Chapter 12

Masked in the beauty of the May-dawn's birth,Death came and kissed the brow still nobly fair,And hushed that heart of youth for which the earthStill kept its morning air.Long time initiate in her lovely lore,Now is he one with Nature's woods and streams,Whereof, a Paradisal robe, he woreThe visionary gleams.

Masked in the beauty of the May-dawn's birth,Death came and kissed the brow still nobly fair,And hushed that heart of youth for which the earthStill kept its morning air.

Masked in the beauty of the May-dawn's birth,

Death came and kissed the brow still nobly fair,

And hushed that heart of youth for which the earth

Still kept its morning air.

Long time initiate in her lovely lore,Now is he one with Nature's woods and streams,Whereof, a Paradisal robe, he woreThe visionary gleams.

Long time initiate in her lovely lore,

Now is he one with Nature's woods and streams,

Whereof, a Paradisal robe, he wore

The visionary gleams.

When from his lips immortal music broke,It was the myriad voice of vale and hill;"The lark ascending" poured a song that wokeAn echo sweeter still.Yet most we mourn his loss as one who gaveThe gift of laughter and the boon of tears,Interpreter of life, its gay and grave,Its human hopes and fears.Seer of the soul of things, inspired to knowMan's heart and woman's, over all he threwThe spell of fancy's iridescent glow,The sheen of sunlit dew.And of the fellowship of that great AgeFor whose return our eyes have waited long,None left so rich a twofold heritageOf high romance and song.

When from his lips immortal music broke,It was the myriad voice of vale and hill;"The lark ascending" poured a song that wokeAn echo sweeter still.

When from his lips immortal music broke,

It was the myriad voice of vale and hill;

"The lark ascending" poured a song that woke

An echo sweeter still.

Yet most we mourn his loss as one who gaveThe gift of laughter and the boon of tears,Interpreter of life, its gay and grave,Its human hopes and fears.

Yet most we mourn his loss as one who gave

The gift of laughter and the boon of tears,

Interpreter of life, its gay and grave,

Its human hopes and fears.

Seer of the soul of things, inspired to knowMan's heart and woman's, over all he threwThe spell of fancy's iridescent glow,The sheen of sunlit dew.

Seer of the soul of things, inspired to know

Man's heart and woman's, over all he threw

The spell of fancy's iridescent glow,

The sheen of sunlit dew.

And of the fellowship of that great AgeFor whose return our eyes have waited long,None left so rich a twofold heritageOf high romance and song.

And of the fellowship of that great Age

For whose return our eyes have waited long,

None left so rich a twofold heritage

Of high romance and song.

"Eminent Victorians"

Nor didPunchallow the minor Victorian poets and authors to pass without homage, witness his tributes to Coventry Patmore, the "poet of Home and High Faith," and Jean Ingelow, whoseHigh Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshireis one of the finest of modern ballads, besides touching the high-water mark of her achievement. Professor Henry Morley, who died in 1894, elicited the well-earned tribute, "He made good letters cheap"; while the heroic industry and distinguished talent of Mrs. Oliphant—forThe Beleaguered Citycomes very near to greatness—are fittingly acknowledged inPunch's "Vale!"in 1897. Sir Theodore Martin, as the joint author of the immortalBon Gaultier Ballads, had a special claim to grateful remembrance from one who, like him, had known Astley's Circus in the palmy days of Widdecomb and Gomersal:—

Comrade of our "roaring 'forties," in your pages stillFrom the midmost fount of laughter may we drink our fill;Watch you, Rabelais' disciple, sunshine in your eyes,Shooting with an aim unerring folly as it flies.

Comrade of our "roaring 'forties," in your pages still

From the midmost fount of laughter may we drink our fill;

Watch you, Rabelais' disciple, sunshine in your eyes,

Shooting with an aim unerring folly as it flies.

Punch'sloyalty to Thomas Hood was testified in a long and perfectly serious study, in three instalments, of Hood as a poet and satirist, which appeared in 1896. In 1899 he was moved to sing the praises of Marryat in the manner of Gilbert'sCaptain Reece; in 1900 he reiterated his fealty to Walter Scott in verse as unimpeachable in sentiment as it was undistinguished in execution. I think one may safely say that nothing so inadequate to the occasion has since appeared in the pages ofPunch. But even when the literary quality ofPunchwas at its lowest he was capable of welcome surprises, as for example in the really charming verses, in 1893, on Izaak Walton's Tercentenary—verses based on intimate and affectionate study ofThe Compleat Angler.

Another Tercentenary, that of Milton in 1908, prompted the cartoon in which Shakespeare congratulates his brother poet because every three hundred years they gavehima banquet at the Mansion House, while they only talked about a National Theatre for himself. A Chicago professor had seized the occasion to observe that Milton, if alive then, would be in favour of every advanced movement except Woman's Suffrage, andPunchturned the saying to good account in a mock-heroic sonnet after Wordsworth. One might well have thought that Charles Lamb's reputation was securely established by 1913, yet in that year a member of the London Education Committee suggested that theEssays of Eliawas hardly the kind of book to be put in the hands of young women students.Punchdealt judicially with the offender in two letters—one from a prudish parent; the other from a humanist and lover of Lamb who sends a copy of the incriminated volume to his daughter, together with a report of the protest, and some comments on the survival of Podsnap:—

He lives, he lives though sorely spent;We shrug our shoulders, and lamentThe tyranny not overpastOf Philistine and agelast.

He lives, he lives though sorely spent;

We shrug our shoulders, and lament

The tyranny not overpast

Of Philistine and agelast.

Ghost of Homer with Bacon and Shakespeare.SHACON AND BAKESPEAREHomer: "Look here, whatdoesit matter which of you chaps wrote the other fellow's books? Goodness only knowshowmany wrote mine!"(Nods, as usual, and exit.)

SHACON AND BAKESPEARE

Homer: "Look here, whatdoesit matter which of you chaps wrote the other fellow's books? Goodness only knowshowmany wrote mine!"

(Nods, as usual, and exit.)

Shakespeare and Shaw

The last word has an academic ring, butPunchwas probably thinking of George Meredith's use of it in a letter toThe Timesin 1877 when he spoke of those "whom Rabelais would have called agelasts or non-laughers."

A brilliant American essayist, Miss Agnes Repplier, has recently remarked that the Twentieth Century does not "lean to extravagant partialities" but rather to "disparagement, to searchlights, to that lavish candour which no man's reputation can sustain." In the pastime of hauling eminence down from its pinnacle she awards a pre-eminence to British critics. It cannot be said thatPunchhas taken an active hand in this game. Even Shakespeare had not been exempt from this "lavish candour." Mr. Bernard Shaw, writing in theSaturday Reviewin 1896, had said that "with the single exception of Homer, there is no eminent writer, not even Sir Walter Scott, whom I can despise so entirely as I despise Shakespeare, when I measure my mind against his." Whether he really meant what he said is a question passing the wit of the plain person; but the utterance stungPunchinto a rejoinder in the form of an imaginary interview with "G. B. S.," in which the criticismis further developed and obliquely ridiculed.Punchwas equally sensitive where patronage of the bard suggested self-advertisement, and in 1901, in the "New Genius of Stratford-on-Avon," he expressed an ironical apprehension lest Miss Corelli might oust Shakespeare as the tutelary deity of that town. The Bacon-Shakespeare controversy was again becoming acute and claimedPunch'sattention in 1902, when he published a cartoon bearing on the issue, and followed it up with a happy burlesque. As he argued, "If Bacon wrote Shakespeare's Plays, why, in the name of all that is biliteral, should not Shakespeare have written Bacon's Essays?" Hence the dissertation "Of Plays and their Authors," from which I may quote the concluding passages:—

It may be said of such an one that he is a man unlettered, having little Latin and of Greek no whit. How should he write plays? Whence hath he lore of law and medicine, of history and science? But there be handbooks. And a man may learn by enquiry of another, giving to him the price of half-a-pint. So shall the dramatist acquire such matters as be necessary, as the names of battles and of Kings and an imperfect understanding of legal phrases. Moreover, where no copyright is, he may steal freely from others, appropriating their plots and embellishing them.... Lastly to conclude this part, he that writeth dramas must endure with philosophy the investigations of talented ladies. Being of humble estate he must not murmur should his works be taken from him and given to a Lord Chancellor. Being himself sane he must bear with the lunatick fancies of others. And though his words be twisted into crazy anagrams, and his dramas be made a source of a scandal about Queen Elizabeth, he must not complain. Generally let the wise man ignore the bee that buzzeth in another's bonnet.

Punch's"Essay" is not without relevance in its bearing on the recent "invention" of that highly "talented lady" Miss Clemence Dane.

Punch on "R. L. S."

To repeat what I said in another volume, the highest qualities of the literary critic are revealed, not in his loyalty to established reputations so much as in his attitude to contemporary writers, in his ability to gauge the durability of their merits, and to distinguish a passing vogue from a suretitle to remembrance. And there was certainly no lack of material on which to exercise these faculties in the 'nineties—romantic, realistic, and decadent.Punchhad already welcomed Mr. Kipling and Sir James Barrie, and though his appreciation of the former varied considerably in the next fifteen years, admiration of his freshness and invention prevailed on the whole over distaste for his excursions into politics, his addiction to technicalities, slang and obscurity. The literary criticism ofPunchwas probably at its lowest ebb in 1893, when a review of Stevenson'sCatrionais bracketed with a notice of Miss Corelli'sBarabbas. Punch deals faithfully with the method of handling Holy Writ adopted inBarabbas, but contents himself with recommendingCatrionato those who love Scots dialect, which he frankly confesses he does not.

When Stevenson died in his early prime in 1894, a very different temper inspiredPunch'stribute to the Great Romancer:—

The lighthouse-builder raised no lightThat shall outshine the flameOf genius in its mellowest might,That beacons him to fame.And Pala's peak shall do yet moreThan the great light at SkerryvoreTo magnify his name,Who mourned, when stricken flesh would tire,That he was weaker than his sire.Teller of Tales! Of tales so toldThat all the world must list:Story sheer witchery, style pure gold,Yet with that tricksy twistOf Puck-like mockery which betraysThe wanderer in this world's mad maze,Not blindly optimist,Who wooes Romance, yet sadly knowsThat Life's sole growth is not the Rose.

The lighthouse-builder raised no light

That shall outshine the flame

Of genius in its mellowest might,

That beacons him to fame.

And Pala's peak shall do yet more

Than the great light at Skerryvore

To magnify his name,

Who mourned, when stricken flesh would tire,

That he was weaker than his sire.

Teller of Tales! Of tales so toldThat all the world must list:Story sheer witchery, style pure gold,Yet with that tricksy twistOf Puck-like mockery which betraysThe wanderer in this world's mad maze,Not blindly optimist,Who wooes Romance, yet sadly knowsThat Life's sole growth is not the Rose.

Teller of Tales! Of tales so told

That all the world must list:

Story sheer witchery, style pure gold,

Yet with that tricksy twist

Of Puck-like mockery which betrays

The wanderer in this world's mad maze,

Not blindly optimist,

Who wooes Romance, yet sadly knows

That Life's sole growth is not the Rose.

So when in 1901 the late Mr. W. E. Henley published his famous disparagement of the official life of Stevenson,Punch, in an address to the "Beloved Shade" of R. L. S., uttered an indignant protest against the attack on his memory.

Punchenthusiastically greeted the Ruritanian romances of "Anthony Hope" as an antidote to the ultra-realistic novel, and Mr. Kipling'sJungle Bookwas welcomed in 1894 with a salvo of puns on the Kip-lingo of the Laureate of the Jingle-Jungle, the Bard of the Bandar-log. In 1895The Men that Fought at Mindenis described as "perhaps the most coarse and unattractive specimen of verse that this great young man has yet put forth—a jumble of words without a trace of swing or music. All this Tommy Atkins business is about played out." In 1898, in the series of "Letters to the Celebrated," "The Vagrant," while deprecating the "orgy of Imperialism" which Mr. Kipling had helped to foster, frankly admitted that he was largely responsible for "a quickened sense of the greatness of our mother-land, and a new sympathy for those who fight our battles"; and predicted that his greatest and most enduring title to fame would rest on his verse. In 1899 Mr. Kipling is rebuked for his glorification of machinery—he is called "the Polytechnic Poet"—slang and militarism, while the parody ofStalky and Co.is distinctly hostile to what Punch evidently considered an ignoble travesty of Public School traditions. Punch had himself repeatedly assailed the fetish-worship of Athletics, but Mr. Kipling'sIsland Race—with its bitter reference to those who

contented their soulsWith the flannelled fools at the wicket or the muddied oafs at the goals—

contented their souls

With the flannelled fools at the wicket or the muddied oafs at the goals—

was more than he could endure. Accordingly his representative conducted an imaginary interview with "The Director-General of the Empire," who had added some fresh lines in violent and obscure abuse of rowing-men, and who explained that he never played games himself, but "spent all his spare time loafing and scoring off masters"—a further hit atStalky. This mood of resentment had entirely passed by 1907, whenPunchdepicted Mr. Kipling as "A Verry Parfit Nobel Knight"—on the occasion of his being awarded the Nobel Prize—and in 1910 the perusal ofRewards and Fairiesis compared to reading English history by the light of a Will-o'-the-Wisp.

The reviewer notes defects in style and lucidity, but ends on a note of whole-hearted admiration:—

When one considers the quality of Mr. Kipling's invention, the piety of his patriotism, the freshness and vigour of his style, and his astounding understanding of men and movements, why, one forgets all about these little trifling defects and again murmurs, "Wizard."

The Yellow Book

To return to the early 'nineties,Punchsaw no virtue, artistic or otherwise, in the movement towards unrestrained self-expression inbelles lettreswhich had its outcome in theYellow Bookand theSavoy, its headquarters at "The Bodley Head," and whose chief hierophants were the avowed disciples of Baudelaire and Verlaine. ToPunchthe movement was wholly decadent. In the verses "Tell it not in Gath," in 1894, after denouncing "flowers of evil," and the practice of delving in the drains and dustbins of humanity, the writer declares he would far rather remain a Philistine than achieve enlightenment by such unsavoury means. In the same vein he addresses "Any Boy-poet of the Decadence":—

For your dull little vices we don't care a fig,It isthisthat we deeply deplore:You were cast for a common or usual pig,But you play the invincible bore.

For your dull little vices we don't care a fig,

It isthisthat we deeply deplore:

You were cast for a common or usual pig,

But you play the invincible bore.

As in his earlier tirades against the Æsthetes,Punchconfounded all the contributors to theYellow Bookand theSavoyin one common anathema. The former, with an illustration by "Daubaway Weirdsley," and "Max" as "Max Mereboom," himself one of the finest literary parodists of our time, is held up in 1895 to especial ridicule. TheSavoyin 1896 becomes "The Saveloy," with imaginary extracts and further attacks on Max Mereboom, Simple Symons, and Weirdsley; while in the same year in "The Chaunt of the Bodley Head" (after Praed'sChaunt of the Brazen Head) the Savoy School is condemned for its mephitic atmosphere. There was in the movement much deliberate eccentricity, much of the cant of anti-cant, which clamoured for robust satire, butPunchwas more happilyinspired in his ridicule of the popular and society novels of the time—in his parody ofSherlock Holmes, which was quite good enough for the original, and of Dodo, in which the rowdiness and pseudo-intellectuality of Mr. Benson's heroine are excellently hit off. It opens well with "'Sling me over a two-eyed steak, Bill,' said Bobo." In the sequel the Marquis of Cokaleek, the noble unappreciated husband, gets killed in the hunting field, but Bobo does not marry Bill, her fancy man. She jilts him and "got herself married to an Austrian Prince at half an hour's notice by the A. of C."Punch, let it be recorded, was responsible for the often quoted saying which appeared in 1894 that "the modern novel is a blend of the Erotic, the Neurotic and the Tommyrotic."

Esther Waters, compared and contrasted with Hardy'sTess, is pronounced in 1894 to benot"virginibus puerisque," and a once famous "emancipation novel,"The Yellow Aster, by "Iota," long since hopelessly out-distanced in the reaction against reticence, becomesThe Yellow Plaster, by "Iõpna," whose "She-notes" wild are amusingly travestied in the same year.The Yellow AsterandKey-Noteswere pioneer efforts in the domain of the psychological novel, and the new jargon is ridiculed in such burlesque phrases as "the woman's voice came through the envelope of Margerine's subconsciousness, steely clear as a cheese-cutter." The vogue ofThe Green Carnation, aroman à clefwhich created some stir at the same time, is attested in Du Maurier's picture "How Opinion is Formed":—

He: "Have you read that beastly bookThe Mauve Peonyby Lady Middlesex?"She: "Yes, I rather liked it."He: "So did I."

He: "Have you read that beastly bookThe Mauve Peonyby Lady Middlesex?"

She: "Yes, I rather liked it."

He: "So did I."

Unchristian Criticism of Hall Caine

Du Maurier'sTrilbywas naturally treated with benevolence, thoughPunchregretted the theological interludes, butThe Sorrows of Satanis rudely dismissed as "a farrago of balderdash and vanity"; the egotism of the author and of Mr. Robert Buchanan in belabouring their detractors is severely rebuked;and Mr. Hall Caine'sThe Christianis recommended only as an absolutepis allerif you hadn't even a Bradshaw to read. This great work is also parodied as "The Heathen," with Alleluia Grouse and Luke Blizzard in therôlesof Glory Quayle and John Storm. There was still a spice of Bludyer inPunch, and on occasion he could act on the advice of a famous editor, "Be kind, be merciful, be gentle, but when you come across a silly fool, string him up." In later years, as the literary quality of his reviews improved, his clemency to the new-comers approached an uncritical tolerance.

The passing of the three-volume novel in 1894 is noted in a Ballade not untinged with regret, to judge from the "Envoi":—

Prince, writers' rights—forgive the pun—And readers' too forbid the blow;Of triple pleasure there'll be none,Three-volume novels are to go!

Prince, writers' rights—forgive the pun—

And readers' too forbid the blow;

Of triple pleasure there'll be none,

Three-volume novels are to go!

Female figure."TheTrilbymania grows apace. It has reached Peckham. Aunt Maria went to the Fancy Dress Ball of the Peckham season asTrilbyin her first costume."—Extract from letter of Miss M. Br-wn to Miss N. Sm-th.

"TheTrilbymania grows apace. It has reached Peckham. Aunt Maria went to the Fancy Dress Ball of the Peckham season asTrilbyin her first costume."—Extract from letter of Miss M. Br-wn to Miss N. Sm-th.

The later manner of Henry James is rather infelicitously described in 1896 as "indifferent Trollopian and second-class Meredithian"; butPunchmade no mistake in the following year over Mr. W. W. Jacobs, in whoseMany Cargoes—studies of those "who go down to the sea in ships of moderate tonnage"—he found a new fount of joy.

Punch's"literary recipes" place Romance first, then follow the Society Novel (with thinly veiled portraits from life); the Detective Story (Gaboriau and water); and the Religious Novel. The plague of Reminiscences had movedPunchto protest as early as 1893, when he wrote:—

That Memory's the Mother of the Muses,We're told. Alas! it must have been the Furies!Mnemosyne her privilege abuses—Nothing from her distorting glass secure is.Life is a Sphinx; folk cannot solve her riddles,So they've recourse to spiteful taradiddles,Which they dub "Reminiscences." Kind fate,From the Fool's Memory preserve the Great!

That Memory's the Mother of the Muses,

We're told. Alas! it must have been the Furies!

Mnemosyne her privilege abuses—

Nothing from her distorting glass secure is.

Life is a Sphinx; folk cannot solve her riddles,

So they've recourse to spiteful taradiddles,

Which they dub "Reminiscences." Kind fate,

From the Fool's Memory preserve the Great!

Another and a newer aversion was the parasitic patronage of FitzGerald by inferior novelists and writers, which movedPunchto include among "the things that we are still waiting, and it seems, likely to wait for—A Temporary Surcease from Omar Khayyám." This last-named nuisance has ceased to be so vocal of late years, but the plague of "Diaritis" is worse than ever. Mr. H. G. Wells appears onPunch'shorizon in 1898, but only as the weaver of circumstantial scientific romances, not as the regulator of the Universe, and discoverer of new Heavens and Hells.The War of the Worldsis parodied inThe Martian, but the wonderland of science appealed less toPunchthan the dream-world of "Lewis Carroll," whose death inspired a graceful tribute to author and illustrator:—

Lover of children! Fellow-heir with thoseOf whom the imperishable kingdom is!Beyond all dreaming now your spirit knowsThe unimagined mysteries.Darkly as in a glass our faces lookTo read ourselves, if so we may, aright;You, like the maiden in your faërie book—You step beyond and see the light!The heart you wore beneath your pedant's cloakOnly to children's hearts you gave away;Yet unaware in half the world you wokeThe slumbering charm of childhood's day.We older children, too, our loss lament,We of the "Table Round," remembering wellHow he, our comrade, with his pencil lentYour fancy's speech a firmer spell.Master of rare woodcraft, by sympathy'sSure touch he caught your visionary gleams,And made your fame, the dreamer's, one with his,The wise interpreter of dreams.Farewell! But near our hearts we have you yet,Holding our heritage with loving hand,Who may not follow where your feet are setUpon the ways of Wonderland.

Lover of children! Fellow-heir with thoseOf whom the imperishable kingdom is!Beyond all dreaming now your spirit knowsThe unimagined mysteries.

Lover of children! Fellow-heir with those

Of whom the imperishable kingdom is!

Beyond all dreaming now your spirit knows

The unimagined mysteries.

Darkly as in a glass our faces lookTo read ourselves, if so we may, aright;You, like the maiden in your faërie book—You step beyond and see the light!

Darkly as in a glass our faces look

To read ourselves, if so we may, aright;

You, like the maiden in your faërie book—

You step beyond and see the light!

The heart you wore beneath your pedant's cloakOnly to children's hearts you gave away;Yet unaware in half the world you wokeThe slumbering charm of childhood's day.

The heart you wore beneath your pedant's cloak

Only to children's hearts you gave away;

Yet unaware in half the world you woke

The slumbering charm of childhood's day.

We older children, too, our loss lament,We of the "Table Round," remembering wellHow he, our comrade, with his pencil lentYour fancy's speech a firmer spell.

We older children, too, our loss lament,

We of the "Table Round," remembering well

How he, our comrade, with his pencil lent

Your fancy's speech a firmer spell.

Master of rare woodcraft, by sympathy'sSure touch he caught your visionary gleams,And made your fame, the dreamer's, one with his,The wise interpreter of dreams.

Master of rare woodcraft, by sympathy's

Sure touch he caught your visionary gleams,

And made your fame, the dreamer's, one with his,

The wise interpreter of dreams.

Farewell! But near our hearts we have you yet,Holding our heritage with loving hand,Who may not follow where your feet are setUpon the ways of Wonderland.

Farewell! But near our hearts we have you yet,

Holding our heritage with loving hand,

Who may not follow where your feet are set

Upon the ways of Wonderland.

Magic, Megalomania, and Sham Culture

From this wonder worldPunchturned to "le monde où l'on s'affiche" to castigate the methods of Mr. Hall Caine and Mr. Le Gallienne—the Manx megalomaniac and the Author-Lecturer—and to the realm of blameless banality ruled over by Sir John Lubbock. Sir John's genius for truisms had been guyed in 1894; in 1900 he appears in a special section of "The Book of Beauty" as the author of some enchanting platitudes, e.g. "A man's work will often survive him. Thus, Shakespeare and Watt are dead; butHamletand the steam engine survive."

This was the year of the appearance of Lady Randolph Churchill'sAnglo-Saxon Review, a sumptuous publication which for a brief period revived the glories of theBooks of BeautyandKeepsakes, edited in the 'thirties and 'forties of the last century by that "most gorgeous" lady, the Countess of Blessington.

Pseudo-intellectuality was one of the social shams whichPunchloved to pillory, and there is a good example in 1901 in the "Cultured Conversation" of a lady who observes, "I'mdevotedto Rossetti—Idelightin Shelley—and I simplyloveElla Wheeler Wilcox."Punchhimself in the same year "delighted" quite sincerely inSome Experiences of an Irish R.M., and "wept tears of laughter" over the episode of "LisheenRaces." This was apparently his first introduction to the work of those two wonderfully gifted Irish cousins, Violet Martin and Edith Somerville, but only towards the end of their long and fruitful collaboration did he recognize in them far higher qualities than those of the mere mirth-provoker.

In 1903 he was destined to make acquaintance with one of the most conspicuous representatives of the opposite tendency, Gorki, the Russian novelist and playwright. In "The Lowest Depths"Punchparodied the dreary, violent and brutal squalors ofThe Lower Depths, and incidentally had a dig at the Stage Society for producing it. It was in the same year thatPunchdescribed the "new curse of Caine"—"to be everlastingly coupled with the name of Miss Marie Corelli"—and paid them both grateful homage as purveyors of "copy":—

From cutting continual capersEv'n Kaisers must sometimes refrain;Butyou'renever out of the papers—Corelli and Caine.

From cutting continual capers

Ev'n Kaisers must sometimes refrain;

Butyou'renever out of the papers—

Corelli and Caine.

At the time of the Boer war poets had been vociferously active. By 1904 a "slump" had set in; and in an interview Mr. John Lane, of the Bodley Head, had declared that verse had ceased to be remunerative. Embroidering this textPunchtraced the cause to the material self-indulgence of the public. People dined too well to want to read rhymes, and poets wanted better pay:—

And this is why no bards occur.None ever knows that aching void,That hunger, prompting like a spur,Which former genii enjoyed;For all the poets dead and gone,Whose Muse contrived to melt the nation,Habitually did it onA regimen of strict starvation.

And this is why no bards occur.

None ever knows that aching void,

That hunger, prompting like a spur,

Which former genii enjoyed;

For all the poets dead and gone,

Whose Muse contrived to melt the nation,

Habitually did it on

A regimen of strict starvation.

Notable Newcomers

But if verse was at a discount, new forms of prose were emerging, and the spasmodic discourses of Mr. Bart Kennedy in theDaily MailmovedPunchto parody what he considered to be a variant on Walt Whitman, in which sentenceswere reduced to a minimum and verbs were dispensed with altogether. Another new writer to whomPunchnow paid the homage of parody was Mr. Chesterton, whose glittering paradoxes are travestied in a mock eulogy ofBradshaw, in the manner of "G. K. C.'s" book on Dickens. Bradshaw is praised for his splendid consistency, his adherence to fact, his uniform excellence of style and freedom from extraneous matter. Moreover, he is a great teacher:—

The last and deepest lesson of Bradshaw is that we must be in time. No man can miss a train and miss a train only. He misses more than that. A man who misses a train misses an opportunity. It is probably the reason of the terrific worldly success of Cæsar and Charlemagne that neither of them ever missed a train.

Reviews of books, chiefly novels, became a regular feature of each week's issue in the latter half of this period, and it would be impossible to deal fully withPunch'scritical activities. As an example of the frank handling of a bad book it would be hard to improve on the notice of a novel which appeared in 1906: "Anyone who wants to read a vulgar book in praise of vicious vulgarians should read——, by————. All others are counselled to avoid it."

Punch'slater and more tolerant mood may be illustrated by his notices of three typical novels by three representative novelists of post-Victorian days. Mr. Wells'sAnn Veronicain 1908 is received with guarded praise as that author's first real novel and "a remarkably clever book about rather unpleasant people." In 1910Punchshies at the excessive length and accumulated detail of Mr. Arnold Bennett'sClayhanger, but admits that the author makes wonderful use of unpromising material in his remarkable work. Thirdly, in 1913,Punch'sreviewer proclaims himself a whole-hearted admirer of Mr. Compton Mackenzie'sSinister Street, finding the hero "a figure to love," and the whole book marked by passionate honesty, marvellously minute observation, humour, and a haunting beauty of ideas and words. In conclusion, he is "prepared to wager that Mr. Mackenzie's future is bound up with what is most considerable in English fiction," adding, "We shall see."

Publisher speaking with lady author.THE "SEXO-MANIA""We thinkLips that have Gone Astraythe foulest novel that ever yet defiled the English tongue; and that in absolute filth its Author can give any modern French writer six and beat him hollow!"—The Parthenon.Fair Author(to her Publisher, pointing to above opinion of the Press quoted in his advertisement of her novel): "And pray, Mr. Shardson, what do you mean by insertingthishideous notice?"Publisher: "My dear Miss Fitzmorse, you must remember that we've paid you a large price for your book, and brought it out at great expense—and we naturally wish to sell it!"

THE "SEXO-MANIA"

"We thinkLips that have Gone Astraythe foulest novel that ever yet defiled the English tongue; and that in absolute filth its Author can give any modern French writer six and beat him hollow!"—The Parthenon.

Fair Author(to her Publisher, pointing to above opinion of the Press quoted in his advertisement of her novel): "And pray, Mr. Shardson, what do you mean by insertingthishideous notice?"

Publisher: "My dear Miss Fitzmorse, you must remember that we've paid you a large price for your book, and brought it out at great expense—and we naturally wish to sell it!"

These views are somewhat difficult to reconcile with those expressed in other parts of the paper about the same time. An eminent conductor and composer has recently stated that no noise which is deliberately made can be said to be ugly—e.g. a railway whistle or a boy whistling in the street. So in letters a similar creed had already come into fashion—any subject was fit for treatment if it was "arresting" or "elemental," a doctrine thatPunchoutside his "Booking Office" found it hard to swallow. In "The Qualities that Count" one of his writers applied this principle to the poetry and letters of the hour:—

If you're anxious to acquire a reputationFor enlightened and emancipated views,You must hold it as a duty to discard the cult of Beauty,And discourage all endeavours to amuse.You must back the man who, obloquy enduring,Subconsciousness determines to express,Who in short is "elemental," "unalluring,"But "arresting" in his Art—or in his dress.Or is your cup habitually brimmingWith water from the Heliconian fount?Then remember the hubristic, the profane, the pugilistic,Are the only things in poetry that count.So select a tragic argument, ensuringThe maximum expenditure of gore,And the epithets "arresting," "unalluring,""Elemental" will re-echo as before.But if your bent propels you into fiction,You should clearly and completely understandThat your duty in a novel is not to soar, but grovel,If you want it to be profitably banned.So be lavish and effusive in suggestingA malignant and mephitic atmosphere,And you're sure to be applauded as "arresting,""Elemental," "unalluring," and "sincere."

If you're anxious to acquire a reputation

For enlightened and emancipated views,

You must hold it as a duty to discard the cult of Beauty,

And discourage all endeavours to amuse.

You must back the man who, obloquy enduring,

Subconsciousness determines to express,

Who in short is "elemental," "unalluring,"

But "arresting" in his Art—or in his dress.

Or is your cup habitually brimmingWith water from the Heliconian fount?Then remember the hubristic, the profane, the pugilistic,Are the only things in poetry that count.So select a tragic argument, ensuringThe maximum expenditure of gore,And the epithets "arresting," "unalluring,""Elemental" will re-echo as before.

Or is your cup habitually brimming

With water from the Heliconian fount?

Then remember the hubristic, the profane, the pugilistic,

Are the only things in poetry that count.

So select a tragic argument, ensuring

The maximum expenditure of gore,

And the epithets "arresting," "unalluring,"

"Elemental" will re-echo as before.

But if your bent propels you into fiction,You should clearly and completely understandThat your duty in a novel is not to soar, but grovel,If you want it to be profitably banned.So be lavish and effusive in suggestingA malignant and mephitic atmosphere,And you're sure to be applauded as "arresting,""Elemental," "unalluring," and "sincere."

But if your bent propels you into fiction,

You should clearly and completely understand

That your duty in a novel is not to soar, but grovel,

If you want it to be profitably banned.

So be lavish and effusive in suggesting

A malignant and mephitic atmosphere,

And you're sure to be applauded as "arresting,"

"Elemental," "unalluring," and "sincere."

Mr. Gosse and the Georgian Poets

In the same year Mr. Edmund Gosse had indulged in some caustic criticism of the Poetry of the Future. Mr. Gosse had said that "the natural uses of English and the obvious forms of our speech will be driven from our poetry." Also that "verses of excellent quality in this primitive manner can now be written by any smart little boy in a grammar school." Hence a squib in whichPunchmakes disrespectful fun of "the Sainte-Beuve of the House of Lords," who, it may be added, has since made his peace with the young lions whom he had treated so disrespectfully. In 1913 the cult of Rabindranath Tagore had become fashionable. Here was an Oriental poet who sedulously eschewed the flamboyant exuberance of the westernized Indian, butPunch, while finding him a less fruitful theme for burlesque than the Babu immortalized by Mr. Anstey, regarded his mystical simplicity as fair game for parody, and declined to worship at his shrine. Another foreign importation, Mr. Conrad—whom in virtue of long residence in England, marvellous command of our language and unequalled insight into the magic of the sea and the simple heroism of the British sailorman, we are proud to call one of ourselves and one of theglories of English fiction—fascinatedPunchin 1900, the year in whichLord Jimappeared.Punchwas a little disconcerted at first by Mr. Conrad's oblique method of narration, but the fascination grew with advancing years.

Farewell to Mark Twain

I find few references to Continental authors, but may single out the "little English wreath" whichPunchadded to the memorial tributes to Alphonse Daudet on his death in 1897. Daudet's affinities with Dickens, always one ofPunch'sheroes, naturally appealed to him apart from the humour ofTartarinand the masterly studies of the Second Empire which Daudet had seen from the inside as one of the Duc de Morny's private secretaries. Towards American writersPunchwas almost uniformly sympathetic. It is true that he appreciated the earlier and American manner of Henry James more than the later cosmopolitan phase which began withThe Portrait of a Lady. But during the short period in whichPunch, in his "additional pages," published a number of short stories by various authors, Henry James was a contributor, andMrs. Medwinappeared in serial form in four successive numbers in August and September, 1901. Oliver Wendell Holmes, who died in 1894, is compared to Elia in the graceful memorial stanzas modelled on "The Last Leaf." Mr. W. D. Howells's papers on London and England inHarper's Magazinein 1904 prompt a generous acknowledgment of their reasonableness, sanity and humour, together with an expression of amazement at the productivity of American short-story writers, mostly in the manner of Mr. Henry James.Punch, both then and afterwards, refused to take Mrs. Ella Wheeler Wilcox seriously, and described her essays,The Woman of the World, as "high-toned but serenely platitudinous; 'bland, passionate, but deeply religious.'" Mark Twain, on his visit to London in 1907, was welcomed with pen and pencil—in the cartoon "To a Master of his Art," wherePunchsalutes him over the punch-bowl and in some verses,à proposof the dinner at the Pilgrims' Club:—

Pilot of many Pilgrims since the shout"Mark twain!"—that serves you for a deathless sign—On Mississippi's waterway rang outOver the plummet's line—Still where the countless ripples laugh aboveThe blue of halcyon seas long may you keepYour course unbroken, buoyed upon a loveTen thousand fathoms deep!

Pilot of many Pilgrims since the shout"Mark twain!"—that serves you for a deathless sign—On Mississippi's waterway rang outOver the plummet's line—

Pilot of many Pilgrims since the shout

"Mark twain!"—that serves you for a deathless sign—

On Mississippi's waterway rang out

Over the plummet's line—

Still where the countless ripples laugh aboveThe blue of halcyon seas long may you keepYour course unbroken, buoyed upon a loveTen thousand fathoms deep!

Still where the countless ripples laugh above

The blue of halcyon seas long may you keep

Your course unbroken, buoyed upon a love

Ten thousand fathoms deep!

Some three years later camePunch's"Ave, atque Vale," when Mark Twain died in April, 1910:—

Farewell the gentle spirit, strong to holdTwo sister lands beneath its laughter's spell!Farewell the courage and the heart of gold!Hail and Farewell!

Farewell the gentle spirit, strong to hold

Two sister lands beneath its laughter's spell!

Farewell the courage and the heart of gold!

Hail and Farewell!

To complete these American references I may add thatPunchin 1907 made great play out of the letter addressed by an American "Clippings Agency" to Petrarch, offering to send him press-cuttings of his works. But America has no monopoly of these solecisms. Fourteen years later, when the Phoenix Society revivedThe Maid's Tragedy, a similar offer was made by a London press-cutting agency to "John Fletcher, Esq." and "—Beaumont, Esq."

JOURNALISM

Already in the early 'nineties the altered status of journalism and the journalist had leapt to the eyes ofPunch, who himself was in a sense born and bred in the "Street of Ink." I pass over his ironical disapproval of theSt. James's Gazettewhen that journal, in October, 1892, "sincerely hoped that there was no truth in the rumour that a paper for children will shortly make its appearance, entirely written and illustrated by children under fifteen years of age." The project never materialized, but its spirit has been translated into action by the literary enterprise of our modernenfants terribles. The adult journalist in the 'nineties was not to suffer from this unfair competition for a good many years to come. Meanwhile he could at least congratulate himself that he was better housed and paid: it was not until 1904 that the "wisdom of the East" began to interfere with his freedom as a war correspondent.

Cartoon. Two men.THE WISDOM OF THE EASTJapanese Officer(to Press Correspondent): "Abjectly we desire to distinguish honourable newspaper man by honourable badge."

THE WISDOM OF THE EAST

Japanese Officer(to Press Correspondent): "Abjectly we desire to distinguish honourable newspaper man by honourable badge."

The Daily Mail Arrives

In 1897Punchillustrated the change by parallel pictures of the journalist in 1837, writing in a squalid room in the Fleet Prison, and in the year of the Diamond Jubilee, seated in a sumptuously equipped office, fat and prosperous, and smoking a large cigar. In the previous yearPunchhad saluted theDaily Newson the attainment of its jubilee. The connexion was an old and intimate one, for the publishers ofPunchhad been the first publishers of theDaily News, and it had been renewed in the 'nineties when Sir Henry Lucy ("Toby," ofPunch) for a while occupied the chair in which Dickens had sat. A far more momentous event, however, was associated with the year 1896—the founding of theDaily Mailby Mr. Alfred Harmsworth, subsequently described by one ofPunch'swriters as "the arch-tarantulator of our times." He was certainly, if unintentionally, invaluable toPunch, and even more stimulating than Mr. Caine and Miss Corelli. By 1900 his genius for discovering a constant succession of scapegoats, and converting the idol of yesterday into the Aunt Sally of to-day, is handsomely acknowledged in the lines "Ad Aluredum Damnodignum." Then it was Sir Michael Hicks-Beach and Mr. Balfour, butPunchforesaw that the habit was inveterate:—

For still, oh hawk-eyed Harmsworth, you pursueWith more than all the ardour of a lover,From find to check and so from check to viewYour scapegoat-hunt from covert into covert.

For still, oh hawk-eyed Harmsworth, you pursue

With more than all the ardour of a lover,

From find to check and so from check to view

Your scapegoat-hunt from covert into covert.

As for the test of circulation,Punchbetrays a certain scepticism in his remarks on "The People's Pulse" in 1903:—

The account given by theDaily Mail, in Saturday's issue, of its daily circulation for the last eight months, together with the leading event of each day, ought to be kept up from time to time as a Permanent People's Pulse Report. Nothing could be more instructive than to note, for instance, that while the Delhi Durbar only attracted 844,799 readers, the "Oyster Scare" allured as many as 846,501; while "Lord Dalmeny's Coming of Age" brought the figures up to 847,080, and the "Sardine Famine" accounted for a further increase of 14,586. Or, again, there is a world of significance in the fact that the relative attractions of the "Poet Laureate's Play" and "Mr. Seddon's Meat Shops" are represented by a balance of 5,291 in favour of the Napoleon of New Zealand.

Life was certainly made livelier by the new methods introduced, with variations, from America, andPunchfeelingly contrasts the drab existence of those who lived before with that of those who lived under the Harmsworthrégime:—

Drear was the lot, minus theMail,Of soldier, sailor, ploughboy, tinker;And worse, whenever they grew pale,They had no pills to make them pinker.

Drear was the lot, minus theMail,

Of soldier, sailor, ploughboy, tinker;

And worse, whenever they grew pale,

They had no pills to make them pinker.

It is a nice question whether we owe more to the pink pill or to the Yellow Press. But there can be no doubt as to the influence of the new journalism on sport and pastime. Until then, inPunch'sphrase, "cricket was still a childish game and not a penman's serious study." Henceforth the cricketer fulfilled a double function. He not only played cricket but he wrote about it—and himself. Under the heading "The Cricketer on the Hearth," in 1899,Punchpublishes an imaginary interviewà la modewith Mr. Slogger. We omit the complacent autobiographical passages and content ourselves with the sequel:—

"Well, that's pretty well all, I think, except you'll probably want to print at length my opinions on the Transvaal Question, Wagner's Music, and the Future of Agriculture. These will have an overpowering interest for your readers.""Here are a few photographs of myself—but it's rather too heavy a parcel to carry. I'll send it round in a van. Of course you'll print them all. And now I must ask you to excuse me, as it's time to get into flannels."I thanked him for his courtesy, and hoped that he'd make a fine score in the county match. He stared at me in surprise. "County Match? You don't imagine I've time to play cricket nowadays, do you? No; I'm going to change because half-a-dozen photographers will be here directly, and they like to take me in costume. And after that I shall have to see seven or eight more interviewers. Good morning!"

"Here are a few photographs of myself—but it's rather too heavy a parcel to carry. I'll send it round in a van. Of course you'll print them all. And now I must ask you to excuse me, as it's time to get into flannels."

I thanked him for his courtesy, and hoped that he'd make a fine score in the county match. He stared at me in surprise. "County Match? You don't imagine I've time to play cricket nowadays, do you? No; I'm going to change because half-a-dozen photographers will be here directly, and they like to take me in costume. And after that I shall have to see seven or eight more interviewers. Good morning!"

The Cricket Journalist

The intrusion of the emotional literary "note" in articles on pastime came later, and is parodied in the article (in 1904) "Do we take our amusements seriously enough?" by Mr. C. B. F:—

The frivolity of the Press is only paralleled by the frivolity of the public. Take the light and airy way in which the spectators at our great cricket grounds treat the imposing functions provided for them. Suppose little (but heroic) Johnny Tyldesley runs out to that wily, curling ball which sunny-faced Wilfred Rhodes pitches thirty-three and three-quarter inches from the block. Up glides his trusty willow, and a fortieth of a second after the ball has pitched descends on the leather. With a wonderful flick of the elbow he chops the ball exactly between square leg and point. Is the raucous "Well hit, Johnny," of the crowd a fitting, a reverent salutation? Our Elizabethan dramatists knew better. Have you not noticed in their stage directions, "A solemn music"? Two or three phrases of Chopin played, let us say, on the French horn by the doyen of the Press-box would be a better tribute to such a miracle of skill. There are, however, elements of better things in our crowds. Before now I have seen the potent Jessop smite a rising ball to the boundary with all the concentrated energy of his Atlantean shoulders, and as the ball reached the ring the spectators with involuntary reverence prostrated themselves before it.Nor do our greatest men gain the public honours which are their due. In ancient Greece a great athlete was a national hero. The name of Ladas has come down to us through the ages with those of Socrates and Xenophon. Think of the sad contrast in modern England. Why is not Plum Warner (I knew him in long clothes) a Knight of the Garter? Why is not Ranji (exquisitely delicate Ranji—the Walter Pater of the cricket field) Viceroy of India? There are living cricketers, with an average of over eighty, and a dozen centuries in one season to their credit, who have never even been sworn of the Privy Council.On every side I trace the growth of the same spirit. England is devoting itself to art, politics, literature and theology, and in the rush and hurry of our modern life there is a sad danger that sport will be underrated or overlooked. My countrymen must learn to concentrate their minds on the things which really matter. In your nobler moments would you not rather stand at the wicket than at the table of the House of Commons, or on the political platform of the City Temple, or on the stage of the Alhambra? Save her sport and you save England.

Nor do our greatest men gain the public honours which are their due. In ancient Greece a great athlete was a national hero. The name of Ladas has come down to us through the ages with those of Socrates and Xenophon. Think of the sad contrast in modern England. Why is not Plum Warner (I knew him in long clothes) a Knight of the Garter? Why is not Ranji (exquisitely delicate Ranji—the Walter Pater of the cricket field) Viceroy of India? There are living cricketers, with an average of over eighty, and a dozen centuries in one season to their credit, who have never even been sworn of the Privy Council.

On every side I trace the growth of the same spirit. England is devoting itself to art, politics, literature and theology, and in the rush and hurry of our modern life there is a sad danger that sport will be underrated or overlooked. My countrymen must learn to concentrate their minds on the things which really matter. In your nobler moments would you not rather stand at the wicket than at the table of the House of Commons, or on the political platform of the City Temple, or on the stage of the Alhambra? Save her sport and you save England.

Modern journalistic methods are reduced to absurdity in the account of the staff of a daily paper, who are all football players, cricketers, clairvoyants, crystal-gazers, music-hall artists, or burglars. In the verses on "Journalistic Evolution," in 1907, the tendency to condense everything is specially noted.Leaders have become "leaderettes," and will in turn yield to "leaderettelets"; the writer prophesies a day whenThe Timeswill only consist of headlines.

Dasent'sLife of Delaneappeared in 1908, andPunch'sreviewer reminds us of the commanding position occupied by that great editor, who was consulted by all Premiers, except Gladstone, and to whom Palmerston actually offered office. The gist and sting of the review, however, is to be found in a sentence not merely true but almost tragic in its bearings on the history of English journalism:—

Delane accepted the favour of contributions by Cabinet Ministers to his news-chest, but he recognized that the power and influence ofThe Timeswere based upon the foundations of public spirit, concern for national interest, and absolute impartiality in dealing with statesmen.

Back to Index Next