthorhood have followed in 'the track 
of his great forerunner. The probable, all that belongs 
in character and episode to enhance verisimilitude, had 
entered in'to the soul of the nineteenth centuty in its 
decline. And if heroes are less heroic, so too waves are less 
high, mountains less precipitous, -wildernesses less waste, 
dese^, if we may so express it, less desert. Xtealism has 
moved a step forward or — the minimisation of extravagances 
may bear another interpretation — authors are less confident 
of their powers to make the impossible true. It is no longer 
enough to be plausibly circumstantial in recounting the 
detail of the event, but the event itself must be introduced 
as a natural outcome of some linked chain of events, and the 
ordinary must be emphasised until it becomes a screen from 
behind which the un-ordinary may emerge unnoticed and 
unchallenged. In a broad way Defoe asks his renders 
throughout to accept a basis of radical improbabilities, 
though when once started upon that level little further 
demand is made upon the connivance of the reader’s imagina- 
tion. Mr. Stevenson, so far as it is practicable, eschews, 
or when inevitable reduces to its minimum, even such initial 
exactions. He barely asks his readers to enter -with him into 
any conspiracy, and arranges his illusions of reality without 
their concurrence. In addition, the modern psychological 
method is called into play to enhance the realism of the scene. 
If we doubt the actuality of the events depicted, our doubt is 
allayed by the actuality of the portrayal of the personalities 
involved in it, and the always credible idiosyncrasies of the 
characters are made of as much importance in the develope- 
ment of the plot as the incidents, often incredible, of the 

In pre-Stftvensonian days, with some notable exceptions, 
-the delineation of character as part and parcel of the child’s 
story belonged to a different section of fiction ; a section 
initiated by the * Sandford and Merton ’ of Mr. Thomas 
Day, and by the ^ Moral Tales ’ of Day’s younger coadjutor 
in the field, Maria Edgeworth. In the eighteenth century 
the idea of a moral scheme had supplanted tbe idea of a 
-theological scheme. The child-book with a purpose discarded 
the supernaturalism of the religious element popularised one 
hundred years earlier by Bunyan’s ‘Pilgfrim’s Progress.’ 
It equally eliminated imagination and romance, and ‘ fable ’ 
was in its eyes synonymous with falsehood. Season and 

Ifood sin88> as agents in the formation q# Sir 

* C^iailes Orandisons * and their feminine eonnfoie|NfM!(ISf .Were 
ho reign supreme. That children’s stories shhold a 
moral hent was no new axiom. Tales of good oonnsel had 
^sted for many generations of ‘chap’ books, doabtii04s 
ire<|(d' as innoh by children as by the ’common people* 
among whom they circulated. In these punishment followed 
iU'domg, and virtue was rewarded with as surprising a 
promptitude as, and perhaps a more unflinching ideal of 
brutal justice than, in the ‘Parent’s Assistant’ or the 
‘Horal Tales’ of Miss Edgeworth. But the aim of the 
eighteenth century was to do more. Its endeavour was to 
bring the new school of didactic Action into close fomiliarity 
of surronnding, into common domesticities of circumstance 
and event. ‘ Blind to the joy of the half comprehended,’ 
everything was to he brought home to the mind of the 
reader, at no matter what sacrifice of a child’s faith and 
trust in human nature at large. ‘ Accordingly,* Writes a 
just oriidc, ‘ we have the mean calculations of mushroom 
‘ manufacturers, the dirty tricks of low lawyers, the personal 
‘ animosities of their wives and families . . . with other 
‘ scenes of domestic and professional degradation, put into a 
‘ familiarity of form which is ten times more disgusting as 

* reminding us for whose eyes it is intended.’ The cheating 
attorney, the fraudulent servant, the coarse-grained fine lady, 
mankind in its most squalid and vicious shapes, were pre- 
sented no longer in the hazy perspective of romance and 
fairy tale. The ‘ Arabian Nights ’ lay under an interdict — 

* Heaven forbid children being tempted to imitate the cabals 
‘ of the Grand Vizier or the loves and intrigues of Schelsem- 

* nihor and the Prince of Persia.’ Instead evil bore the 
fbatnres and walked clothed in the garb of the next-door 
neighbour, while at the same time the whole literature was 
permeated by that artificiality of insincere sentiment wMc^ 
characterised English imitators of the Boussoau disciples. 

From the perusal of Thomas Day’s ‘ Sandford and Merton ’ 
—the inangurofcor of the school from whose worst vices he is 
exempt — even the most book-loving of children would nown- 
4ay8 Xetreat worsted in the attempt. Day arouses more 
invest as the bold experimenter in a twofold and infelici- 
tous endeavour to educate a wife (the unfortunate victims, 
Sabrina and Lucretia, both proved irresponsive subjects) 
than by his fame of authorship. But the name of his oo* 
mSyiutor, Maria Edgeworth, has survived the fashion to 
whose service she dedicated her talents. A bom stoi^ 
tpu. ozoiT. iro. ogcaovm, ? 9 ■ 

422 Schoolroom (Rasttos in FioHon — a Bttrvoif, Q(;$, 

teller, the elder of e> family numbering twenty ohildr^ie — ^ 
Hr. Edgeworth, the educational theorist, was we hushfLlnd 
of four wives in succession — Maria had enjoyed, we may 
jtelieve, exceptional opportunities of schoolroom experi* 
ence and schoolroom criticism. Her innate instinct for 
pictorial narration is stamped upon her writings ; her lean'* 
ings towards dramatisation, the more or less ^eatiioal 
appointments of the figures who pass across her scenes, oft<m 
the very stage properties of the scenes themselves, supply a 
mahe-weight of excitement to the millstone of the moral 
attached to the story. The white carrier pigeon of one 
tale ; the volcanic doom, a Nemesis of eruption, overhanging 
the impolitic dishonesty of the little Neapolitan merchant in 
another; the buried treasure, and the groping beggar-woman 
with her bent figure, her pipe, and her sinister malice in * The 

* Orphans ; ’ the fever- stricken gipsy of ‘ Barring Out,’ were 
pictures whose colours neither the variations of fashion nor the 
lapse of years have effaced. And if we ourselves see little 
emotional value in the sentiment, a greater judge has pro- 
nounced otherwise. * When the boy brings back the lamb to 

* the little girl,’ says Sir Walter Scott, writing of Simple 
Susan, * there is nothing for it but to put down the book and 
‘ cry.’ While as moral teaching we may accept Miss Tongo’s 
pronoun cement; ‘The minor morals of life have never been 

* better treated ’ is her verdict ; ‘ . the good sense, 

‘ honour, and expediency of life are the theme. It is a high- 

* minded expediency, the best side of epicureanism.’ 

Her lenient sentence can by no means be applied to the 
galaxy of moral tales of lesser worth which, from the 
last decades of the eighteenth and during the first of the 
nineteenth century, inundated English schoolrooms. ‘ Tales 
‘ of Truth,’ ‘ The Educational Story-teller, calculated to pro- 
‘ mote virtue and render vice hateful by striking examples,’ 

* Tales Instructive and Entertaining,’ ‘ Tales,’ by a Precep- 
tor, ‘ for the Instruction of the Youth of both Sexes,’ * Eor 
‘ the Improvement of the Rising Generation,’ their names 
are truly legion, their record written only in the old 
bibliographies of children’s literature. Those of their 
authors, extinct authors of an extinct morality of selfish 
respectability and virtuous self-seeking, with all the roll-call 
of the anglicised * Contes Moraux,’ modelled on Harmontel, 
and brought into fashion by Mme. de Genlis, govern^s 
to the ehiidrea and reputed mistress to Philippe B||^it^, 
hate now passed, we may well believe for ever, out of 
sehoolroottii knowledge. 

1901. ^t^koiSrwm OUutiei in JPiefion*^ Bwei^ 4S9 

What infivenoe the tuoral tale exerted over the gefieroitloiia 
flolMect to its sway is a profitless specoktiom It will 
probably alwap be the lot of oarrent sohoolroom fictiiWi to 
serve as nursing mother to contemporary doctrinal ideals, 
or secular, whether most for their atrengtheniagor 
their weakening is an open question. The danger is obvious. 
Ideals nurtured in fiction are apt to bear on them the stamp 
of their fosterage. Some diminution of austerity, some con- 
tagion of artificiality ensues, and the hypothetical develope- 
xnents of such literature may go so far as to reverse the in- 
tention of the doctrinaire author. His scheme of moralit}% 
like the creed of many a religion, may be obliterated by its 
own myths. 

Howsoever this may be, the first wave of the revivalist 
movement of evangelical emotionalism displaced the moral 
to re-evolve the religious scheme in schoolroom fiction, and 
undermined beyond salvation the monopolist popularity of 
the Bdgeworthiau tale. ‘The Story of Infant Fiety,* Mrs. 
Field records, had made its first notable appearance in the 
works of a Mr. Thomas White, whose ‘ Instructions fur 
* Little Children ’ seem to have exemplified at their worst 
that curious feature of some of the later so-called * Sunday ’ 
stories — ^which illustrate the breach of ‘ one after another of 
‘ the Ten Commandments, without mincing matters.’ They 
seem likewise to have contained the germ of the regenerate 
and short-lived child destined to play so conspicuous a part 
later on. In the ‘Lytill Treatise of the Wyse Chyido’ 
(printed by Wynkyn de Worde), the ‘sage enfaunt,’ agod 
three, already had anticipated some of the qualities apper- 
taining to his lineal descendants, judged by the tenor of his 
final instructions to his elders and betters impersonated by 
the Emperor Adrian. 

Emjteror : ‘ Where was God before lie made the world ? * 

Infaunt : ‘ In a wood, where Uc made faggots for to burne the nud 
all tbcee the which will from henceforth enquire of the secrets of owrs* 

The passage has often been plagiarised in jest, but, in all 
seriousness, that ‘ sage enfaunt ’ might hare found himself 
outdone in spiritual arrogance by the eager infants of the 
sehool of reli^ous fiction where Mrs. Sherwood’s name stands 
fcffemost in the ranks of authorshijp. ‘ Henry and his Bearer,’ 

, the first of her Anglo-Indian stories, upon its publication in 
1815 had an unprecedented success. But with the tales that 
foUowed, ‘ The Ayah and Lady,’ * George Desmond * (sug* 

424 Schoolroom Chseics in Fiction-^ B'Wtvtf* Oc(i. 

gested by a performance of dancing girls), And otberi^ of 
like nature, it is unknown even by name to the schoolroom 
of to-day. One, however, of her longer works—* The Fair- 
child Family ’ — remains as a lingering memory of childhood 
amongst elder readers, and from it we may arrive at some 
conception of what such literature achieved at its best, and 
how in the American school of Miss WetherelFs * Wide, 
Wide World,’ it stradition has been recast, rejuvenated, and 

As portraiture of everyday country and home life of a 
family of middle-class gentlefolk, the story is clearly and 
vigorously outlined with real — although too rarely indulged 
— touches of humour. This, with a keen sense of sympathy 
for the unprohibited pleasures of childhood, the excellent 
descriptions of country pastimes, of the healthy companion- 
ship of child with child in play and in mischief, of the inge- 
nious misadventures of the less virtuously disposed, give a 
variety and animation which redeems the overcharged 
reprobation of microscopic sins, which, as * Bard Ethel,’ of 
the Irish poet, sings, 

‘ . . . give unto God the eye 
(Unmeet the thought) of the humming fly,’ 

While, from another point of view, it may occur to some 
readers that were it possible by a stretch of imagination 
to translate the piety of ‘ The Fairchild Family ’ into some 
far remoter region of time and place, to read this — to us 
wearisome -record of religious middle-class English home- 
life, in the same spirit as that in which we should decipher a 
parallel record ot ancient Egyptian or Hindoo civilisation, 
we might chance to find both beauty and dignity in the 
tedious reference of all the trivialities of common occurrences 
to the intervention of spiritual influences emanating from a 
supreme All Father, and from the miracle-worldng words 
of some psaltery of divine magic. 

But if * The Fairchild Family ’ chronicle may be taken as 
a kindly example, in its earlier and less remembered phase, 
of what came to be distinguished as the * Sunday story,’ 
Miss Wetherell’s works only some twenty years i^o were at 
the zenith of a wide-spread popularity. ‘ The Wide, Wide 
World,’ the last notable instance of that particular school 
of fiction, may be said still to retain an almost classical 
fkme amongst one section of readers. Miss Wetherell 
attempted) os Mira. Sherwood before her, and both were 
writers of talent, to centralise the interest of her tales of 
American countiT life on the religions experiences of het 

1$01, Schoolroom Olascics m $u/rpe^. 4SI^ 

terj precociously pious heroines. The neW' ingi’iedieut in 
thci American story was the introduction of a second eteknent 
of precocity in the prematurely sentimental attachments of 
the little girls to the heroe8-<-usnally senior to them hy 
many years. Thus ‘The Wide, Wide World,’ ‘Qneeohy,’ 
‘Idelbourne House,’ and its continuations, beginning afi 
children’s stories, end as quasi-novels, and leave upon the 
reader a rather sickly impression of the combination of the 
sentimental with the religious emotionalism. Freshness 
and grace of treatment they nevertheless possess, a charm 
of detail united with a real delicacy and refinement of 
colouring, and often a lightness and gaiety of dialogue, 
which go far to justify the measure of favour they have 
retained even among children of this generation. 

Evangelical fiction was, liowever, destined at the very 
epoch of its earlier triumphs to find itself confronted with a 
formidable rival on its own territory of emotional religion. 
In 1844 the ‘ Quarterly ’ ‘ hailed with satisfaction the rising 
‘ of a class of religious books where the fancifulncss of the 

* story or the remoteness of the time did away with that so- 

* called truth for which a child’s mind is not ripe.’ It was 
a class owing its existence in tho main to the Tractarian 
movement, of which it was a faithful refiex. But while the 
new venture in the realm of juvenile fiction was likewise a 
venture with a purpose primarily doctrinal, it differed both 
from the moral and the evangelical tale, in so far as its 
productions trenched upon wider and more varied fields of 
general interest. It touched life at more points. It sought 
as allies art, romance, and history. Symbolism, with all its 
sacred images, its outward insignia of faiths, re-reigned in 
the churches; colour and sound reconquered a place in 
worship swept bare by Puritan fervour. Men regarded 
childhood itself from another standpoint. The doctrine of 
baptismal regeneration lay with a lighter yoke upon thO 
schoolroom than that of the ‘ desperately evil heart ’ of tho 
unconverted infant. And if the re-reformed Church enforced 
fasts, it equally enjoined that dogma most congenial to 
youth — ^the sacred duty of rejoicing. The legitimated 
emotional excitements of revivalist conversions, convictions 
of sin, and ‘ open deathbeds ’ found a gayer counterpart in 
ritual excitement, in the glamour imparted to the external 
practices of religion. Links with the past were reknit. 
The long tarnished Ugendo d’or of medievalism was re- 
burnished. Possibly the medievalism was spurious, and 
much of the gold counterfeit. But the zeal evoked for the 

i20 Schoolroom Olasmt m 

i*e$iisoitated forms of faith was as aidant as litiivt itf tlia 
Bvan^elical for bis scriptural formulas. Andj re«coiiseorwto 
ing material beauty to the service of the soul, 'j^actfurinfeiism 
extended its influence and enisled its boundaries. In 111(0 
manner, basing itself on tradition, it summoned bii^ry to 
its aid, and the romantic spirit, at once the source of vitality 
and of weakness bo Catholicism, was rekindled in tales of 
sainthood and martyrdom, drawn from the records of the 
early churches and reclad with a uniform of ecclesiastical 
idealism, while in the new atmosphere, with all its sacra> 
mental mysticism, that method of utterance to which 
Bunyan’s solitary genius had given its immortal stamp 
became once more a chosen vehicle of expression for writers 
of cultivated talents and finely fashioned scholarship,. 
Wilberforoe’s ‘Agathos,’ Adams’s allegories, Monro’s fan- 
tastic visions, tinged with the melancholy of his sombre 
imagination, one after another found their way to the 
schoolroom library, following afar off that greatest of all 
allegories produced by English prose, the ' Pilgrim’S 

The ‘ Pilgrim’s Progress ’ still stands alone and apart the 
prototype of all allegory, as Crusoe of all adventure. In its 
day it arose, as Southey writes, from the love of the illite- 
rate to the veneration of ‘ those who are called the public.’ 
And with Crusoe and Gulliver, the dream of the tinker 
has been termed one of the greatest of realistic fictions. 
Howsoever this may be, no one can recall the opening scene 
without recognising the power of the spell with which it 
has held bound generation after generation of readers — 
readers young and old, catholic, puritan, secularist, and 
religionist alike. ‘ I laid me down and dreamt a dream ’ — 
a dream, as more faithless eyes may interpret it, in a deeper 
sense than any Bunyan contemplated. Bat with that brief 
prefatory sentence the dream is lost in an illusion of reality, 
vivid as life itself. The figure of the man clothed in rags, 
the great burden on his hack, his lamentable cry, that 
shadow of overwhelming calamity which tints with strange 
darknesses the familiar commonplaces of daily things, the 
neighbours’ talk and the wife’s remonstrances, all nve the 
emphasis of mystery to that terror-stricken vagrant's flight. 
Hhroe, the long dialogues — the ‘discourse by the way* — 
might daunt the untried reader, but children’s eyes az^e 
singularly discerning, and, curiosity once aroused, thei;^ 
capacity for separating what is to them the gold-dust fnaok 
the dress Is unmeasured. Some instinct inspiring paiienes 

td01« Sokooirodm (%ui/ie» m ' 

tftUs thdm tlmi beyond muck ikevaHeiiig tbei:<e ftwftil them 
£gbti akd fierce wonndinga, and Hone and dra|foiuii wiib 
flcales Hke a fish and feet like a bear, ralle^e of IiobgobiinSjt 
oasilei of giants, pitfiiUs, caves, snares, adventures with eiru 
mc^hanttnen at Vanity’s Fair, where crimes of * bloo^red 

* colours ’ may be seen as in a peep-sbow — enttunce 
where the pilgrim will barely escape with life, and gallant 
Knight Faithful will die a cruel death. The Oity Celestial 
will bear for them the semblance of a Palace of EnchanU 
mcnt, and the Brave Country of Eternal Life will rise before 
them as one of those far lands which aU heroes set forth to 
seek. And if, from older readers with dulled imagination, 
that elementary condition of popularity — actabiJity — is 
hidden, let them read, in Mrs, Gaskell’s ‘Life,’ how the 
Bronte pilgrims set forth in very deed to find the goal which 
lies beyond Doubting Castle, and met with many perils 
and much sorrow of heart thereby. 

The ‘ Pilgrim’s Progress,’ despite its extraordinary success, 
gave rise to no specially notable school of imitation. But 
in the nineteenth century symbolic romance, both in 
England and in Germany, one distinctive note of the earlier 
allegory was re-echoed in more than one instance. That 
permeating spiritual terror which in Banyan’s own childhood 
had branded its mark upon his imagination, which overtook 
him waking by day and sleeping by night, overcoming him 
with despair, and causing him to wish — a strangely logical 
aspiration — ‘that he might be a devil that so ho might 
‘ escape the tortures of Hell,’ a terror of which the exceeding 
horror clings to many a scene of Christian’s wayfaring, 
re-awakened in two at least of the symbolic writers whose 
works were popularised by the Tractarian movement. Trans- 
lations of La Motte Fonque were in the forties issued side 
by side with such tales as the once well-known ‘ Lord of 

* the Forest,’ ‘Iro and Verena,’ and other works of tho 
same doctrinal tendency. ‘ Aslauga’s Knight,’ an heroic 
romance of the North, susceptible of spiritual interprets^ 
rion, was printed and circulated as an * allegory ’ among the 
allegories pure and simple of Adams and Monro, and possibly 
served as a model to many other compositions in manner, 
phraseolo^, and atmosphere. But it was in ‘ Sintram * — tho 
wildest spiritnal fantasy ever conceived by man in the name 
of religion — that the modem allegory most nearly ap- 
proach^ a popularity of classical duration, and in ‘ Hintram * 
terror is the master motive. The cry of Bnnyan’s ragged 
fugitire, ‘What shall I do to be saved?’ is reiterate 

428 Schoplrooin Cla$s{cB in Fiction-^d 

Siiitram’s first utterance, with the fear accentuated to tile 
verge of sanity. And in that dramatic entrance^ the a|ipa^ 
rition of the frantic boy with his pursuers at the midnight 
feast of the Christmas revellers in old Biorn^s hall ; in his 
breathless appeal, ^ Father and Knight, Father and Knight, 

^ Death and another are close behind me/ the gist of the 
whole story is epitomised with a brevity so many of Fouque*# 
writings lack. 

Who of us does not recall the dread, transcending the 
dread of all other forms of horror, which belonged to that 
unshapen evil, the spectral embodiment of Banyan*s Dark 
Valley ? — 

Christiana : ^ Metliinks I see something yonder upon the road before 
us; a thing of a sliape such as 1 have not seen.' 

Child : * Mother, what is it ? ’ 

Christiana : * An ugly thing, child, an ugly thing.’ 

Child .* ‘ But, mother, what is it like ? ’ 

Christiana : ‘It is like I cannot tell whai^ and now it is but a little 
way off.’ 

So, too, in ‘ Sintram * it is not on Death but on that un- 
named and nameless companion whom we come to know 
under the vaguely suggestive pseudonym of the Little 
Master, that the terror-spell concentrates itself. From the 
first dialogue onwards, where the small, fur-cloaked, feather- 
capped snail-hunter, ^ looking for all the world like a little 
‘ bear erect on its hind legs, with a crooked horn on its head,'' 
presents us with a semblance of the utmost materiality com- 
bined with a sense of the utmost illusiveness, the effect aimed 
at is — with a slow crescendo — the same. 

Little Master : ‘ Young knight, brave ycung knight, whence came 
you, whither go you, and wherefore so afraid ? ’ 

Sintram : ‘ Whence came yow, and whither do you go, the question 
i« mine to ask ; and what are you doing in our castle garden, you ugly 
little man ? ’ 

JjittU Masters ‘Well, well ! I am thinking I am quite big enough 
as I am. One cannot always be a giant. And what find you amiss in 
my Bnail-hxmting hero? Snails do not belong to the game your 
valour has reserved as sport for yourself. » . , I have caught sufficient 
for to-day — marvellous fat little creatures, with wise faces like men, 
and long twisted horns. . . . Will you look, young lord ? ' 

Sintram ; ‘ . Let them alone ; tell me instead who and what you 
are ? ^ 

Little Master : ‘ Are you so bent upon names ? . . . Let it content 
you that I am well acquainted with the oldest histories. Ah, if yott 
would only listen once ! But you are afraid I ' 

Sintram i * Afraid of you I ’ 

1901. Schoolroom CUmidt m Motion — <t Suroojf, 429' 

Xdttle Master ; ‘ Many a ^>ettes man than you has been eoi only they 
‘nrouM eonfesa it just as little.’ 

Hie Little Master’s smithying feats in the guiS0 of the 
dwarf-like warrior, his apparent dying on the battlefiold, 
the terror which overtakes the men senttohnry the distorted 
corpse, again culminate in the recoil from the unknown, 
for questioned, no man can distinctly recall the features of 
the strange guest. ‘Neither chief, knight, nor soldiery 
* could accurately recall the stranger’s semblance.’ His 
apparitions, from first to last, with jeers and laughter, or 
cringing amongst the rank yellow grasses by the sea-shore, 
with Sintram’s last temptation and triumph, form a sequence 
of scenes which have few parallels in the fiction of romantic 
symbolism, nor can the calm of the final gloria, as Sintram 
rides home a conqueror to Drontheim, ever efface from our 
minds the haunted tragedy of his youth. That a book neither 
written nor intended for children should have been adopted 
for schoolroom use was doubtless due to the undoctrinal 
neo-catholicism of the religious sentiment, as well as to the 
tone of purity — a purity almost transparent in the fearless- 
ness and sincerity of its tone, characteristic not only of 
‘Sintram,’ but of Fouqu^’s other undeservedly neglected 
romances of love and adventure — the ‘Magic King,* a 
treasure of great worth to any child possessing it, and the 
more rarely found volume of ‘ Thiodolt the Icelander.’ 

Monro followed upon the same track. His allegories, 
unquestionably the most striking of their kind, read like 
visions seen under the influence of some spiritual ntu'cotic, 
Monro is the Edgar Poe of Tractarian fiction. The very 
names of the several narratives recall figures and scenes 
which some generations ago literally haunted the dreams of 
their schoolroom readers. The ‘ Vast Army ’ has its magic- 
lantern slides of solitary sentinels posted among the re- 
cesses of shadowy mountain passes, where dimly outlined 
phantoms of evil glide behind the lonely watchers, and the 
bugle-calls ring with dying echoes faintly from the plain 
below, and the dusk and the midnight and the dawn throb 
with blind expectancy awaiting the final meeting of the 
adverse hosts. ‘ The Kevellers ’ has its phantasms of guests 
feasting in palace halls, regardless of the grey pilgrim who 
sits, with warning cry, by the roadside, and of the sinister 
bow-bearers, whose shaft may never miss the life it seeks, 
to whom the palace doors open, and whose coming lulls 
the mirth of the flower-crowned throng, till, with swift 
oblivion, the feet of the dancers again tread their gayest 

430 Schoolroom (Jbmiet m Fiction — a Svrve^, O^t. 

meastire >ivlieD the red stain o£ trampled rose4eal «rine 
and blood discolour the -whiteness of the mwrble floor. Or 
once more, in the ‘ Journey Home,’ few who read oan fbi^et 
that other palace — ^that opium nightmare — a conoepticHi 
which, evasive os it seems in the sentence of descriptive 
criticism, takes conviction by storm in the gradual developer 
ment of the story — the palace ‘ without a background.’ The 
horror of that blank space of nothingness is unequalled 
perhaps by any other of Monro’s sinister fantasies, and the 
sound of the chariot wheels falling on the strained ear 
which listens to the silence becomes a shadow of sound, 
but a very substance of terror. In days before the 
multiplication of cheap books and juvenile jioriodicals, and 
before the abolition of restrictions in the matter of novel, 
newspaper, and magazine reading had blunted and vulgarised 
children’s imagination, the creations of Monro’s brain — the 
brain of a poet, a dreamer, and a painter — afforded the 
child-reader that undercm-rent of excitement which the 
successful introduction of the supernatural into fiction un- 
failingly supplies. 

The literary movement, begun in allegory and continued 
in symbolic or spiritual romance, soon found a third out- 
let — the transition was almost imperceptible — in stories 
where historical backgrounds of persons and events took the 
place of the supernatural in removing the narrative from a 
too familiar approach to everyday life and common sur- 
roundings. Dr. J. M. Neale, author of ‘ Stories of the 
■Crusades,’ ‘Tales of the Ancient British Church,’ as well 
as of the far more striking quasi-novel of the French Bevolu- 
tion, ‘ Duch6nier,’ was one of the "arlicst, if not the first in 
the field where later Miss Yonge’s ever well-beloved ‘ Little 
Duke,’ ‘ The Prince and the Page,’ and ‘ Lances of Lin- 
wood,’ with, for elder children, her ‘ Chaplet of Pearls,’ 
were to perpetuate the fashion of romantic historical 
romance for many a generation to come- 

Bnt while allegory and romance fiourished, other currents, 
moral, realistic, scientific, and adventurous, of schoolroom 
ffotion were widouing and broadening, filling new channels 
and overflowing in many divergent directions. Stories of 
domestic, school, animal, or home life, of a changed tenor, 
succeeded to, if they did not supplant, the domestic moral 
tale oar the t^es of family life according to the creed of the 
religionist. Among the list of books commended sixty 
jears ago by the * Quarterly * reviewer in his survey of 
children's literature, while reprobating equally ^e eran- 

1001. Schoolroom Ckuoict im WicMono — a Sver«^>9^ 40li 

* gdi^ handbook and the sdentifie manual. . . > th« one 
‘ rendered as exoitingj, the other as saperficial asean ppeeiblj 

* he managed/ he finds place for Mrs. Argus’s * Adventures 
of a Donkey/ now forgotten, and Mrs. Trimmer’s *The 
Bohins/ hooks * which hare/ he adds, * saved many a neat 

* firom plunder, and warded off many a blow from tho despised 
**race/ To these later days have added many of like — and 
unlike — nature. Mrs. Gatty, her ‘Parables from Nature/ 

* Cruel Peter’s Purgatory,* now, it is to be feared, out of 
print. Miss A , Sewell’s ‘ Black Beauty,’ and Miss B. Keary’s 
di^ightfal ‘ Wanderlin,’ both recently reprintodi continued 
iJie chronicle of ‘ friendly beasts,’ till, in yet moro modem 
guise, ‘The Jungle Book’ carried away the prize as the 
animal book par excellence of its own century. In the Quarterly 
list, too, we find, among many books which have died the 
natural death of bygone fiction, not a few which still 
traditionally or veritably survive, as Miss Martineau’s ‘ Peats 
on the Fiord,’ ‘ Settlors at Home,’ and the ‘ Crofton Boys,* 
the latter antedating a whole multitude of schoolboy records 
culminating in the accepted classic of ‘Tom Brown’s 
School Days.’ The ‘ Copslcy Annals,’ Mrs. Craik’s ‘ A 
Hero,* and Miss Sinclair’s ‘ Holiday House,’ wliero, despite 
its moral, for the first time children’s misdoings ap|)Oar 
rather as a source of amusement than reproacli, obtained 
twenty-five years later a warm encomium from Miss Yonge,* 
though one of the most atteictive works of secularised child 
fiction, the brilliant little volume entitled ‘A BnnaWay,’ 
seems to hare made no impression on literary historians. 

A clear code of honour, truth, and courage pervades the 
whole of this department of the best child’s literature of 
the period ; with a reticent but avowed assumption of religion 
as the root and groundwork of all creeds of conscience and 
social law. A practical recognition of a child’s capacity to 
apprehend and enjoy imaginatively what lies beyond the scope 
of his purely intellectual capacity is. Miss Yonge further ooii»« 
tends, an essential principle of authorship, while, experience 
prompting, she adds that what lies beyond the compass of 
their emotional faculties should be prohibited ground. Love 
as a romance, thus she applies the doctrine, has its legitimate 
use in child-fiction. Love as an emotion should be set 
on one side. Her writings — those, that is, intended for 
schoolroom readers — illustrate her principles. In her own 

* Children’s Literature of the Last Century. Macmillan’s MagaainAi. 

432 Bchctolroom Claenea in JBHcHon^iz 8wtleff» Oot* 

works and in tlie works she commends, the primary purpose- 
in the aggregate is that of affording wholesome amuse- 
ment and pleasure to the reader, with, as a comple- 
mentary and incidental result, the culture of a child’s 
intelligence,* the refining of taste, and above all the developer 
meut of sympathy for Nature at large, for beast, bird, flower, 
leaf, and man, in the natural world; for what is true, 
honourable, and brave in the moral. 

Other works of a less easily classified order had, even 
when, in 1869, Miss Yonge was occupied in tracing the 
genesis and progress of child-fiction, entered, or were about 
to enter, upon the schoolroom scene. As burlesque, 
Thackeray’s ‘ Rose and Ring,’ the coarsely comic parody of 
the true fairy tale of folklore, had struck a tuneless note, 
cheaply profaning, as it is the nature of caricature to 
profane, with ‘broad fun, slang, and modern allusion,’ those 
enchanted lands of Straparola, D’Aulnoy, and_ Grimm ; 
kingdoms of shadowy primeval forest ; countries where 
peacock kings and white cats reigned in glittering palaces, 
and princesses shepherded gold-fleeced sheep, and swine- 
herds and cinder-lads dreamed dreams of royal diadems. Misa 
Tonge’s criticism of such fiction, boldly contrary to the verdict 
of the gfrown-up world, would seem both just and experienced. 
Such stories, so runs her verdict, ‘ destroy the real poetry 
‘ and romance of childhood, and foster that unnatural 
* appetite for the facetious which is the bane of the young.’ 

Meanwhile Kingsley’s ‘ W ater Babies ’ revindicated with 
might the rights of imagination. It was the first notable 
example, since Miss Coleridge had published her fisiiry 
romance of ‘ Phantasmion,’ of those narratives of serious 
fairy fantasy of which Miss Ingelow’s ‘ Mopsa the Fairy ’ 
(again a book wholly worthy of revival) also illustrates the 
possible charm. George Macdonald’s fairy moralities— 
moralities bearing much the same relation to the didactic 
morality of the eighteenth century as a mystery play to a 
school catechism — likewise appeared, diverging slightly from 
Kingsley’s lines of thought and entirely from his ‘ open-air’ 
atmosphere, but touching depths of feeling with as intuitive C* 
sincerity and as sympathetically penetrative a spirit. And, 
ohce more a work impossible to classify, ‘ Alice in Wonder- 
land,* the delicat^y handled extravaganza of familiar 
things, the dally bread-and-butter of common life, trans- 

* Charles Lamb’s ‘ Tales from Shakespeare,* Miss Keary’s ‘ Heroes 
of Asgard,’ Kiogsley’s ‘ Heroes,’ Hawthorne’s ‘ Tangle wood Tales,’ ara 
above pnuse fot seboolroom culture. 

1901, Sthoolroom Clcuaks m SurWjf* 43^ 

formed (the reverse of Thackeray’s process) into a playliouse 
feast of snoh fanciful adventure as a child’s own dreams 
migkt weave, became witb these the most brilliant type of 
hooks, ostensibly written, for (diildren, but whose most oireot 
appeal would seem to be to the appreciation of children’s 

To those same elders we may, perhaps, more entirely 
ascribe the popularity of another, and that an inoreasins, 
class of children’s books so called. It is the class wdl 
defined as books not for but about children. That children 
and child-life are the subject-matter of a book does not, 
as people are apt to assume, make it a book for children — 
Miss Montgomery’s overwrought ‘Misunderstood,’ where 
the sentiment, though not undiluted by humour, is as little 
desirable for schoolroom wear as was the tragic emotion of 
the Irish sketch, ‘ Flitters, Tatters, and Councillor,’ or 
the delicate pathos of Mrs. Ewing’s ‘Jackanapes,’ or, to cite 
no more, the heterogeneous reminiscences, gay and talented 
as they are, of Mr. Kenneth Graham’s ‘ Golden Age.’ 

And yet, even in such passing judgement, hesitation and 
doubt creep in. Theories of an ideal of children’s fiction 
have shifted too often in the past, far and near, for us of 
the present to offer any as worthy of acceptance, ‘ A union 

* of the highest art with the simplest form,’ suggested the 
‘ Quarterly ’ reviewer. But the definition, however excellent, 
leaves a wide practical margin. Possibly the choice of 
such literature admits of no formulated principle. It can 
perhaps only bo governed by the discrimination of those 
whose love is not only for the child but — and the distinction 
is of import — for the childhood. One constant remembrance 
should, however, regulate all choice — the remembrance that 
the chambers of a child’s mind and memory are not infi- 
nitely capacious, that fiction belonging to later periods of 
life cannot enter in without displacing or barring th,e 
entrance to the rightful occupants of a child’s imagination 
and fancy — a remembrance, moreover, that knowledj^ 
projper to maturity, lodged in a child’s brain, anticipates tnc 
action of the years, bringing age where age is not, suggest- 
ing emotions, teaching facts for whose learning life is yet 
ixnripe, and developing that tendency to display, fostered by 
the vanity of parents, which is the hall-mark of what has 
been, in late years, designated the show-child. ‘ There is no 

* de^ee of ignorance so unbecoming as the least prematurity 

* of knowledge ’ is a wise saying, and would have fitted wei| 
with $ir d^ames Stephen’s memorable essay on ‘ Cbyeip 

434 Sehaolroom {Hasska in Fietion — a Buntaf, 10^ 

CMldren’ — children sans reticence, aana that inetinet of 
silence which, as he expresBes it, is the dinner dower of the 
deeper child-nature ; whose cleverness lies in the incongrnitjr 
of tiieir talents with all that is by eternal birthright a dhiJd’s. 

‘ I hire to read the &,balons histories about the histories of 
‘ Eobin, Dickey, Mapsay, and Peccay/ wrote Walter Scott’s 
little Marjorie in her diary, ‘and it is very amnsing, for 
‘ some were good birds and some were bad, but Peocay was 
‘ the most obedient to her parients. “ Macbeth ” is a pretty 
‘ composition, but awful one ; the “ Newgate Calendar * 

‘ is very instructive ; Dr. Swift’s works are very funny. 
‘ “ Tom Jones ” and “ Gray’s Elegy in a Country Church- 
‘ “ yard ” are both excellent. . . . Miss Egward’s tails are 
‘ very good, particularly some that are very much adapted for 
‘ youth, as “ Lazy Laurance ” and “ Tarelton.” ’ But such 
inopportune developement of knowledge and criticism enti^lS 
the irreparable estrangement of childhood’s fairest possea* ' 
sions. Childhood comes but once in a lifetime. Further, 
strangely inadequate as it may seem, it is the sole prepara- 
tion Nature affords for man and womanhood. To be — ^we 
might almost argue — in the sense intended by Nature, true 
man or true woman, it would appear that a child must be in 
the sense Nature intended, true child. A life defrauded, 
though but by a ft action, of such a childhood, however its 
gifts of precocity replace the loss, will always remain a life 
maimed and incomplete. And Marjorie, with her mauy 
successors whose reading is conducted on the like principles 
of ‘ admission behind the scenes,’ presents, to eyes that see, 
something akin to the spectacle of an April pastoral 
degraded into the grotesque of a citj street. 

The question — as childhood emerges from the confines 
of the schoolroom world and advances into that borderland 
which is neither childhood nor yet maturity — becomes, so 
far as girlhood is concerned, one of the most difficult of 
problems. The reading of boys in its unshackled liberty is 
as a general rule of minor importance. Books are with 
them of far less weight as factors in the formation of 
opinion. Beading seldom takes a place of primary interest 
in the day’s doings, there are more and stronger counteraet- 
ing influences, and it is self-evident that for a boy ihllaoies 
derived from fiction are sooner and more stringently 
oorrected by experience of the realities of life. With girl* 
hood it is obviously otherwise, and where the dosic; of 
ehildhood’s evening meets the twilight of woniauhood’s first 
dawn, Ikk^b, if iSe mind prove sensitive to im]^^es•iow, 

IfOX, Suhookoom dmeks 4 $$’ 

Itecome silent but efficient agents of nkatiy nneonicioua 
deTdlt^ments> and the proverb of jonth hnd vrhite paper * 
veidfles itself. 

The difficulty of the qxiostion is enhanced by the feet that 
no Bxed limit of years, no clear line of severanoe or land- 
saark of time can be assigned for that crucial phase of liiffi. 

* Tel a vescu longtemps qui a peu vescu/ said tho keenest 
observer of the human puppet-show; and the converse is 
equally true. And although the life lived be but a child’s, 
who can divine with certainty when it has reached that 
receipt of custom where childhood pays its last toll and 
womanhood its first tribute at the place where two ways 
meet 9 The near ties of blood by no maniier of means pre- 
suppose, as the world has long acknowledged, clearsighted- 
ness of vision. To see too near and to know too much is 
as fruitful a source of error as deficiency of intimacy, where 
love, and it may be vanity, conspire to blindfold just 
appreciations of character. And for many a woman, tho 
child, blood of her blood, soul of her, soul, within tho solf- 
coloured circle of her home, shuts out all wider perceptions 
of childhood without the gate. The homo-child becomes for 
her tho standard by which all children are measured, while 
the standard by which all children are measured without is 
excluded from the home. ‘ Once a father never a god- 
‘ father,’ is a shrew'd recognition of what is patent to 
uninterested spectators — tho fact that close affections of 
blood-ties estrange the confidence of what we may name the 
guest-child, whose instinct will turn for full sympathy, not 
to the Ijeah of many children, but to the Rachel of none. 
However this may be, fronj both childhood keeps its secrets, 
and none more closely than the advent of that transforma- 
tion time when the flower casts its spring petals and the 
seed-vessel of harvest prepares for the ripening — when, for 
such is the moral aspect of the phase, choice ceases to be a 
matter of mere instinct and obedience, and becomes by 
gradual stages a question of thought and will. 

It was to meet the requirements of this transitional 
intermediate period that Miss Yonge most specially devote^l 
laer talents and experience in those innumerable and inter- 
minable records of family life, as she conceived it, of wbhdi 
the * Daisy Chain’ in England, ‘ Little Women ’ in America 
havp been the typical classics. But, to paraphrase a well- 
known saying, there is the book of its own time, and there is 
the book of all times. To distinguish between the one and 
ilio other is by common consent beyond the capacity of jttdge», 

436 Schoolroom Glassies in Fiction--^ BwiVisg, OaK* 

wents too nearly contemporary. The judges are too mtich 
of their own day, life is too much intersected by the same 
aggregate epidemic tendencies. Common currente swayeaoh 
se^eed on the sea surface, common influences bend, each 
blade of the cornfield one way. There is an emotional conl^ 
munism belonging to certain periods of a century by virtue or 
bane of which all estimates are restricted in value, and oaoj 
except where genius itself turns critic, pretend to no univer- 
sality of application. Yet, with regard to the * Daisy Chain/ 
and still more with regard to other kindred works, the de- 
mand, if not extinct by any means, has suffered eclipse, and 
with it the fame of Miss Yonge and her fellow authors. 
Restrictions are, among a growing section of the com- 
munity, on the wane, llie principles regulating restriction 
are under revision. Romance as presented by Fouqu^ or 
Sir Walter Scott, to take two widely severed species of 
romance, had long been free of access to the schoolroom. 
Its pictures of life included in due proportion the good 
and the evil. But the very atmosphere and dress of 
romance made of such presentment a symbol, not an applied 
example, of life’s actualities. Miss Yonge and her imitators 
worked upon another method. Eliminating absolutely and 
entirely, without hint of the reservation of truth, some 
aspects of life, symbolic truth was supplanted by an artificial 
reality. Miss Yonge’s eliminations are now to a consider- 
able extent disallowed. Knowledge which previously was 
veiled or withheld is now imparted with deliberate intention. 
Wisely, it may be as a simple lesson, a ‘parable from 
* Nature ’ of human life and of human affection ; with a 
wisdom we may well doubt by means of plays and novels 
promiscuotisly seen and read, suggesting questions which, 
when once suggested, can only be dealt with by directness 
and sincerity of answer. Whether psychological fiction 
and problem-drama, whether, that is, novel-reading and 
playgoing, two of girlhood’s most exciting amusements, are 
the fittest medium through which suggestions should be 
conveyed, through which she should arrive at her first 
apprehension of the most intimate relationships, consecrated 
or desecrated, of womanhood and manhood, is an inquiry 
with which at the present day men, no less than women, 
will do well to concern themselves. 

Much may be plausibly urged on either side in the debate 
between the old and the new systems. But one factor in the 
dispute cannot be too often emphasised. Experimental 
methods are, on the one side, impossible. Knowledge 

1901. Schoolroom doBsies in Fiction — a Sw’vey. 437 

acquired cannot be withdrawn. While, on the other, 
ignorance, or that unapplied knowledge lessons of childhood 
impart, can he enlightened. When occasion arises, arising 
late or early according to the temperament and the 
surroundings protected or unprotected of each individual 
girl, ignorance can be amended without the aid of current 
fiction, and the omissions of Miss Yonge and her school can 
be supplied. Her pictures of life are misleading, not so 
much because they are untrue as because they are one-sided, 
and, moreover, no girl’s reading is confined to Miss Yonge. 
The reading of history, of the great poetic, dramatic, and 
romantic classics, of ‘ Faust,’ of ‘ Much Ado,’ of ‘ Othello,’ 
of Spenser, Dante, and the *Mort d’ Arthur,’ with their 
fearless recognition of the broad outlines, good and evil, on 
which human life is fashioned, give, even to a child’s con- 
ception of the world, breadth, veracity, and balance. In 
them ill is done and good also, the day cometh and also the 
night, and both are in tlie nature of man, and both are in 
the nature of the world which awaits the cliild’s manhood or 
womanhood. In them sorrow and pain, and sin and death 
chequer the gold squares on life’s chessboard ; all must bo 
met, suffered, or overcome. From such reading the child’s 
mind and imagination assimilate that spiritual truth of 
conception to which the years, and the experience the years 
bring, give the individual body and form j and whatever 
may be the superstructure reared the foundation will need 
no relaying. Such manner of knowledge will prove a surer 
preparation for reality than any forcing-house of the 
emotions. And, to close with one more plea for caution, 
girlhood — to repeat the phiuse — as childhood, comes but 
once in a lifetime. The compensations womanhood presents 
for its loss, a loss the precipitation of emotional know- 
ledge indubitably involves, cannot be counted upon with 
such certainty as to justify its abbreviation. ‘ Puisque lo 
‘jour peut lui manquer, laissons-lui un peu jouir de I’auroro.’ 

VOIi. OXOIV. KO. ocoxoviir. 

o o 


The Fight agaiml Gonswm^iim^ 


Art, IX. — J • The Practitioner. Tuberculosis Number. July, 

2. Tuherculosis. The Journal of the National Association 

for the Prevention of Consumption and other Forms of 

Tuberculosis. Numbers 1 to 8, 

ii. Proceedings of the International Congress. July, 1901. 

Tn 1899 an International Congress for the Prevention of 
Tuberculosis was held at Berlin. In the same year the 
National Association for the Prevention of Consumption 
was formed in England. The International Congress which 
met in London last July was organised by this society. 

Valuable as previous congresses on the same subject have 
boon, and luminous with the increasing brightness of the 
gathered foci of research, this most recent one will be for 
ever distinguished as having settled once for all beyond 
dispute the main causes of the terrible scourge which more 
than decimates the civilised nations, and the main lines on 
which the forces of prevention must advance. 

The declaration of I>r. Koch was in a moment famous, 
and his conclusion, coming from such an authority, was 
certainly startling enough both to the majority of expert 
sanitarians, bacteriologists, and medical men, and to ncarl}" 
the whole of the unscientific j)ublic, to be telegraphed in 
its bare rotundity to the ‘ clay creators ^ of the destinies of 
nations, to ^nionarchs in their capitals,^ and ^arbiters of 
‘ war ' against disease in every quarter of tlie globe. 

The gist of Dr. Koch’s pronouncement on the relations of 
human and bovine tuberculosis may be found in the follow- 
ing words : ^ Considering all those facts, I feel justified in 
‘ maintaining that human tuberculosis differs from bovine, 

* and cannot be transmitted to cattle. . . .. The infection of 
‘ human beings [from cattle'] is a very rare occurrence. I 
‘ should estimate the extent of the infection by the milk 
‘ and flesh of tuberculous cattle, and the butter made of 

* th( ir milk, as hardly greater than that of hereditary 
^ transmission, and I therefore do not deem it advisable to 
^ take any measures against it.’ Then he continues: ‘So 
‘ the only main source of the infection of tuberculosis is the 
‘ sputum of consumptive patients, and the measures for the 
‘ combating of tuberculosis must aim at the prevention of 
‘ the dangers arising from its diffusion.’ After pointing 
out the extreme danger to families from the sputum of a 
helpless patient in small overcrowded rooms at night, with 

1901. The Mgki against Gcumimptim, 430 

scarcely any ventilation, when, 'however eautioua he may 
'he, ttie sufferer scatters the morbid matter . . . every 

* time he coughs,’ Dr. Koch concludes that ‘ it is the over- 
' crowded dwellings of the poor that we have to r^^ard as 
' the real breeding-places of tuberculosis.’ These breeding- 
places, he declares, we must wipe away if we wish to wage 
omr war against the evil with effective weapons. A further 
measure he lays down as recognised on all ^nds as effective 
is the instructing of all classes of the people as to the in- 
feotiousncss of tuberculosis, and as to the best way of pro- 
tecting oneself. The proper treatment of the sputum and 
the avoidance of ill-ventilated bedrooms and workrooms are 
the most important safeguards. 

With the main part of these conclusions another great 
foreign investigator, Dr. Brouardel, who delivered to the 
Congress an admirable discourse in French, entirely concurs. 

* The healthy house is anti- tuberculous.’ If the germs 
derived from sputum ‘ fall in an ill-lighted damp house, they 
' maintain their activity for a long time.’ Densely peopled 
houses and rooms become centres of disease, from which 
the germs are carried to workshops and offices. ‘ The 
' danger is in the sputum ; ’ ‘ to expectorate on the ground 
' is a disgusting and dangerous habit. Once the habit has 
' quite disappeared tuberculosis will decrease rapidly.’ 

Here indeed, in brief, is the conclusion, full of hope and 
encouragement for humanity, of all the best authorities. 
As regards possiblo infection from flesh and milk. Dr. 
Brouardel does not go so far as Dr. Koch, and advises the 
regulation of slaughter-houses, care in relation to carcasses 
used for pies and sausages, and the boiliug of milk, which 
is not thereby rendered less nutritious. It will bo observed 
that Dr. Kofch, in laying stress on the rarity of infection 
flrpm the cow, does not deny its occurrence altogether, which 
he would do if he believed the organism to be quite distinct. 
He compares its frequency with that of inherited tuber- 
culosis, which, we must remember, may appear in a great 
many different forms, affecting bones and joints and brain. 
The weakest part of his case is that which dissuades us 
from the maintenance of prophylaxis in regard to diet. It 
would be a great mistake, even if we were able to determine 
absolutely that bovine tuberculosis cannot infect the human 
frubject, to relax any precautions, either public or private, 
against the use of contaminated meat or milk. The Jews 
have always, with good reason, kept up a careful system of 
examination of animal flesh offered for sale, and have pro- 

440 The Fight against Consumption. Ocfc. 

bably thereby saved themselves from more than one kind of 
ptomaine poison. Moreover the regulation of the meat 
supply on the present lines will have the beneficial effect of 
gradually improving the conditions of crowding and bad 
ventilation which propagate the malady among cattle, and 
will so raise the condition and value of stock throughout 
the country. Tuberculosis and other diseases among dairy 
cows, now prevalent to a large extent in every county, and 
in almost every herd, would be very greatly reduced by care 
against contact with infected animals, by the proper periodic 
cleansing of the stalls, and better ventilation. The object 
should be to imitate as nearly as possible those conditions 
of outdoor existence in which, as a rule, tuberculosis does 
not occur. The second Eoyal Commission reported, 

‘ Tuberculosis is almost unknown among those cows which 
‘ are kept chiefly in the open air.’ The old custom of 
milking in the field has much to recommend it, but is now 
generally objected to by milkers. Angus Smith showed 
many years ago that the air of cowsheds is grossly con- 
taminated by foul dust and floating organisms, which drop 
into the milk-pails, and recent investigations prove that an 
enormous diminution in the number of bacteria in milk may 
be brought about by milking in the open air. 

Other fatal diseases besides tuberculosis, and several 
more or less poisonous products, the result of bacterial 
growth, are communicable by means of milk. Epidemics 
of diarrhoea, diphtheria, and typhoid ferer have many a 
time been spread by farmyard milk or by the watered 
milk of towns, and there can therefore be no question that 
if tuberculosis were hardly ever conveyed from the animal 
to man there would still be plenty of reason for the inspec- 
tion of dairies and for care as regards the sources of our 
milk supply, and, lastly, for boiling all mUk for ten rainuijps 
or heating it to at least 185® F., according to the excelldjttt 
directions of the Association lately published in leaflet form* 
Thus by precautions against bovine tuberculosis we shall 
at the same time be saving a very large number of lives 
from other deadly infections. 

Dr. Koch’s dictum against the communicability, except 
in rare instances, of the consumption of the cow to man 
may be partly accounted for by the general prevalence 
abroad of the practice of boiling milk, for there can be 
no doubt that" raw milk much more frequently contains 
dangerous impurities than half-cooked flesh. In England, 
where milk is commonly drunk raw by children, the pre- 

ISOL Tlie Fight against Consumption^ 44 1 

sumptive evidence against it as a carrier 6f consumption 
cannot be disregarded. We know that a large fraction of 
country milk contains tuberculous germs — in Manchester, 
for instance, 17 out of 93 samples, in Liverpool 29 out of 
100, in Cambridge more than 50 out of 100 — and that 
cream especially contains them in large numbers* In 
fourteen out of sixteen farms visited by the Manchester 
authority there was at least one cow with a tuberculous 
udder* A very large number of experiments with different 
kinds of animals have shown positive results from feeding 
with tuberculous milk. The evidence before the Koyal 
Commission gave ground for the conclusion that in a con- 
siderable proportion of cases children are infected from the 
cow. The cases of intestinal tuberculosis in young children 
fed with cow’s milk have increased, while phthisis has 
diminished, and the increase has accompanied the large 
substitution of cow’s for human milk among all classes. In 
Jersey, on the other hand, where only a very few f*ows are 
tuberculous, cases of tabes mesenterica arc very rare. Posi- 
tive instances may be quoted strongly tending to i>rove 
communicability. Thus in an institution in Scotland 
30 per cent, in one year and 40 per cent, in another year 
of the total mortality was from tuberculous disease, ap- 
parently derived from cows with tuberculous udilers; in 
Berne four infants in one house died from the intestinal 
form after being fed with infected milk. 

Wo may take it, therefore, as nearly certain, until wo 
have absolute proof to the contrary, that raw cow’s milk 
infected from the tuberculous udder does account for a pro- 
portion of the mortality froui tuberculosis in human beings. 
And in this country we have reason, from the important 
researches of Mr. George Hill, of the King’s College and 

f eat Ormond Street Hospitals, for putting the mortality 
young children from tuberculous cow’s milk at about 
one-third of their total mortality from tuberculosis. It 
seems, according to his computation, that the number of 
children under ten years dying in London from the disease 
is very much larger than the number certified in the 
Registrar-General’s returns. That is, at least C,000 every 
year. ‘ It is of the utmost practical importance,’ he says, 

‘ that we should appreciate correctly the relative frequency 
‘ of the two great sources of infection ; for until we realise 
* that tuberculosis in young children, and especially^ in 
‘ infants, is in the majority of cases the result of breathing 
* infected air, not of swallowing infected milk, we are hardly 


The Fight against Consumption* 

^ likely to adopt the best methods for its prevention/ First 
and foremost he recommends thorough ventilation in the 
home^ and several hours daily in the open air. SecoBdly, 
proper regulation of cowsheds, and until this is attained 
pasteurisation or heating of milk to the boiling-point, 
followed by rapid cooling. The proportion of milk infection 
to air infection arrived at by Mr. Hill is remarkably cor- 
roborated by the results of four independent observers in 
Great Britain and America; these also are derived from 
post-mortem examinations. They show 16*5, 247, 28’1, 
and less than 30 per cent, respectively of primary intestinal 
infection. Among 50 infants under one year old, in whom 
the primary channel of infection could be ascertained by 
Mr. Hill, 27 cases appeared to be due to pulmonary and 
only 5 to intestinal ; the remaining 7 were infected through 
the ear. With older children the proportion of intestinal 
cases largely increases, until at ages above five years the 
two sources of infection seem to be about equal. Dr. Koch’s 
observations on the deceptive indications of intestinal origin 
should here be borne in mind. The large number ol| 
pulmonary cases in young children is attributed to th* 
natural delicacy of their lungs, to the alter effects of 
measles and whooping-cough, and to overcrowded infected 
rooms. Wo may also observe that children are specially 
exposed to inhalation and swallowing of noxious dust 
through their habits of fingering and their nearness to the 
ground. The total mortality of infants under one year of 
age in England from respiratory diseases alone amounts to 
about 270,000 in every twenty years. 

Children are clearly to be saved from this fatality by the 
same means which insure them against other maladies and 
a low state of general health — namely, fresh air, clean 
surroundings, a well-regulated temperature, and boiled 

It is satisfactory, on looking back at the work of science 
in relation to the nature and prevention of consumption, 
that every one of the discoveries made is of a beneficial and 
reassuring character, tending to the increased comfort of 
the patient, increased safety of his associates, and better 
conditi::ns of life generally. Formerly the supposed victim 
of weakness in the lungs was coddled in a warm room with 
closed windows, and if allowed to go out was protected by 
wraps and respirators against a breath of fresh air ; now he is 
given the freedom of the atmosphere in any good climate, 
and even extreme cold has for him no terror. Dr. Theodore 

IdOl. The agumti Conmmption, 449 

Williams, in an interesting paper read at the Congress, 
described ilie results of (Cerent climates upon a largo 
number of cases known to him, from which we learn that 
63‘5 per cent, improved in home climates, 65 on the Biviera, 
77 on sea voyages, and 83*4 per cent, at high altitudes. 
Of course the classes of cases in these several localities may 
not be strictly comparable. Good feeding, and comfort 
generally, now play an important part in the cure, but the 
chief element of all appears to bo rigid and skilful super- 

Anotber depressing belief has been removed by the 
overthrow of the theory that consumption is hereditary in 
families. We now know that all children, with few excep- 
tions, can be saved from the disease if they are sufficiently 
defended from inhalation or ingestion of the fungus-like 
germs. A predisposition is inherited, and so long as our 
streets and railway carriages and infected houses arc allowed 
to collect sputum dust predisposed persons run a risk in 
frequenting such dirty places; but when law and habit 
combine in precautionary measures, especially in restraining 
expectoration, these will, in spite of a susceptibility cither 
constitutional or temporury, be nearly as safe against con- 
sumption as we all now are against leprosy. The lime, 
therefore, is not far off when even a strong predisposition 
will be nearly secure against attack, for wo know our 
enemy, who is outside tbe body, and can destroy liis forc<'S. 

Thirdly, all authorities now agree that althougli without 
care and ventilation proximity to the consumptive expotes 
the attendant, however strong, to considerable ihanccs of 
infection, yet that where the proper means aic constantly 
observed to remove the long excreta, and to provide reiitila- 
tion, there need be no fear. The statistics of the Droniptou 
Hospital have for many years shown an immunity of 
doctors, nurses, and attendants at least equal to that of the 
general population. 

Tourthly, we have, as a result of knowledge of the causes 
of the malady and of minute long-continued investigation 
of the actual effects upon the patient of diffei'eiit modi's of 
treatment, the most encouraging expectation of cure in flu* 
majority of cases of which the chai*actcr has been ascev- 
iained at an early stage. Under the stiict rules of 
sanatoria, and prolonged treatment of suitable cases, 
Dr, Koch estimates the proportion which may be emed at 
about 50 per cent. Dr. Brouoirdel seems to go even further, 
for he observes: ‘If it is true that iu every stage tuber» 

44fif The Fight against Consumption* Oct^ 

‘ culosis can be cured, it is certain to be true i£ the patient 

* has been caused to take the necessary precautions in the 

* pre-tuberculous stage, when lesions are very small, and 
^ when there is suflScient power of resistance in the patient^s 
‘ system/ Many years ago Dr. McCormac, of Belfast, 
enthusiastically advocated fresh air night and day as the 
true cure. Dr. Williams in 385 cases treated at high 
altitudes obtained improvement in 87 per cent., while only 
12 per cent, grew worse; 45 per cent, completely recovered. 
Pi'obably the results among poorer classes of patients, 
under less ample nourishment and less thorough care, 
would not be so favourable. 

Fifthly, and from the point of view of the State this is 
the most important conclusion of all, tuberculosis is found 
to be a provcntible disease. When we consider that 
00,000 persons die annually in Great Britain and Ireland, 
and that 300,000 or more are constantly suffering from it ; 
further, that after childhood the disease attacks chiefly 
men and women between eighteen and forty-five, the most 
productive period of life, and that a very large number of 
the most efficient workmen employed in quarrieer, metal 
works, cotton and wool manufactures, printing trades, and 
many other occupations exposing them to bad air and dust, 
fall victims to this infection ; when we consider the amount 
of misery and long anxiety which oppresses families and 
deprives the country of a large total of possible services, the 
economic gain may to some extent be computed which will 
follow from a reduction, say, to one-tenth of the prescTit 
number of killed and wounded in every year. But no 
computation can take into account the loss now occurring 
by the early extinction of some of the most brilliant and 
gifted intellects, or the gain which may accrue to the 
nation from a i)rcvention of such loss in the future. The 
prolongation of life to a Newton, a Faraday, a Shakespeare, 
a Hallam, a Wellington, a Martineau, and to servants of the 
State much less conspicuous in fame — Parkes, Chadwick, 
Simon, Jenner — who have each saved tens of thousands 
of British lives by their work in relation to public 
health, has a value to the Empire and to the world beyond 
all estimation. The hygiene of the future will not tolerate 
the sacrifice to all sorts of preventible disease, now permitted, 
of five hundred in every thousand of our people. 

It was shown eleven years ago by Dr. Eansome, in his 
‘ Causes and Prevention of Phthisis,' an excellent handbook 
which ought to be familiar to all who have any influence 

1901. The Fight againat Oonsumption. 446 

over public health, that ^ there are few exanthematoiis 

* diseases that could be so easily and so effectively controlled.’ 
Dr. Newsholme, of Brighton, has for long had no doubt 
that ‘ this is a disease which is entirely preventible.’ Dr. 
Brouardel concludes that ‘ tuberculosis is avoidable and 

* curable we may reasonably prophesy that, united 

* in one brave attempt, the whole civilised world will succeed 
‘ in exterminating the cruellest scourge that has ever fallen 

* on us, our children, and our friends, and which threatens 

* the future of our countries.’ Lord Lister, at the Congress, 
said ‘ It was known, thanks to Pasteur, that the tuberculous 

* microbe was incapable of being originated de novo in the 

* human body ; hence had arisen the splendid prospect 
‘ of the prevention of tuberculosis,’ and anticipated that 
with the help of the public they might ‘ possibly eventually 
‘ stamp out entirely the greatest scourge of the human race.’ 
Six years ago there was ample reason for concluding, 
from an examination of the evidence, that as a national 
malady it is capable of reduction and almost complete exter- 

We are apt in these days to rely too much on purely 
scientific observations in the laboratory, or experiments on 
animals, and too little on common-sense induction from the 
large and instructively varied multitude of experiments 
which are proceeding daily before our eyes in the natural 
and artificial conditions afl’ecting the individual in a modern 

The announcement of Dr. Koch would have been less of a 
surprise if we had duly taken into view and borne in mind 
the evidence which has for a long time accumulated of the 
environment which in common life enables the tuberculous 
plague to fasten upon the human organism. A consideration 
of this evidence leads, not indeed to the sweeping exclusion 
of everything except human tuberculous sputum from the 
reconnoitred field of attack, but to the conviction of this 
excretum as by far the most important factor in th(^ causation 
of the disease. 

What are the principal counts in the mass of contributory 
facts? To begin with, we have the knowledge of the 
immunity of wild animals from tuberculosis, of the rare 
occurrence of the disease among cows living fn the open 
field or in carefully cleansed byres, and proti'cted from 
infection. We know, too, how easily the cow gets infected 
from a stall which has been occupied by a tuberculous 
animal, and how the infection may spread among the herd 

440 The Fight agaimt Consumption* CM* 

by the animals iulxaling the germs of the disease in ill* 
ventilated sheds. 

Hainan tuberculosis, though it may be caused by a 
slightly different species of fungus, obtains its hold under 
very similar conditions. People living in the open air, like 
the Bedouins, wandering Arabs, natives of isolated parts 
of Africa, and of islands in the Pacific, are free from con- 
sumption until they use houses and clothes and adopt 
European habits. English colonists, living isolated and 
largely in the open air, remain unaffected till consumptives 
arrive among them. People living in ill-constructed huts^ 
like the inhabitants of Labrador, or in rough shanties of 
stone, allowing much ventilation, like the Highlanders of 
Scotland and the Western Irish, were much less affected 
than a similar class who lived in good houses, and in course 
of time, with their improved accommodation, fell victims to 
the disease in proportion to the exclusion of air from their 
dwellings. In Eastern Ireland the rate of consumption was 
259*62, compared with 95*64 on the west coast. 

Soldiers on campaign, sailors, fishermen, hunters, light- 
house-keepers, gardeners, Arctic explorers, and outdoor 
labourers were less subject to attack in proportion to their 
outdoor life and avoidance of crowding. On the other hand 
printers, potters, and Cornish minors had four times the rate 
of fishermen and gardeners. Tailors, dressmakers, and inn- 
keepers were heavily attacked, and nearly all dusty occupa- 
tions, which weakened the lungs, induced a very large 
mortality. Thus flint-workers, needle-polishers, &c., had 
three to ten times as many cases as butchers and bakers ; 
in cotton factories the workers in certain rooms rarely 
attained the age of thirty-eight. 

Broadly, it may be stated as a proved fact that with man, 
as with animals, phthisis does not occur iu outdoor life, 
where infection has not been introduced from a previous 
case ; while it occurs very rarely among people who avoid 
crowded places or vehicles, who live much in the open air, 
and whose houses are roomy and clean. 

It prevails in any place or branch of industry in propor- 
tion, roughly, to the amount of close indoor occupation and 
to the neglect of hygienic precautions as regards rooms and 
places of common resort. 

Climate, however good, has of itself been no safeguard. 
Alexandria, in Egypt, has had double the mortality of 
England, and Athens and Bio a higher rate than London. 

1901 • The Fight againd Coimmpiim^ 447 

But in Cairo, where the rate for natives is excessively highy 
Europeans seldom contract the disease. 

Families moving from Westmoreland to a Lancashire 
manufacturing town at once treble their liability to mn^ 
sumption, and similarly the rate for London is double that 
of rural Surrey. 

Villages in which for a long time no case of consumption 
has occurred frequently lose a number of their inhabitants 
after the introduction of a single case. 

According to information received quite recently from a 
number of orphanages, training homes, &c., in the South of 
England, these institutions have for a long time had only a 
very small rate of mortality from tuberculosis. 

Now in all these instances the infection and mortality 
from phthisis appear to depend entirely, or almost entimly, 
on the freedom of the locality from tuberculous germs, 
and not to any marked degree on tuberculous milk or meat. 
If these last suspected sources were largely concerned wo 
should not find complete immunity among people living an 
entirely outdoor life, for they doubtless consume tuberculous 
meat and milk; nor should wo find villages almost or com- 
pletely free from consumption for long periods until a human 
sufferer comes among them, for they too are accustonnul to 
eat tuberculous Ibod ; nor would the rate vary so regularly 
according to opportunities of human infection alone. 

We should expect the rate to depend to a dihoovei^ablo 
extent on the ingestion or avoidance of animal flesh and 
dairy products, and to remain markedly low among those 
populations who are accustomed to boil their milk and eat 
little or no animal flesh, or to have it well cooked. We 
should expect a large crop of cases at orphanages aud 
asylums supplied occasiomdly with tuberculous milk, and 
among children in the best districts of large towns, who 
must often be supplied with infected milk and butter. 

Other things being equal, no difference of the kind 
appears to have been noticed, and neither climate nor any 
kind of food affords protection. In Demerara, for instance, 
the negroes and Hindoos, who eat very little flesh or milk, 
and that well cooked, die of consumption in large numbers, 
and about half the cases are of the intestinal form. In 
France, where milk is boiled, and, till recently, little 
butoher^s meat was eaten by the mass of the people, the 
^ath rate haa been more than double that of England, and 
in Germany the mortality has also been much greater. 

Now observe the immediate and large diminution of tins 


The Fight against Consumption. Oct, 

disease when measures of cleanliness, including fresh air, 
are introduced in houses and workshops. In Canada, during 
the years 1830-7, the mortality from it among the troops 
was 23 per 1,000 ; after improved drainage and ventilation of 
barracks, ho., the rate fell to 9 '49 in 1863-72, and to 6 in 
1874. Thirty years ago it killed eight soldiers in the 
thousand per annum ; now, since improvements in hygiene, 
the rate falls below three. In the ten years 1836-47 the 
deaths from consumjilion in a badly ventilated prison at 
Vienna were at the rate of 51 *4 ; in the well-ventilated House 
of Correction, under similar diet and modes of life, at the 
rate of 7'0. Here is no question of meat or milk. In 
English prisons, which are clean and airy, consumption is 
rare, apart from iinj)orted cases. In the year 1889-90 only 
seven, and in 1890-1 only nine persons, besides a few who 
were discharged, died from it out of a population of 4,807 
in Wormwood Scrubbs. In French prisons, which were 
badly ventilated and loss clean, a very large number of fatal 
eases has occuiTed every year. In German prisons, accord- 
ing to a paper read by Cornet at Berlin in May 1895, after 
the now h3"giei)ic regulations came into force in German 
State establishments the cases of consumption fell 54 per 
cent. Among nursing orders the reduction was 36 per cent. 
In this paper Cornet went so far as to say that inactically 
the sputum is the only source of infection ; in fact, he made 
nearly the identical statement which was received as a 
thunderbolt the other day in London when spoken by the 
Berlin professor. Thus at least six years have been lost 
by our State and local authorities, during which measures 
in conformity with the best hygienic practice might have 
been taken, and would quite certainly have reduced the 
deaths from consumption by thousands annually. 

What, in brief, are the modes of overcoming the plague 
which ai'e not only indicated by theory but proved success- 
ful in practice? There is no difficulty or mystery about 
them. Wo know that a single patient may eject in the 
course of a day more than 20,000,000 bacilli, and that when 
the sputum dries these may be blown about in the dust of 
the street, or settle upon the walls and carpet of his room. 
Exposure to fresh air and sunlight kills the bacilli in a 
fortnight or a month, but in a closed room without much 
sunlight the organisms retain their vitality for many 
months. The first object, therefore, must be the prevention 
BO far as possible of indiscriminate expectoration, especially 
in rooms and crowded places. The supply of spittoons must 

1901. The Fight against Oonsumption. 445 

become general ; tbe consumptive must use those which are 
specially made for the pocket; and the infective matter 
must be promptly destroyed. The extreme importance of 
fresh air must be insisted upon, and good ventilation pro- 
vided in workshops, workrooms, factories, schools, and 
places of assembly. Ventilation has the threefold effect of 
diminishing the vitality of the microbes deposited on walls 
and floors, of diluting the air containing the pernicious dust, 
and of rendering the human body less liable to infection. 
Stuffy air acts as a good conductor, fresh air as a non-con- 
ductor of disease. The open-air cure shows that ventilation, 
besides saving others from danger, has the best influence 
upon the patient himself. When all precautions are 
observed there is little risk even in occupying the same 
bedroom with a consumptive. 

As with other kinds of contagious and infective fungi, 
all the surroundings within doors should be frequently 
cleaned, and should consist as far as possible of washable 
material, impervious and of smooth surface ; the furniture 
should be scanty, and there should he no sweeping up of 
dust, but wiping with a damp cloth. The annoying practice 
of dry sweeping with brooms, which still delights all good 
housekeepers and hotel-keepers, ought to he nearly altogether 
avoidable. It is not required on parquet or tiled or linoleum 
floors. The carpet rugs, and worse still the common rough 
mats, used on some of our principal railways are abominably 
well adapted for the retention and cliflusion of the fungus 
among the occupiers of a crowded compartment. The 
cushions ought to be easily cleanahle with a damp cloth. 
No wonder that the bacilli of tuberculosis have been found 
to be numerous in railway carriages. The danger of 
travelling with closed windows is not confined to the 
constitutionally predisposed, for recent illness, colds, and 
fatigue predispose persons who might at other times resist 
a strong dose. The mere unguarded coughing or speaking 
of a consumptive is suflScient to infect the neighbouring air, 
as Professor Koch recently showed in his address to the 
Congress, and the cubic space per head in a full compart- 
ment is much smaller than in the most crowded dwelling- 
room of legal dimensions. 

There are various other channels by which the disease 
can easily be conveyed, and which, so far as we are aware, 
have not hitherto been brought into notice. In nearly 
every office in the kingdom, at the counter of the bank, the 
booking-office, and the shop, the clerk will turn over the 


The Fight againat G&imbmpiimi, Oct. 

leaves of his ledger hj means of frequent applications of hie 
finger to his mouth, and the process may be repeated very 
many times in the same book during the day by different 
persons. If one of them be consumptive the probability of 
infection is not negligible. Many a paroels-office clerk at 
railway stations and many a post-office employ4 loses his 
life through this habit. The high rate of mortality among 
the hundreds of thousands of clerks in this country is 
probably largely duo to it. Some cases among the general 
population may he caused by the custom, which prevails in 
nearly evt'ry baker’s and grocer’s shop, including even those 
which supply royal families, of the assistants handling their 
loaves, biscuits, and cakes without any due precautions, 
espeeiall}' when they arc suffering fi’om a cold or influenza ; 
if the cuslojncr takes his purchases with him, a paper bag is 
detached from its place with moistened fingers, and blown 
open with the mouth. It would be wise, though unpleasant, 
to refuse eatables subjected to such dirty handling. The 
shops for light luncheons and teas, which have grown so 
numerous, accumulate on their floors dust brought in from 
the very unclean pavement outs'de ; much of this dirty 
matter, after being stirred by tUo feet of customers and 
swept up witb brooms several times a day, settles upon the 
goods by the window and on the counter. The combination 
of baker's shop and crowded restaurant is decidedly un- 
hygienic, and in cold weather the windows, clouded and 
steaming with moisture, give an unaiipetising sign of defi- 
cient ventilation. 

These may seem to be trifling details, but from 
insanitary habits far move than from an inclem('nt climate 
the great bulk of disease in modern life is derived, and as 
regards consurapLiou the alteration of a few habits would 
result in the immediate saving of 110,000 lives a year in 
this country. The expulsion of a bacterial malady is not 
a difficult matter, wlieu once the public realises what are 
the proper lines of attack and willingly supports the 
aulhoritios who know exactly how to deal with the haunts 
and strongholds of each particular enemy. The means by 
which cholera infects a population is now so well known 
that the reasonable dread which used to follow its lauding 
on our shores can never be repeated. The plague, a still 
more horrible disease, cannot now successfully overrun a 
well-governed community. Hydrophobia, the worst of all, 
has been entirely extirpated by a few simple regulations. 

1901. The Fight againat Oomumpiion. 451 

which had for a good many years been recommended by 
eanitarians as certain to succeed. 

Leprosy, which has great bacteriological affinity with 
tuberculosis, was dealt with systematically in the ignorant 
Middle Ages by isolation and segregation ; and no better 
means ooold have been devised for its extinction even in our 
own biological era ; deprived of its human pabulum it died 
of starvation. Happily no sneh banishment of the sufferer 
is required in the cose of the tuberculous ; still we have to 
acknowledge that the separation of the sick from the healthy 
is a measure of the greatest importance where the proper 
precautions against infection are not observed. At present 
neglect is general except among educated people, and these 
comprise only a very small fraction of the population, so that 
for some time to come the removal of any one declared to 
be tuberculous from tho midst of susceptible persons, and 
from geuc'ral social interconrso, will be most desimble in the 
interests of all concerned. It is not necessary where careful 
habits may be relied on under medical aupiir vision. Ev(>vy 
encouragement should be given to the patient to present 
himself for examination on the first suspicion, and to llio 
doctor to report maladies of a tuberculous charaeior. 
Comforts and appliances for the outdoor treatment might 
well be supplied along with medical advice. Opportunity 
should be attbrded for the full curative ti*eatment of coii- 
sumi^tives in evoi’y district, sanatoria should bo provided 
round our coasts for scrofulous children, and the liouses in 
which any case has occurred should bo thoroughly dis- 

Leprosy was incurable; tuberculosis, in the majority of 
cases recognised eaidy, is curable. The patient will have 
every reason to notify his condition, and every facility 
should bo given him to promote his own cure and the safety 
of those about him. Not only is the house occupied by a 
consumptive of ordinary habits dangerous to present inmates, 
and to subsequent tenants, but it appears, from observations 
in New York and elsewhere, that neighbourmg houses nro 
very apt to propagate the infection. This may bo due either 
to social intercourse between neighbours or to the shaking 
of mgs, mats, &c., in the sti’eet. Dr. Newsholme, of 
Brighton, who has long been one of the foremost officers of 
heanh to declare the preventibility of phthisis and other 
iafeotions, finds that, as a rule, ‘ the necessary precautions 
* are not taken,’ and has introduced a system of voluntary 
notification. ‘ The patient has always been grateful for the 

452 The Fight against Consumption, Oot. 

* advice given,’ and this seems to be the usual experience 
in other towns, both in England and abroad. But Dr. 
Newsholme and most other distinguished sanitarians re- 
commend, for the future, obligpatory notification as likely tct 
be a far greater protection to the community ; Sir Hermann 
Weber considers that without notification it is impossible to 
carry out satisfactorily the necessary preventive measures. 

In several countries measures of prevention have been 
adopted which will largely reduce the risk of infection, at 
any rate among well-to-do people. Any traveller by the 
Northern Railway of France may notice the excellent 
arrangements on that line for the security of passengers, 
and M. Brouardel states that all the railway companies have 
received instructions from the Minister of Public Works 
calling their attention to the necessary precautions. In 
parts of the United States rules against indiscriminate 
expectoration are in force, and have been well received 
by the public ; hotel-keepers have to notify their reception 
of a consumptive to the municipal authorities, and disinfec- 
tion of the rooms which he has occupied is compulsory ; 
immigrants from other countries are examined at the port 
of entry, and may be turned back if tuberculous. In 
Germany a measure has been brought in requiring notifi- 
cation of pulmonary cases by the attendant doctor, disinfec- 
tion of rooms, and notification by hotel proprietors and 
lessors of furnished houses. In Norway compulsory notifi- 
cation has been in force since January 1, 1901. 

In the capital city of the British Empire nothing what- 
ever has been done against the common diffusion of 
tuberculous dust ; no spittoons are ordered by public 
authority to be placed on crowded railway platforms, in 
places of resort, and in the main streets, where they might 
be attached to every lamp-post, with much advantage ; nor 
are the pavements kept properly clean. Consumption is 
actually increasing in central and northern London. 

Voluntary notification of phthisis has been adopted by 
Manchester, Brighton, Sheffield, Norwich, and Cardiff. 
Excellent rules for cleansing, disinfection, and the instruc- 
tion of patients are in operation in several of these towns. 
The importance of thorough disinfection, if not of rebuild- 
ing, may be realised by an inspection of the excellent maps 
lately brought out, which demonstrate how consumption 
infests not only particular houses, but rows of houses. A 
map of extraoidinary interest, showing its prevalence in 
certain districts of Bath before and its rarity after reconi* 

1901, Th^ Fight agAimt Comumption, 400 

«tniotioD, was exlxibited at the Congress among other Very 
instmctiire diagrams from the same town. 

Consumption is a disease of the house. With a proper 
education in domestic hygiene the housewife will undeti- 
stand her responsibility for allowing it no quarter. Among 
the poorer classes both hygienic education and lore of fresh 
air are wanting. The large percentage of tuberculous disease 
in Wales and Scotland, amid the best surroundings, is due 
to the fear of air in the dwelling. In the high-lying 
cottages^ we are told, it is quite the exception to find a 
window that is capable of being opened. The only open- 
ing is the door, and each room is therefore a eul-de-aac ; 
there is no periodic cleaning, and the furniture of the com- 
bined living and sleeping room remains undisturbed for 
years. It is the women in such conditions who fall victims 
to the disease ; the men, who spend their days in the open, 
are much less affected. 

In foreign countries, where all classes dread open windows 
and insist on stagnant rooms for living and sleeping in, con- 
sumption is much more prevalent than in England, reaching 
a maximum among European capitals in Vienna and in St. 
Petersburg, where double windows closed all the winter are 
the rule, and where the general death rate consequently 
doubles that of London. 

There can be no doubt that sanatoria, to which at any 
rate the poorer victims of the disease may be sent, wiU 
confer a very g^eat benefit upon the sufferers themselves, and 
will enable the local authorities to render the iufectod 
homes from which they come tolerably safe to the remain^* 
ing members of the family and to succeeding occupiers. 
Families are every day moving into quarters which would 
be less dangerous than they are if infested only by cobras 
or wolves. Even the most robust among the inmates of 
virulently contaminated dwellings may succumb. We heard 
recently of the df»ath of a strong healthy man who 
entered as tenant a small office vacated by a consumptive 
of dii^ habits ; also of a doctor, of the strongest con- 
stitution, who was accustomed to pay long visits to a 
consumptive in the last stage. Experiences such as these 
are not uncommon, but lees powerful doses of the bacterial 
poison are sufficient to infect the ailing or predisposed. 
Small, ill-ventilated, and carelessly kept dwellings mav be 
considered generally unsafe ; but first-class hotels we treat 
as above suspicion. Certainly, the standard of cleanliness 
and comfort m hotels has been immensely raised in the lost 
TOi.. oxoiv. so. oooxcTni. a a 


The Fight agam^ 

forty years* Sir Henoaun Web^^ however, teUs oi one in 
the South of Europe in which the room of a supposed oou» 
sumptive was oooupied within six hours of his oepartuzo by' 
two children and a nurse ; and on the south coast of 
England at least we have the strongest reason for statiug 
that cases of the same kind frequently occur. Frobal^y 
there are few hotels or lodging-houses in this country where 
proper rules of disinfection aro in force. In railway cars, 
on steamships with close cabins, and in waiting*rooins at 
stations a constant succession of infected and healthy are 
admitted with no due precautions, although the presence of 
virulent bacilli in such places has been proved by ma^y 
experiments. Some parents do not hesitate to employ coh> 
sumptive nurses ; and Sir Hermann teQs of a case known 
to him in which three of the children became diseased 
within two years of the nurse’s eugagemeut. Very cofo- 
monly a discharged soldier or sailor, er workman, who has 
returned home consumptive, infects some of his fomily, and 
they die before him. 

We must admit that, although in thoroughly hygienic 
houses and in hospitals infection rarely takes place, the 
ordinary way of living among the great majority of the 
population permits diffusion of tuberculosis not only among 
the highly susceptible but even among the refiractory who 
are brought into close association vrith a case. 

From every quarter, and from every authority, we learn 
that cleanliness and ventilation of the dwelling are above all 
necessary for the reduction of the chief bacterial agents of 
disease in populous countries. During the successive epi- 
demics of influenza which, since 1889, have ravaged Eui^pe, 
and killed more eminent men than any plague recorded 
in history, it was proved that persons living in isolated 
situations, and avoiding contact with persons or things 
from infected places, were altogether free from the pest, 
but that a visit to any place of public resort vras sufficient 
to induce an attack. Consequently no precautions were 
sufficient to procure immunity for people who went about 
their usual avocations and were brought into proximity to 
oases. The microbes of influenza are extremely minute and 
subtle, are given off from the person in immense zmmhem 
at an early stage, and to them most constitutions aire sas.^ 
oeptible. Constunplion and the more severe bacterial 
plagues are much more easily disposed of. We may affiKm 
with oertainty that nearly aU the consumption of aeUiltis at 
present existing has been forced as by a hothoase in dihrly. 

1001 ^ Tk« Fight dgokimt CkmmtnjpHmp d&& 

mevarowd&Ui, and attiff j places, md apretuis ihenee to 
Sp 1}etter conditions, fejr habits which onght to 1» ^booed 
pi both disgusting and dangerous. These objectionable 
l^bits will speedilj disappear under the induence of public 
Opinion and through municipal regulation; but the SjS- 
totoatio disinfection of foul apartments, demolition of slum 
4welUngs, prevention of overcrowding, and supply of 
hygienic conditions, among which ventilation, with ample 
provision for fresh air, will always be foremost, must tt^e 
years, and will only gradually have their effect upon pubUo 
health. These means of recuperation are of the utmost 
importance ; they will save annually nearly as many thou- 
sand lives from other diseases as from consumption, will 
greatly heighten the level of general health, both physical 
and mental, and the capacity for work, will serve the cause 
of temperance, and save town populations from rapid 
decline. Very properly we enact penalties against the seller 
of adulterated goods which do damage to health ; with at 
least equal reason those persons, whether owners or tenants 
of unfit habitations, whose dwellings are propagating beds 
for mortal diseases should be warned and punished. The 
worst properties should be confiscated, the worst tenements, 
where occupiers are to blame, should be subject to periodical 
compulsory cleansing. These things are of more consequence 
to the community than false weights and balances, of which 
the London County Council has lately, much to its orodii, 
made a clean sweep. 

Elaborate investigations have shown that clean houses, 
with ventilation, have in their air only a small fraction of 
the number of bacilli contained in the air of dirty houses, 
and that in badly ventilated schools micro-organisms in- 
crease with increase of wall and floor space. Scrubbing of 
an ordinary plank floor fails to reduce them largely, except 
for a short time, and new schools are much less contaminated 
than the older buildings. Similar resnlts would bo found 
in dwelling-rooms and in workshops not subject to frequent 
cleansing. The bulk of the population who do not provide 
for the thorough cleansing of their walls, carpets, and 
furniture would greatly gain by the substitution of smooth 
Burfikoes on walls and floor for the present dust-gathering 
xaatesials. Carpets, curtains, and paper retain for a long 
time infectious mat^r which could not survive on tiles or 
oetneut oocasionally wiped wil^ a damp cloth. The moderate 
degxm of cleanliness which has left no power to typhus to 
esmtinue its once formidable ravages is not sufficient to 

436 The Fight against Conmthptiont. Oot. 

reduce to insignificance the more widespread fungus of 

Much of the prevailing ill-liealtli of towns depends on the 
presence of an immense number of particles of dust, both 
organic and inorganic, in the air breathed. At Montsouris 
Observatory the number of microbes in a cubic metre was 
found to be seventy-five, in the Rue de Bivoli 760, in rooms 
about eight times and in hospitals twelve times os many as 
in the open air. The curves of mortality in different places 
correspond to a great extent with those for the number of . 
microbes. One gramme of dust from rooms contained 
2,100,000 germs. Experiments in London showed very 
large increases whenever the dust of a room or hospital was 
stirred, and the number falling on one square foot per 
minute in the Natural History Museum was raised on Whit 
Monday from 196 to 1,662. In a railway carriage contain- 
ing four persons, with a window partly open, there fell the 
enormous number of 3,120 per minute. In a fuU third- 
class carriage, with windows closed, as they generally are 
in winter, this figure would be greatly exceeded. 

Inorganic dust, which pervades the air of towns to a 
degree which, if put in figures, would seem incredible, he ps 
to render the bacterial attack more potent, and carbonic 
acid gas, also more abundant than in the country, works to 
the same effect. The * stufl&ness ’ of rooms is due to these 
combined ingredients, and to some minute traces of organic 
effluvia. Together they reduce the vitality of the resident 
turban population and are largely concerned in the result, 
most ominous for the British race, that scarcely a man of 
the highest distinction has been born to parents brought up 
in the largest towns, and that London families born and 
bred do not survive beyond the fifth generation. 

The scientific discovery of the open-air cure for consump- 
tion may lead to the still more wide-reaching popular dis- 
covery that fresh air is the primary condition of our preser- 
vation not only from consumption but from a host of deadly 
diseases and distressing ailments. If by the removal of 
windows, and living and sleeping out of doors, consumptives, 
supposed to be so susceptible to cold, gain more than by 
any other freatment, will not the healthy by the same way 
of living rise superior to the attack, and add greatly to their 
capacity of work and enjoyment? What a fund of lost 
wealth lies here within reach ! Clean surfaces, air, tempe- 
rance would abolish half the evils we see around ns, and add 
immeasurably to the vital resources of the Empire. Begin- 

Idol. The Fight agaimi Oonaum^Hon. 4b7 

ning with joung children, mnoh of the tinie lo^t the 
elosing of schools on. account of epidemics would be sared ; 
the children would not be thrown back, as they often are, 
by troublesome sequelm ; the teacher would find his task leas 
wearisome and the intelligence of his pupils not a little 
brighter in proportion to the air admitted. Ventilation in 
schools has already been proved to add to the alertness of 
the children, and even where expensive mechanical appliances 
are necessary must be regarded as a measure of economy. 
Schoolmasters and teachers are at present as a class un- 
healthy, no doubt very largely owing to the vitiation of the 
air in which they perform their trying duties ; their task 
would be greatly lightened by the provision of an ample 
supply of fresh air at the right temperature. 

In office, workshop, or factory the young people employed 
would in course of time attain a much higher degree of well- 
being, and many of those who now suffer from the influences 
of unhealthy or dangerous trades would recover if only 
they insisted on a fair allowance of their birthright — ^tho 
free oxygen of the atmosphere. The majority of indoor 
workers, and of women and children, breathe bad air, a 
devitalised and slightly poisonous compound. In towns 
the ozone which enhances the bracing character of the open 
country is altogether wanting. Considering the immense 
importance of the quality of the blood for building up body 
and brain, we cannot wonder at the disastrous effects of 
town life, which is so largely within doors, upon the race. 
Fi’oducts of this starving and poisoning of the blood may 
take a long time to accumulate up to the point of serious 
disease. But in every crowded street the unchildliko pallid 
faces of the young reproach civilisation, in every crowded 
quarter the death-rate is more than doable what it ought to 
be, and in the central area of the largest towns the popula- 
tion would rapidly die out if not recruited from ihe ever- 
decreasing strength of the country. 

The power of ffiesh air in relation to disease is not even 
now at all generally realised, although Dr. Farkes wrote 
long ago that the complete exposure of patients to air in 
several kinds of severe infections is the most important mode 
of treatment. There are, indeed, few conditions of ill-health 
in which it is not beneficial. But to this day we may in 
travelling notice that the occupants of third-class carriages 
anxiously exclude the outer air, fearing both for sick and 
shhnd ihe inspiration of that element on whose purity we 
depend for our very life. In the poorer parts of Loudon 

458 Tha Fight ctgaingt Conmmptim, Oet. 

windows are rarely seen wide open. In neaii^ aH iK>vuteey 
both in town and eonntrj, serrants^ nnless spedfeilly 
instructed to the contrary, close every window soowi after 
sunset. Colds, headaches, and other ailments comseqnently 

On the other hand people who camp out in roomy tentSj^ 
with due provision for warm clothing, enjoy the best of 
health and are seldom troubled even with a cold. Exasctly 
the same thing occurs with horses ; in badly ventilated 
stables they suffer from coughs, sore throats, congestion of 
the lungs, and various disorders from which they am firee, 
according to Major Fisher and other careful observers, when 
lavishly supplied with air. 

Professor Huxley gave his opinion in 1893 that what is 
called ‘ overwork ’ means in a large proportion of cases under- 
oxygenation and consequent accumulation of waste matter, 
which operates as a poison. Sir J. Sawyer, consulting 
physician to Queen’s Hospital, Birmingham, in corrobora- 
tion of this opinion urges that much chronic invalidism is 
chronic suboxidation, and that one of the worst of wrong 
conditions is work in stale air. ‘ Whenever we doubt about 
‘ our vitality wo should doubt about our ventilation.’ Dr. 
Cheadle reminds us that one-third of our lives is spent in 
our bedrooms, of which the air is poisoned beyond what 
would be tolerated in a sitting-room. Many of the cases of 
nervous disease, and especially, perhaps, of neurasthenia, 
which are now so common, depend to a g^eat extent on want 
of open air and exercise. 

The remedy for this prevailing tendency to ill-health, and 
especially for liability to consumption, is the fullest practicable 
imitation of camp life, without its inconveniences. Hr. 
Harold Coates, under the direction of Professor Del^pine, has 
shown by a series of elaborate investigations on tubercle- 
infected houses that a large cubic space is of little avail if the 
ventilation is bad, and that light and air even in the dirtiest 
houses bring great benefit. Virulent bacilli were found 
abundantly in rooms occupied by phthisical patients, who 
were not careful as regards expectoration. Prom sixteen 
honses thirteen out of thirty- two samples of dust collected 
actually produced tuberculosis in animals. 

Hr. Atibiur Bansome stated at the recent Congress that our 
first duty must be to get rid of that ‘ air sewage ’ which cauaftS 
more mortality than water sewage, and that thbi can only 
be accomplished by copious ventilation. By the Oottou 
Cloth Factories Act, 1898, a bettor standard of ventilatiiim 

| 901 < ’ agtadmi 0(mm^Uen* 41 ^^ 

Mnxi eatabUslrad in these places, with the resnlt of a great 
itatprovement in the health of the operatiTee in weaThaig* 
sheds. Dr. Bansome adrocates the applioatio]]; of the aasi^ 
etamdard to all * work-places/ and regulation of the air 
supplj* of places of public assembly, such as ohnrohes and 
theatree. Some one has observed, with a great deal of 
truth, that the sleep which so easily overcomes a cougre* 
gation during the sermon is due not to sacerdotal hut 
to atmospheric soporifics. Certainly the theatre of the 
BSoyal Institution in Albemarle Street was equal to any 
church in its persuasive drowsiness even during discourses 
of rare interest, and has lost that charm since it has been 
pierced with breathing- holes and Tobin tabes. The fancied 
difficulties of ventilation are much greater than the real, 
because the dread of draughts leads to the reduction of 
Apertures to the smallest dimensions rather than to their 
enlargement. A chink or slightly opened door or window, 
or the space under a door, admits a draught which in cold 
weather may he both unpleasant and pernicious. But out 
of doers, in an open situation, we do not speak of a draught, 
nor do we often suffer from the effects of wind, however 
strong. The difference is owing to the bracing character of 
the pure outer air, to its even distribution, and to warmer 
clotbing. The main preventive of harm from draughts or 
from a cold atmosphere is sufficient clothing, to prevent 
chilling of the sorface of the body. Thus we find that 
consumptives, who may be abnormally subject to coughs and 
colds, bear very well their exposure to air at all sorts of 
temperatures in all sorts of weather, when carefully pro- 
tected from chill. Dr. Childs, in an interesting paper read 
to the Sanitary Institute last spring, observes that few 
people can sit in rooms at a temperature below 50® P. for a 
long time with impunity, unless warmly clothed, and that 
few can endure a current of air greater than 1 foot a second 
with a temperature below 60® P. One of the best practical 
discoveries of the age is the harmlessuess of air, even at the 
lowest temperatures, to the human body well protected. 
There are, of course, exceptions, such as persons just 
recovering from a severe cold or inflaenza, or subject to 
bronchitis. Por ordinary dwelling-rooms Dr. Childs oom- 
mepds, when the outside temperature is below 50" P., widely 
'^jprnted windows properly arranged, warm clothing, and 
hot-water pipes or a good radiating slow-combustion fltef- 
place. The deUghtfnl freshness of a room so ventilated, 
^le absenee of discomfort even to invalids, and the readixmse 
crithtrhioh people become accustomed to such condtiionsi, 


The Mght against CansuvsfUon* Oot* 

are, he dajs, astonishing. In several sanatoria in this 
conntry there are rooms from which the windows have been 
wholly removed, and after a short experience the patients 
seem to enjoy their a I fresco cure as trout enjoy a running 

In the Brompton and Victoria Park Hospitals the 
windows have for a long time been kept wide open by day 
and night. In a large school near Petersfield the windows 
of class and bed rooms are always open, with excellent results. 
Dr. Childs, from prolonged personal observation durixlg 
two cold winters, has been led to emphasise the great 
benefit derived from keeping the windows open, both at the 
bottom and the top. In successful examples of the mode of 
ventilation known as the plenum, the inrushing air should 
rise, spread, and flow swiftly along immediately beneath the 
ceiling until the current dashes against the opposite wall. 
There the current breaks, and very slowly moves back 
towards the outlet, placed near the floor some six to eight 
feet below the inlet. 

The general result of recent researches into the purity or 
impurity of air in day schools and other public buildings, 
with special regard to the question of ventilation, leaves no- 
doubt that mechanical ventilation properly applied gives 
much better effects than any natural ventilation so far tried. 
The evidence from an extensive inquiry made by the National 
Union of Teachers in 1898 fully corroborates the conclusion 
arrived at on the scientific side. F or hospitals the in vigorating 
coolness of air currents through open windows, and the 
refreshing changes of temperature, make the natural pre- 
ferable on the whole to any mechanical ventilation. 

It seems to be important in the case of class rooms to 
maintain a rather high and even temperature, else one would 
suggest that in the smaller schools, especially in the country, 
ail the windows on one side, or even the whole of one wall, 
might be removed, and the children keep themselves warm 
with extra clothing. In other public Wildings, especially 
churches and chapels, there would be great advantage if a 
part of one side or the doorway end were removed altogether, 
leaving only an iron screen or railing for security two or 
three yards within the shelter of a projecting roof. Since 
people attending church are warmly clothed, and hot-water 
or hot-air systems are generally in use, there would be no 
ot^Jeotion to the circulation of air without unpleasant 
draughts, ^nd many thousands of cases of infectious disease, 
from colW and influenza to scarlet ^ver, would thereby W 
prevented. The weekly assemblage for one or two hoeirs in 

IdOl. TJie Fighi against ConmrnpHoiiif 4$i 

a foul atmosphere is very well adapted for the rapid spread 
of several hinds of epidemic through the country, aud^for 
the maintenance of endemics. It is not yet widely realised 
how largely consumption and pneumonia fasten ou the 
condition of bodv which follows influenza, measles, whoopiug- 
co'^h, and scarlet fever. 

ilmilding by-laws have insisted on the provision, among 
many other restrictions at least doubtful, of a height of not 
less than seven or eight feet in dwelling-rooms, and even in 
the country one is now prohibited from building a bedroom 
feet in height. From a hygienic point of view there are 
great advantages in low rooms. They are more easily and 
economically warmed, lighted, and ventilated ; they are 
more easily and quickly cleaned. The stagnant pool of 
heated air in rooms described as ‘ lofty ’ cannot readily be 
replaced by the inflow through widely opened windows, and 
the upper parts of the walls collect dust for long periods 
without disturbance. Economy in building and warming 
is really an important requisite in the provision of 
house accommodation for the industrial classes, and every 
unnecessary by-law increasing expense increases over- 

The problem of the mode of distributing population 
within definite areas, and of the remedy for a density 
which is really calamitous to human developement, has 
become one of the most pressing of our time, and deserves 
the fullest attention of British statesmen. It is serious iu 
all our largest towns, in Liverpool, Manchester, and Glasgow, 
but most serious in London, because of its gigantic magni- 
tude, and of the great distance to which workpeople occupied 
in the central districts must travel to find rooms at a moderate 
rental. Mr. Charles Booth is convinced that facilities of 
locomotion give the best hope of relief to tho present 
congestion . No doubt the easy, cheap, and rapid conveyance 
of * daily-bread ’ workers in all directions wonld do much, 
but we must remember that these people are not house- 
owners, and that easy communications mean more profits 
and higher rents eventually to the landlords of the suburbs. 
The best prospect of a change leading to a relaxation of the 
present disastrous pressure and a return to the more decent 
and humane conditions of existence which still happily 
prevail in our smaller towns lies in the removal of factories 
and bueinesaes of various kinds from urban to country 
districts. The increased health of workpeople, the lower 
rates and expenses, the better light and air, the cheapness 
ef land, will in very many kinds of industry more than 

462 The Piffht agaimi Co>nmm§>{hiu Oel. 

recoup the employer for the disadvantages of a loss eentral 
position. Some of the most prosperous nudertakiOgS} and 
some of the very largest, are already flonrishing aU the more 
since they moved beyond urban limits, and some were 
originally built up in small country towns or villages. The 
best example of successful removal now to be found in 
England is probably the great cocoa and sugar-plum works 
at Bournville, where the most admirable arrangemeats hare 
been made for the comfort of the thousands of employed. 
When the scheme is complete they will he spread over some 
scores of acres of land in excellent detached houses, each 
haring a garden and facing a good open road. 

The better distribution of the people upon the land which 
has home them, and the relief of congestion in cities, will to 
a great extent reduce those bad conditions of living which 
entail a liability to consumption and other scourges of the 
physical frame, and will infallibly favour the growth of the 
nation in strength of intelligence and solidity of character. 

Meanwhile, before the desired clearances and expansions 
can bo accomplished, the most efiBcacious single reform for 
the prevention of physical maladies will be the admission to 
every dwelling of the largest possible inflow from the vital 
atmosphere. The chief objection to overcrowding is the 
offensiveness of bod air. Admit fiesh air freely and con- 
tinually, not, of course, without due precautions, and, from 
the standpoint of hygiene, you at once enlarge your apart- 
ment to spacious dimensions. Let our close-packed millions 
realise this, and they will enter the high road to recovery. 
One- fifth of the amount spent on liquors which are now 
scientifically proved to be neither nutritive nor heat- 
producing to the body would, if spent on economic warming 
apparatus and on fuel for dwellings, produce an excellent 
return. Since the sick are so much helped by mere air, the 
healthy have likewise the power to save themselves from 
falling into the clutches of a malady which, to use the words 
of Sir Edwin Chadwick, will always cling to * stagnation * 
and cannot endure ‘ circulation.’ 

Before the campaign can be undertaken with that hea>ity 
support from public opinion which is the best guarantee for 
swooess, the known facts in their simple impressiveness wUi 
have to be disseminated throughout the kingdom, and 
lucidly explained in their particular bearing upon every 
situation in life. There are few persons of edneaMon who 
cannot dd mneh in their immediate surroundings to (Bsped 
this blight of humanity which has so long oppressed n| 
Under the guise of an inevitable doom. 


Th$ Bcmdvmvitm JToveL 


Aev. X.— rl. JlfitW, Dei forjmltede Lmd, Iknmwn$ Dag^ and 
ptliers. Af HnNBiE PonTOFFiDAifr. Copenhagen. 

&, &ikt» Serlinga Saga, Antihrista Mirakler, Bn fferregarde 
Sisiarie, Drotiningar i Kongahalla. Af SbiiII A LAOEBl.dl'. 

3. Kohbenlangen, Ada Wilde, Fru Beatas Hua, and othera. 
Af Thoicas Keag. Copenhagen. 

4. Suit, Pan, BedaMor Lirtge. Af Knut HAHStrir. Copen- 

6. Katnp. Af P. K. Teanaas. Copenhagen. 

6. Jvliea Bagbog, Maria, and others. Af Petek Nawsbw, 

7. Korset, Bn Prceets Dagbog. Af Siobjoen ObstfbIiI>be. 

8. Dot hvide Hus, and others. Af Heeiian Bang. 

9. Fra en Gamisonshy, and others. Af Sophtis BAtmiTZ. 

10. Professor Hieronymus, and others. Af Amelia Seeamk, 

T EMETSOM and Browning — ^let us say the younger Tenny- 
son and the younger Browning — may serve for examples 
of two types or orders of literature, each perfectly legiti- 
mate, each claiming and, in all ages, to claim its votaries 
(though not in equal numbers), but of such diversity in aim 
and method that the lovers of one order are never wholly 
sympathetic with the adherents of the other. Tennyson’s 
aim is simple and easily understood. It is that which 
would, by the confession of most, be accounted tho chief 
aim of letters and more especially of poetry — the search for 
beauty and the presentation of it. Whether he is concerned 
with some slight fancy, or with the deeper searchings and 
imaginations of the mind, or in rendering in verse a story 
or a legend, Tennyson never fails to try for this mark. 
It is impossible to believe that Browning, the author of 
SEch a poem, for example, as ‘ Popularity,’ and its exquisite 
cadenees : — 

* Enough to f uruish Solomon 

Su^ hangings ibr bia cedar-hoiue, 

That, whan gold-robed he took bis throne 
In that abyss of blue, the Spouse 
Might sWsar bis presenoa ^dione, 

The Scandinavian Sovd. 

46 i 


‘ Most like the centre-spike of gold 

That burns deep in the blae-bell’s womb, 

What time, with ardours manifold, 

The bee goes singing to her groom 
Drunken and overbold ’ — 

it is imx>ossible to believe that the writer of verse sndi as 
ibis was insensible to the beauty of imagery and of sound. 
Yet in the same poem we have lines of an abominable harsh- 
ness and discord : — 

‘ Hobbs hints blue — straight ho turtle eats : 

Nobbs prints blue — claret crowns his cup : 

Nokes outdares Stokes in azure feats,’ — 

and so forth. Wherefore we must assume that discord also 
made up some part of the author’s scheme. 

The truth is that neither harmony nor unharmony in itself, 
neither beauty nor ugliness, is the prime aim of Browning, 
but the presentment of a certain precise conception (con- 
cept, as the metaphysicians say) which he himself has 
acquired, and which he knows to be distinctive and indivi- 
dual i in one word, knows it to be a creation in the proper 
sense of the term. Doubtless with Browning at all times 
no small fantasy and whim appear in the things he has 
made, answering to the character of their author. Ko 
doubt, too, in later days, owing perhaps to the neglect of 
the public and the over-strong fascination of Carlyle, 
Browning was driven back upon himself and became alto- 
gether too fantastic and analytical. Not the less when we 
have passed any while among a company of hie creatures — 
the Cavaliers, the Johannes Agricolas, the Hugues of Saxe- 
Gotha, the Sludges, the St. Praxed Bishops, the Count 
Guidos and Pompilias — and then turn back to the poetry of 
Tennyson and his conceptions, we must feel a certain soft- 
ness and indefiniteness in the latter, as of gold without the 
Stiffening of its alloy. When Browning is not carried 
away by his eccentricities, we can believe that the harsh 
or quaint sounds and images that he interposes are there by 
design, to give a saliency and clearer outline to the more 
important parts, as — in the instance with which we began — 
the lines about Hobbs, Nobbs, Nokes, and Stokes serve well 
enough to express the vulgarity of manufactured verse side 
by side with the reality of poetry. 

‘ . . . That dye of dyes 
Whereof one drop worked miracles, 

And coloured like Astarte’s eyes 
Baw silk the merchant sells.’ 


Tha Scandmwmn Novd. 


The two types of literature, which we have here presented 
In the gnise of two contemporary poets, are in the field of 
fiction represented here and now by the school of Bomanoe 
and the school of Bealism ; and the difference between the 
two schools lies not in the choice of subject — Dickens is a 
romanticist as well as Scott — ^but in the handling of it. 
We are not called upon, either as readers or as critics, to 
decide which is the better art ; only to acknowledge that 
both are legitimate. Allowing for the natural swing of the 
pendulum, if we find one age given almost wholly to 
romanticism, in other words not merely to an ideal, but to 
a somewhat abstracted and typical treatment of life, wo 
must not complain if the best intellect of the succeeding 
age consecrates itself to realism. It would be hardy to 
deny that such is the case now; that the literature of 
Europe which is most in the spirit of the age, dans le moHve- 
mmtf as the French say, is of this realistic kind ; though it 
is possible that by this time the realistic movement has 
nearly spent its force. The French, with that alertness 
they liave in catching a feeling ‘ in the air,’ and an especial 
quickness in giving names to things, have seemed to ap- 
propriate to themselves this tendency, and have invented a 
subdivision thereof, which they have called ‘ naturalism.’ 
Howbeit, the movement, the realistic impetus, is rarely 
found in its simplicity aqd its true power among French 
writers. Its natural soil is much more among the nations 
of Northern Europe than in France. A recent French 
critic — M. Georges Pellissier — has acknowledged no less. 
In his book on ‘ Le Mouvement Litteraire Contemporain,’ 
M. Pellissier contrasts the French realism or naturalism 
with the variety of it which has sprung up among some of 
the peoples of Northern Europe. 

‘ Our* French naturalism,’ he says, ‘ has not the frankness and the 
sincerity which theirs has : we are too conscious in it of system, 
artifice, and rhetoric. Above all, the spirit which animates it is quite 
different from theirs. Our naturalists make their observations ou 
nature and on human life without sympathy ; what they tell us expresses 
much rather irony and contempt. More still, they subordinate, they 
enslave the soul to the body. We are not saying that their work 
neglects the moral side of things : for in some of them, notably in Zola, 
we find a serious preoccupation with social morality. But our French 
naturalism has no concern with, has hardly any conception of, the inner 
life ' (la vie vni4rieure). ' Now, it is precisely this sense of the inner life, 
which among the northern nations is kept alive by a more active tmd 
personal religion, which penetrates further into the consciousness, that 
gives to their naturalism its character and its originality.’ 

^30 JSTovvI. 

It k reassuring to find that Dngland has a 
tdiese ‘ northern nations ’ in M. FelKssier’s ea^lpdMry. 
the example he chooses is George Eliot* wl^ lies far 
fyom contemporary fiction. No doubt, in the vast aaid 
turbulent whirlpool of our latter-dajr novels, most of whioh 
belong, not in truth to the class of literature at all, hat to 
the class of journalism, there are to be found ^a^arsfily 
‘ swimming ’ true realists of the bind which M. PeluBBierk 
description points at, who deserve to be placed side by side 
with the realists of Bussia or of Scandinavia. May they 
not go under ' Not the less, however, it is the writers M 
the two last-named countries whose work possesses power 
enough to counterbalance or to overthrow the conception of 
realism which has obtained in France. The torch passes 
from hand to hand, from nation to nation ; and we would in 
no way minimise what has been done by our next neighbours 
or by schools long past. Tolstoy would have been different 
if it had not been for Flaubert, as Flaubert but for Balzac, 
Balzac but for Bicbardson. But albeit Tolstoy is the 
greatest of Bussian realists, he is not the only one. There 
have been forten ante Agamemnona ; behind Dostoevsky 
stands G6gol. On the other part, Turg4nev, who nearly all 
his literary life lived in the very lap of French influences, 
preserved a national distinctiveness. 

In Scandinavian lands we ha^e one evidence especaally 
remarkable of the force of this time-spirit in its trend 
towards naturalism. English readers all acknowled|TO Ibsen 
as the very apostle of the art, and see in Ibsen’s social 
dramas a sort of minor gospel thereof. They forget, or 
they ignore, that before Ibsen was the playwright of *The 
‘ Doll’s House,’ ‘ The Wild Duck,’ ‘ The Pillars of Society,’ 
* The Enemy of the People,’ and the rest of that company, 
he was a writer of exquisite verse ; they ignore this, even if 
they have read * Brand ’ and ‘ Peer Gynt ’ in English, 
because these works cannot be adequately rendered. Few 
things in literary history are more remarkable than that the 
author of such lines as 

‘ Ennu ikke, ennn ikke ! 

O, hvor langt det er at vente, 

Lsongsels Baab poa Raab at ekikke, 

Aldrig noget svar at bente 1 ’ &c. 

(to take but one of a hundred passages) — that such a |K>et 
should have detibemtely turned his back on poetry to write 
the somewhat twild prose of the social dramas. 

It is with the memory of these things, and from thk point 


<1)1 view, ibM> Wf ratud; regiu^d 4^0 yoaag^ ooutempomrj 
, of SbinsdeiD^ Hfixmkj, ood Denmark Notij of oouree, 

^ those are reahats, nor that Scandinavia has been 
witiboni its romaniio tendencies. There is among her Hying 
<daaric« £>|dm 80 o ae well as Ibsen ; and BJornson has only 
beoome naturalistic in his later days. But as in European 
lettmi Ibsen is by far the greater of the two names — alsuMit 
what Goethe was to Schiller — so among the younger writers 
the tendency still is the same way. To Belgium its 
‘ symbolism ; * the northern peoples are still the apostles of 
^e opposite school. In almost all the writers of Scandi- 
navia wo shall find those characteristics which M. FeHissier 
distinguishes, candour and frankness, and an absence of 
self-consciousness, along with a sense of the inner life, 
different altogether from anything that is to be met with 
further south. 

And, considering the sparsencss of their populations, wc 
find in those Scandinavian countries too a great productive- 
ness — productiveness of real literature. If to the average 
and natural man here or in France, Norway, Sweden, and 
Denmark are represented almost exclusively by the two 
great Norsemen we have named, there has really come 
between Ibsen and Bjoruson, and the novelists who repre- 
sent the immediate movement, a generation of which we do 
not intend to speak in this place, because its best work has 
been long before the world. It is, at all events, well 
known in Germany j are we ignorant thereof, the fault is 
ours. And if we attempted here an appreciation of what 
the writers of this middle time have brought forth, there 
would remain no space to speak of their successors. Wo 
shall put aside Strindberg, by far ilie most important 
Hterary figure of Sweden — the Ibsen of Sweden, as ho has 
been called — ^but a writer of plays much moi’e than a 
novelist ; we shall put a^ide Holger Drachmaun, and aU his 
vast production in poems, stories, and plays. And we shall 
not speak of Drachmann’s contemporary and sometime 
colleague, Jens Peter Jacobsen, partly because Jacobsen is 
more of a poet than' anything else; but also because his 
best work belongs to a time nearly a quarter of a century 
ego* and that be likewise has been much translatied into 
Gsraiaa, and can be studied in that tongue. 

An absence of self-consciousness, a sense of the^ 

these characteristics of Scandinavian fiction might 
seem to oontradlct each other if we did not bear in mind 
that there is a difference between self-consciousness in art 
and oonsoioufmess of oneself as a subject of art. The latte 

468 The Seandmaviati Novd. Ocl. 

element is rather conspicnoos in the Horse and Banish 
novels. By autobiography people who are constituted in a 
particular way attain sometimes a degree of reality whioh 
they never reach again. One of the most convincing novels 
that have appeared in England during the last twenty years, 
' Mark Butherford,’ is a case in point : whether it is really 
autobiographical we of course do not pretend to say. It has 
all the appearance of being so. What is certain is that its 
author never again quite reached the level of that remark- 
able book. It is quite after the type of the best northern 
novels, not unlike Dostoevsky’s ‘ Pauvres Gens ’ in its ruthless 
sincerity ; and like again to Knut Hamsun’s * Hunger,’ * 
of which we shall speak again in its place. 

Howbeit we can hardly place these autobiographic, in ward- 
looking studies in the hrst rank. Tolstoy and Ibsen alike 
have given us a higher standard. The best kind of realism 
in fiction is that which is as impartial in its sympathies as it 
is wide in its comprehension. And among the Scandinavians 
the writer whom we will choose first for a close examination 
fulfils these conditions : this is Henrik Pontoppidan. Pont- 
oppidan has concerned himself with rustic life, but very 
much also with the inner life — the peasant and the man of 
education seen under the excitement of religious and 
political agitations. And the picture which is thus presented 
is very like the rural England of George Eliot’s day — of 
* Adam Bede ’ or ‘ Silas Marner ; ’ sometimes like that of ‘ Felix 
Holt.’ Up to now, the most important of Pontoppidan’s 
works is a sort of trilogy which we may call collectively- 
founding on the last sentence of the concluding volume — the 
‘History of the Promised Land.’ More exactly it is the 
life of Emanuel Hansted, parson, socialist, self-sacrificing 
enthusiast, and, as at last he seems to be, madman. Each 
of the three stories had its individual title, ‘ Soil,’ ‘ The 
Promised Land,’ ‘ Doomsday ; ’ t and judging from internal 
evidence we should bo inclined to doubt w'hether the author, 
when embarking upon the first, had any intention of writing 
the trilogy. Be that as it may, from the first to the second, 

• ‘ Suit.’ We fcliall throughout this article cite the novels mentioned 
by the English translation of the title, giving the proper one in a note, 
and mentioning in every case likewise when there is an English trans- 
lation known to ns. ‘ Salt’ has been translated into English under (he 
title * Hunger.’ ‘ Starvation,’ however, better renders the intenfion of 
the author. There is also a French translation, ‘ La Faim.' 

t ‘ Muld,’ ‘ Det foxjeettede Land,’ ‘ Dommens Dag.’ The first two 
of these have been translated — and very well translated — as 'Emanuel' 
«nd 'The Promised Land ’ (Dent & Co.), 

IdOl. Scwndinaman Novel, 4S$ 

ftova ‘ Mold * to * Dot forjsettide Land^’ he hafl certainly gone 
from strength to strength. 

In reading these books we cannot but be struck with 
the likeness between our Danish kinsmen and ourselves. A 
difference in doctrine between the Anglican and the Lutheran 
churches does not prevent Archdeacon* Tonnesen, to whom 
in the first volume Emanuel Hansted comes a beardless 
curate, from being the very type of the high-and-dry 
parson in England thirty or forty years ago. Tonnesen 
is iir perpetual feud with one-half of the parishioners of 
the united parishes of Veilby and Skibberup. Veilby is in- 
clined to be orthodox : Skibberup is irreclaimably radical. 
At ^st, Emanuel sides with his chief ; gradually he passes 
over to the other camp. But more than that, he grows 
to see the superiority of the peasant type, the children 
of the soil, in their candour and simplicity and unpretend- 
ing sense of duty, over the educated typ® with its artificial 
standards. As the passions always play their part in our 
judgements, the rival claims of the two chisses are typified 
by two women who come much into Emanuel’s life--- 
Bagnhild Tonnesen, proud, reserved, witty, fastidious, hating 
country life and Natur i Adamshoatwme as she calls it (the 
phrase needs no translation), and Hansine JOrgen, a farmer’s 
daughter, passionate and faithful, and, in regard to her 
strongest frelings, almost inarticulate. There is nothing 
finer than the way in which Hansine’s character is im- 
pressed upon one, despite the fact that throughout all the 
three books (even when we meet her after seven or eight 
years of marriage) she still hardly ever speaks. She had 
got into the habit of never speaking while her husband poured 
himself forth, the author tells us in the second volume, and 
not always of paying much attention. Ilore is stiggested 
the terrible truth and the fearful irony of the situation — 
Emanuel thinking, because he has cast off * society,’ tilling 
his own land, encouraging his parishioners to address him 
as * Emanuel ’ simply, and the husband of a peasant wife, 
that he has ceased to be the essentially vocal idealist of 
former days. Of course he has not changed. Everything 
with him is still ‘ theory.’ He has a theory that it shows 

* ‘ Provst.’ The word is generally translated * dean ; ’ as such it is 
fomiliar to us in ‘ Brand.’ The translator of ‘ Muld ’ has left it i n the 
Danish, but in ‘ Det forjccttede Land ’ has changed it into ‘archdeacon,' 
and this much better suits the position of Tdnnesen, as of most ‘ I'rovsts,' 
than would * dean.’ 

voij, oxotv. wo. oooxovin. 1 1 

470 The Scandinavian Novel, Oct. 

want of faith in God to call in a doctor, and his eldest boy 
dies in consequence. Hansine has to watch the tragedy 
coming on in mute inward protest and not less amazement. 
jBnt there is worse in store for her. The death of * Laddie/ 
though it does not in any true sense destroy EtnanuePs faith, 
disturbs his moral balance ; and his coming in contact once 
more with one belonging to his old world in the person of 
Dr. Hassing, who is called in to ^ Laddie ’ at the elerenth 
hour, is fruitful of consequences. For the second occasion 
of Emanuel’s meeting with Hassing brings about a meet- 
ing also with his former acquaintance, his half-flame, 
Ragnhild Tbiinesen, now matured, and more mistress of 
herself than of old, cleverer in talk than heretofore, less 
ready to take offence. Ragnhild and a girl friend come to 
call on Hansine, and the younger utterly fascinates Sigrid, 
the Hansteds’ eldest surviving child. And as Emanuel grows 
more friendly with the ^gentlefolk,’ he more and more loses 
touch with tliC/ peasantry. It happens that great agitations 
are afoot. It is the moment when the franchise has been 
limited, the peasantry in part deprived of their political 
rights, Emanuel is all for action at first; then he wavers; 
and the arch plotter tlirough all these three volumes, the 
true arfi/cA' malorum^ Jens Hansen the weaver, springs a 
mine upon him. On a great public occasion Emanuel gets 
up to speak - he is hissed and no longer cheered. Hansen’s 
speech which follows is one of the cleverest ever put in the 
mouth of a peasant. It manages to raise the discontent to 
a storm. It is not possible to quote the whole, but the 
following is a fragment : — 

* Well, that was a very queer speech we Ve just heard from Emanuel. 

1 stood there pinching my ears, and thinking I couldn’t be liearing 
right; and at last I said to myself: “You're asleep, Jena! You're 
dreaming that you’re listening to our old friend Archdeacon Tdnneaen.” 

‘ “ Hear, hear ! Bravo 1 ” the Skibberup people thundered, 

* This is just how it is, ye see. I can't help thinking of another 
speech Emanuel made ever so many years ago. ... It was the first 
time he spoke to us in our old meeting-house. He sang a different 
song then. . . . Then peasants were the very best sort of folks 
Emanuel knew. Ah, we were that nice and that honest ; it was 
almost too much of a good thing. Well, I dare say a good many of 
you can mind that speech : folks thought a good deal of it then. I 
don’t mind saying that for my part I wasn't near so taken with it : 
and so Emanuel’s speech to-day isn’t ^ so much of a surprise. It’s 
always like that with folks that fill their mouths too full ; they have 
to spit some of it out again. Well then, there was what Ettianud 
said of our being «o taken with ourselves, and cvexything hed gone 
wrong because of it. We ought to leam of the good people df the 

The Seandimvim JS'ovd. 


tii)Wna, ho said, aad then ihe Almighty would be sure to give ns what 
ira adced for. . . . Oh, no. IVe not much faith in that . . .’ * 

At this sanie meeting Hausine has met once more aa old 
fitiend of her girlhood, Ane by name, now married and living 
some way off in a poor fishing villa^. Hansine has long 
foreseen the necessity of a separation, that her knsbaad 
may return to his old associates, and her children enjoy 
their natural rights of education. She privately makes 
her arrangements to live with Ane, and theu she takes 
it in hand to persuade Emanuel to go back to Copen- 
hagen, to his father’s house, ‘ on a visit.’ By birth, it 
may be said, Hansted belongs to the upper ranks of the 
educated class, and has a brother in the Guards. The 
husband is not hard to persuade. And the book, the 
second of the trilogy, closes with the picture of the father 
and children driving off in high glee : Ilansixie, with the 
surety in her heart that the parting is eternal, walking up 
a little mound to see them pass oat of sight. ‘ Wave, 

* children, wave,’ the father cries out ; and presently, ‘ But 
‘ why does she not wave back ; why doesn’t mamma wave 

* back P ’ It is a simple and splendid tragedy ; and here, to 
onr thinking, the tale should have had an ending. 

A comparison suggests itself between this story and the 
plot of Mr. Bernard Shaw’s clever play ^Candida.’ But 
the advantage is all with Pontoppidau. No doubt the novel 
form better lends itself to dis2>lay the subtle! ies of characU^r 
than that of the play ; for all that, side by side w ith the 
drawing of Emanuel Hansted, Mr. Shaw’s socialist parson is 
clumsy and a caricature. 

This is not saying that Pontoppidan does not commit 
many artistic blunders. Oxie of them is that he associates 
the plot of each of the three volumes of his trilogy with a 
separate agitation and with a distinct public meeting. In 
the first volume it is merely the agitation of the Skibberup 
people against their minister. lu the second volume it is 
a wider agitation against the new electoral laws. In the thu-d 
volume (‘ Doomsday ’) the meeting is yet more important in 
the estimation of the persons concerned in it, and it looms 
on the horizon throughout all the story. This time it is a 
r^igious question that is to the fore. A broad-church 
party^ has sprung up, armed with the results of German 
criticism on the question of eternal damnation ; some of the 
party’s leaders (the antitype to onr ‘ Essayists and. 

* ‘ Tlie Premised Land,’ translated by Mrs. Edgar Lucas, 
pp. 259-60. 

472 The Scandmavian Novel. Ocfo 

‘ Reviewers ’) have been deprived of their cures. The whole 
country is in a ferment ; and^ when the meeting to consider 
the position of the church and of religious teaching to-day 
does take place, a Liberal Minister of Education is among 
the auditory. In this last volume we find Emanuel returned* 
after some years’ stay in the capital, to the neighbourhood 
of his former cure. There has been, we gather (and this 
seems altogether inexplicable and improbable, as Emanuel 
is a worthy, married man), something very like love-passages 
between the idealist and Ragnhild, who once more appears 
upon the scene. Hansine has quite left it, and it is 
Emanuel’s widowed sister Betty who is now seen taking 
care of him and his children. 

In company with Miss Tonnesen is a middle-aged town 
clergyman, Petersen, a perfect type of the parson of the 
world, plausible, witty, and on occasion wise also. If 
Petersen’s remark to Ragnhild in one place, it propoa of 
Emanuel, smacks too much of profanity even for this 
Jesuit-abb6 type — ‘ I sometimes wonder whether, if our Lord 
^ could have foreseen the effect of His teaching on unbalanced 
‘ minds, He would not have been inclined to abide in heaven 
* a while longer ’ — one must own that his comments on the 
purpose of the meeting on ‘Eternal Damnation’ lack 
neither wit nor sense. 

‘ Heaven grant,’ said Petersen, ‘ that they will settle the question 
rightly. For we have only now had occasion to find out what fearful 
results may come from the smallest oversight in matters of this kind. 
YouVe probably read Pastor Magenson’s epoch-making work on “ Hell 
and Eternal Punishment I ” Think of the fact that we Chnstiaua have 
gone nintteen hundred years in fear of eternal punishment if we lose 
God’s favour. The doctrine on the terrors of the judgment day has 
weighed upon mankind like a nightmare. Now comes our esteemed 
Magenson, or this or that German professor, and shows us as clearly 
as that two and two make four that the whole thing rests upon a 
mistake, a shortened transcript of a word in the original text, or some 
most unlucky error of the translator, which now for the very first 
time has come under notice. Isn’t it frightful ? The old hermit of a 
transcriber was sitting there and working, sweating over it like a 
labouring man, not missing an iota till he came to that fatal word. 
Suddenly, once in a way, he gets careless. He was disturbed 
perhaps. A friend came in to ask how he did ; or a fly settled on hia 
nose, and — piff I — the fatal word got onto the paper. . . ♦ 

But the end of the story is too awful. Our author stand« 
by, with an almost Mephistophelian irony, while Bmanue] 
rises to a saint-like enthusiasm, and then seems to topph 

* Dommens Dag, pp. 56-7. 

The Scandifta/vian Novel* 


^rer into insanity, and finally dies. Artistically, too, there 
is the defect that this reading of Emanuers character is too 
pnggestiye of * Brand ; ’ and then, again, that the positiory. 
of the wife in this last part is never explained — why Uansine 
stands so utterly aside — why the thought of her children 
did not move her. The proofs that the elder girl Sigrid has 
never forgotten her mother are infinitely touching. Of all 
among lifers greater ironies which are crowded into this 
tale, not the least, surely, is this — that this peasant revolt, 
which attracts the sympathies of Emanuel, as of Hansine 
and the Jorgens and so many honest folk, should have been 
chiefly architected by the veritable Uriah Heap of the story 
(but a much subtler study than Uriah), the weaver Hansen. 

It might have been thought that instead of casting our 
thoughts back to George Eliot, and drawing any parallel 
between her work and these novels of Pontoppidan, we 
could have found a nearer comparison with Mrs. Humphry 
Ward’s ^ Robert Elsmere ’ and its successors. Outwardly, 
x>t course, there is considerable resemblance between Robert 
Elsmere in his northern parish and Emanuel Hansted 
among the Veilby and Skibberup folk. But in our judge- 
ment the comparison, if carried further, could only be 
invidious. It could serve no purpose but to show the differ- 
ence between creation and construction^ between the work of 
the imagination and the work of the intellect ; finally, 
between the candour and frankness of the Dane and tJm 
self-consciousness (an unconscious self-consciousness, if we 
may use the paradox) and the instinct of a listening public 
which marks the work of the English novelist. On th(^ 
other hand, the likeness between Pontoppidan’s novels and 
the Russian fiction is very great. It does not stand so far 
behind Tolstoy; it is quite worthy to be compared to 
Turgenev’s ‘Fathers and Sons.’ 

In Sweden the movement towards realism has been far 
less strong than in Norway or Denmark. Naturally this 
country, whose language is different from the Norse, and 
which possesses a literary tradition of its own — not a highly 
distinguished one, it is true ; the names of Tegner and 
Frederika Bremer almost sum it up, so far as the rest of 
Europe is concerned— has been less influenced by Ibsen 
than the neighbouring countries have been. Strindberg is 
Di^n called the Ibsen of Sweden ; if Ibsenism were identical 
with pessimism, we might say that he had surpassed the 
tradition he received. But, in truth, Strindberg has kept 
to no particular line of literature, as he has never adhered 
to one set of opinions. He has tried everything and quite 


The Scandinavian Novell 

mastered nothing. Still, he is the most conspionons writer 
over there. Von Heidenstamm, who perhaps holds the 
place next to Strindberg, is a writer of historical romaiKies> 
often of a rather antiquated pattern. Selma Lagerldf is a 
better representative of Sweden^s literary achievement at 
the present time. She is about the same age as Von Heiden-* 
stamm, that is to say, is in the early forties, was originally a 
schoolmistress; and her first essay in letters — up to the 
present her best — was not produced more than ten years 
ago at the most. This is the well-known ‘ Gosta Berlings 
Saga/* a book remarkable in almost every respect, not 
the least so for the writer’s independence on any speeial 
tradition or literary movement. Selma Lagerlof’s method 
of workmanship, if modelled on anything, seems to be 
remotely derived from the old Icelandic saga ; though it is, 
of course, impossible that a woman in the nineteenth century 
should more than recall with a faint and far-off echo the 
special and splendid beauties of that classic literature. In 
i'ldkcn Lagerloi’s narrative style there is a certain feeble- 
ness and sentimentality quite unlike that model. But in 
some other respects her works do resemble the classic saga; 
most in their episodical arrangement and fragmentary 
narrative ; in being at once biographical, encomiastic, and 
yet brutally veracious. This is true especially of ‘ Gosta 
Berling/ Berling, the central figure in this series of sagas, 
episodes, or sketches, is a disfrocked drunken priest in a 
corner of Sweden- the VSrmland — during the earlier years 
of the last century (e^rc. 1820). Berling’s offences must 
have been flagrant ; for the people of the book all do pretty 
much wliat is right in their own eyes. On the other hand 
he is beautiful to look at, a poet, gejierous and strong at 
times, much beloved of women. The whole book forms a 
broken picture, not specially edifying, of drunkenness and 
intrigue, mingled with generosity and sometimes with a 
passionate fidelity. Just such pictures, bitten in in sharper 
lines, do we get of the Icelandic heroes from Broadfirth or 
Waterdale, In modern literature there are few things 
which take so sharp a hold of the imagination and memory 
as the story of Berling putting his hand into the fire for 
fear the young Countess Dohna should be compelled to ki#s 
it ; of Anna Stjamhok and her sudden violent passion for 
Gosta; Marianne Sinclair’s night in the snow; the Count- 

* Translated under this name by L. Tudeer (Chapman & Hall), 
and again ‘ The Story of Gusta Berling/ by Pauline B^croft Tlaoli 
(Gay & Bird). 


Thie Smndinavim NoveL 


efis’a nigbt journey to stop Giista^s marriage ; and of her 
aeeape^ and how she appears at last as Gosta’s wife ; or, for 
a qaaimt episode outside the history of Berling himself^ ol 
Ijilliecrone^s return home ; again, the whole picture of the 
knights of Ekkeby, who are a body of gentlemen -pensioners 
to Major Samzelins and his wife ; lastly, the account of 
these two, the wife, more especially, Margareta Cehing, and 
her death. 

In the course of creating these pictures the author formed 
her style. And she immediately began to apply it to quite 
a different type of story from one which recalls the saga 
age. With courage and self-denial which deserve all praise, 
l^lma Lagerlof refrained from making capital out of her 
success with ‘ Gosta Berling * by continuing on the same 
lines. She changed her scene utterly ; now it lay in a 
walled town under the shadow of Etna. The hero hero is 
fiaetano Alagona, the last of an old house that had been 
known for centuries in Diamante. Round him is grouped a 
quaint and varied assemblage of personages further con- 
nected together by a flimsy and too fantastic piece of 
legendary, which yet gives its title to the whole- *Tlie 
Miracles of Antichrist.’^ This legend hangs upon the 
stealing of a miracle-working imago of Christ, the hubstiln- 
tion therefor of a tinsel imitation which is also miraclo- 
working. The miracles of the Antichrist are supposed to 
be purely material ones ; and Selma Lagerlof coiiliises hot 
plot still further by making this Antichrist the symbol of 
Socialism as opi>osed to Christianity. The st}le of narra- 
tive has here, straying still farther away from that of the 
ancient saga, in many places degenerated to a sort ot 
childishness which approaches that of the fairy or folk tale 
(Eveniyr), suitable enough for that — clnrmiug, for inHtjnee, 
in the mouth of Dans Christian Andersen ; not by any 
means wholly suitable or cliarming in a story written for 
and of grown people. That, however, the author can rise 
to something much higher is shown in the introductory 
chapter to ‘ The Miracles of Antichrist/ where it is told how 
Augustus had gone out to ask the will of the gods whether 
or no a temple might be built in his honour. Surely it is 
no common thing to find a writer — not to say that she is a 
woman likewise — who can be so much at homo alike in a 
northern tale and in a sacred or a classical scene ; ~ 

^ On the way the Emperor chatted gaily with hia retainei a, and none 

^ ‘ Antikriftta Mirakler/ transUted under the above name by P. B. 
Plaoh (Gay & Bird^. 


The {Scandinavian Noveh 


of them noticed the infinite silence and calm of the night It waa only 
on reaching the open space at the top of the Capitol, which had been 
thought of for the now temple, that it was revealed to them that some- 
thing unusual was occurring. . . 

What they behold there is the Sibyl (Hhcy had never 
* seen anything so old, so weather-beaten, and so gigantic^) 
gazing out into the blackness as if something in it were 
visible to her : — 

‘ They urged Augustus to hasten, and said that the old Sibyl had 
probably come out of her cave to greet his genius. 

* But the truth is, the Sibyl, engrossed in a vision, did not even know 
that Augustus hjid come to the Capitol. . , . 

^ She did rot know that people were raising an altar, lighting 
charcoal, strewing incense, and that the Emperor was taking one of the 
doves out of its cage to make a sacrifice to her. . . J 

The vision which she sees is the Nativity ; first the shep- 
herds on their downs, then the choir of angels : — 

‘ Could they know that the Sibyl still thought she was standing by 
the shepherds’ fire, and that she was now listening to a faint sound 
that came 'vibrating through the dead silence of the night ? She had 
heard it a long time before she noticed that it came from the sky and 
not from the earth. . . J 

And so onward till the star flames over Bethlehem : — 

*At the moment when the star flamed out over the mountain- 
village all nature awoke, and the men who stood on the Capitol wore 
conscious of it. They felt Iresh but caressing breezes : sweet perfumes 
streamed up about "them. . * . And out of the sky the two doves ’ 
[which had before escaped into the blackness] ‘ flew circling down and 
lighted on the Emperor’s shoulders. 

‘ When the miracle took place, Augustus rose up with proud joy, 
but his friends and his slaves fell on their knees. Hail, Ccesar ! they 
cried ; “ your genius ha.« answered you ! You are the god who shall 
be worshipped on the summit of the Cax)itol.” ’ 

In one of Selma Lagerlofs latest writings, ‘The Queens 
in KungehSlla, * f we have another passage as fine, or finer 
still; it is the description of a Eoman merchant galley 
entering a northern fjord : — 

‘ During these preparations the sea became narrower and narrower, 
and the sailors discovered that they were entering the mouth of a 
river. The water was fresh, and there was land on both sides. The 
trireme glided slowly onwards up the sparkling river. . . , On both 

♦ Miracles of Antichrist, pp, 2-7. 

t ‘ Drottningar i Kungah&lla.’ This has been translated in a volume 
containing also the tran^tion of ‘ Bn Herreg&rds-Historie ' — * From a 
Swedish Homestead,* by Jessie Brdchner. (Heinemann.) 

1901 . 

The Beathdintwian Sf(mh 4 ? 7 

ttides of the river primeval forests, high atxd thick, met their view. 
Pine-trees grew right to the water's edge* The river in its eternal 
course had washed away the earth from the roots* and the hearts of the 
seamen were moved with solemn awe at the sight, not only of these 
venerable trees, but even more by that of the naked roots, which 
resembled the mighty limbs of a giant. 

* There was no doubt something awe-inspiring in all this, but it was 
also elevating to see nature in all its power before man had yet 
interfered with its dominion. It was not long before one of the sailors 
began to sing a hymn to the God of the Forest, and involuntarily the 
whole crew joined in. They had quite given up all tlmugnt of 
meeting human beings in this forest- world. Their hearts were filled 
with pious thoughts : they thought of the forest-god and his nymphs. 
They said to themselves that when Pan was driven from the woods of 
Hellas, he must have taken refuge here in the far north. Willi pious 
songs they entered his kingdom. 

* Every time there was a pause in the song they heard a gentle 
music from the forest. The tops of the fir-trees, vibrating in the 
noonday heat, sang and played. The sailors often discontinued their 
song in order to listen if Pan were not playing upon his flute* 

* Then, all of a sudden, at the outlet of one of the tracks, there stood 
an elk, a royal deer with broad forehead and a forest of antlers on its 
horns. . . . Behind the broad horns one could now discern more 
distinctly something light and white. They wondered if the oik 
carried on its back a harvest of wild roses. 

* The crew gently plied their oars. The trireme drew nearer to the 
animal, which gradually moved towards tlie edge of the reeds. . . , 
Behind the horns one could now distinctly see the face of a maiden, 
surrounded by fair hair. The elk carried on its back one of those 
nymphs whom they had been 'expectantly awaiting, and who they 
felt sure would be found in this primeval world, 

‘ A holy enthusiasm filled the men on the trireme. One of them 
who hailed from Sicily remembered a song which he had heard in his 
youth when he played on the flowery plains around Syracuse. He 
began to sing softly : — 

‘ “ Nymph, amongst flowers born, Arethusa by name, 

Thou who in sheltered wood wandcr'st white like the moon.'* 

And when the weather-beaten men understood the words they tried 
to subdue the stoirn-like roar in their voices in order to sing; — 

‘ ** Nymph, amongst flowers born, Arethusa by name,” 

They steered the ship nearer and nearer the reeds. They did not 
heed that it bad already once or twice touched the bottom.' * 

The nearest approach to the romantic style of Selma 
Lagerlof which is to be met with in the other Scandinavian 
-countries is in the work of the Norseman, Thomas Krag, 

^ From a Swedish Homestead, pp. 145-9. 

478 The SeamMmmam N^vd^ Oei* 

like the Swedish authoress, began hia wo^ in the 
last decade of the nineteenth century. He seems to have 
shared with her the good luck— if it is good lock — that his 
('arlicst productions were welcomed with a great deal of 
oiithnsiasm. In this country he has attracted the syinpa* 
Ihetic notice of a graceful critic, Mr. Edmund Gosse. 
Krag has considerable charm of style, not comparable with 
Froken Lagerlbf’s when she is at her best, but never 
childish, digniBed and equable. For all thatt, we must 
confess that the praises that have been lavished on the 
Norse romancer seem to us excessive. One among Hrag^s 
drawbacks is his monotony in the choice of subject and in 
his method of dealing with it. As ho is a romanticist, we 
have, perhaps, no right to complain that he generally con- 
fines himself to the straightforward narrative with little 
dmmalic aid. Occasionally the speeches of one character 
or another are reported ; there is very rarely what can be 
called true dialogue. In the concluding portion of ^Ada 
Wilde/ Krag’s test novel, perhaps, up till now, we get a 
certain amount of dramatic dialogue. But the author 
might at least aim at giving his personages some vivid 
traits of interest. He never seems to do so. Following the 
example of Bjornson in that inaster^s ^Heritage of the 
Kurls,^ * but by all appearance very indolently, Krag, 
through the first fifty or sixty pages of his novels, is 
accustomed to treat us to the past history of a family 
stretching back a couple of hundred years or so. Thus ‘ Ada 
Wilde ^ opens with tlie account of a man who seems to have 
liad no other characteristic than that he lived in a boat. 
This and the fact that ho generally walked abroad at night — 
in doing so he once scared a countryman — arc all we Icam 
touching the founder of the house oi Wilde. People said^ 
of course, that he must have committed a crime ; but for 
all that we know he may have been as blameless as the 
Ethiopians or Mr. Peggotty. Not more exciting and 
scarcely more enlightening is what we are told of the 
earliest Grobens in ‘ The Brazen Serpent,’ f or the history 
of the construction — the material building — of ‘Dame 
Beata’s House ; ’ I though it is only fair to add, we have 
always the chance of encountering graceful touches, little 

* ‘ Def iiager i Byen og paa Havnen’ — ‘ The Heritage of the Kurts,’ 
translated by C, Fairfax. (Heinemsnn.) 

t Kobbetelangen. % Fru Beatas Hus. 

The 8em^«m<m Nmd, 



mpretentions jewels of stifle each as this, wMcli is from 
tlie last book of the three : — 

* Of tbe folk I tell of here I can talk freely, for no one knowa thetn 
; they are long aince dead. 1 xnyaelf had almost forgotten them 
till 1 came to the place which was once theirs. When I went into the 
plantation hard by, all uncared for now, and saw the walls to which 
many years’ suns had given a golden tint, then the faded beauty 
of the little wood and all the sights of that autumn day and the sunken 
house compelled my mind to memory and to dreaming.* 

Of all the difiPerent houses commemorated in the various 
novels the family history follows the same course — lines of 
degeneracy they would be for Nietzsche — from wild fore- 
bears to humane and not too energetic contemporaries, men 
irhjovcLoi Kal fii) irovr^poi after the Aristophanes pattern, rich 
at least by comparison with their neighbours. Again, if 
Herr Krag^s narrative seems fond of suckling fools, it is still 
more so of chronicling small beer. This, for example, is the 
summary of the first third portion or more of ‘ Ada WUde/ 

Sakarias Wilde, the last male of his house, loses his 
wife in the second year of their marriage, and is inconsol- 
able. In time he becomes an enthusiastic Nimrod, and wo 
have some slight picture of his two cronies, Captain Kruse 
and Commander Bog. At first, Sakarias can hardly bear to 
see the child who has destroyed his happiness ; later, he 
grows devoted to Ada, She herself is a light-hearted 
girl, unknowing love until her twentieth year, when she 
meets her fate at a concert. She falls head over ears in 
love with Lieutenant Carsteii Stahl. There are some 
whisperings afloat that Stahl is dissipated — ^ not a marrying 
^ man/ and so forth. But Wilde turns a deaf ear to them. 
Ada, for one thing, is an excellent match —charming to 
boot ; we are told so, without precisely discovering for our- 
selves. The couple are engaged ; the marriage follows, and 
is described with great detail. We have now got through 
one-third of the book, and nothing comes to the surface 
except la triple hanalitc^ as Brunetifere said, describing 
Ohnet^s work, The tale goes on further without startling 
change. Gradually the selfishness of Carsten comes more 
and mm'e to the front. He cannot stand his baby^s screams, 
goes back more and more to his bachelor friends, and so 
forth. By the beginning of the second part, on the 173rd 
page (out of 325), we have got the young couple settled at 

* Fru Beataa Htis, p. 23. 

480 The Scandinavian Novel* Oct# 

a now place, Sandby — Christiansand, it is said, in real life. 
Here certainly the narrative begins to improve. We have 
more character-sketching, and even, as was noticed above* 
some dialogue, as in the ordinary novel. The members of 
the club —the ^ Pleiads ^ — are rather well given. Now the 
story progresses too rapidly towards its tragic, or at least 
pathetic end. Ada meets again at Sandby an old school 
friend now married — Margrethe Lyders, a plump blonde 
with a dried-up husband. The two families — the Stahls 
and the Lyders — become intimate, with the result that an 
intrigue is soon entered into between Carsten and Margrethe. 
When Ada discovers the letters which have passed between 
the guilty pair, she follows the French proverb, ^ Le bruit 
‘ est pour le fat, la plainte est pour le sot,’ and ^ trompde 
* elle s’^loigne.’ She goes back to her father’s house. In 
truth, the ending lacks not of dignity or pathos. 

In the general run of such stories as we have read of 
Thomas Krag it is rarely the tale itself, the main stream of 
the narrative, that offers matter of interest. The nearest 
approach to a striking personality that we have met with in 
Krag’s stories is the Jew doctor in ‘The Brazen Serpent.’ 
But he is a suggestion, not a creation. The charm of 
Krag’s books lies in a certain atmosphere, a sense of the 
wood and of the vidder — the open table-land in higher 
regions — and sometimes, though we should judge that the 
author is no traveller, of the sea. Certainly the oncoming 
of the storm in ‘ The Brazen Serpent,’ the phosphorescent 
light that runs over the mast, these things are fine; and, 
in ‘ Dame Beata’s House,’ Eiemanii’s night upon the vidder^ 
the cries of tlie foxes, the corpse he finds, have an effective- 
ness. Where human beings intervene in such scenes they 
are generally rather futile — the blind man who can smell 
the coming storm — all the gipsy gang in ‘ Fru Beata ; ’ they 
give one an idea that the author has had a half- vision of 
something striking, and thereafter either lacked imagination 
enough or was too lazy to pursue its traces. 

That Krag might have given us this charm of the 
country and not have left out so many others of the duties 
of a novelist is evidenced by a comparison between him and 
a writer of quite a different school, Knut Hamsun. We do 
not say that Hamsun’s ‘ Pan ’ rises quite to a level with 
‘Ada Wilde’ or ‘The Brazen Serpent’ in those merits 
which constitute Krag’a special gifts, his quasi-mythological 
sense of nature and the mournful cadences of his style. In 
other respects Hamsun (who is a Dane) is the superior of 


The Scandinavian Novel, 


the Korseman. The story of ^Pan’ is nothing, but the 
characters are much. It is a psychological study of a 
peculiar kind. Lieutenant Thomas Glahu has settled him* 
self in Norway, within the borders of a wood, and rignt 
above a little town on a §ord. He lives in his cottage 
alone, surrounded by the sense and sounds of nature, does 
everything for himself, spends his days in shooting, and 
has for only companion a dog, * whom I shot afterwai*as,’ he 
incidentally says. He is compounded of poetry and wild- 
ness, almost savagery, most like those forebears of Krag’s 
personages, those whom he does not tell us about, except 
only a few commonplace facts. 

* From my hut,’ says Glahn, ‘ I could see a jumble of islands, large 
and small, of rocks, a little of the sea, a few blue peaks ; and then 
behind the hut lay the forest — a monstrous forest. I felt full of joy 
and thankfulness in the smell of roots and leaves, in the fat juice of 
rotting leaves which reminds one of the smell of marrow. Uore, in 
the forest all my feelings came to rest, my soul was equable and full of 
power. Day after day I went along the wood-paths with JEsop at 
my side, and I desired nothing more than to still go on, day after day ; 
for all that there lay snow and soft slush upon the open land, j^ilsop 
was my only companion ; now I have Cora ; but at that time I had 
iEsop, my dog, whom I shot afterwards.’ 

But soon the threads of modern life begin to weave 
themselves about this solitary. He makes acquaintance in 
the town below, most eventfully with the chief dealer or 
merchant and richest man of the place, Herr Mack. Mack 
is a widower, outwardly respectable, with clandestine love- 
affairs ; and his daughter, Edvarda, is left free to do very much 
as she likes. One of her fancies is to affect to he a child 
and dress as one, while she is in reality a grown woman. 
She soon captivates the Lieutenant, and the story drags on 
— judged by our English standards — in an inconsequent 
fashion to an inconsequent conclusion. For, whether Glahn 
really was in love with Edvarda we do not know, jior how 
far she was in love with him. Not the less is ^Pan^ an 
excellent piece of workmanship. Without effort, and 
simply through what Glahn reports in his diary, of folks' 
sayings and doings, we get a vivid picture of Edvarda and an 
adequate one of the other characters in the drama. The 
heroine is certainly first cousin to some of Ibsen's heroines — 
to Hedda Gabler, for instance ; but she is no mere copy.. 
She is as little restrained as these women of Ibsen are by 
moral considerations ; and yet she is curiously modern iti 
showing everywhere the restraints of civilisation ahd tb^ 

482 TliS Scandmavian No^eL Oet* 

want of the power to a passion — to use Miltoa^s phrasot 
The meeting of this modern self-consciousness with the 
wild impulses of the Woodman is the essence of the story ; 
but there are side touches, and in especial the pathetic 
incident of the love and death of Eva, the blaelteniith's 

Hamsun, although he is a Dane, must be reckoned to 
belong to the school of novelists which is known under the 
name of the Young Norse Party, for he spent some years in 
Christiania, and this residence is commemorated in another 
novel, his best-known one, ^ Suit/ ^ Starvation ^ or ' Hunger* 
(it has been translated into both French and English), which 
begins with a pathetic sentence, ‘ It was in the days when I 
‘ wandered about and starved in Christiania. • . •* The 
Norse and Danish literature does not as a rule show traces 
of much reading in foreign tongues. In the matter of 
quotations it is as like as not to be English that figures. 
Herman Bang prefixes lo his charming sketch ‘ The White 
House * a verso which may be a quotation slightly altered, 
or the offspring of his own muse : — 

‘ King foi me the songs 
Which you sang long ago, 

Long, long ago ! ’ 

And Thor Lange in a little tale, ^The Scholar,* misquotes 
Tennyson thus : — 

*■ Break, break, break 
Ou the cold grey stones, O sea.’ 

Howbeit the Young Norse Partj^ who are no longer very 
young, aie supposed to be terribly French, and to want to 
acclimatise in Scandinavia all the French tricks of litera- 
ture, including the more pedantic kind of French naturalism. 
At present they have not gone very far. The most advanced 
in one respect — that is, in the direction of the improprieties 
— is Peter Nansen, whose ^ Maria * is in sooth quite the sort 
of book which might figure on a boulevard bookstall ; in 
irreligion Knut Hamsun bears the bell ; other writers of the 
school are Sigbjorn Obstfelder and Helge Rode— this last is 
a playwright rather than a novelist.* The characteristic 
writings of this group are love-stories which do not seem to 
contemplate marriage as part of their plan ; but in other 
respects they are usually not offensive — ‘ Maria * excepted 

* One of ftode’s best plays, very like in sentiment to the stories we 
are ebout to cite, i$ * I^aseu gaar ’ The Dance goes on/) 


The 8candintimm iihml* 


perhaps. Another novel of Peter Nansen^e, ^ J nlia^s Diary^^ * 
Is really in essentials very innocent and charming. Julia, 
who is evidently quite a young girl, half engaged to an 
old childhood friend, Erik, is utterly captivated by a Danish 
actor, Alfred Morch by name, whom she loves too well. 
The story is a study much of the pattern of the ^Lov© 
tiCtters of an Englishwoman,’ about which there has been 
so much talk here, neither better nor worse than that. In 
other words, it well enough suggests a passion, but does not 
sound any wonderful and hidden depths of human nature. 
Like its English antitype, it runs on to a foreseen catastrophe, 
but, more wisely than it, does not make thereof a mortal 
tragedy. Alfred is essentially a virtuoso lover (one does not 
like to continue to use the hackneyed ^ aBsthete ’), who not 
so much tires of his mistress as of any bond of constancy. 
When she writes to upbraid him, he says she cannot under- 
stand his nature ; but when, more desperate still, she 
humbles herself in the dust, and will be content to share his 
love with another, if that is the only condition of not losing 
it, he is sliocked. Her letter is a ^ vandalism,’ the greatest 
pain he has ever suffered, which he can only try and forget. 
There is a real pathos in the passage where Julia makes 
this surrender of her pride. And in the following, which 
comes a little earlier, when she has first received her dis- 
missal, the likeness between her writing (making allowance 
for the fiiot that J ulia is clearly the younger) and the writing 
of the Englishwoman of the * Letters ’ is noticeable : — 

* A day lias gone, a night has gone. A new day has come. It was 
yesterday it hap[»ened : and still I am alive. 

‘ So grief does not kill one. 1 shall not die of grief. 

‘ When 1 got his letter and had read it twice over before I under- 
stood that it wfia not a joke, or a niisiinderstanding of mine, I didn’t 
cry nor* faint. “ So it is over,” I said out loud. My voice sounded 
dry, almost indifferent. I thought, You might at least have said it 
with more feeling.” But there was no strong feeling in me. Every- 
thing in me had grown rigid. My heart seemed to stop beating, and 
my mind to cease feeling. Even my face, I thought, had stiffened, and 
the akin seemed to tighten. I passed my hand over it and distorted my 
face into a smile to give it some movement. 

‘ I went out — whither 1 had no notion. But a voice within »ne said, 
“ It is impossible for you to stay here. You must go ; you mustn’t let 
any of them see you.” 

* I met people I knew — bowed to them and had a talk with one old 
maid. She told me a long tale about an illness she had just recovired 

* Julies Dagbog. 


The Scandinavian Navd^ 


froxn. When we patted she said, ‘‘You look fatnouelv to-dav, # . . 
Ah, well, that’s wi^t it is to be young and have spirits, ’ she added, 
‘Next I found myself in the wood — in a clearing of the wood 
by the fjord, 1 stood on a little landing-place and looked over the 
water, and I said to myself, “ If you were wholly miserable you would 
just let yourself slip down into the water here, and so with littiie trouble 
bring your troubles to an end,” 

* The sound of church bells came through the trees from the town : 
they were ringing for afternoon service ; and I thought I had never 
noticed before how beautiful it was here. It was as if my eyesight 
had been sharpened. I saw things which I had never noticed before — 
a little island, for instance, with trees bending their heads down to gaxe 
into the water like Narcissus, sick with his own beauty ; then innumer* 
able small sounds that came from the rushes by the lake, the depths of 
the wood, from the grass, from insects singing, birds that fluttered 
among the leaves, and hsh that sent up bubbles to the surface of the* 
water. I fell into wondering at the ever-changing forms of the clouds ; 
they looked at first sight so quiet, so changeless in the still summer 
air, but for all that when one noticed their slow moving over the vast 
space you saw that they changed — to golden laughing islands, to great 
sailing birds, and then they disappeared from sight as a flock of little 

* I took in the whole picture in a wide glance and said to myself, “If 
you should never come back here again, you will never forget how it 
looks to-day ! ” 

‘ I wandered into the recesses of the wood. The same sort of 
solemn alertness was upon me, a sort of pondering receptiveness. Then 
all of a sudden I remembered that I was going about with Im letter in 
my pocket. I felt a sudden blow at my heart, my soul trembled with 
a shuddering chill. My knees knocked under me, I had to support 
myself against a tree, or I should have fallen ; I crushed the letter in 
my hands, and, without reading it, saw every word he had written 
before my eyes. 

‘ It was true then. lie had abandoned me. It was all true. 

‘ Indeed, 1 had said all this before. I had gone with his words in 
my mind all the time. Now for the first time they reached my heart 
and made me moan with pain, 

‘ Over ! All over ! Never to see him again ! What did he look 
like now ? I sought to call his imago up before my mind. It escaped 
me : I saw parts only, now a pair of large dark eyes that looked at me 
sharply, ironically, unfriendlily. 

* 1 cried to heaven in my misery. I deceived myself, and pr^ed 
that it might not be true. “ I know that 1 deserve punishment, God. 
But have you not punished me enough ? Now I will shut my eyes* 
When I open them again, let it all turn out to be a dream.” 

^ , Now I stood again by the water. , . . My madness was over- 
|>assed. 1 was only driven to death, I cried softly and quietly, 1 saw 
the summer landscape spread out before me. I who was still so* 

* young, and nothing more to hope for in life. 

* Then a voice spoke within me, “ There is hope yet ; perhaps even 

The Scandinavian Novel. 



now there is a telegram waiting for you, or another quite diOerent 
letter is on its way to you.” 

‘ There was no telegram and no letter the next day.’ * 

Obstfelder’s ‘ The Cross 't is another lore story (Ejcerlig- 
hedshistorie) on very similar lines. It is certainly not 
strictly moral, but it too is never offensive ; the sentiment is 
always romantic, not sensual, and it is full of charm and 
pathos. The manner of all these stories — nay, we may say it 
is the manner of Scandinavian literature taken as a whole — 
is in the direction of over-simplicity, almost childishness. 
We noted the characteristic in Frbken Lagerlof. But 
in this particular tale of Obstfelder’s one hardly wishes it 
otherwise- The initial description of Rebecca, the heroine, 
seems, through this quality of extreme simplicity, to mark 
her off at once from one’s notion of an English girl or a 
French. And the charm goes on growing, as her power to 
harm others becomes apparent, on until the end, which is 
so foolishly, meaninglessly, yet most skilfully sad. Rebecca 
springs out of the void. How the liaison between her and 
the narrator began we are not told — * he never thinks of 
‘ asking about her past, her belongings.’ Thus she is like 
the creature of a faix'y tale, some Undine of modern 
Christiania. Then the hero makes acquaintance with an 
engraver, hardly less a being from the void, and going to 
his studio discovers to his horror that Rebecca’s face and 
figure are everywhere. But he keeps these things to himself, 
and ponders them in his heart. Matters go on till the 
proofs of the girl’s faithlessness seem conclusive, and there is 
an awful night in which the hero, after following Rebecca to 
town, wanders about in her traces, finds her shut up in the 
engraver’s studio, and meets her husband (for Rebecca had 
once been actually married — ‘ in church,’ as the husband 
says), and hears his cynical account of her changes of taste. 
Then Rebecca, finding out how her lover has followed her 
about and has lost all belief in her, goes home, takes out a 
boat to sea, and drowns herself. After her burial the man 
discovers a packet, which he dare not open at first, he is so 
certain it is of other men’s love-letters. It is, in fact, a 
diary, showing that, whatever she had been to other people, 
Rebecca had never swerved in her devotion to him. 

Such is the class of book produced by the * Young Norse ’ 
type of writer, running much towards diaries (of Obstfelder 
we have ‘ A Parson’s Diary,’ and ‘ The Cross ’ is in diary 

* Julies Dagbog, pp. 242-6. 

f Korset. 


486 The Scandinavian Novel. Oct. 

form, as are both ‘Marie’ and ‘Julia’ of 17a>nsen and 
Hamsun’s ‘Pan’) ; in other words, not attempting any wide 
sweep in the portmyal of human nature, but sharply distiU' 
guished from books like Thomas Erag’s, in that they are what 
people call ‘ psychological,’ not romantic. ‘ Psychological ’ 
is an abominable word, for an artistic study has nothing to 
do with science ; but it is in use, and it would not be 
easy to find a substitute. It is on account of this last 
element, its introspectiveness, that with this class of book 
we associate Hamsun’s ‘ Hunger,’ for all that in plot it in 
no wise resembles those just described. ‘ Hunger ’ has what 
they have, or, in a still higher degree, an extraordinary 
naivetS and candour, such as you will not perhaps find in any 
other literature, not even in the Bussian. It has no plot at 
all, and works up to no denouement. It is merely a descrip- 
tion of the writer’s struggle for existence in the town of 
his choice. One gathers that he had been to the university 
there, had passed through a time of comparative ease. Now 
he is merely penniless, and we have nothing else than the 
record of days of starvation and semi-starvation, and the 
rare moments intervening when he earns something by his 
pen. No one among contemporary English novelists deserves 
better to be cited as a type of the true realist than Mr. George 
Gissing ; his ‘ New Grub Street ’ is already almost a classic. 
And yet compared with the awful candour of Hamsun’s 
narrative ‘New Grub Street’ seems almost artificial. We 
are spared no detail — of how the writer has to wear the 
same clothes for days and days, weeks it almost seems ; or 
of his chewing chips of wood to stay the pangs of hunger; 
or again of his insane and useless and self-detrimental lies; 
his blasphemies ; his eccentric, utterly inexplicable pieces of 
generosity, as when he pawns a waistcoat to give the chief 
part of the proceeds to a man whom he has known for some 
five minutes only, and then as an inconvenient ne%hbour ; 
his allowing a shopman to pay him change not due, and 
directly after, ashamed of his theft, pouring all into the lap 
of a cake- seller at the street corner. The little love episode is 
of such a futile character that it is hardly possible to imagine 
a Frenchman confessing to a like gaueherie. And our author 
is so self-restrained in never giving us a hint or explanation, 
that a dozen persons might read the episode of the landlady 
and her accounts, and remain as blind as the narrator did 
at the time to its true significance. At last the tale that 
begins in nothing ends in nothing. The starving author 
does not finally get recognised ; rather he does in a amise 

1001. The Stmdimvian Novel. 487 

l^t recognised, bat by some fatality this seems to have no 
improving effect on his fortunes. In the end he embarks to 
work his passage on a ship bound for America, and the 
lights of the cruel city are the last things that ^ and we 
see as he passes down the fjord. 

All this — or almost all — we are justified in assuming, is 
simple autobiography. For it is certainly historical that 
Knut Hamsun went to America and stayed there for some 
years to try and push his fortunes. If any one should think 
that the acts or thoughts recorded in this sort of ‘confession * 
were too insane to be typical of human nature, let him read 
the book which records the result of Hamsun’s experiences 
on the other side of the Atlantic, ‘ Amerikas AandsUv ’ * as 
it is called. In that book, bitter as it is and through its 
bitterness limited and sometimes almost stupid, yet alert 
also and witty to no common degree, there is not the 
smallest trace of a disordered mind. The truth is, we are 
all less sane than we imagine, and far less than we should 
appear if a record could be kept of all our passing moods and 
whims. Oar own minds forget them almost as soon as 
they are gone, or rationise them into a connected system of 
thought. The astonishing part of Knut Hamsun’s book is 
the exactitude (apparent, we are forced to add, but it is an 
appearance that carries conviction) with which he has pre- 
served the transient acts and feelings which most forget. 

In this brief essay on the Scandinavian novel we have 
thought it best to select only some few typical authors, and 
of each one’s works not more than one or two for notice, 
lest, by multiplying examples, we should give to the whole 
the appearance of a catalogue rather than of a criticism. 
There are many more writers who might seem to call for 
mention — certain ones who, from some characteristic qual- 
ity, especially deserve it. In contrasting, for example, the 
meagreness of the human interest in Krag’s books with what 
one might reasonably expect or demand, we should willingly 
have cited the work of a young writer, ‘ Kamp,’ by F. K, 
Tranaas (1900), which, along with purity of style and a 
great sense of natural beauty, has a very rich vein of human 
interest. Another writer, who is notable in that he follows 
quite other models than those which have attracted the 
Scandinavians as a class, is Sophus Bauditz. His ‘ From 

* ‘ America’s Spiritual and Intellectual Life ’ is the only possible 
translation. For the reason that Aand has net its English equivalent 
we have left, the title in the original. 

488 The Scandinavian NoveU Oct 

a Garrison Town’ is, if anything, more like the German 
novel of thirty years ago than anything else ; but it has a 
fuller sense of reality than have most of its prototypes. It 
is, however, as they are, somewhat conventional. More 
especially do the contrasted fortunes and rewards of the 
lieutenant and the schoolmaster in this story remind one of 
the German romance of the time of Freytag. Amelia 
Skramm is another writer who has claim to distinction, but 
not a very high claim. Her writings have a kinship with 
those of some of her English sisters whose books are called 
powerful by the reviewers just in proportion as they ap- 
proach or overstep the bounds of modesty. And it need not 
be said that the ^ woman question ’ is a very prominent 
feature in Scandinavian fiction as a whole — in the Swedish 
most especially — and produces there, as here, novels often 
able enough, but on the wrong side of the barrier which 
divides art from cleverness, literature from mere writing. 

The books produced in Scandinavia necessarily suffer from 
certain disabilities. In these countries there exists no great 
classic literature, nor long tradition of letters. They have 
behind them no Tudor age nor silver age, no Pleiads and 
no Encyclopedists, no Cervantes nor Calderon, no Dante 
nor any of the innumerable poets and prose writers of 
the Italian Eenaissance : their best substitutes for Goethe 
and Schiller are Ibsen and Bjornson. At present the 
languages of all the three countries are poor, and their 
vocabulary is meagre. The Scandinavian writers are, as a 
class, lacking in dignity — Ibsen himself is scarcely an 
exception, Bjornson is not an exception — and their followers 
have not developed in a direction to fill up this want. This 
is not the place to speak of recent Scandinavian poetry. 
But we may say that that too, as a whole, is rather trifling 
in subject and in scope. It has been subjected, too (more 
than the prose), to foreign, that is to say, to French influ- 
ences. In one poet the influence of Verlaine is very dis-* 
cemible, in another that of Mallarme. From drawbacks 
such as these the Scandinavian fiction recovers much by 
those qualities which we have so often insisted on — ite 
sincerity and candour. These give it a kind of dignity even 
when it is a little childish. We do not propose to draw a 
comparison between the Scandinavian novel as a whole and 
the English novel ; but, as compared with those types of the 
latter which gain the largest suffrage from the public and 
the press, we may say that the Scandinavian novel has 
something of the charm that a child has side by side with 

Sean^^vian Novel, 

an affected man or woman ol the world. We oan» indeed* 
boast of‘~-in trade langnage~an enormous output * in this 
particular of literature. An immense series of romauoeS'*- 
some all of adventure* running, so to say, with blood, the 
others all of style, as of a fencing master at a duel (the one 
of sound, the other of fury)— are to our account} and a 
series equally vast of the novels of manners (it is the best 
word) varied and witty, and tied to a wholly conventional 
presentation of life— as conventional as is our drama : and 
now and again a book which is simple and sincere. But 
out of this great production how much forms the oontribu^ 
tion to the finer literature of Europe— of how much would 
the historian of European letters be obliged to take account P 
Whatever in fiction is good with us, very little indeed 
possesses the special merits which we look for in the 
realistic novel. To each age its peculiar type of literature, 
and on each type of literature lie its special obligations. 
Bealism, the higher realism which attempts to be the 
mirror of life — life outward and inward— is bound by some 
of the duties which life itself imposes, and that rule which 
Marcus Aurelius lays down for his own conduct might very 
well be exacted of it. * Bemember always to do what thou 

* hast in hand,’ the Emperor says, ‘ with complete and 

* simple dignity and feeling of affection and freedom and 
‘ justice.’ ‘ With feeling of affection ’ to avoid the morose- 
ness of the French, of the pessimists of all lands, but with 
justice to comprehend and apprehend all phases of human 
nature ; and, above all, with freedom and with dignity such 
as can never be the lot of those who are for ever watching 
the set of public taste and trimming their sails to catch a 
favouring breeze. There is less of this commercial instinct 
in Scandinavia than here ; and so, with all its defects, the 
fiction of these lauds holds for the nonce a more important 
place than does our own. 


The Glasgow School of Painting. 


Abt. XI. — 1. Glasgow International Exhibition, 1901, Oaia- 

logiie of the Fine Arts. 

2. The Glasgow School of Painting. By David MABTl2r, 

with an Introduction by Francis H. Njbwbeet. London : 
George Bell & Sons, 1897. 

'T’o celebrate the first year of the new centuiy by an 
International Exhibition has inspired the citizens of 
Glasgow to raise a monument to their own industry and 
the world’s commerce which marks the division of time 
between the past and the future. As an epitome of things 
accomplished and a forecast of new conquests in the 
sciences and the arts, the objects gathered together in the 
grounds of Kelvin Park are a remarkable, if heterogeneous, 
evidence of Scottish enterprise. The mechanical inven- 
tions, of course, show the one typical advance made by the 
modern artificer, whose swift onward progress is prophetic 
of the new century which has just begun. And we stand 
amazed by the ingenuities of huge engines, and the most 
delicate intricacies of minute contrivances, so adroitly made 
and so entirely the product of contemporary skill, that we 
are forced to acknowledge the engineer to be the master- 
workman of the age. Leaving the miscellaneous commo- 
dities and inevitable trifles, which lightly disparage criti- 
cism, we pass to the artistic and antiquarian collections 
which reflect the sober taste and more estimable energies of 
the West of Scotland. 

The historical collection of antiquities has been formed 
without reference to purely local art, but nevertheless con- 
tains many relics of Scottish worthies and the circum- 
stances of their lives, and of the city of Glasgow in particular. 
And we are reminded of a past when the culture of the city 
was centred in its mediaeval cathedral and its university, 
founded in the middle of the fifteenth century after the 
model of that at Bologna, as it is said, when its learning 
and scholarship were an outflow of the Benaissance tinged 
with the austere logic and humanity of Italy. In spite of 
these ancient and important foundations the city grew but 
slowly, and apparently long retained the beauty and 
quietude of a mediseval town. In 1650 it was described as 
* not so big or rich, yet to all a much sweeter and more 
‘ delightful place than Edinburgh ! ’ Even in the eighteenth 
century it was inconsiderable in size, with few premonitions 
of its sudden and eventful growth. An artistic movement 

IQOL The Giatgow School of Paintings 49X 

was, however, astir in the minds of the citizens, resulting in 
the establishment of the printing-press and academy bj the 
brothers FouUs. Though conceived with hope and enthu- 
siasm, the academy of art never succeeded. We hear that 
the drawings of the students were exhibited in the inner 
court of the college in 1761, and a few names not quite 
forgotten appear in the list of pupils, among them that of 
James Tassie. But the work of the printing-press was 
more fortunate, and is still memorable for its fine editions of 
the classics and its elegant type. Yet the injunction to 
* print for posterity and prosper * was only half fulfilled, for 
the two brothers died insolvent. 

Since those days Glasgow has grown monstrous in size 
and shape, swelling its boundaries in every direction. The 
prosperity for which the brothers Foulis prayed has come 
with a vengeance — the vengeance which heedless changing 
and trafiicMng bring. But the fierce strife of three genera- 
tions has bred reflexion, and now again the last word from 
Scotland on the fine arts comes from Glasgow, who has 
become the mother of a school of painting. 

The arrival of a group of young men professing a new 
eesthetic creed is naturally a matter of interest and curiosity, 
and when some years ago a few Scotch painters announced 
a revolt from the practice of their elders, and were ambitious 
enough to regard themselves and persuade others that they 
were the pioneers of new ideas, a public interest in their 
doings was aroused outside the immediate circle of their 
friends. And when this manifestation of intelligent vitality 
emanated from Glasgow, critical curiosity was still farther 

That a city of merchants and engineers should bring to 
birth an sesthetic faculty is probably a natural part of its 
destiny, and is due to that energy and expansion which had 
hitherto gone out in the market-place, purged and softened 
by the inroads of culture. Even to make an ugly com- 
mercial city on a vast scale requires the virtue of strenuous 
effort, and the ardour for work may be easily directed to 
art. And as the ground is rarely too barren to produce a 
flower, nor man’s conscience ever so dead as not to feel the 
touch of beauty, it happens that the consequences and 
disabilities of a black environment oppress us in a great 
town, and demand the service of artificial adornments. 
Tracts of dirty walls, endless pavements, and forests of 
chimney stacks however softened to the eye by the envelop- 
ing haze of smoke, are a poor substitute for the colours and 

492 The Olaegow School of PainUng, Oct. 

forma of the open country, and man perforce returns upon 
himself and his own resources to modify and counteract the 
ugliness which satisfied his first harried needs. That a 
local phase of art should arise in the place which has been 
busiest in obliterating beauty in all Scotland is after all but 
the assertion of man’s inability to live with dirt alone. It 
is the ethical need for beauty amid base surroundings, 
rousing the young men to a stronger and keener taste for it. 

Coming upon the scene shortly before the last decade of 
the nineteenth century the Glasgow artists have a share in 
that burst of promiscuous genius which typified the passing 
years of that dying era. But the work of the school appears 
to be the result of education rather than of temperament, and 
its ‘ originality,’ if not plagiarised, is traceable to ascertained 
influences producing a merely critical and eclectic art. 
Their battle and struggle against the older superstitions has 
been rather for professional success than an intellectual revolt 
arising from deep compelling convictions, and loses poignancy 
by a too great deference to conventional respectability. 

Influenced by the modem spirit of France they have 
clearly absorbed many of the principles and methods which 
arose in the successive movements of recent years. The 
Barbizon school, the realists, the luminists, the impres- 
sionists were all at the service of the young Scotchmen, and 
each helped to mould and direct their attitude to nature and 
the problem of representing her anew. 

They have wisely avoided any direct discipleship, but since 
no artistic impulse quite emancipates itself froin its ante- 
cedent causes, we may recognise the inspiration of the young 
Glasgow artists in many places. At home there were a 
certain number of Scotchmen at the height of their powers, 
doing notable work, to whom the abler men of the younger 
generation would naturally look with admiration. Mr. 
Orchardson, Mr. Pettie, and Mr. McTaggart, to mention no 
others, might well exercise an influence upon their fellows. 
Mr. Orchardson, with splendid virility, painted a noble series 
of subjects combining the romantic treatment of realism with 
a very exquisite perception of the dramatic and structural 
embodiment of his theme. In the present exhibition at 
Glasgow the delicate qualities of tenderness in the large 
picture of a mother bending over her child are drawn witii 
the strenuous touch of sympathy which impresses its finely 
ordered workmanship. Mr. Pettie also brought much power 
and spirit, as well as archaeological insight, to the rendering 
of his episodes of Scottish history} and Mr. McTaggart 

ISOl. The Glatgow Si^ool of PainUag, 493: 

brilliantly anticipated by bis bright vivid touch the ihode 
of the luminists whose studied and reasoned science he 
divined with a natural and instinctive ease. The exhilaration 
of a clear breezy atmosphere is communicated with delight* 
ful freshness from these healthy stirring pictures^ and the 
originality of his technique is one of the striking manifesta-* 
tions of a distinctly Scottish genius. How much Mr. 
McTaggart may have influenced the minds of his younger 
contemporaries is doubtful, but his methods tended in the 
direction followed by the Glasgow artists. 

In England the example of Mr. Whistler, M. Legros, and 
even Mr. Sargent is acknowledged to have been a source of in- 
spiration to various members of the Scottish group, and each 
of these men, it may be noted, has had a Continental 
training, so that directly or indirectly it is the Continental 
painters who are the avowed teachers of the Glasgow move- 

Mr, Newbery, who speaks with authority, says 

‘ that neither revolution nor revelation ia being attempted, nor are the 
minds of the workers bent upon much else than that of doing a day’s 
work with the best possible credit to themselves. These Scottish 
artists desire to be neither prophets nor preachers . . . with no 
proselytising creed, they yet have a firm belief in one thing — which 
is, that it is quite sufficient for Art to be Art, and to be the most 
beautiful thing that man is capable of making her.’ 

Now this theory of art seems to exclude the passion and 
might of all great intellectual affirmation. It sounds 
ominously like a surrender to mediocrity. When the 
colouring sentiment of the mind lacks the compelling force 
of tragic intensity, or swift satire, or the ennobling romance 
which exalts man’s sexual instinct, or the pity for darkened 
lives, the best promptings of the artist’s nature are wanting. 
From the dark moments of the soul, or the bitter stripes of 
wit, as well as from more tender moods, must all impressive 
and serious art proceed. And when the work of a school, a 
period, or an individual deliberately avoids the poignancy 
of the intenser emotions for mere abstract generalities, 
picturesque or poetic though they be, we feel a sense of in- 
sufficiency of purpose in their efforts. 

The artist’s business is to improvise a stimulus to life, to 
praise loveliness and strength, to represent an ugly or wicked 
thing as that antithesis or negation of beauty which shall 
disentangle for us the antagonistic web of nature by groM 
and unseemly symbols, and thereby glorify some spiritual 
excellence through a veil of dark texture. The views of 

49 i The Glasgow School of Paintmig. Oot; 

despair, hatred, cruelty, misshapen features, sinful deformities 
are the antidote to indifferent luxury, and, in a picture 
are the artist’s tribute to the gravity of the world’s Ixagedies* 

Then there is the reaction from the over-subtle and 
artificial to the elementary and primitive, which is inevitable 
to the mind languishing in barren ways and feebly interested 
in borrowed vitality. By the return to fundamentals and 
first principles realities are substituted for decadent ideals 
and the weary devices of custom. The reassertion of the 
real to the man of super-refinement comes with the awaken- 
ing shook of the sunbeam in the morning, and refreshed by 
the instinct of freedom and loosed from tiie arid sterility of 
habit, there flows from the artist’s hand a new spring of 
youth and primal honesty. 

That the painters of the Glasgow school have founded 
their practice upon general impressions derived from prin- 
ciples formulated by other groups of artists, rather than 
from inward impulses emanating from themselves, seems too 
evident to be denied. They have caught at some guiding 
precepts, mainly of a technical kind, relating to the outward 
form of their work, and have cleverly adapted them to their 
individual faculties, and from that beginning have developed 
a consistent mode of handling. And at least some of their 
success is due to the fact that the leaders of the movement 
had the taste to discover better methods abroad than those 
which prevailed around them at home. ‘Much may be 
‘ made of a Scotchman if he be caught young,’ said Dr. 
Johnson — a truism which is clearly recognised and acted 
upon in Glasgow. 

Unlike the contemporary novelists of their country, the 
painters abjure mere Scotticism in their work. A kail-yard 
cannot be a common adjunct to a Glasgow studio, nor are 
bagpipes often heard or kilts seen in the street. But were 
they so minded their pictures might abound with porridge- 
bowls, tartan plaids, Kilmarnock bonnets, red beards, 
whisky-bottles, elders, and Scotch mists. We have a faint 
suspicion that they regard these things as vulgar and 
provincial, and are too genteel and cosmopolitan to touch 
the homely things about them. But the facts of life in the 
great ugly city of the North are pregnant with matter for a 
painter with an eye and sympathy for them. And it 
is a deficiency in their relation to time and place, that no 
one has drawn adequately upon the things nearest to his 
hand, even a dignified rendering of Scottish life like that 
presented by Mr. Niel Munro being conspicuously absent. 


The Qlcugow School of 


It is notorious that a movement ceases to operate 
as soon as it takes corporate form and realises los existen^ 
by labelling and regulating its action. Attainment almost 
always paralyses man’s desires; with consummation com© 
inertia and the end of the power to work. In the case of 
artistic societies dulness creeps in with the ©lection ot^ a 
president and the purchase of a minute-book, and art flies 
Ivit of the window. But the coming together of the Glas- 
gow artists as a united and formal school only lasted for a 
brief period. They did not long submit to the nod of Mr. 
William Kennedy, and not for long was thrir oratory 
entered in the secretary’s notebook. Their fighting days 
were over, and they became an easy prey to the enemy. In 
the year 1888 the Royal Scottish Academy, against whom 
they had banded together in battle, elected Mr. Guthrie 
as an associate, and by degrees others were caught in the 

But peace is not yet in sight. At least one member 1^ 
declined the Academic bait. After bein g duly elected to fill 
the last vacancy, Mr. Hornel repudiated the preferment, to 
the exceeding embarrassment of those within, and remains 
aloof in the sequestered woods of Kirkcudbright, where 
trees, flowers, and birds are patterned in the delightful 
convention of mosaic. Thus the revolt continues in a house 
divided against itself, and the flock is parted between those 
in the fold and those in the field, leaving to the Royal 
Scottish Academy the delicate task of electing possib e 
members, who will throw the diploma in their teeth. 

The new forces germinating in Glasgow owed much to 
the initiative of Mr. W. Y. MacGregor, whose landscajies 
seriously claim our attention for their sound artistic qualities. 
Reared on the banks of the Clyde he presently discovered 
the highroad to London, and studied thereunder M. Legros, 
whose impressive personality has influenced not a few of 
our more distinguished young painters. The ® 

of this master’s art is a notable event of our time. His ex- 
quisite sympathy for human suffering in this death-haunted 
world, his noble pity for toil-worn men and all those who 
entertain ‘ le honhomme Misere,’ their faith, their devotions, 
their illusions, realise the pathos of life only less fully than 
the art of Rembrandt. And his absolute mastery of toe 
theoretic treatment of pictures has revealed the widest possi- 
bilities of advancement to his pupils. _ 

Mr. MacGregor’s range and vision are comparatively 
small, but by intensifying these he has perhaps reached a 

496 The OUugow School of Pcdwting^ Oct* 

stroDger position than any of his fellow-workerst His bluff, 
stubborn, Scotch nature is reflected in the uncompromising 
and narrow scope of his work, and gives it an almost 
aggressive force. Intolerant of more delicate methods than 
his own, this robustness of aim deepens in the technique and 
formula of his art. Like all the members of the School, 
Mr. MacGregor has an acutely developed sense of form-— 
so mach so that the elaborate pains bestowed upon the pose 
of a tree, hill, or cloud, seems to withdraw the mind from 
that impassioned revelation of nature’s secrets, wrested in 
a moment of inspiration and conveyed in the glow of 
exalted strength. 

More than ever the landscape painter of to-day must be a 
seer. The ideal of nature has been presented to us in many 
forms, sometimes remote and sometimes near, hovering 
between a pure invention and a photograph or transcript. 
It may be treated in a hundred ways. To mention a dozen 
names of the last two centuries is to declare that its pos- 
sibilities are as inflnite and inexhaustible as the illimitable 
utterances of music. 

The picture of ‘ An Upland Landscape,’ exhibited at 
the International Exhibition at Knightsbridge in 1898, is 
a type of the country which Mr. MacGregor most often 
chooses to paint, and discloses his manner of painting it. 
In its features the subject of the picture is common enough 
— a stretch of lonely country, such as one may see anywhere 
in the North — the mixture of moorland and cultivated fields, 
which constitutes a farmer’s holding in Scotland. Tet out 
of this homely material a vision is wrought. The actual 
topography receives a solemn and harmonious quality, im- 
pressive and beautiful. The scene is a re-created product 
in mental concentration, and Mr. MacGregor has found 
expression again and again for a preconception of the rough 
scenery of the half- mountainous uplands, absorbed, modulated, 
and composed to harmonic consistency. Formed thus out of 
the abstracted qualities and conditions of many places, grey 
rocks, brown peat, the red earth of a newly ploughed field, 
stunted trees, the rough cast of a crofter’s cottage, and the 
rainy sky are blent together by a dominant and masterful 
will. The handling is appropriately broad, and the textures 
of the biggest — ^reminding us of his admiration for Daumier 
and Legros — the colour sober and sometimes delicate, but 
always satisfying in its fulness. Such work depending upon 
an inventive memory requires the most sensitive recognition 
of natural effects, a perfect adjustment of forms, of light. 

Idol. The aUtsgow School of Painting. 497 

atmosphere^ and perspectire to reproduce the true essence of 
ihe scene. 

The architectural landscape, built up of conventional pro*' 
portions, in which clouds, trees, hill, and dale are composed 
in balanced harmonious masses, was not a discovery of the 
Glasgow painters, but its principle has been adopted with 
dignified and sometimes poetic feeling. A purely reasoned 
art is apt to become dogmatic, and in the end too cold and 
dry; and the artist misses, by studious arrangement, the 
delightful vicissitudes of chance. In such carefully planned 
work nature’s first infiuence gradually fades from the canvas, 
and the personal temper of the artist may assert itself 
overmuch, and almost always tends to monotony even in 
the case of more versatile masters than Mr. MacGregor. 

‘The Quarry,’ which a few years ago attracted general 
attention at the New English Art Club, showed Mr. 
MacGregor at his best. This finely conceived subject dis* 
closed his aims with greater finish and with a higher attain^ 
ment of beauty than in any of his previous pictures. Here 
his careful avoidance of prettiness became embodied in a 
consonance of tone and form, mellower and more profound 
than that which he had hitherto reached. 

The portraits from Glasgow have probably attracted the 
largest share of notice hitherto, and the more critical part 
of the public has generally looked to Mr. Guthrie for work 
of a higher quality than that of his fellow-townsmen. 
Usually he is regarded as their leader. Though trained in 
London and Paris, his character has retained much of the 
Scottish probity and earnestness which have tinged his work 
with an honest fervour and raised his technique to a height 
that has evoked constant admiration. His handling is, we 
believe, founded upon a long and close study of Velazquez, 
and if it lacks the swift vivid charm and perfect mastery 
of the Spaniard, there is a genuine vein of power in the 
effects of his drawing and painting. His dignified concep- 
tion of portraiture is evident in many instances. That of 
Major Hotchkis (No. 447) in the Exhibition is a fine example 
of taste, selection, strength, and reserve, combined in a 
successful presentation of a soldier. Its quiet and satisfying 
tone has the acceptable serenity of an old master. 

In the Corporation Galleries the portrait of Bailie Osborne 
is easy and natural. It has been painted perhaps too easily, 
and contrasts with the portrait of stem intensity by Mr. 
Orchardson close beside it. 

Mr. Guthrie’s essays in pastel hung in the Exhibition 

498 The Glasgow School of PaiaUfii^. Ocfi. 

have much of the rapid charm of that medium. The view 
of Helensburgh (No. 760), depicting a scattered crowd in 
the grey dusk, illuminated by newly lighted lamps mingling 
with a faint glow of sunset, is a picturesque study at the 
waning hour of the day. 

If success be the measure of worth, Mr. Lavery may 
regard his position with ample satisfaction. By his agree- 
able talents he has reached an enviable fame both at home 
and abroad. Portrait-painters are often distinguished as 
those who enrage their sitters and those who please them, 
for there are not a few eminent limners whom every com- 
mission confronts with a prospective enemy. Mr. Lavery 
belongs to the pleasing type. The insistence upon feminine 
daintiness and the rejection of the unpleasant are charac- 
teristic of his themes, and, though the subject of cavil to 
his masculine critics, these qualities have secured him the 
admiration of a host of young ladies who would gladly sub- 
mit to be re-created by his flattering brush. We do not 
mean that his popularity has been achieved by compliments 
dexterously conveyed in paint. His success rests on more 
serious grounds and is gladly acknowledged beyond the 
circle of his gratified patrons. 

He has a discriminating eye for the elegances of a lady’s 
toilet — draperies, laces, feathers, flowers, and stuffs are 
defined with appreciative grace, and are wrought into a 
delicate harmony and design. This taste for dress and 
furniture and the appreciation of fashion give an incidental 
reality and the flavour of contemporary manners to his 
portraits. But the art appropriate to the drawing-room, 
the croquet lawn, fashionable or domestic functions, the 
haunts of the gay world, and other accessories also requires 
a significant interpretation. And we feel that Mr. Lavery, 
with all his skill, never approaches near enough to those 
forces which make such phases of life alive by the portrayal 
of delicate subtleties of character and manners. The in- 
ward vision is wanting. Caprice and frivolity, the charm 
of their mockeries and vanities, are merely blurred in a far- 
off view with the keen edge and emphasis eliminated. There 
is too little appeal to the mind. We miss the serious 
sympathy and concentration of Degas, and stand unmoved 
before the picture of the Croquet Party by which he has 
chosen to be represented at the Glasgow Exhibition. Yet 
its composition is admirably studied, the figures are Very 
skilfully grouped and coloured, and there is a perfect sense 
of * tonality,’ as Mr. Martin calls it. The sunlight on the 

1001 . Th& Glatgow School of Fainting. 409 

lawn and sea, however, is obvionsly untrue without any 
perceptible compensation. The Bridge at Gr^s,* a picture 
o£ sunshine and pleasure, showing two gay ladies in a boat 
tinder the old bridge, borne lazily upon a purple tide, has 
the same unsatisfying character. 

The examples of his portraiture are more interesting. 
The portrait of himself and a little girl, exhibited in London, 
showed the stronger qualities of bis brush, and a more than 
usual concentration. His well-known portrait of Mr. Ounning- 
hame Graham has surprising vivacity; the attitude, the 
drawing of the hand, the picturesque mien are all true to 
life, and reveal much of the character of an interesting and 
many-sided personality. 

The slight but brilliant drawings of Mr. Crawhall 
have more of the vital touch of genius than the more 
pretentious works of his colleagues. Only from Japan do 
we get such studies as ‘ The Black Cock ’ (No. 1070) or 
* The Cockatoo ’ (No. 695). Both are superb in their 
realisation of familiar but beautiful birds, exquisitely 
imagined. The same delicacy and swiftness of hand are 
seen in a series of bull-fights wrought in Spain. In one of 
these the bull has caught a horse on its horns and raised it 
up with its rider, who plunges his spear in its neck. The 
drawing and the design are singularly dramatic. The dust 
of the arena, the palisade, and the spectators, suggested 
with the fewest strokes of the brush, make a picture remind- 
ing us of the more precipitous gusto of an etching by Goya. 

It is regrettable that Mr. Walton, who has a real faculty 
for painting landscapes and pastoral subjects, should exhibit 
a picture like the ‘ Sun-dial’ (No. B81), which is quite xin- 
worthy of him. The would-be-poetic sentiment is painfully 
overstrained and banal ; it is badly designed, and nothing 
could well be uglier than the cast-iron design of the pedestal 
of the dial. On the other hand, the small Landscape 
(No. 1013) in another room shows that his talent is of a 
high order. There is a fulness of motive and tender atmo- 
sphere in this naturally and skilfully composed scene which 
is truly pleasing and satisfying. 

The art of Mr. Henry has latterly received the recog- 
nition due to its merits and is well represented at tlio 
Exhibition. There is a real suggestion of music in the 
essentially harmonious picture called ‘ Symphony ’ (No. 495). 
A girl with a rapt face plays a piano. The tone of her drew 

* Exhibited at the Glasgow Institute of the Fine Arts. 

600 The Glasgow School of Painting, Oot. 

and hair conforms to the ruddy brown of the mahogany 
furniture, and the scheme of colour is completed by the 
gleam of a goldfish swimming in a glass bowl. The emotion 
is more gracious and of a subtler kind than is usual in the 
North. His vivid and arresting portrait (No. 451) of a 
pretty bright-eyed child in red is also charming. 

In the gallery of prints we notice with pleasure the plates 
by Mr. D. Y. Cameron, the etcher of the group, whose 
facility and grace in the use of the needle are not the least 
agreeable products of Glasgow art. His paintings are almost 
equally pleasing. The view of a road in Tuscany, hung in 
the Institute, is one of the most attractive pictures in the 
collection. A road between two purple banks, with slender 
fragile trees, winds towards a blue plain, till it is lost in the 
horizon of the pale sky. 

The vast collections of an international exhibition dazzle 
the mind by their manifold array of divergencies ; styles, 
races, periods, localities, disturb the normal ‘ congruities of 
* the biuin ’ and unstring the nerves from their customary 
repose. Not only does each section require the exercise of 
a new faculty, but almost every object in it. The fine loan 
collection of French pictures, too seldom seen in this 
country, shows the distinctive taste of the Glasgow col- 
lectors, and makes the Exhibition memorable by their 
presence alone. In the sculpture hall we are dominated by 
the strange and enthralling fascination of Rodin’s work. 

The hanging of the pictures in the Exhibition leaves 
much to be desired. For hanging, although the public is 
only slowly awakening to the fact, is an art in itself. It is 
an art, moreover, requiring a very special skill if justice is 
to be done to each individual work without prejudice either 
to other works around or to the general effect of the walls 
as a whole. Few of the picture-seers who visit a gallery 
grasp to what extent the appearance of a picture — and con- 
sequently their appreciation of its merits or demerits — is 
influenced by its position both with regard to light, and 
more still, in many cases, with regard to the close neigh- 
bourhood of other pictures. And though in the matter of 
light the choice of the hanger is obviously restricted by the 
inevitable limitations of wall space at his disposal, in the 
matter of the actual juxtaposition of pictures he is, or should 
be, his own master. With him, indeed, lies the responsi- 
bility ; and again we repeat it, the task demands, not alone 
a rare and special talent, but judgement, patience, and 
experience — so to arrange his wails that the hazardous 

The Gh$0ow o/Painiil»g. KOI 


InH^Qiaiioy of onO school may not eclipse the ihiater d^ioacy 
^an^other, or the breadth of one artist’s treatment be forced 
mip a lemldance of coarseness by the too near approach of 
some other painter’s method of orer-attennated reuiemeut. 

A gallery hnng by a competent artist, whose aim is not 
the display of this or that picture at the expense of others, . 
bears its own stamp of recognisable excellence. In it the 
speetator is not required at every step to readjust his valua< 
tion of colour ; he has not the oppressive conviction brought 
home to liim that be must perforce efface the impression of 
each picture in turn before he can — without a visual somer* 
BikQlt — shift his gaze to the next. And, in a less definite 
degree, the discomfort many picture-seers experience of 
bemg unable to receive any impression, clear or unclear, 
from the pictures before them, is reduced to its minimum. 
TTnoousciously their eyes have been guided and educated in 
the art of seeing. Their attention has not been exhausted 
by violent transitions, except where contrast could be fairly 
employed to serve as stimulant or where contraries gained 
significance by immediate opposition. Nor — an equally 

exhausting process — ^has their interest been allowed to flag 
by an overstrained and unbroken monotony of selection. 
It is, with such results in view, scarcely an exaggeration to 
say that, except for trained eyes, a gallery of inferior works 
well hang will convey a more intelligent idea of art than a 
gallery of gems ill-assorted and misplaced. This being at 
least a half-trath, the importance of the office of a ^ hanging 
* committee ’ cannot be over-estimated. Moreover, if con- 
sistency of principle be an essential element in harmony of 
effect, it is self-evident that the duty of such committees 
should resolve itself into the careful choice of a dictator, 
with whom should rest the final appeal no less than the 
actual arrangement of the pictures. The Glasgow Gallery 
hardly appears to have solved the problem of authority as 
satisfactorily as might be, although possibly, as compared, 
with other exhibitions — notably the annual hanging of the 
Boyel Academy — criticism should perhaps be dumb. 

On glancing at the architectural drawings we are struck 
by the lamentable degeneration of the modem Glasgow 
architects — only a generation ago the architecture of Glasgow 
was something to boast of — ‘Greek Thompson’ and his 
contemporaries raised a series of buildings unique and 
admirable to which their suooessora might look witik 
respectful emulation. Yet there is neither dignitjt stylti 
iiMl^ntion, nor consistency in the work of the yonngi# 



The Glasgow School of lPa,4mimg, kjlfii' 

men. Notwithstanding, they need hardly have gone to' 
London for snoh a provincial design as that of the new AH 
Galleries. It looks scarcely superior to the wooden paviHotis, 
whose flamboyant outlines and fantastic cnpolas are soffl* 
ciently appropriate to such ephemeral structures. 

When the Corporation conceived the idea of decorathig 
the Town Hall, they afforded a great opportunity to the 
four young men selected for the task. To a man of genius 
such a commission would mean a great achievement. Hn- 
happily the adequate decoration of a public building is one 
of the arts hopelessly lost in the nineteenth century, and 
we therefore look with anxiety at every new attempt, if * 
only to learn some lesson from its failure. The first defect 
we notice is that Mr. Lavery’s panel does not harmonise 
with those of Mr. Walton and Mr. Hoche, thereby breaking 
the continuity of the wall. Neither do the other designs, 
either in treatment or conception, realise the demands of 
the occasion. The lunette by Mr. Hemy has far move 
affinity with the architectural scheme ana colour of the 
Hall, but its convention reminds us of a page from a 
child’s picture-book, and, therefore, it begs the question of 
how to combine a decorative harmony with a mature 

This united achievement of four members of the Glasgow 
School is an evidence of their collective and individual 
powers, as much as the small pictures from their hands, and 
confronts us anew with the problem of how to arrive at a 
true estimate of their talents. Placed before the work of 
a body of artists still at the height of their career, it is 
obviously safer to propound a question than pronounce a 
judgement. We therefore ask. Do their pictures possess the 
perfect workmanship of the great masters ? Are they 
fraught with more than a conscientious dilettantism of 
previous schools? What is their part in the intellectual 
movement of our time P And how do they compare with 
their contemporaries in the South, like Mr. i^thenstein and 
1^. Steer, whose pictures at the Exhibition are so notably 
eonspicuousP And the still more important question 
remains, whether this sudden energy is the beginning of a 
decenti^zation of the arts, which shall lead to a perma** 
nent local tradition of painting throughout the country, 
and whether hy realizing a more extended scope for their 
. art these yonng men are strengthening a love of heanly 
which shall one day magnify their city by a line of arMisto 
as gimt and distinguished as those of Florence or YemoB, 
OHhese are questions whose answer time alone can give. 

Polifies and Tf«r. 


AlMr» XII.— 1. Speieh of th$ PigM Son. Sir Sonry Oaw^eU* 
Sannerman, M.P., at the Reform Clvb, July 9, 1901. 
heiier from the Marl of Boeehery, K.O-., to the City liberal 
(M>, July 16, 1901. 

8, Speech of the Right Hon. H. Asquith, M.P., at the Hotel 
Cecil, July 19, 1901. 

4. Speech of the Earl of Boeehery, K.Q., at the City Liberal 
aub, July 19, 1901. 

6. Speech of Sir Edward Grey, Bart,, M,P., in the House of 
Commons, August 2, 1901. 

Empire stands to-daj in a position of great difficulty 
and of some danger. Lord Salisbury’s Government is 
nntisually strong in the support of Parliament and nation ; 
but it has not as yet found itself able to satisfy the hopes and 
expectations of the electors who a year ago gave it their 
confidence. * Can we not, ought we not to, be doing better P ’ 
That is the question which all men are asking, and which, 
means, when Englishmen ask it, that they are turning inquir- 
ing eyes beyond the administration of the moment to political 
possibilities of the future. 

Let us look, then, beyond the supporters of the Govern- 
ment to the broad political situation, the position of parties, 
the condition of the House of Commons, and the state of 
things produced by this most deplorable South African war. 

The Liberal party has never recovered from the blow 
infiicted upon its credit and its power by Mr. Gladstone 
half a generation ago. In 1885, for the last time, the 
united party appealed under a leader, recognised as such by 
every section of it, to the country. It obtained in Great 
Britain a very substantial majority. The Liberal party was 
not indeed, in 1885, entirely homogeneous, but comprehended, 
as it has always done, many shades of Liberal opinion, from 
Idberal-Conservative on the one side to advanced Badioal 
or Socialist on the other. Between these sections, or between 
their leading representatives, relations sometimes became 
Brined; just as in former days there was occasionally 
sharp antagonism between Whig leaders such as Lord 
Palmerston and Lord John Busseu, and the spokesmen of 
£he Manchester school, Mr. Cobden and Mr. Bright. But in 
1885, as in earlier times, it was found possible for the partyj, 
and advantageous to the country, for Whigs and Badicals ^ 
make common cause. The zeal and popular enthnsiasni»<ff 

5(Ht Park/ PoUUea an3> the War, Oot* 

tbe latter, when practical measurea of reform woi« wider 
consideration, had often been brought &ce to &oe witli the 
more cautions views of experienced Whig statesmen j and 
the happy result had been achieved of steady progress in 
almost every direction, no spirit of reaction having been 
caused by a shock to public feeling brought about by revoln*- 
tionaxy change or even premature advance. In the autumn 
and winter of 1886 Mr. Gladstone, Lord Hartington, Mr. 
Bright, Mr. Chamberlain, Mr. Goschen, Mr. Forster, Mr. 
Dillwyn, Sir Charles Dilke, to name eminent members of 
the House of Commons only, fought the battle of a common 
Liberalism, and won for that party with the electors of 
Great Britain its last victory. 

It was, however, evident enoagh to those who looked 
below the surface that the elements of discord within the 
Liberal party already existed. The Badical Caucus^ wm 
' determined to assert its own power, which, be it said, it 
greatly over-estimated; representative Radicals, such as 
Mr. Labouchere, constantly urging on the public that what 
the Liberal party really needed was to throw off the burden 
of Whig influence, in order that unadulterated Radicalism 
might for the first time enter upon its inheritance. Still 
there were moderate men amongst Whigs and Radicals who 
earnestly deprecated the efiForts of the headstrong or foolish 
members of either section to create a breach with the other. 
Above all, the high character, the eminent service, the tran- 
scendent abilities of their great leader gave Mr. Gladstone 
an unrivalled ascendency with the people. It is strange that 
the only statesman who could have kept his party united 
and victorious in the autumn of 1885 should, a few months 
later, have been the man to shatter * the great instrument ’ 
in pieces, to reduce it to a condition of powerlessness and 
discredit, from which even sixteen years afterwards it finds 
it impossible to emerge. 

In 1886 Mr. Gladstone made the question of Home Rule — 
that is, the establishment of a separate Irish National Parlia- 
ment and Government in Dublin — the sole test of Liberalism. 
In the light of subsequent events, it is difficult to suppose 
that the new cause was embraced by the more prominent of 
Mr, Gladstone’s adherents (with the exception of Mr. Morley) 
arith any gpmt intensity of conviction. Still, at the word of 
’Oommand, Home Rulers they became, and Sir Henry Oam;^ 
bell*Bannmman and Mr. Asquith, Lord Rosebery and Sir 
Wfiliam Haroourt vied with each other in_ the vigour with 
which they denounced the wickedness of Liberals who main* 

" Pwttjf PoUtki md the War, ftOli 

tftined tibeir own former principles of attaohipent in the 
canseof the Union, admirably expoanded aa they had been 
np to the last moment of 1885 by Mr. Gladstone nimself. 

What the people of Great Britain thought of all this 
history has made plain. In the gifts which draw popular 
support the Liberal party has never had a leader comparable 
with Mr. Gladstone. IVom 1832 to 1885 the Liberal party 
was distinctly the popular party in Great Britain | their 
opponents relying largely upon what was known as ‘ influence * 
against the mere voice of the crowd. After 1885, it is hardly 
too much to say that all constituencies were ‘ popular oon> 

* stituencies.’ In these fifty-three years the Liberals had for 
the most part prevailed. In the sixteen years since the 
conversion of Liberals into Home Eulers, notwithstanding 
the democratic character of the constituencies, notwith- 
standing that in two out of the three general elections the 
Liberal party as newly constituted was led by Mr. Glad- 
stone himself. Great Britain has steadily supported their 
opponents; and so decisive has been the national verdict 
that Liberal statesmen in opposition now themselves dread 
nothing more than the accusation that they are pledged 
to carry out that Home Rule policy which they had made 
the supreme test of Liberalism I 

So far so good. Home Rule has been killed. Progress 
and reform have been proved to be no monopoly of the 
Liberal party. As a final result of the great measures of 1 832, 
1867, and 1885, there is no longer possible a conflict between 
parties relying the one on popular forces, the other on 
privilege and personal or class influences. Each party now 
draws strength from the same source, and has to appeal to 
popular opinion — the opinion of the masses. Mr. Gladstone’s 
taunt about * the classes ’ did not deceive the electors fifteen 
years ago. The appeal was out of date then. It would be 
even more hopelessly absurd now ; for the classes and the 
masses are in truth indistinguishable. The changes that 
have been made in our electoral system, and not less the 
change that has come over opinion, have made it almost 
impossiblo that the old root distinction between political 
parties should prevail. There is nothing nowadays to make 
a strong desire for reform incompatible with Conservative 
stutesmanship. Democratic developements are as likely tu 
come from Conservatives and Unionists as from Liberali 
and Home Rulers. Free education, rephesentative ceuni^ 
government, extension of Irish land purchase, have bes^ 
amongst the works of Lord Salisbmy’s administratiou ; anil 


Patiy PoUtiet and iha War. Qa^ 

staronger eridence fchere could not be tlmt tbe bistorio pre- 
judices of an antiquated Toryism, if not extinct amongit 
iudiriduals, can no longer direct tbe political action of tiio 
modern Conservative party. 

It seems to be supposed in some quarters that the break- 
ing down of the old distinction between the two Snglish 
parties, the existence in the House of Commons of a tMFd 
— the Irish party — independent of them both, and the 
tendency of the parliamentary Opposition to break up into 
gproups, portend a permanent change in the working of the 
parliamentary system. It is, of course, at the present time 
impossible to classify members of the House of Commons 
simply as supporters of the Government, and as members 
of the Opposition. The majority, it is true, whether they 
call themselves Conservatives or Liberal-TJnionists, do form 
one party, in the old sense of the term ; but the Opposition, 
consisting of those who till lately made Home Buie the 
principal plank of their platform, having for the most part 
dropped Home Buie, seem to have no common bond to 
unite them, no leader to whom they all defer, no general 
tendency even to see eye to eye together on those political 
questions of the day that have the most interest for English- 
men. Still, it is certainly premature to suppose, in conse- 
quence of the disintegrated condition of the Opposition of 
to-day, that the two-party system has permanently broken 

Men who have little practical knowledge of popular 
assemblies, and who are shocked by the unfortunate length 
to which blind partisanship often carries politicians, imagine 
that a House of Commons in which six or seven hundred 
members looked alone for guidance to their own individual 
judgements would be an improvement upon the present, and 
certainly very fiir froto. perfect, representative a^mbly. 
In truth, such a body would be nothing more toan an 
irresponsible mob, which it would be impossible practically 
to call to account, and which would have all the charac- 
teristics — excitability, fickleness, and general foolishness — 
for which mobs, large or small, have from all time been 
distinguished. Parties there must be, and it is surely 
better there should be two great parties the opponents and 
critics of each other, each having before its eyes the respon- 
sibility which attaches to office, actual or potential, than 
that ^litioians should be divid^ into sections, grouj^ 
or cliques, with an administration dependent upon W 
alUaaoes, combinations, and intrigues amongst th^osa. 

Wmrn md ^ Wat, 50 ?^ 

Tlie trath tbat the powerless condition of the 
>sitik>n to day is the natural result of what has ocoarred< 
^IDhn^ is nothing so abnormal in the present situation as to 
lead ns to suppose that the party system in politics, sQch as 
we hare known it in the past, is breaking down, and wilt not 
resume its old sway. The Liberal party in 1886 lost credit 
with the pnblic, as completely as Mr. Fox and his Men^ a 
omitory earlier lost credit with the country in consequence 
of their coalition with Lord North. The power of Pitt 
throve upon the deep national distrnst of his rirals. Lord 
Salisbory’s authority since 1886 has been largely due to a 
similar cause. The effect of the coalition between Mr. 
Gladstone and Mr. Parnell, after all that had occurred, gave 
a shock to the steadying elements in English politics, the 
effect of which has not yet passed away. When on the top of 
this discredit the Opposition found itself in the position of 
official critic of a popular war, it needs little knowledge of 
English history to explain the distressing condition into which 
it has sunk. To refer again to the eighteenth century. Lord 
North’s ministry was one of the most unfortunate that ever 
governed England, yet it lasted longer than almost any 
^her ; and for this reason — that England would have none 
but a fighting ministry, and the Opposition was bent upon 
peace. The disasters of tbe American War would have 
sufficed to turn out Lord North’s government half a doaeu 
times had there been another set of statesmen ready to curry 
out tbe policy of conquering the Americans, upon which nine* 
tenths of the nation had set its heart. When, again, in 18o7 
the Peelites opposed the war with China, Lord Palmerston 
swept tile country; and naturally, since the electors regarded 
the issue as one between ‘an insolent barbarian at Canton’ 
on the one side, and Lord Palmerston, the upholder of the 
honourw the British flag, on the other. One of tbe unhappy 
Peeliterwho urged that ‘ the barbarian ’ bad been unjustly 
treated, and who suffered in conseqaence, long afterward 
recorded bis opinion that the occasion must be rare indeed 
in which the British people would not support its govern- 
ment at the beginning of a war. 

These are considerations of a general character, and they 
are amply sufficient to show that of necessity the position of 
an Opposition at the present time must be an exceedingly 
difficult one. There are, however, special circumstances tba/t 
hate helped still further to promote acinal demoralisatioi 
ba the Liberal party. Mr, Gladstone’s withdrawal left hie 
fioUewers without any commanding authority to which 


Party FoUtia and ih» Wur, Ootu 

mnlc and file of the party, not to mention thoae of moro 
outstanding position, were willing to deihr. In Oppoaitiott 
Lord Boseherf found it impossible to lead the party in the 
country and Sir William Harcoort to lead it in the l^uae of 
Commons. Each may be taken as, to some extent, the 
representative and leader of a strong body of Liberal 
opinion. Each had failed, not on account of deficiencies of 
his own, but in consequence of the divisions which rent 
party Liberalism, to consolidate into one powerful Opposi- 
tion the jarring fragments and sections which only 
Hr. Gladstone’s great personality had been able to control 
and combine. In these adverse circumstances Sir Henry 
Campbell-Bannerman felt it to be his duty to the party to 
accept the Liberal leadership in the House of Commons, 
when it was pressed upon him by every section of Liberal 
opinion, and never did any one take upon himself a more 
thankless task! It was to be his first duty, subject, of 
course, to the higher interests of the country, to keep his 
party together. Every party-leader is of necessity require 
to hold the doctrine of ‘ the great instrument,’ and we have 
no doubt Sir Henry conscientiously believes that the 
existence of a strong and united Liberal Opposition is 
essential to the welfare of the countty. Was he, as the 
accepted leader of the whole party, to identify himself with 
either section of it, and compel the other to leave the 
ranks P This would have presented the singular spectacle 
of a statesman (selected for the express purpose of keeping 
men together) giving the coup de grdce to every hope 
their ultimate union. 

In his capacity of leader Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman 
was entirely justified in inviting the whole body of Liberal 
members of Parliament to meet him at the Reform Club. 
As he truly said, the reasons were obvious, for recent events 
had disclosed a discord in the party which had made united 
action exceedingly difficult. ‘It is my prime duty,’ he 
continued, ‘ as well as my chief desire, to maintain harmony 

* in the party — the harmony without which it cannot fulfil 

* the part it ought to play, and cannot exercise its due 
‘ influence in the State — it becomes necessary for me to 

* ascertain . . . whether I still retain your confidence — the 
*' confidence which is absolutely indispensable toanyefficnrt 

* that I may umke to achieve the purpose of maintaining 
^ harmony in the party.’ That the great difficulty arose in 
consequence of the party being hopelessly divided about the 
war was not in his view correct} for what concerned prac* 


’ 190t« Piirlg P^UHa and ihe Tfor. 

tioftl mflii was not the origin- nor the oondnot of the 
war, bat rather 'the present administration of af^ixs, and 

* afaoTe all the future policy to be adopted in South Africa, 

* a question ftaught with the most momentous oonsequenoes 

* to the Empire, and to the position of this county in ttie 

* world. The whole matter, however — ^and I would impress 
' this strongly upon you that we should never forget it— 

* rests not within our responsibility, but in the responsibility 

* of His M^esty’s Government. I have from first to last, 
' so far as in me lay, done all in my power and exercised 

* every endeavour that I could put forth to save the Liberal 
' party from any share in tbat responsibility.’ 

In speaking as be did Sir Henry used language which 
would in similar circumstances have been employed by any 
leader of Opposition. His position required him to be 
conciliatory, and to minimise differences. Constitutional 
precedent justified him in placing responsibility for the 
present state of affairs entirely upon the advisers of the 
Crown. As a matter of course the vote of continued con- 
fidence in his leadership was carried with acclamation. But 
of greater significance than the vote itself was the line 
taken at the meeting by Mr. Asquith and Sir Edward Grey. 
Their speeches were evidently the result of deliberation, 
and, taken in combination with the subsequent deliverances 
of Lord Rosebery, they indicated possibilities of party de- 
velopement, of vital importance to the Liberal party and 
of considerable interest to the country at large. Mr. 
Asquith spoke with eloquent enthusiasm of the traditions, 
the name, the hopes, and the aim of the great Liberal 
party, which * was to be in the future as it had been in 
' the past, the most fruitful and potent instrument of 
‘ national progress.’ He, however, entirely disagreed with 
his Leader in thinking that differences of opinion as to the 
origin of the war might be minimised with a view to agree<r 
ment as to present policy. Honest differences as to the 
causes of the war most, he insisted, ' colour and influence 
' men’s judgement of the present and their estimate of the 

* future.’ Sir Edward Grey, who, as well as Mr. Asquith, 
spoke with friendly warmth of the great services of Sir 
Henry Campbell-Bannerman, was no less explicit. * I know 
' his (Sir Henry’s) opinion all through has l^n that it w^ 

* possible to find a common ground by suppressing certain 

* differences. I have felt all through that the differences 
‘ were too deep to be suppressed.’ And they_ both reoc^ 
nised the importance of the meeting as establishing hmoS* 


Pmrly PoHHcg o-wd! the Wwr, 

forward their right to express their own indlndnal Opinims 
on the Buliject of the war, a right whieh, it most m said, 
they Wd already most properly established for themss^ves. 
It was a national as well as a party crisis, said Sir Edward 
Grey ; bat * there are two things of which no one can tibink. 

* One is that no man can think of retiring from public life, 
‘ and the other is that no man can think of going over to 

* support the present Government. They are a wOm-ont. 
‘Government that have neither foresight nor grasp in 
‘ things abroad, and no conviction in things at home* 
‘ There is no health nor hope to be found in them.’ 

The public felt a little puzzled at the advice thus given it* 
It is, indeed, clear from Mr. Asqnith and Sir Edward Grey 
that statesmanship, wisdom, virtue are the inheritance of 
the ‘Great Liberal Party,’ though what that remarkahle 
political combination has done, or aspired to do, to entitle it 
to so much public admiration, since it has bad the honour 
of the support of these two gentlemen, is not very evident. 
But surely the simple fact dwelled upon by both — that 
deep differences of opinion divide the Liberal party as to 
the policy to be pursued in South Africa— is sufficient to 
prevent the British people in a time of national crisis from 
feeling a great desire to avail itself of that femous instru* 
ment. If, and it is a mere supposition, LiberaLImperialists 
take substantially the same view of the South African ques- 
tion as does the Government, both as to the policy that has 
been pursued and the policy that is to be pursued, and if 
the times are as serious as Sir Edward Grey most justly 
considers them to be, on what ground is it forbidden to 
think that Liberal-Imperialists might patriotically support 
the present Ministry 9 They might perhaps supply some of 
that ‘ grasp ’ and ‘ foresight ’ which they deem so lacking . 

Some five days after the meeting at the Beform Olub 
Lord Eosebery wrote a letter to the City Liberal Club dis- 
cussing the condition of the Liberal party. ‘Keutrality 
‘ and an open mind,’ the basis of the Beform Club recon- 
ciliation, was little to the taste of the late Liberal Prime 
Minister. ‘ The whole Empire had rallied to the war.' In 
Bueh circumstances Liberal impotence was impossible. ‘ I?h0 
^ area of comprehension is too wide. On this question it 
‘ •embraces the. whole human race. And this question !a 
‘ vital, mowilly and politically. Morally either the war is 

* Inst or unjust. Either the methods are civilised or le^i- 
frinate. If the war be unjust and its m^hods 

‘ Governuiaat and our nation are crimizod,^ md ^ 

911 ' 

1001 . PoUHm and ike Wm 

* «li<nild be Btopmd at any cost. I£ the yrat he jnst, eanial 

* on means which are necessary and lawful, it is our dutjr 

* to support it with all our might in order to hring it to a 

* prompt and supreme conclusion. These are supreme 

* mu 08 j none greater ever dirided two hostile parties, 

* How, then, can our party agree to differ on them?' This 
difference was, according to Lord Bosebery, but one amongst 
a host of oth^r differences. How (he asked) could men 
such as Sir Wilfrid Lawson and Sir Edward Grey be 
members of one party ? The evolution of the Empire had 
produced all this divergence. There were two irreconcile- 
able schools between which the Liberal party most decide > 
between, that is, ‘ Imperialists,’ as the one school calls 
itself, and ‘ Little Englanders,’ as it calls its rival. Until 
this decision was made ^ it is of no use to speak of the grand 

* old principles of the Liberal party. That is all very well 
‘ fbr a peroration. But for practical or business purposes it 
‘ is necessary to know what these principles are as applied 
‘ to the British Empire in the present condition of the 

* world.’ As for himself, Lord Rosebery was determined 
never voluntarily to return to the arena of party politics. 

Lord Rosebery would therefore, it seems, restrict the 
Liberal party to Liberal-Imperialists and enthusiastic sup- 
porters of the war — a rather strange contribution to the 
controversy, if his object be to build up a Liberal Opposi- 
tion — but natural enough, and patriotic to boot, if his 
intention be to strengthen Lord Salisbury’s hands in 
proseonting the present war to a victorious conclusion. 

Having written his letter to the City Liberals on July 16, 
Lord Rosebery on the 18th delivers a long speech to the 
same highly favoured gentlemen, in which the views ex- 
pressed in his letter are expanded and revised. He did 
not complain of the vote of confidence in his old friend 
Sir Henry OampbeU-Bannerman, and he should not like 
to call the meeting of Liberal members of Parliament at 
tbe Reform Club * an organised hypocrisy ; ’ but if its 
policy of party comprehension was pursued, it meant the 
paralysis of the Liberal party. What was needed was a 
party in earnest as to matters of domestic reform, as to 
which the failure of the Government afforded a splendid 
(^^rtunity to the Opposition. ‘You start,’ Lord Rose- 
bery continued, ‘ with a clean slate as regards those cum- 

* b^ome programmes, with which you were overloaded in 

* tha past. You ore disembarrassed from some entanj^big 

* amaameB, You may loooeed to deal in a new spirit wtiin 



Patty PoUtiM and the fTar. 

* the new problems of the ^ as they arrire, and I» Ibt 

* one ... do not yet despair of seeing the Liberal party* 

* or some Such pariy, because if the Liberal party will 

* not undertake it* the matter is of such necessity that 

* some party will create itself — I do not despair of seeing 

* the Liberal party purged of all anti-national elements, 

* and confident therefore of the support of the country in 

* regard to Imperial and foreign questions of policy, pro- 

* ceeding in the work of domestic reform. . . .* And Lord 
Bosebery indulges a hope that Liberal-IJnionists will rally 
to this promising * Liberal party * of the future ; and con- 
cludes his address by declaring that for the present he must 
remain alone and plough his furrow by himself, but before 
he gets to the end of it he thinks it very possible he may not 
be alone. 

What is the upshot of these enigmatic utterances 9 That 
the present Government is to be turned out is common 
ground to the Reform Club meeting and to Lord Rosebery. 
The latter would supply its place by a Liberal Government, 
supported by a party freed from entangling alliances (that 
is to say, which has repudiated Home Rule), and * purged * 
also of those who believe that unwise policy on the part of 
the Government at home and in South AMca had a very 
large share in bringing about the Boer war. We wish Lord 
Rosebery’s speech could have been made to the assembled 
representatives of Liberal constituencies at the Reform Club. 
The purging process to restore the health of, the Liberal 
party sounds a little drastic, and perhaps it might be safer 
to try it, in the first instance, upon Lord Rosebery’s late 
colleagues on the Liberal Front Bench before applying it to 
the whole party in the House of Commons. How far its 
effects might extend, it is not within our province or com- 
petency to say. 

We can judge with more confidence of the probable result 
of the audacious appeal of the late leader of tiie Home Rule 
party to Liberal-Unionists. Lord Rosebery and several, 
possibly a large number of, prominent Liberals are exceed- 
ingly and most intelligibly anxious to bury Home Rule 
altogether. Under the name of Liberal-Imperialists they 
have adopted the principles, so far as we can understand, 
professed and acted upon by Lord Salisbury’s Government. 
Therefore the Liberal-Unionists are to quarrel with Ijord 
Salisbury, and join a party, of which all we know is that 
‘ it will proceed to deal in a new spirit with the new 

* problems of the age as they arrive ’ ! Liberal-Unionists 

190J. JPwfy FoHtic$ m& ih Ifaf. 

'With great Batufi^ction. the desire of Liberal Hottte Belaiei 
ito retom to the older &ith of the Liberal party. Bat 1901 
^ not 1886. Sorely there is a more logical oondoaioa to be 
drawn, from the approximation of Liberal-Imperialists to the 
principles of the whole Unionist party on Home Bale and 
South African qaestions, than that Liberal-Unionists should 
tom their backs on a leader and a party with whom they 
hare now no fundamental difference. But then Sir Edward 
Qrey tells us that that conclusion is unthinkable. And it 
is for Liberal-Imperialists, not for Liberal-Unionists, to 

With an Opposition thoroughly disorganised, and dis- 
united amongst themselves, the House of Commons cannot 
show itself at its best. The presence of the Irish members, 
who make a boast of their national hostility to the cause of the 
Empire, has in the purely party sense been of considerable use 
to the Government. Both as regards policy and administra- 
tion, the interests of the country require that the action of the 
ministry should be subjected to public criticism by men who, 
if they see things from a different standpoint, are as patriotic 
as ministers themselves. But the effect of such criticism is 
destroyed by the association of the critics in the lobby with 
members who frankly avow their determined hatred of the 
British nation, and their hope that victory will be on the side 
of her enemies. In time of war an Opposition is always 
more or less exposed to the hurling against it of the party 
taunt that it sides with its country’s enemies ; but since the 
Opposition of the present day has been till lately closely 
allied with these gentlemen, and still depends upon their 
votes if it wishes to present a tolerable appearance on a 
division, the familiar party missile tells with crashing effect. 

Under these circumstances, where legislation has not beeu 
in question, the Government has had its own way in Parlia- 
ment, and has been subjected to very little effective criticism. 
The ministry has the support of a very large majority, fresh 
from the country, ministers themselves always present a 
united front, and there have been no symptoms whatever of 
differences in the ministerial ranks. Yet the Unionist party 
is not happy I Its frame of mind is not that of a triumphant 
majority, which has lately had from the constituencies a new 
lease of power. It votes straight, but it grumbles mightily j 
and both inside and outside the House of Commons it would 
be idraurd to pretend that * depression ’ is not the special uote 
of the day. 

Why is this? Too much by far has been said as to tho 

Fari^ PoldHc9 md the Wfttd 'Oeife. 

unpoptilaritjr caused by the ministerial reooaitniotioii* ISd 
one, however, has pointed ont the omission oiKce 
those who would conspicuously have brought weight to tise 
administration. Dissatisfaction of this sort is keen, rftther 
than widely spread; for the country at large takes very 
little interest in the filling of minor offices. Fatting tfa« 
matter at its worst — ^viz. that Lord Salisbury has shown, an 
* undue preference * for his own relations, some of whom 
happen, as a matter of fact, to be amongst the ablest men 
in Parliament — the country would hardly take it very 
seriously to heart. What oppresses the Unionist party is a 
deep sense of dissatisfaction with the state of the Douse of 
Commons and with the state of the country ; 8bn4 It looks 
to the Government to show vigour and determii^tion in, 
putting things right. 

It is certain that the arrangements for the satisffictoiy 
transaction of business in the House of Commons require to 
be thoroughly overhauled to enable that assembly adequately 
to perform its proper functions. Legislation, of course, m 
only one of these functions. Another, not less important, 
is to debate the policy of ministers of the Crown, and to 
criticise their action and the conduct of the administrative 
departments. The failure of the Government last session 
to pass into law the principal measures that had been 
promised in the King’s Speech ought not to be entirtiy 
attributed to the defective business arrangements of the 
House of Commons. The country being for the time in- 
different to everything but the war, and Parliament closely 
reflecting the national mood, it is natural enough that 
little important legislation was accomplished, and that there 
has been no strong general dissatisfaction expressed at the 
smallness of the legislative output. 

It would be premature — and this would hardly be the 
place — to consider in detail the alteration of porliamentmry 
procedure which the times demand. When a minister of 
the Crown proposes in any way that the House should 
restrict what are called the privileges of private members, 
a storm is at once raised, as if the issue were onO between 
a bureaucratic administration on the one side and a free 
House of Commons on the other. Now, the simple truth of 
the matW is that reform, involving no doubt the restriction 
of much-abused privileges, is as much needed in the intesest 
of the House of Commons as in that of the administmtimi. 
Supplteai must be voted. Administrative business must be 
got through ; but upon the adequacy of the debate dc^iend 

1901 . 

Pmea md the hU 

iili Qs^lnem and t}ie repiitatioa of the Hotiso of Oomtaoai. 
Baiiitf last fiessioa-^-^d the same may be said of all 
sessions — the most important business 'with whioh Fatrlia* 
ment had to deal nras so-called ‘ ministerial business/ It 
Yvas this in 'which the country, as well as nine-tenths of 
the House of Commons, was interested, and for which it was 
desirable to have ample time for debate. Yet, whenever 
Hr. Arthur Balfour, who after all cannot make time, asked 
to increase the time available for the discussion of this, 
tibie principal business before Parliament, at the expense 
of the time allotted by the ordinary rule to what is known 
as 'the business of private members,’ a storm arose as if 
his proposals were not made mainly in the .interests of the 
House of Commons itself. There is ample time between 
February and August for the House of Commons to do its 
work thoroughly, if only it will conduct its business in a 
businesslike way, and if only private members will re- 
member that they owe some consideration to the working 
efficiency of the assembly of which they are a part. Of 
course, if 670 individual members were to proceed on the 
principle of putting as many questions, and making as many 
speeches at any possible stage, as the forms of the House 
permit, the whole thing would break down. The House has 
been too long-suffering towards those who, whilst they of 
necessity respect the leHer of its rules and forms, do violence 
'to the spirit by which in the past Parliaments have been 
guided. We are afraid it is impossible to ignore the fact, 
due to various causes, that the respect of the individual 
member to the House as a whole, and as an institution, is 
ffir less than it was. 

The great difficulty in reforming procedure lies in the fact 
thatit is the abuse of privileges and rules, in themselves very 
valuable, that has to be checked, and care must be taken in 
uprooting the tares not to tear up the wheat also. The 
iright 'bo put a question on the floor of the House to any 
minister about the conduct of his department affords, un* 
doubbedly, great protection to the public, and many of our 
permanent officials are aware of the good that has sometimes 
in this way been effected. Undoubtedly, also, it is a pro- 
tection to the public that private legislation should at 
certain stages have to face the ordeal of public debate in the 
whole House. Publicity in private Bill le^slation is of 
much importance for many reasons, and there is no publi^y 
te equal that obtained by full parliamentary discussion# 
Agam, motions for the adjournment of the House in order 

516 Piuriy PoUHet md the Wm-i Ods» 

t6 diaciMB some definite matter of ttrgent polfiie importalixuse 
may be of the greatest utility. It is clear that, ytheiiAuit thd 
Government l£kes it or not, there should be a means of 
discussing in the great assembly of the nation occurrenoes 
of real urgency and national importance. Here it is easily 
conceivable that the immediate interest and advantage of 
the ministers may not coincide with the interest and advan- 
tage of the nation ; and if they wished to burke discussion a 
mechanical majority would always enable them to do so. 

Now as regards these three matters — Questions, PriyateBill 
Legislation, Motions for the Adjournment — if only members 
would make a moderate and responsible use of the privil^es 
afforded them there would be no necessity for mak ing great 
changes in the rules. It must always be remembered that 
it is only by a very limited number of members that what 
may be called the business-spirit of the House is set at 
nought. These are, however, sufficient in number and per- 
sistent enough in temperament to Inflict great injury upon 
the House by diminishing the time available for the proper 
purpose of debate. The first feeling that strikes a stranger 
visiting the House is the sense of what can only be called 
the insincerity of a large part of its proceedings. Questions, 
maybe a hundred and fifty, are asked, eight or ten, jmr- 
haps, by the same member. There is hardly a pretence 
that any public purpose is served by the putting or answer- 
ing of nine-tenths of these questions in a full House at the 
time of public business. The member could be supplied 
with the information sought by the written answer of the 
minister, and the answer might, if it were thought desirable, 
be circulated with the votes. It was in this fashion that 
till lately almost all members obtained the information 
desired. It would be interesting to know how many ques- 
tions were put during their long parliamentary careers by 
the last three * Fathers of the House of Commons,’ and it is 
certain that the total of all three would not approach the 
record of several individual members daring last session 
alone. During that session G,418 questions were asked, 
and there are no existing means of preventing this pre- 
posterous number being largely increased. 

The quite modem practice of debating at length private 
Bills on the second and third reading has grown largely out of 
a desire to shoiten the time available for public business, an d 
thereby to hinder the progress of some ministerial measure 
or other BUI to which objection is taken. Even where these 
debates are quite genuine, it must be said that as a rule a fhll 



Party Politiea and the War, 

House of Commons is a tribunal singularly ill fitted to perform 
the semi-judicial functions required. The judgement should 
turn on the evidence ; but here ear parte statements only are 

S ilt before a generally empty chamber, and the decision is 
len given by a comparatively full House, the majority of 
members voting in complete ignorance of the merits of the 

Motions for the adjournment are also unfortunately 
largely resorted to for the purpose of abstracting time 
intended to be allotted to * Government business,’ that is, to 
the principal business before Parliament. If what was in- 
tended to be an exceptional proceeding in case of national 
urgency comes to be used as a convenient method of delaying 
Government business, or as a suitable occasion for delivering 
speeches on the subject of the leading articles in the morning’s 
newspapers, the rule must, of course, be modified. 

It is important to notice that in all the three cases with 
which we have been dealing, it is the efficiency of the House 
itself much more than the mere convenience of the Govern- 
ment of the day that is concerned. It is the House of 
Commons as a legislative body and as the great arena of 
national debate that requires protection against those who 
are hampering its action and injuring its reputation. It 
behoves the Government, and in an especial degree the 
leader of the House of Commons, to lay before that assembly 
at an early date proposals to restore to it its old efficiency, 
to give to it something like a command of its own time, 
and to defend it against those within, whether they be the 
avowed foes of the British parliamentary system, or those 
whose personal idiosyncrasies cause them to flout every con- 
sideration of parliamentary propriety and convenience. 

Mr. Arthur Balfour is singularly well fitted to perform 
what is undoubtedly a difficult task. He has been himself 
something of a free lance, and his long subsequent career as 
minister and ex-minister has not led him into a favourite 
delusion of the official mind — that the two Front Benches 
constitute the House of Commons. It has been his duty to 
make more free use of the instrument of closure than any of 
his predecessors, but yet it is universally recognised that no 
one is by nature less inclined to silence arbitrarily hona-Jide 
opposition and argument. When debate proceeds far beyond 
that limit the House of Commons in the past has been 
able to defend itself against indefinite prolongation of un- 
profitable talk on the part of members lacking the sense of 
personal responsibility, and without respect for the genciral 


Party PoUUcs <mm1 ^ War* 

sentiment and dignity of the assembly. Closaro by oxiderly 
clamour, if ibe expression may be used, that is to say, by 
the refusal of the House itself to hear more, worked ^ 
former days well enough, and by its means certain weU- 
understood practices as to the regular winding-up debates 
were enforced. Some years ago, however, it was demon- 
strated that the old instrument of closure had lost its 
efficacy, and it became desirable to forge a new one. Xn one 
way or another it has always been necessary for the House 
as a whole to protect itself against the domination of reckless 
or perverse individuals or cliques amongst its own membmrs. 
It is the I'oot principle of parliamentary government that 
after full discussion the majority shall prevail; and those 
are not the friends but the enemies of free parliamentary 
institutions who, in the much-abnscd names of freedom of 
debate and sacredness of the privileges of the represen- 
tatives of the people, are ready to take from majorities their 

There are two great and guiding principles which we 
hope will find very large support on both sides of the House 
of Commons, when in the near future it becomes necessary 
to revise its rules. Every precaution must be taken to 
prevent the repression of unpopular opinion. The opinions, 
for instance, of the Irish members cannot but be deeply 
oflensive to tlic sentiments of Englishmen and Scotsmen. 
Nevertheless, they are the representatives, the constitutional 
spokesmen, of the majority of the Irish people. Ireland is 
the sore part of the generally healthy body of this kingdom, 
and if there is any merit at all in the representative system, 
the representatives of an uneasy, troubled, discontented 
region will surely reflect the temper of those who elect 
them. In these times we hear it glibly said that the House 
of Commons should not tolerate within it men who express 
this, that, or the other opinion. For these opinions they 
are accountable to their own consciences and to their own 
constituents, not to the majority of the House of Commons, 
were that majority ninety-nine hundredths of its whole 
body. What would be the use of a House of Commons if 
the representatives of the dissatisfied portion of the com- 
munity were to be excluded 9 and where would exclusion 

The second great principle concerns the duo enforcing of 
order. During last session lamentable want of respect was 
shown to the spirit of the injunctions that came from 
Giuur. If one member was called to order, another member 



F0s4y PcUtici andt the 

vrould spring up and commit preoiselj the Mine ol^eej 
and occasionally an offending member seemed to tbink it 
'vras his business to argue with the Chair rather than to 
obey it. In Mr. Gully the House has a Speaker of absolute 
impartiality and of singular quickness, discretion, tact, and 
temper ; qualities which it is given to few men to combine 
in an equal degree. Nevertheless, his authority, that is the 
authority of the House itself, was several times violently 
disputed, and scenes took place calculated greatly to dia> 
credit tlie House of Commons. It is not sufficient merely to 
punish offenders in these cases. Indeed it is not at 
pnnishment we should aim, so much as at the Siiving the 
House of Commons from a state of disorder fatal to its 
efficiency and most damaging to its reputation. For 
flagrant and determined resistance to the authority of 
the Chair, the House of Commons should susjieud the 
offender for the duration of the Pai’liameut which he has 
done his best to injure and degrade. 

The task of reconciling liberty with order is never an easy 
one ; but if the Government will proceed upon sound 
principles they will surely find it possible to do much to 
restore the House of Commons to its proper position hi the 
eyes of Englishmen. Mr. Balfour has behind him a very 
large majority, and there are men opposite him not less eager 
than the Unionists to maintain the dignity and officieucy of 
Parliament; next year, therefore, should see the accom- 
plishment of intei'ual reforms, which cannot in safety be 
longer delayed if the efficiency of the parliamentary machine 
is to continue. 

The proposal to reduce the number of Irish members has 
been discussed, as if it formed part of a scliome for the 
improvement of House of Commons procedure. Doubtless the 
diminution, by thirty or so, of the Irish representatives would 
improve the composition of the House, since amongst the Insh 
party is to be found almost the whole of the flagrantly dis- 
orderly element of which we have been speaking. That 
would be an incidental advantage, resulting from a measure 
demanded by sound policy and equity on other grounds ; a 
reform which should be carried into effect at the first con- 
venient season. The Home Holers in these latter days have 
become affected with an extraordinary reverence for the 
Irish Act of Union. The Act provided that the represen* 
tation of Ireland should be one hundred members, that 
'figure having been chosen after a considera tion of the nnmhevyi 
and wealth of the Irish people as compared with other 


Party Polities and the Wat, Obt. 

parts of the kingdom a century ago. A hundred years before, 
at the time of the Scottish Union, the number of Scottish 
members had been fixed permanently in a similar fashion. 
But 1707 and 1801 are respectively two centuries and ono 
century behind us. It is no real disrespect to our ancestors 
to be just to ourselves, in circumstances which they were 
unable to foresee. We must not let the dead hand rule too 
rigidly the energies of the living. So, at all events, 8tates<- 
men and Parliaments reasoned in 1832, in 1867, and in 1884. 
In 1832 the representation of Scotland was increased from 
45 to 53, that of Ireland from 100 to 105, that of Wales 
from 24 to 29, whilst the representation of England was 
reduced by 18 members. In 1867, 7 more seats were 
given to Scotland, 1 to Wales, while 8 were taken from 
England. In 1885, England had an increase of 2 seats, 
Scotland of 12, Wales remained unchanged, and Ireland 
lost 2. In the last half-century there has been a very 
large migration from Ireland to England and Scotland, 
where the result has been to modify very considerably the 
political colour of many constituencies. It is difficult 
under all these circumstances to understand the conten- 
tion that Ireland should for ever retain a much larger 
proportionate share of representation in Parliament than 
other parts of the United Kingdom. Of the justice and 
desirableness of the change proposed there can be no 
doubt ; but as to the means by which it should be brought 
about there is room for much difference of opinion. 
Should Ireland alone be dealt with, or should the redis- 
tribution be general, and on one principle, throughout all 
the constituencies of the kingdom P 

It is, however, certain that in times such as these Parlia- 
ment will postpone domestic questions of great difficulty to 
the primary object of bringing to an end the South African 
war. We have now entered upon its third year. Many 
delusions, due to British ignorance of the conditions of 
the South African problem, have been swept away. The 
gloomiest anticipations of those who in the past deprecated 
every step that tended to bring nearer to us the overwhelm- 
ing calamity to the Empire and South Africa of racial war 
have been more than fulfilled; and men are now beginning to 
ask themselves, as well they may, whether, after all, the 
ultimate effect of a war which has cost us so dear will be 
to render more secure than formerly British rule in South 

We do not intend now to go into the right or the wrong. 

1901. Party Politics and the TTo.r. 521 

the wisdom or the folly, of what occurred before the war. 
Since it beg^n the gpreat majority of Englishmen and Dutch* 
men, on the one side and the other, have been convinced 
that with their foes it was simply from the beginning and 
by design a war of conquest. The British meant to conquer 
the Bepublics. The Boers meant to drive the British out of 
South Africa. And each nation, looking only to the evidence 
in support of its own side of the case, triumphantly appeals 
to the annexation declarations of its enemy as proof positive 
of the truth of its own contention ! 

What we have to deal with is the war as it stands to-day, 
ond, however men may differ as to its causes, there surely 
can be no difference as to what it now involves. If the 
British are victorious, the Republics will be conquered. 
Nothing less than complete annexation — that is, conquest — 
can possibly be accepted as the condition of peace. The 
Boers, therefore, are fighting for ‘national independence. 
On the other hand, Boer success now would mean the over- 
throw of British power throughout South Africa. For such 
causes as these brave men will fight their hardest, and make 
almost any sacrifices. Already the British have sacrificed 
very much in the loss of valuable lives, and in a gigantic 
expenditure of public money. The Boers have lost almost 
everything they possessed. A very large proportion of the 
whole manhood of the population, including old men and 
boys, are in exile. Never probably in modern times have 
the consequences of war fallen with greater severity on a 
whole people ; for we have had to fight not an army of pro- 
fessional soldiers, but the whole citizenship of the two 
States. As with every war of independence against over- 
powering strength, the majority of those possessing means 
and substance — that is, those having most to lose - are 
willing to succumb sooner than the ‘ broken men ’ who, 
under high-spirited leaders, determine whilst life remains to 
prolong the struggle. This is the stage at' which the war 
has arrived. 

Yet it can hardly be described with truth as a guerilla 
war. The Boers are led in the field by known commandoi'S, 
in considerable bodies. As a general rule, they respect the laws 
of war. They attack positions even when strongly held. And 
they pursue our own practices of night attacks, sudden sur- 
prises, and the ‘ rushing * of encampments. They still show 
themselves able to make considerable captures of men and 
supplies, and almost invariably put their prisoners at liberty 
after they have possessed themselves of their ammunition, 

522 Party Politics and the War. Oct» 

coats, and boots. They do not, indeed, wear uniform, for 
the sufficient reason that they never possessed any j but they, 
nevertheless, seem to come within the meaning of the term 
‘ belligerent,’ as asserted by Sir John Ardagh, vrhen repre- 
senting Great Britain at the Hague Conference. After the 
commandoes have been dispersed, and their leaders hare 
been taken, it is by no means improbable that in so vast a 
country we shall still have to meet and put down with a 
strong hand a good deal of real guerilla warfare and sheer 
brigandage. For the present the war goes on. 

The Government at the last general election received a 
double mandate. The war, then believed to be very nearly 
over, was to be brought to aii immediate and victorious con- 
clusion ; and a constitutional system of government, resting 
upon the basis of political equality amongst Europeans, was 
to be established throughout South Africa. No efforts were 
to be spared to accomiilish the first. When the first had 
been accomplished, the second was to follow as soon as 
possible. The Boers had excluded the British from the 
franchise in the Transvaal ; but under the British flag all 
would be equal ; and South Africa would take its place by the 
side of Canada and Australia as a great self-governing colony 
of the British Empire. The Government has found itself 
unable so far to give effect to the popular demand. And, 
truth to tell, the nation has not even yet grasped the 
gigantic nature of the taf'k which lies before it; for wlien at 
last the conquest is complete, will the constitutional govern- 
ment of South Africa be much nearer? 

What is only too certain is that the condition of South 
Africa at the present time, in the annexed States and in 
the British Colonies, is disastrous, and that the longer this 
lasts the more impossible will it be to return to a healthy 
state of things. Not only so. The British Empire hfis 
interests to guard all over the world, and it is sheer blind- 
ness to ignore all dangers that do not arise directly from the 
mobility of the commandoes of Botha and Delarey. The 
violence of the feeling against Great Britain among the 
nations of Europe cannot be disregarded. Sometimes even 
wise and prudent Governments have in unhappy moments 
given way to, or been carried away by, the vehemence of 
popular passion which they were unable or unwilling to 
control. These 'are democratic times, and even autocratic 
rulers may find it necessary, or at least highly desirable for 
their own sakes, to ride on the crest of the wave of siatUig 
popular feeling. Nothing is to be gained by blinking the 

Pofiy PoUiicB and the Wm. 52® 

&ct that every montla that the war la«t$ mcrease® the 
dangers to which an Empire such as ours always stands 
exposed— diangers which might very easily become guenter 
than any that have threatened it since the close ol the 
great war at Waterloo. 

Do we know the whole truth about South Africa P Never 
in recent times has the public been so completely dependent 
for information upon purely oiB&cial news ; and for months 
together all that we get from these sources is the result 
of disconnected skirmishes fought at distances of many 
hundred miles from each other, which are very often with- 
out any important consequences. Lord Milner is now back 
again at Pretoria., and it is time that another general 
view of the whole situation should be laid before tbe 
country, such, for instance, as he gave of South Africa in 
the month of February last. It was then frankly confessed 
that the preceding six months had been a ^ period of retro- 
^ gression.’ Has retrogression ceased ? Is the complete 
subjugation of the two States really close at hand 9 And has 
the danger which has seemed of late to trouble Cape Colony 
and Natal finally passed away? It is distressing to find 
after two years’ war that our troops have still to be employed 
in defending the frontiers of Natal from Boer attack, and 
to read accounts of aggi^essive Boer action in very widely 
separated districts of Cape Colony itself. It would seem 
that a country of the almost boundless extent with which 
our forces are dealing does not feel itself really conquered 
because of the military occupation of the railways and the 
holding of the more important towns. 

Now our wish is not to deal with the detail of the military 
situation in South Africa, so much as to consider the 
political position created by it at home, and what prospect 
there may be of the country finding a wa.y out of very press- 
ing difficulty and danger, by having recourse to new political 
combinations* The Government have, it is true, not, so far, 
succeeded in carrying out the mandate of the nation. But, 
for our part, we are entirely unable to see, considering the 
essential difficulties of the ease, that any other Government 
following the same policy would have been more successful# 
If Lord Eosebery, Mr. Asquith, and Sir Edward Grey art' 
really in possession of ' foresight, grasp, and skill ’ which will 
enable them to triumph over all difficulties, and to give us 
victory and peace, we believe that in the present natioual 
emergency the country, setting aside party predilections^ 
would gladly entrust them with power. Theirs is the' only 


Party Polities and the Waf, Oct. 

eootion of the Liberal party which the nation would trust to 
carry out its will, that is in the first instance to achieve oom-^ 
plete victory in South Africa. But we are entirely unable to 
discover when these statesmen in the past have been more 
in the right than the Government, in the view they have 
taken either of the political condition, of that continent or 
of the conduct of the war. In the light of the great events 
that have been taking place, the letting loose of tremendous 
forces, the clash of national passions, the criticism of Liberal- 
Imperialists strikes the public as almost microscopic. Had 
five or six thousand more troops been sent to Africa earlier 
before the outbreak of war, how much better it would have 
been ! If only Lord Lansdowne and Lord 'Wolseley had 
pulled better together ! If only the Government had 
despatched disciplined regular troops of the best quality 
rather than raw yeomanry ! If two years ago these states- 
men had been in power, they would not have had, any more- 
than had Lord Salisbury, an army of a quarter of a million 
men at command. They would have bad to do what after 
all Lord Lansdowne and his advisers achieved very remark- 
able success in doing — they would have had to create one. 
Why they should have done this better does not appear. 
Surely all this is to make the mistake natural enough to 
statesmen in opposition — that of attributing difficulties 
intrinsic to the policy pursued entirely to errors of 
management and administration. In such gigantic opera- 
tions as we have been engaged in, some mistakes will always 
be made. We do not wish to excuse them ; but in the last 
two years the faults and blunders brought home to adminis- 
tration have been far lees frequent and less important than 
those that have marked the carrying on of any of our 
historical great wars. The grand error of all, the blind- 
ness as to the consequences which racial war would bring 
upon South Africa and the Empire, a blindness which in our 
opinion at least told upon policy, they shared to the full with 
the members of Lord Salisbury’s administration. 

We are not concerned to deny the truth of some of the 
criticisms that fall from the Liberal-Imperialists, nor is the 
criticism that comes from the more Badical section of the 
Opposition without weight. For instance, what has been 
said as to the mischief done by farm-burning as a military 
policy was certainly well founded. And the objections 
taken to some of the proclamations both of Lord Boberts 
and Lord Kitchener were perfectly sound, and it was right 
that they should be noticed in Parliament. The proposed 

1901. party PdUH^ and the Wat, 508 

exiliog for life of those Boer leaders who had not surrendered 
before September 15, was rightly shown by Mr. Asquith to 
be beyond the authority of the military or civil eiecu** 
tive. When liOrd Durham, possibly for very good reasons, 
exercised authority not altogether dissimilar in regard to 
French Canadians, the Whig Government of the day found 
it impossible to support his action. After the Bepublican 
States have been really conquered, their citizens will have 
the rights of British subjects according to law, which law 
can, of course, only be abrogated or modified by a competent 
legislature, local or imperial. The idea that when the war 
is over, the liberties and rights of South African Dutch will 
be determined by military proclamations issued during the 
extreme stress of a mighty struggle, ought to be completely 
dispelled. Martial law has unfortunately been a necessity 
of the position with which we have had to deal. Enforced 
over limited districts, and only for a short time, it might do 
little harm ; but nothing can be worse than its effect upon 
the ordinary population where it is unduly prolonged. The 
dislike to mai’tial law is a natural and most wholesome 
instinct of Englishmen, and no folly could be greater than 
the maintenance of such a system in any locality an hour 
longer than the safety of the public and the actual peace of 
the district demand. 

We have no desire to deprecate public criticism of the 
action of the Government or its agents. During the last 
few years we have had perhaps too little rather than too 
much criticism. Only do not let us suppose, because occa- 
sionally mistakes have been made in administration, some of 
them serious ones, that our present most difficult position 
is mainly due to them. The conquering of the Republics, 
having regard to the general condition of South Africa, 
could not in the nature of things be anything but a gigantic 
undertaking j and it would be most unfair to attribute our 
present stress to the supposed lapses of Mr. Brodrick or to 
an alleged want of genius amongst our generals in the field. 

Far the best speech made in the House of Commons 
during last session on the South African question was that 
of Sir Edward Grey. It was admirable both in substance 
and in tone. Whilst criticising with effect where he had 
to blame, he did not forget the necessities of the case, 
nor lose sight in these necessities of the ultimate result 
which we hoped to achieve. * Tou cannot, when the 
* country is in a state of war, have the operation of the 
‘ ordinary law, but admitting that martial law is necessary, 


Party Politics md ike War. Oot, 

< the more reason for great care in the exeoutiott of it/ 
Capital punishment might he unavoidable in certain cases ; 
but in our proceedings there should be at least some sort 
of dignity, and he censured most properly the conduct of 
those who had compelled the friends of the condemned men 
to be present at their execution — * a reversion to ancient 
‘ methods ’ which is hardly credible, and which, as he said, 
‘must tend to greater exasperation without having any 
^ more deterrent effect/ Again, it was probable that the 
camps for the Boer women and children were a necessity, 
but the Government in doing its best to improve tne 
sanitary condition would receive assistance — not hindrance — 
from the utmost possible publicity as to their real state. 
Vigorous common sense also marked his comments on that 
most serious step — the suspension of the constitution in Cape 
Colony — a step which could not but be regarded with 

* But we have it before ua as a temporary measure, which excites 
no protest in Cape Col<»ny itself, and I make no protest against it here. 
But 1 dvrell on this, the suspension must be temporary ; otherwise 
your government in the Cape must tend to become arbitrary ; and if 
you once carry the suspension so long as to have discontent excited, 
the mere existence of discontent makes it more dilHcult to resume the 
constitutional situation afterwards/ 

But the words which it is most essential for Englishmen 
to bear in mind were those spoken of the future : — 

* After the war ^ve want South Africa to settle down. Two races 
there must be ; but if we are agreed on the lines of the settlement, 
thoTigh there be two races, nuty they not feel that there is but one 
mind at home ? I can imagine nothing more deplorable than having one 
race appealing to one party in this country^ and the other race appealing 
to the other iiarty.^ 

And Sir Edward then referred with approval to Mr. 
Chamberlain’s excellent speech last winter as to the terms 
on which the Government were willing to make peace, and 
the sort of settlcraent to which they were looking. On 
those lines he thought Englishmen in general might agree 
to work. 

Thatj no doubt, is what they ought to do. But a moderate 
course, if the only right and wise one, and the only one 
moreover which has iu it any prospect of success, will be 
little to the taste of either of the extreme parties in South 
Africa or at home. It is but natural that there almost all 
should be extremists, and the Government will have to 
'exhibit considerable firmness if it is to adhere to a really 


PaHy Poiiiica and ike War, 


statesmanlike policy of Soutk African 

tlie Liberal-Imperialists may do good work in strengtaem „ 

^^^^^iberal-Imperialists, if they understand theix own 
position, may render great services to the State in its present 
exigencies. They may strengthen the Government g^. 
they may do much to keep it out of mistakes, mto whic 
possibly some of its own followers might push it. 

Qiem are very able and pnblic-sptrited men, and their 

leaders at least are aware of the 

ffovernment under which alone our great Colonial Bmpiu 
fan be retained. But do not let them 
that they can, as things stand, reconstruct the 
party in opposition to the Unionist Government and prepare 
to take its place. No opposition wm ei^r founded upo i 
the basis of agreement with the Ministry on the great 
question of the day ; and this, so far as we f J 

it, is the position at present taken by Lord ^ 

Mr. Asquith. They are ready, even anxious, to abandon 
Homo Buie; and though to zealous 

their opponents it may seem the clever game to ^ 

the whole of the Liberal party with the principles ot its 
least admirable members, more patriotic men will 
at the tardy escape of an effective portion of the 
army from a policy so much opposed to 
bein". We fail, however, to see how all this brings 
‘ Liberal reconstruction’ any nearer, or to understand what 
is to be done with Liberals, and they are many, and 7 
of them are statesmen of mark, who repudiate the principles 
of Lord Rosebery and Mr. Asquith. If Liberal-Imperialists 
are prepared to part with so large a section of Liberals, in 
Xt wL is the loss to be made good? Lord Rosebery is 
samruine that in the future a ‘ Liberal party, or some such 
‘ pafty,’ will put everything straight. We shall jatcli with 
interest the growth and developement of the_ Some Sudi 
‘ Party.’ ‘ Imperialists ’ are, we believe. Unionists. ludt «.a 1, 
this seems to be not the least definite part of their 
so far at least we wish them success. 
subject of Home Rule, and on the great 

they are in agreement with his Majesty s Mmisteis, what 

^^Tm thrUmStTarty breaks up, the notion 
Ministry victorious over Unionists, Radicals, and Horn© 
Rulers, IS of course a dream. But the Unionist 1 arty ©“owa 
no sign of breaking up. Should Lord Salisbury, after a long 


Oct. 1901. 

Party PoliHet and ihe War, 


and brilliant career, feel himself compelled by the weight of 
advancing years to withdraw from public life, great though 
the loss would be to his party and to the country, the con- 
sequences would not be such as followed the retirement of 
Mr. Gladstone. The choice of his successor would be limited 
by the fact, that in the House of Lords no one could 
take place above the Duke of Devonshire, whilst in the 
House of Commons no one could be put over Mr. Balfour. 
It would be for the Sovereign to decide which of the two 
statesmen he should ask to form a Ministry, and there are 
no precedents to prevent him selecting the Minister in his 
opinion best able to form and keep together a strong Go- 
vernment. Whatever his choice, the party situation would 
remain unchanged. 

The almost unanimous desire of the people is to strengthen 
the existing Ministry, not to weaken it ; for in the existing 
crisis all men feel that party considerations are small indeed 
as compared with the national interests which are at stake. 

No. CeeXOIX. will be published in January, 1902. 




Acton^ Lord^ his ‘ Lecture on Study of History ^ reviewed, 92, 


Bagoty i?., his ‘ Casting of Nets ’ reviewed, 276. 

Balfour^ J. J., his address at Cambridge Local Lectures reviewed, 92. 

Barbour^ Sir D,^ his report on Finances of the Transvaal ifec. 
reviewed, 220. 

Bigham^ C7., his ‘ Year in China ^ reviewed, 148. 

Bleloch^ IF., his * New South Africa ' reviewed, 220. 

Boutmy^ JF., his essay on the English people reviewed, 132. 


Caird^ Dr. E.y his ‘ Social Philosophy of Corate * reviewed, 93. 

Cappon, «/., his ^ Britain’s Title to South Africa ’ reviewed, 220. 

Chang Ch%h-Tung^ his ‘ China’s only Hope ’ reviewed, 148, 

China^ review of books concerning, 148 — early Russian relations 
with China, 148 — advance of Russian boundaries in tlie Far East, 
149 — railway across Manchuria to Vladivostock, 149 —first Anglo- 
Chinese treaty, 150— British trade with China, 150 — war of 1839 
and foreign occupation of Peking, 161 — China- Japan war, 163 
German occupation of Kiao-ehau, 154 — Russians at Port Arthur 
and Ta-lien-wan, 155— British lease of Wei-hai-wei, 166— non- 
alienation of Yang- tsze region, 169 — British railway concessions 
in China, 160 — ‘battle of concessions,’ 161 — ‘open door* and 
‘spheres of influence,’ 163 — Anglo-Russiau agreement, 163--* 
Germany contests English rights on Yang-tsze, 164 — Boxer 
rising, 165 — Legations besieged in Peking, 166 — Admiral 
Seymour's relief expedition, 167 — international occupation of 
Peking, 168 — flight of the Court to Si-ngau-fu, 169 — weakness \u 
British diplomacy, 169 — ‘Concert’ of the Powers, 170 — Count 
von Waldersee in command of international forces, 171 — results 
achieved by the expedition, 172 — return of troops, 173 — Russian 
annexation of Manchuria, 173 — Japan and Russia in Korea, 174 
— mistakes in dealing with the Chinese, 175 — Yang-tszo Viceroys, 
176 — Chang Chih-Tung on reforms in China, 176 — rescript of 
Emperor Kwang Hsu, 177 — attitude of Germany, France, an<l 
Russia, 178 — barren results of British policy, 179. 

Consumption^ The Fight against^ review of papers concerning, 438 
— Dr. Koch on relations of human and bovine tuberculosis, 438 — 
Dr. Brouardel on tuberculous infection, 439 — contaminated moat 
and milk, 439 — open-air milking and boiling of milk, 440-*-* 
mortality from tuberculous cows* milk, 441 — fresh-air treatment, 

442 — consumption not hereditary, 443 — proportion of case# cured, 

443— causes and prevention of phthisis, 444---out-door life inimical 



to the disease, 446 — diminution of mortality resulting from im- 
provements in hygiene, 448— dried sputum the chief contami- 
nating agency, 418 — dusty rooms and crowded carriages, 449— 
insanitary habits, 450 — ^lessons from treatment of leprosy, 461 — 
measures of prevention adopted in France, Germany, Norway, 
and America, 452 — air in the dwelling, 463 — sanatoria, 453 — 
germs carried by dust, 456 — open-air cure, 456 — ‘over- work ' and 
under-oxygenation, 458 — draughts and ventilation, 459 — relief for 
congestion of population, 461. 

Cook^ £, y., his book on Transvaal War reviewed, 220. 

Gorheii^ Julian /S., his books on Drake and the Spanish war, 
reviewed, 1. 

lOourthope, W. J,, his ‘ Life in Poetry and Law in Taste * reviewed, 

Creed, Sibyl, her ‘ Vicar of St. Luke’s ’ reviewed, 276. 

Cui, C., his history of music in Russia reviewed, 363. 


Dellenhaugh, S,, his ‘North American Indians of Yesterday’ 
reviewed, 180. 

Drake and his S'liccessors, review of Mr. Corbett’s books concerning, 
1 — early sea training, 3 — first brush with Spaniards as captain 
of the ‘Judith,’ 4 — expedition to Guinea, in the ‘Swan,’ 6 — 
wounded at Nombre de Dios, 6 — his mysterious disappearance, 
7 — ^privateering, 7 — Spanish armament of 1674 foils through an 
epidemic, 8 — with the Earl of Essex in UJster, 8 — voyage round 
the world and capture of Spanish treasure-ship, 9 — Italians and 
Spaniards land in Ireland, 9 — Drake’s piracies condoned by 
Elizabeth, 10 — relative naval strength of England and Spain, 11 
— raid on West Indies, 12 — burns Spanish fleet at Cadfiz, 13 — 
destroys coasting vessels at Sagres, 14 — capture of the ‘San 
Felipe’ off the Azores, 15 — battles with the Armada in the 
Channel, 17 — Lisbon Expedition under Drake and Norreys, 20 — 
abortive attempt on the West Indies, and death of Drake and 
Hawkyns, 23 — Essex and Howard attack Cadiz, 25 — Spanish 
lack of seamanship, 26. 

Drama, The Spectacular Element in, review of Mr. Hapgood's book 
on ‘The Stage in America,’ 203 — Shakspoare as presented on the 
modern stage, 203 — attractions of the spectacle to the ancient 
Greeks as to the playgoers of to-day, 204 — Aristotle on scenery, 
205 — narrative subsidiary to pageant, 206 — unity of time in 
Greek tragedy, 207 — plays of Sophocles as ibusical compositions, 
208 — how Shakspeare won an audience for poetry, 209 — thread 
of comedy woven into Shakspeare’s tragedies, 210 — picturesque 
presentment of ‘Macbeth’ and ‘Romeo and Juliet,^ 211 — Mr. 
Mansfield’s production of ‘Henry V.,’ 212— Mr. Daly’s setting of 

.--the comedies, 213 — Mr. Benson’s ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream’ 
and Mr. Tree’s ‘Twelfth Night,’ 214 — Ibsen and realistic 
ti^gedy, 216— Hauptmann, 217 — Brieux’s ‘La l^be Rouge,’ 
216— Rostand and Phillips, 219. 



Egyp% The French Expedition io^ in 1798, review of M. d© l»i 
Jonquifere's book concerning, 245— comparison of strengtii of 
French and Euglisli navies, 247 — Hoche's expedition to Ireland, 
248 — conquest of Ionian Islands, 249 — scheme for invasion of 
England, 250 — expedition to Egypt proposed as an alternative, 
254 — Bonaparte seizes Malta, 262 — French fleet sails for 
Alexandria, 264 — Nelson in pursuit, 266— battle in Aboukir 
Bay, 267 — story of the ‘Orient,' 271 — character of Admii^al 
Brueya cleared, 273 — Bonaparte and his army isolated in Egypt 
through destruction of French fleet, 275. 

Evemsy A. *71, his book on Cretan and ^gean script reviewed, 28. 


Fieldy Mre.y ‘The Child and his Book' reviewed, 414. 

Frazer y J, G.y his ‘Golden Bough' reviewed, 343. 


Glasgow School of Falntii^g, They review of Mr. David MaHiii's 
book concerning, 490— Foulis's academy of art iii 1761, 191- - 
new aesthetic creed, 491 — pictures at Glasgow Exhibition, 492, 
500 — ‘ Art should be Art,' 493 — avoidance of KSooiticisni, 494 - 
Mr. W. Y. MacGregor, 495 — Mr. Guthrie's portraits, 497 — Mr. 
Lavery, 498 — Mr. Crawhall, Mr. Walton, and Mr. Henry, 490 — 
Mr. D. Y. Cameron's etchings and paintings, 500 — architectural 
drawings in the Exhibition, 501 — decorations of the Town Hall. 

Greece and Asiay review of books concerning, 28— insc ribed clay 
tablets discovered in Crete, 28 — spread of Greek trilxjs from the 
Caspian into Asia Minor, 29 — Hittite monuments and hieix)- 
glyphics, 31 — oldest mention of Asia in Egyptian records, 32 — 
Greeks and Phoenicians in Cyprus and Crete, 33 — Asiatic origin 
of many Greek legends and mythological figures, 36— throe 
ancient systems of writing, 38 — ^boustropbedon inscriptions, 39 - * 
invention of alphabets, 39 — Greek civilisation mainly of non- 
Aryan and Mongol origin, 43 — Cretan and Hittite hierogljrphs, 
43 — Sabean and Numidian alphabets, 46— influence of Asia on 
Greek art, 47. 


JIahetBy A*y his ‘Borodin and Liszt' reviewed, 363 

SamBuny K., some of his novels reviewed, 4*63. 

Hupgoody ir., his ‘ Stage in America ' reviewed, 203. 

Hmimchy Dr, A,, his ‘ History of Dogma ' reviewed, 92. 

Jffarty Sir i?., his book on China reviewed, 148. 

Ifowmdy Lady Mabely her ‘ Undoing of John Brewster * renewed, 

276 . 

TlugginBy W,y his ‘ New Star in Auriga ' reviewed, 73. v 

Ilv/yBrmnBy J, K,y his ‘En Eoute' reviewed, 276. 




Jonquiere, C, de la^ his * L^Expedition d’iigypte ’ reviewed, 245. 


Krag, Thomas^ some of his novels reviewed, 463. 


Lagerlof^ Selma^ review of her * Gosta Berling,^ 463. 

Lang^ A,, his ‘ Magic and Religion ' reviewed, 343. 

Leroy -Beaulieu^ P., his * Awakening of the East ' reviewed, 148. 

Life in Poetry and Law in Taste^ review of Mr. Courthope's book 
concerning, 320 — authoritative tests of production and teste, 322 
— French Academy, 322 — literary fountain of honour, 323 — 
critics, 324 — Ariatotle^s poetic code applied to ancient tragedies, 
324— anarchy of taste among poets and readers, 325 — great 
masters a law to themselves, 325 — metre, 326— prose poems, 326 
— ‘universality’ of poetical masterpieces of the world, 327 — 
religion the most potent impulse of art, 329 — causes of decadence 
in poetry, 330— connexion between social life and individual 
genius, 332 — French poetry, 333 — Germem poets, 334 — idea of 
law in English poetry, 335 — Chaucer, Milton, Pope, Byron, 
Tennyson, 336 — longevity its own best title-deed, 342. 

Lockyer, Sir JT., his ‘ Observations on New Star in Perseus ’ 
reviewed, 73. 


Macedonian Problem^ review of books concerning, 390 — burden- 
some taxation, 392 — military-tax, road-tax, and tax on in- 
dustry, 394 — fraudulent valuation of property, 394 — mitayer 
system, 395 — taxation scene at Nigrita, 396-^ewiBh money- 
lenders and brokers, 397 — languishing commerce and want of 
security, 398 — brigands, 398 — Mohammedan cattle stealers, 399 
— collusion of authorities with brigands, 400 — purchase of posts 
under Government, 401 — Post-office extortion and espionage, 402 
— oppression of Christians, 403 — Bulgarian schismatics, 403 — 
Roumanian propagandists, 405 — distribution of nationalities 
within Macedonian boundaries, 406 — Russian and Austrian 
spheres of influence, 412. 

Magic and Beligion^ review of Mr. Frazer and Mr. Lang’s books 
concerning, 343 — science of religion and its attitude to meta- 
physics, 343 — evolution of beliefs, 345-^‘The Golden Bougb,’ 
346 — intelligibility of the universe, 347— had primitive man any 
religious beliefs? 349 — Australian aborigines, 351— incarnate 
gods, 353 — Persian festival of the Sacsea, 355 — alleged annual 
fiayinff of the King in Babylon, 366— Jewish feast of Purim, 366 
— Book of Esther interpreted as folk-lore, 368 — Mr, Frazer’s 
theory of the Crucifixion, 359 — definition of religion, 361. 

Martin, i?., his ‘ Glasgow School of Painting ’ reviewed, 490, 


M^thuen^ A. M. his * Peace or War in South Africa ' reviewadt 

220 . 

Uichie^ his * Englishman, in China * reviewed, 148. 


Hansen, P., some of his novels reviewed, 463, 

Jfational Perscmality^ review of M. Emile Boutmy’s essay on 
the English people, 132 — evolution of patriotism retarded by 
Christian cosmopolitanism, 132 — national sentiment conflicting 
with Papal claims, 133 — English prejudice against Scotch and 
Irish, 134 — antipathy to foreigners, 135 — stringent clause of Act 
of Settlement concerning foreigners, 135 — aping of foreign 
fashions, 135 — ^patriotism and Jacobitism, 137 — evolution of tne 
national idea in nineteenth century, 138 — differential charac- 
teristics of peoples, 139 — a Frenchman's analysis of English 
character, 140 — imperialism, 143 — efforts of small nations to 
preserve their independence and languages, 144 — attempts of 
great nations to assimilate foreign elements within thoir borders, 
145 — reasons for a modern citizen's gratitude to his country, 146, 

NeiJtjmarch^ Rosa^ her life of Tschaikowsky and translation of 
Habet'a ‘ Borodin and Liszt ' reviewed, 363. 

NictAdideSi Dr, C., his book on Macedonia reviewed, 390. 

Nineteenth Century ^ The Time-spirit of tlte^ review of books Ac. 
concerning, 92— indebtedness to previous centuries, 92-— Mr. 
Balfour's Cambridge address, 93 — practical applications of science, 
93 — new conceptions and methods in research, 94 — ^specialism 
and hypothesis, 95 — social evolution, 97 — doctrinal developement, 
98 — mediseval synthesis of knowledge compared with ‘new 
framework' of the nineteenth century, 98— 'individualism of 
Descartes, 104 — theology and the Papal Church, 106 — Hume's 
attitude towards history, 108 — Romanticism, 111 — Catholic 
Reaction, 111 — Dollinger and Ranke, 113 — Comte's ‘Positive 
Polity,' 113 — Hegel's world-spirit, 114 — ‘ non-rational ' sources of 
knowledge, 114 — documentary criticism, 117 — philosophy, 117 — 

‘ conflict ' between religion and science, 118— faith, 120 — induc- 
tive method, 120 — ^new mode of controversy, 122— Sabatier and 
Harnack, 123 — Protestantism and Catholicism, 124 — ‘Essays and 
Reviews 'and ‘Lux Mundi,' 125— survival of some eighteenth* 
century methods, 126 — specialisation in history, 128 — ‘ideas 'in 
history, 129 — Renan on the historical movement of the century, 

North AniericaiM of Yesterday^ The^ review of Mr. Dellenbaugh's 
book coni^ming, 180 — the term ‘American Indians^' 181 — abori 
^nes during the Ice Age, 182 — Mexican pyramids and temples, 
183— ancient civilisations, 184 — Eskimo language, 185 — cup 
markings and mound-building, 186 — pottery of Mayas and Azt^s, 
187, 196--^exican pictorial script, 188 — Aztec ideographs and 
Maya arithmetic and astronomy, 189 — solar year of eighteen 
‘months,' 190— •Aztec origins and migrations, 191 — Tolteos," 192 
—Maya and Qaiohd books, 193^Aztec religion, 194— atone iin«* 
vob. oxoiv* NO. ocoxorm. n it 



plements, tiie bow, the fire-drill, 195 — basket-work and 
pottery, 196 — weaving, 197 — folklore, 197 — were-wolves, 198 — 
mental attitude and temperament of the aborigines, 199 — iareat- 
meat of natives by whites, 200 — Hudson’s Bay Company, 201 — 
classification of tribes, 202. 


Obst/elder, S., his ‘ Parson’s Diary ’ reviewed, 463. 



Fontoppidanj JET*, review of his *Muld/ 463. 

Parker y JS. his book on China reviewed, 148. 

Party Politics and the ITar, review of recent speeches, 503 — 
liberalism before and after Mr. Gladstone’s Home Buie Bill, 
503 — breaking down of old party distinctions, 506 — Sir H. 
Campbell-Bannerman as a Liberal leader, 508 — reconciliation 
meeting at the Reform Club, 508 — Mr. Asquith and Sir E. Grey 
on the war, 509, 525 — Lord Rosebery on Liberal Imperialism and 
Little Englandism, 510 — reform in Parliamentary procedure 
needed, 514 — abuse of privileges by private members, 514 — Mr. 
Balfour and the closure, 517 — enforcing of order, 518 — dispro* 
portionate representation of Ireland, 519 — problems of the third 
year of the war, 520 — ‘belligerents’ or ‘guerillas’? 621 — 
Continental feeling against Great Britain, 622 — the Govern- 
ment’s critics, 524 — duty of Liberal-Imperialists, 527. 

Perroty 0^., and Ch, Chipiez^ their history of Art reviewed, 28. 


Rome and the Novelists^ review of some novels concerning Rome, 
276 — Catholicism as it appears in Scott’s novels and in ‘John 
Inglesant,’ 277 — Zola’s ‘Rome,’ 278 — Mrs. Humphry Ward’s 
books, 278-285, 294 — Mr. Bagot’s ‘ Casting of Nets,’ 282 — Mrs. 
Wilfrid Ward’s ‘ One Poor Scruple,’ 285 — powers of fascination 
and repulsion exercised by the Church of Rome, 287, 299 — 
sacerdotal movement in Anglican Church, 288 — Roman Church 
as a spiritual State, 289 — Cardinal Manning’s ideal of visible 
unity, 290 — Dr. Newman on the Church Catholic, 291 — Sibyl 
Cre^ on authority in religion, 291 — Newman’s surreiider to 
Rome, 292 — Mrs. Humphry Ward’s ‘ Eleanor,’ 294 — Huysmans’s 
‘ En l^ute,’ 295 — ‘ The Vicar of St. Luke’s,’ 299 — issue between 
Protestantism and Catholicism, 300. 

Russian Music, Recent, in England, review of books concerning, 
363 — Queen’s Hall performances in recent years, 363 — Glinka 
and Tschaikowsky’s compositions at the Crystal Palace, 364 — 
Dargomijsky, 365— Rubinstein, 365 — ‘ New Russian School,’ 368, 
370 — ^Russian folk-songs and church music, 369 — Balakireff, 370 
~Cui, 371 — Bimsky-Korsakoff, 371, 380 — Moussorgski, 372 — 
Borodin, 378 — Iiiadoff and Glazoumoff, 377 — ^Arensky and 
Asantchevski, 379-— Ivanoff, 379— Naprdvnik, Bachmanioff, and 
Seroff, 380— Tlachaiko^sky, 381*389. 




Sc€mdinavian NovtU^ review of some, 463— Ibsen and BjOnisetti 
466 — Henrik Pontoppidan, 468 — Selma Lagerlof, 474 — ^Gdsta 
Berlings Saga,* 474 — ‘Miracles of Antichrist,* 475 — ‘Queens in 
Kungeh&lla,’ 476 — Thomas Krag, 477 — ‘Ada Wilde,* 478— 
‘Brazen Serpent,* 480 — Knut Hamsun, 480, 487 — Peter Nansen's 
‘ Maria * and ‘ J ulia*s Diary,' 482 — Obstfelder's ‘ Parson's Diary,* 
486 — sincerity and candour of Scandinavian fiction, 488. 

Schliemann, Dr. his books on Mycenae and Ilios reviewed, 28. 

Schoolroom Classics in Fiction^ review of Mrs, Field's ‘ The Child 
and his Book,* 414 — ^secret of popularity among books for children, 
416 — ‘Robinson Crusoe,* 417 — ‘Munchausen's Travels,* 418 — • 
Stevenson's method compared with Defoe's, 420 — ‘ Sandford and 
Merton,* 420 — Maria Edgeworth, 421 — religious fiction, 423— 
Mrs. Sherwood’s tales, 423 — Miss Wetherell, 424 — Evangelical 
and Tractarian rivalry in children's stories, 425 — ‘Pilgrim’s Pro- 
gress,* 426 — Fouqu^'s ‘Sintrain,* 427 — Monro's allegories, 429 — 
Dr. Neale, 430 — Charlotte Yonge, 430, 435 — natural history 
stories, 431 — Thackeray's ‘Rose and Ring,* Kingsley's ‘Water 
Babies,* ‘Alice in Wonderland,* 432 — books about children, 433— 
clever children, 434 — literature for girlhood, 434. 

Sidgreaves^ Rev. TT., ‘ New Star of the New Century * reviewed, 73. 

Souhies^ his history of music in Russia reviewed, 363. 

Souih Africa^ review of works concerning, 220 — evil effects of re- 
crudescence of the war, 221 — events preceding hostilities, 224 — 
British title to South Africa, 225 — problem to bo solved in 
dealing with the conquered territories, 226 — Report of Mr. A. 
Lyttelton's Commission, 226 — Transvaal constitutional system, 
227 — concessions and monopolies granted by the defunct Trans- 
vaal Government, 228 — plans of Boor leaders as disclosed by 
Kretschmar's diary 229 — Mr. Bieloch's estimate of material gain 
to the Empire by the new acquisitions, 231 — mineral wealth of 
Transvaal, 232 — Sir David Barbour's Report on finances of 
Transvaal and Orange Colony, 233 — recouping some of the war 
expenditure out of conquered territories, 234— annexation inevit 
able, 235— terms offered by Government to the Boers, 236— no 
personal antipathy between Boers and British soldiers, 238 — 
exaggerated and invented atrocities, 239 — Miss Ilobhouse’s state- 
ments concerning refugee camps, 240 —censorship, 241 -responsl 
bility for the war, 241 — government of colonies on Home Rule 
lines, 242 — martial law, 243. 

South Africa^ Industrial Progress ^ and Notice Life in^ review of 
papers concerning, 301 — no field for British unskilled manual 
latour, 301 — cheapness of native labour, 301 — mining work dis- 
tasteful to natives, 302 — education of black races, 303 — coolies 
from India in Natal and Chinese in Rhodesia, 304 — Arab 
labourers, 304 — ^hut-tax and labour-tax, 305— Batoka country of 
North-Western Rhodesia, 306 — prevention of desertion from 
mines, S07 — individual ownership of land supplanting tribal 


ovrnershipt 308— power of chiefs fosiiered in Bnsntoland and 
Oennan South-Weat Africa, 310, 317— native communities in 
Cape Colony, 312— allotmenta under Glen Grey Act* 314— ^ily 
anus instead of tribal units, 317 — need of native labour in the 
Transvaal, 318— suggested establishment of groups of native 
families in farming districts near the mines, 319. 

Star$, Tempora/ry, review of books concerning, 73— Tycho’s obser* 
vations of new star in Cassiopeia, 74 — Kepler’s Nova Ophiuohi, 
74 — Sir W. Huggins’s spectroscopic study of Nova Coronm, 76— 
Nova Cygni, 75 — new stars in Scorpio and in Andromeda nebula, 
76— Nova Aurigse, its spectrum photographed, 77 — ‘two-star* 
hypothesis, 78— diminution of brilliancy succeeded by transforma- 
tion into a nebula, 80— Nova Norm®, 80 — Nova Centauri, Si- 
new stars in Sagittarius and Aquila, 82 — Dr. Anderson’s dis- 
covery of the new star in Perseus, 84— results of spectroscopic 
examination, 86— Milky Way, 86— ‘dark stars ’ vivified, 89. 

Stephen, X , his ‘ English Thought in Eighteenth Century * reviewed, 


Tolstoy, Leo NicoJayemtch, review of his works, 49 — Russian asceti- 
cism, 50— repressed aspirations of Russian patriots, 51—* Anna 
Karenina,’ 62— quest after truth, through agnosticism to Christ, 
52 *My Confession,’ and ‘What I Believe,’ 53— a life of re- 

nunciation, 63— -trials of his disciples, 55— his interpretation of 
the Gospels, 56—* On Life,’ 58— views on immortality of the soul, 
60 — ‘Kreutzer Sonata,’ 60— inculcation of celibacy, 60 — denun- 
ciation of social customs, 63— views on marriage, 64 — * What is 
Artr 65— didactic works, 68— ‘Dominion of Darkness’ and 
‘Fruits of Enlightenment,’ 69— ‘ Resurrection,’ 70. 

Turkey in Europe, by Odysseus, reviewed, 390. 


Yogel, H, C,, his book on the spectrum of Nova Persei reviewed, 73. 


Ward, Mrs, Humphry, her * Helbeck of Banuisdale ’ and ‘ Eleanor ’ 
reviewed^ 276. 

Ward, Mrs, Wif/rid, her ‘ One Poor Scruple' reviewed, 276. 


Eola, his ‘ Rome ’ reviewed, 276. 


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