The Victorian Age of English Literature

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The Victorian Age of English Literature

[This is taken from William J. Long's Outlines of English and American Literature.]

The current sweeps the Old World,The current sweeps the New;

The wind will blow, the dawn will glow,

Ere thou hast sailed them through.

Kingsley, “A Myth”

!"TO#!$AL O%TL!NE. Amid the man& changes which ma'e the reign of Victoria the

most progressi(e in English histor&, one ma& disco(er three tendencies which ha(e profoundl& affected our present life and literature. The first is political and democratic) itma& be said to ha(e begun with the #eform *ill of +-; it is still in progress, and its

e(ident end is to deli(er the go(ernment of England into the hands of the common

people. !n earlier ages we witnessed a go(ernment which laid stress on ro&alt& and class pri(ilege, the spirit of which was clarioned b& "ha'espeare in the lines)

Not all the water in the rough rude sea

$an wash the balm from an anointed 'ing.

!n the Victorian or modern age the di(ine right of 'ings is as obsolete as a suit of armor;

the pri(ileges of ro&alt& and nobilit& are either curbed or abolished, and ordinar& men b&their representati(es in the ouse of $ommons are the real rulers of England.

With a change in go(ernment comes a corresponding change in literature. !n former ages

literature was almost as e/clusi(e as politics; it was largel& in the hands of the few; it wassupported b& princel& patrons; it reflected the taste of the upper classes. Now the masses

of men begin to be educated, begin to thin' for themsel(es, and a host of periodicals

appear in answer to their demand for reading matter. 0oets, no(elists, essa&ists,

http://www.djmcadam.com/outline-literature.htmlhttp://www.djmcadam.com/outline-literature.html


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historians,11all serious writers feel the inspiration of a great audience, and their wor's

ha(e a thousand readers where formerl& the& had but one. !n a word, English

go(ernment, societ& and literature ha(e all become more democratic. This is the mostsignificant feature of modern histor&.

The second tendenc& ma& be summed up in the word 2scientific.3 At the basis of thistendenc& is man4s desire to 'now the truth, if possible the whole truth of life; and it sets

no limits to the e/ploring spirit, whether in the hea(ens abo(e or the earth beneath or thewaters under the earth. 5rom star1dust in infinite space 6which we hope to measure7 to

fossils on the bed of an ocean which is no longer unfathomed, nothing is too great or too

small to attract man, to fascinate him, to influence his thought, his life, his literature.8arwin4s Origin of !e"ies 6+9:7, which laid the foundation for a general theor& of

e(olution, is one of the most famous boo's of the age, and of the world. Associated with

8arwin were Wallace, L&ell, u/le&, T&ndall and man& others, whose essa&s are, in theirown wa&, uite as significant as the poems of Tenn&son or the no(els of 8ic'ens.

!t would be uite as erroneous to allege that modern science began with these men as toassume that it began with the $hinese or with #oger *acon; the most that can be said

truthfull& is, that the scientific spirit which the& reflected began to dominate our thought,to influence e(en our poetr& and fiction, e(en as the (o&ages of 8ra'e and ustice and libert&.

The literature of the period reflects the wide hori=ons of the Empire. Among historical

writers, 0ar'man the American was one of the first and best to reflect the imperial spirit.!n such wor's as A #alf$%ent&ry of %onfli"t and Mont"alm an Wolfe he portra&ed the

conflict not of one nation against another but rather of two antagonistic t&pes of

ci(ili=ation) the militar& and feudal s&stem of 5rance against the democratic institutions

of the Anglo1"a/ons. Among the e/plorers,


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8ar' $ontinent. *eside such wor's should be placed numerous stirring >ournals of

e/ploration in $anada, in !ndia, in Australia, in tropical or fro=en seas,11where(er in the

round world the coloni=ing genius of England saw opportunit& to e/tend the boundariesand institutions of the Empire.


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beaut& of the English landscape, the surge and m&ster& of the surrounding sea, the

emphasis on domestic (irtues, the pride and lo(e of an Englishman for his countr& and

his countr&4s histor&,11these are e(er&where reflected in the poet4s wor'.

is education was largel& a matter of reading under his father4s direction. e had a short

e/perience of the grammar school at Louth, which he hated fore(er after. e entered$ambridge, and formed a circle of rare friends 62apostles3 the& called themsel(es7 who

afterwards became famous; but he left college without ta'ing a degree, probabl& becausehe was too poor to continue his course. Not till +9G did he earn enough b& his wor' to

establish a home of his own. Then he leased a house at 5arringford, !sle of Wight, which

we ha(e e(er since associated with Tenn&son4s name. *ut his real place is the eart ofEngland.

is first boo' 6a bo&ish piece of wor', underta'en with his brother $harles7 appeared

under the title oems -y T*o rothers 6+?7. !n +-G, and again in +-, he published a

small (olume containing such poems as 2The 0alace of Art,3 2The Lotos1Eaters,3 2The

Lad& of "halott3 and 2The


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of popularit&, de(oting himself as in earlier da&s to poetr& alone. As a critic writes,

2Tenn&son ne(er forgot that the poet4s wor' was to con(ince the world of lo(e and

beaut&; that he was born to do that wor', and do it worthil&.3

There are two poems which are especiall& significant in (iew of this steadfast purpose.

The first is 2


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Light again, leaf again, life again, lo(e again3I

Fes, m& wild little poetH

ere Tenn&son is so merged in his sub>ect as to produce the impression that the l&ricmust ha(e been written not b& an aged poet but b& the bird himself. #eading the poem

one seems to hear the brown thrasher on a twig of the wild1apple tree, pouring his heartout o(er the thic'et which his mate has >ust chosen for a nesting place.

Of the longer wor's of Tenn&son the most notable is the !d&lls of the Cing, a series oftwel(e poems retelling part of the stor& of Arthur and his 'nights. Tenn&son seems to

ha(e wor'ed at this poem in hapha=ard fashion, writing the end first, then a fragment

here or there, at inter(als during half a centur&. 5inall& he welded his material into its present form, ma'ing it a 'ind of allegor& of human life, in which man4s animal nature

fights with his spiritual aspirations. As Tenn&son wrote, in his 25inale3 to Jueen Victoria)

Accept this old, imperfect tale,

New1old, and shadowing"ense at war with "oul.

The beginner will do well to forget the allegor& and read the poem for its sustained

beaut& of e/pression and for its reflection of the modern ideal of honor. 5or, though


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>oins blithel& in the fight, is sore wounded, and is carried to the woman4s college as to a

hospital. The princess nurses him, listens to his lo(e tale, and the stor& ends in the good

old1fashioned wa&.

There are man& beautiful passages in The rin"ess, and had Tenn&son been content to tell

the romantic stor& his wor' would ha(e had some pleasant suggestion of "ha'espeare4s As 1o& Like )t ; but the social problem spoils the wor', as a morali=ing intruder spoils a bit

of innocent fun. Tenn&son is either too serious or not serious enough; he does not 'nowthe answer to his own problem, and is not uite sincere in dealing with it or in coming to

his lame and impotent conclusion. 5ew readers now attempt the three thousand lines of

The rin"ess, but content themsel(es with a few l&rics, such as 2As'


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too long; for the poet ne(er li(ed who could write a hundred and thirt&1one l&rics upon

the same sub>ect, in the same manner, without growing monotonous.

There are three more or less distinct parts of the wor', corresponding to three successi(e$hristmas seasons. The first part 6e/tending to poem -G7 is concerned with grief and

doubt; the second 6to poem ?7 e/hibits a calm, serious uestioning of the problem offaith; the third introduces a great hope amid tender memories or regrets, and ends 6poem

+GK7 with that splendid outloo' on a new &ear and a new life, 2#ing Out Wild *ells.3This was followed b& a few more l&rics of mounting faith, inspired b& the thought that

di(ine lo(e rules the world and that our human lo(e is immortal and cannot die. The wor'

ends, rather incongruousl&, with a marriage h&mn for Tenn&son4s sister.

The spirit of )n Memoriam is well reflected in the 20roem3 or introductor& h&mn, 2"trong

"on of od, !mmortal Lo(e3; its message is epitomi=ed in the last three lines)

One od, one law, one element,

And one far1off di(ine e(entTo which the whole creation mo(es.

TE J%AL!TF O5 TENNF"ON. The charm of Tenn&son is twofold. As the (oice of the

Victorian Age, reflecting its thought or feeling or culture, its intellectual uest, its moral

endea(or, its passion for social >ustice, he represents to us the spirit of modern poetr&;that is, poetr& which comes close to our own life, to the aims, hopes, endea(ors of the

men and women of to1da&. With this modern ualit& Tenn&son has the secret of all old

poetr&, which is to be eternall& &oung. e loo'ed out upon a world from which the firstwonder of creation had not (anished, where the sunrise was still 2a glorious birth,3 and

where lo(e, truth, beaut&, all inspiring realities, were still waiting with di(ine patience to

re(eal themsel(es to human e&es.

There are other charms in Tenn&son) his romantic spirit, his lo(e of nature, his sense of(erbal melod&, his almost perfect wor'manship; but these the reader must find and

appreciate for himself. The sum of our criticism is that Tenn&son is a poet to ha(e hand&

on the table for the pleasure of an idle hour. e is also 6and this is a better test7 an

e/cellent poet to put in &our poc'et when &ou go on a >ourne&. "o shall &ou be sure oftra(eling in good compan&.

D D D D D

#O*E#T *#OWN!N 6++1+:7

!n their lifelong de(otion to a single purpose the two chief poets of the Victorian Age aremuch ali'e; in most other respects the& are men of contrasts. Tenn&son loo'ed li'e a poet,


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*rowning li'e a business man. Tenn&son was a solitar& singer, ne(er in better compan&

than when alone;

*rowning was a cit& man, who must ha(e the e/citement of societ&. Tenn&son4s fieldwas the nation, its traditions, heroes, problems, ideals; but *rowning seldom went be&ond

the indi(idual man, and his purpose was to pla& $olumbus to some obscure human soul.Tenn&son was at times rather narrowl& *ritish; *rowning was a cosmopolitan who dealt

broadl& with humanit&. Tenn&son was the poet of &outh, and will alwa&s be read b& the&oung in heart; *rowning was the philosopher, the ps&chologist, the poet of mature &ears

and of a few culti(ated readers.

L!5E. *rowning portra&s so man& different human t&pes as to ma'e us mar(el, but wema& partl& understand his wide range of character1studies b& remembering he was an

Englishman with some $eltic and erman ancestors, and with a trace of $reole 6"panish1

Negro7 blood. e was born and grew up at $amberwell, a suburb of London, and the

earl& home of #us'in. is father was a *an'1of1England cler', a prosperous man and

fond of boo's, who encouraged his bo& to read and to let education follow the lead offanc&. *efore *rowning was twent& &ears old, father and son had a serious tal' which

ended in a 'ind of bargain) the bo& was to li(e a life of culture, and the father was to ta'ecare of all financial matters,11an arrangement which suited them both (er& well.

"ince bo&hood *rowning had been writing romantic (erses, influenced first b& *&ron,

then b& "helle&, then b& Ceats. is first published wor's, a&line and ara"els&s, were

what he called soul1studies, the one of a (isionar&, 2a star1treader3 6its hero was "helle&7,the other of a medie(al astrologer somewhat li'e 5aust. These two wor's, if one had the

patience of a pu==le1wor'er to read them, would be found t&pical of all the longer poems

that *rowning produced in his si/t& &ears of writing.

These earl& wor's were not read, were not e(en critici=ed; and it was not till +K that*rowning became famous, not because of his boo's but because he eloped with Eli=abeth

*arrett, who was then the most popular poet in England. 5ootnote) The fame of


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clubs sprang up in England and America. 8elighted with his popularit& among the elect,

*rowning seems to ha(e culti(ated his talent for obscurit&, or it ma& be that his natural

eccentricit& of st&le increased with age, as did Wordsworth4s prosiness. Whate(er thecause, his wor' grew steadil& worse until a succession of grammar def&ing (olumes

threatened to separate all but a few de(otees from their lo(e of *rowning. e died in

Venice in +:. On the da& of his death appeared in London his last boo', Asolano. The2Epilogue3 to that (olume is a splendid finale to a robust life.

One who ne(er turned his bac' but marched breast forward,

Ne(er doubted clouds would brea',

Ne(er dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph,eld we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better,

"leep to wa'e.

Tenn&son4s 2$rossing the *ar3 is a beautiful swan song; but *rowning4s last poem is a

bugle call, and it sounds not 2taps3 but the 2re(eille.3

*#OWN!N4" 8#Aect from an unusual (iewpoint and produces

what he calls a dramatic l&ric.

There are at least two wa&s in which *rowning4s wor' differs from that of otherdramatists. When a trained pla&wright produces a drama his rule is, 2Action, more action,

and still more action.3


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remember that *rowning is the one dramatist who deals with thoughts or moti(es rather

than with action.

WAT TO #EA8. One should begin with the simplest of *rowning4s wor's, and preferabl& with those in which he shows some regard for (erbal melod&. As romantic

lo(e is his fa(orite theme, it is perhaps well to begin with a few of the lo(e l&rics 2


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ideals. !t is also one of the best answers e(er gi(en to the uestion, !s life worth li(ing

The length of the poem, howe(er, and its man& difficult or digressi(e passages are apt to

repel the beginner unless he ha(e the ad(antage of an abridged (ersion.

Of the longer wor's of *rowning, onl& i!!a asses can be recommended with an&

confidence that it will gi(e pleasure to the reader. Other wor's, such as The 3ing an the ook , 5ootnote) The #ing and the *oo' is remar'able for other things than its inordinate

length. !n it *rowning tells how he found an old boo' containing the record of a murdertrial in #ome,11a horrible stor& of a certain $ount uido, who in a >ealous rage 'illed his

beautiful &oung wife. That is the onl& stor& element of the poem, and it is told, with man&

irritating digressions, at the beginning. The rest of the wor' is de(oted to 2soul studies,3the sub>ects being nine different characters who rehearse the same stor&, each for his own

>ustification. Thus, uido gi(es his (iew of the matter, and 0ompilia the wife gi(es hers.

2alf #ome,3 siding with uido, is personified to tell one tale, and then 2The Otheralf3 has its sa&. 5inal >udgment rests with the 0ope, an impressi(e figure, who upholds

the decision of the ci(il >udges. Altogether it is a remar'able piece of wor'; but it would

ha(e been more remar'able, better in e(er& wa&, if fifteen thousand of its twent&thousand lines had been left in the in'pot.B are doubtless more famous; but reading them

is li'e sol(ing a pu==le) a few en>o& the matter, and therefore count it pleasure, but to the

ma>orit& it is a tas' to be underta'en as mental discipline.

i!!a is the stor& of a wor'ing girl, a sil' wea(er of Asolo, who has a precious holida&and goes forth to en>o& it, wishing she could share her happiness with others, especiall&

with the great people of her town. *ut the great li(e in another world, she thin's, a world

far remo(ed from that of the poor little wor'ing girl; so she puts the wish out of her head,

and goes on her wa& singing)

The &ear4s at the spring,And da&4s at the morn;


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bit of ordinar& human life, which is dail& filled with deeds worth& to be written in a boo'

of gold, but of which onl& the #ecording Angel ta'es an& notice.

A $#!T!$!"< O5 *#OWN!N. $omparati(el& few people appreciate the force, thedaring, the (italit& of *rowning, and those who 'now him best are least inclined to

formulate a fa(orable criticism. The& 'now too well the faults of their hero, his whims,crotchets, digressions, garrulit&; his dis>ointed ideas, li'e rich plums in a poor pudding;

his e>aculator& st&le, as of a man of second thoughts; his wing1bound fanc&, which hopsaround his sub>ect li'e a grasshopper instead of soaring steadil& o(er it li'e an eagle.


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OTE# V!$TO#!AN 0OET"

EL!@A*ET *A##ETT *#OWN!N 6+GK1+K+7. Among the lesser poets of the age

the most famous was Eli=abeth *arrett, who eloped in romantic fashion with *rowning in+K. er earl& (olumes, written while she was an in(alid, seem now a little fe(erish, but

a few of her poems of childhood, such as 2ector3 and 2Little Ellie,3 ha(e still theiradmirers. Later she became interested in social problems, and reflected the passion of the

age for reform in such poems as 2The $r& of the $hildren,3 a protest against child laborwhich once (ied in interest with ood4s famous 2"ong of the "hirt.3 Also she wrote

A&rora Leigh, a popular no(el in (erse, ha(ing for its sub>ect a hero who was a social

reformer. Then udices, or tried to awa'en them to the >o&s of culture. !n both moods he was coldl&

intellectual, appealing to the head rather than to the heart of his readers; and it is still a

uestion whether his poetr& or his criticism will be longest remembered.

Arnold is called the poet of O/ford, as olmes is of ar(ard, and those who 'now the

beautiful old college town will best appreciate certain (erses in which he reflects the

uiet lo(eliness of a scene that has impressed so man& students, centur& after centur&. To

general readers one ma& safel& recommend Arnold4s elegies written in memor& of the poet $lough, such as 2Th&rsis3 and 2The "cholar &ps&3; certain poems reflecting the

religious doubts of the age, such as 28o(er *each,3 2


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not uite ob(ious; for the stor&, which is ta'en from the 0ersian hah 5amah, or *oo' of

Cings, is rather coldl& told, and the blan' (erse is far from melodious.

!n reading these poems of Arnold his own moti(es should be borne in mind. e tried towrite on classic lines, repressing the emotions, holding to a se(ere, unimpassioned st≤

and he proceeded on the assumption that poetr& is 2a criticism of life.3 !t is not uite clear what he meant b& his definition, but he was certainl& on the wrong trail. 0oetr& is the

natural language of man in moments of strong or deep feeling; it is the e/pression of life,of life at high tide or low tide; when it turns to criticism it loses its chief charm, as a

flower loses its beaut& and fragrance in the hands of a botanist. "ome poets, howe(er

6Lucretius among the ancients, 0ope among the moderns, for e/ample7, ha(e ta'en adifferent (iew of the matter.

Arnold4s chief prose wor's were written, curiousl& enough, after he was appointed

professor of poetr& at O/ford. There he proceeded, in a sincere but somewhat toploft&

wa& to enlighten the *ritish public on the sub>ect of culture. 5or &ears he was a 'ind of

dictator of literar& taste, and he is still 'nown as a master of criticism; but to e/amine his prose is to disco(er that it is notable for its e(en st&le and occasional good e/pressions,

such as 2sweetness and light,3 rather than for its illuminating ideas.

5or e/ample, in Literat&re an 6ogma and other boo's in which Arnold attempted tosol(e the problems of the age, he was apt to ma'e large theories from a small 'nowledge

of his sub>ect. "o in his "tud& of $eltic Literature 6an interesting boo', b& the wa&7 he

wrote with surprising confidence for one who had no first1hand acuaintance with hismaterial, and led his readers pleasantl& astra& in the flower& fields of $eltic poetr&.


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and to restore 2the sense of wonder, re(erence and awe3 which, the& belie(ed, had been

lost since medie(al times. Their sincerit& was unuestioned; their influence, though

small, was almost wholl& good; but unfortunatel& the& were, as


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ALE#NON $A#LE" "W!N*%#NE 6+-?1+:G:7. This (oluminous writer, born in

the &ear of Victoria4s accession, is &et so close to our own da& that it is difficult to thin'

of him as part of an age that is gone. As a poet he was a master of (erbal melod&, and hadsuch a command of (erse forms that he won his title of 2in(entor of harmonies.3 As a

critic he showed a wide 'nowledge of English and 5rench literature, a discriminating

taste, and an enthusiasm which bubbled o(er in eulog& of those whom he li'ed, andwhich emptied (ials of wrath upon *&ron, $arl&le and others who fell under his

displeasure. is criticisms are written in an e/tra(agant, almost a torrential, st≤ at

times his prose falls into a chanting rh&thm so attracti(e in itself as to ma'e us o(erloo'the fact that the praise and censure which he dispenses with prodigal liberalit& are too

personal to be uite trustworth&.

We are still too near "winburne to >udge him accuratel&, and his place in the long histor&

of English poetr& is &et to be determined. We note here onl& two characteristics whichma& or ma& not be e(ident to other readers. !n the first place, with his mar(elous

command of meter and melod&, "winburne has a fatal fluenc& of speech which tends to

bur& his thought in a mass of >ingling (erbiage. As we read we seem to hear the uestion,2What readest thou, amlet3 and again the 8ane ma'es answer, 2Words, words, words.3

Again, li'e the 0re1#aphaelites with whom he was at one time associated, "winburne

li(ed too much apart from the tide of common life. e wrote for the chosen few, and in

the mass of his (erse one must search long for a passage of which one ma& sa&, This goeshome to the hearts of men, and abides there in the treasure1house of all good poetr&.

Among the longer wor's of "winburne his masterpiece is the l&rical drama Atalanta in

%alyon. !f one would merel& sample the fla(or of the poet, such minor wor's as 2!t&lus3

and the fine sea pieces, 2Off "hore,3 2*& the North "ea3 and 2A 5orsa'en arden3 ma& be recommended. Nor should we o(erloo' what, to man&, is "winburne4s best ualit&;

namel&, his lo(e of children, as reflected in such poems as 2The "alt of the Earth3 and 2A$hild4s Laughter.3 Among the best of his prose wor's are his William *la'e, 2ssays ant&ies, Mis"ellanies and "tudies in 0rose and Verse.

"ON" !N


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D D D D D

!!. TE V!$TO#!AN NOVEL!"T"

$A#LE" 8!$CEN" 6++1+?G7

Among the Victorian no(elists were two men who were freuent ri(als in the race for

fame and fortune. Thac'era&, well born and well bred, with artistic tastes and literar&

culture, loo'ed doubtfull& at the bustling life around him, found his inspiration in a pastage, and tried to uphold the best traditions of English literature. 8ic'ens, with little

education and less interest in literar& culture, loo'ed with >o& upon the struggle fordemocrac&, and with an obser(ation that was almost microscopic saw all its picturesue

details of speech and character and incident. e was the e&e of the might& Victorian age,as Tenn&son was its ear, and *rowning its ps&chologist, and $arl&le its chronic grumbler.

L!5E. !n the childhood of 8ic'ens one ma& see a forecast of his entire career. is father,

a good1natured but shiftless man 6caricatured as


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a succession of theatrical incidents, of big successes, big lecture tours, big audiences,11

alwa&s the footlights, till he la& at last between the pale wa/ tapers. *ut we are far ahead

of our stor&.

When 8ic'ens was nine &ears old his famil& mo(ed to London. There the father fell into

debt, and b& the brutal laws of the period was thrown into prison. The bo& went to wor'in the cellar of a blac'ing factor&, and there began that intimate acuaintance with lowl&

characters which he used later to such ad(antage. e has described his bitter e/perienceso often 6in 8a(id $opperfield for instance7 that the biographer ma& well pass o(er it. We

note onl& this significant fact) that where(er 8ic'ens went he had an instinct for

e/ploration li'e that of a farm dog, which will not rest in a place till he has first e/aminedall the neighborhood, putting his nose into e(er& li'el& or unli'el& spot that ma& shelter

friend or enem&. "o 8ic'ens used his spare hours in roaming the b&wa&s of London b&

night, so he gained his mar(elous 'nowledge of that foreign land called The "treet, withits flitting life of gamins and nondescripts, through which we pass dail& as through an

un'nown countr&.

A small inheritance brought the father from prison, the famil& was again united, and for

two &ears the bo& attended the academ& which he has held up to the laughter and scorn of two continents. There the genius of 8ic'ens seemed suddenl& to awa'en. e studied

little, being gi(en to pran's and theatricals, but he disco(ered within him an immense

ambition, an imperious will to win a place and a name in the great world, and a hopefultemper that must carr& him o(er or under all obstacles.

No sooner was his disco(er& made than he left school and entered a law office, where he

pic'ed up enough 'nowledge to ma'e court practices fore(er ridiculous, in leak #o&se

and other stories. e studied shorthand and uic'l& mastered it; then undertoo' to report

parliamentar& speeches 6a good training in orator&7 and presentl& began a prosperouscareer as a reporter. This had two ad(antages; it de(eloped his natural taste for odd

people and picturesue incidents, and it brought him close to the great reading public. To please that public, to humor its whims and pre>udices, its lo(e for fun and tears and

sentimentalit&, was thereafter the ruling moti(e in 8ic'ens4s life.

is first literar& success came with some short stories contributed to the maga=ines,

which appeared in boo' form as "'etches b& *o= 6+-97. A publisher mar'ed theses'etches, engaged 8ic'ens to write the te/t or letterpress for some comic pictures, and

the result was i"k*i"k , which too' England and America b& storm. Then followed

Oli(er T*ist , 5i"holas 5i"kle-y, Ol %&riosity ho!,11a flood of wor's that made readers

rub their e&es, wondering if such a fountain of laughter and tears were ine/haustible.

There is little else to record e/cept this) that from the time of his first triumph 8ic'ens

held his place as the most popular writer in English. With his no(els he was not satisfied,

but wrote a histor& of England, and edited (arious popular maga=ines, such as #o&sehol

Wors. Also he ga(e public readings, re(eling in the applause, the lioni=ing, which

greeted him where(er he went. e earned much mone&; he bought the place 2adshill,3

near #ochester, which he had co(eted since childhood; but he was a free spender, and his


20/49

great income was less than his fancied need. To increase his re(enue he 2toured3 the

"tates in a series of readings from his own wor's, and capitali=ed his e/perience in

Ameri"an 5otes and parts of Martin %h&::le*it .

A uestion of taste must arise e(en now in connection with these wor's. 8ic'ens had

gone to a foreign countr& for >ust two things, mone& and applause; he recei(ed both infull measure; then he bit the friendl& hand which had gi(en him what he wanted.

Thac'era&, who followed him to America, had a finer sense of the laws of hospitalit& andgood breeding.

!n + 8ic'ens resol(ed to ma'e both ends meet, and carried out his resol(e with

promptness and precision. To decrease e/penses he went to the $ontinent, and li(edthere, hungr& for the footlights, till a series of stories ending with 6om-ey an on put

his finances on a secure basis. Then he returned to London, wrote more no(els, and sa(ed

a fortune for his descendants, who promptl& spent it. E(identl& it was a famil& trait.


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Tin& Tim; and he had disco(ered that tears are the 'e& to man& a heart at which reason

'noc's in (ain.

The second wor', i"k*i"k, written in a harum1scarum wa&, is e(en more t&pical of8ic'ens in its spirit of fun and laughter. e had been engaged, as we ha(e noted, to

furnish a te/t for some comic drawings, thus re(ersing the usual order of illustration. The pictures were intended to po'e fun at a club of sportsmen; and 8ic'ens, who 'new

nothing of sport, bra(el& set out with


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Trotwood,


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thing about them; it is as the rattling of a safet& (al(e, which spea's not of stagnant water

but of a full head of steam. 5or 8ic'ens deals with life, and &ou can e/aggerate life as

much as &ou please, since there is no end to either its wisdom or foolishness. Nothing but a uestion can be added to the silent simplicit& of death.

Aside from his purpose of portra&ing life as he saw it, in all its strange comple/it&,8ic'ens had a twofold ob>ect in writing. e was a radical democrat, and he aimed to

show the immense hopefulness and compassion of 8emocrac& on its upward wa& tolibert&. e was also a reformer, with a profound respect for the poor, but no respect

whate(er for ancient laws or institutions that stood in the wa& of >ustice. The influence of

his no(els in establishing better schools, prisons, wor'houses, is be&ond measure; but weare not so much interested in his reforms as in his method, which was uniue. e aimed

to ma'e men understand the oppressed, and to ma'e a laughing stoc' of the oppressors;

and he succeeded as no other had e(er done in ma'ing literature a power in the land.Thus, the man or the law that stands defiantl& against public opinion is beaten the

moment &ou ma'e that man or that law loo' li'e a >o'e; and 8ic'ens made a huge >o'e of

the parish beadle 6as oice o(er him as o(er a bo& who must throw a handspring or raise a *hillile* when

he brea's loose from school. 5or 8ic'ens, when he started his triumphal progress with i"k*i"k , had a glorious sense of ta'ing his cue from life and of brea'ing loose from

literar& traditions. !n comparison with #us'in or Thac'era& he is not a good writer, but

something moreIa splendidl& great writer. !f &ou would limit or define his greatness, tr&first to marshal his arra& of characters, characters so (ital and human that we can hardl&

thin' of them as fictitious or imaginar& creatures; then remember the millions of men and

women to whom he has gi(en pure and lasting pleasure.

D D D D D

W!LL!A<


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!n fiction Thac'era& stands to 8ic'ens as amilton to efferson in the field of politics.

The radical difference between the no(elists is e/emplified in their attitude toward the

public. Thac'era&, who li(ed among the pri(ileged classes, spo'e of 2this great stupid public,3 and thought that the onl& wa& to get a hearing from the common people was to

2ta'e them b& the ears.3 e was a true amiltonian. 8ic'ens had an immense s&mpath&

for the common people, a profound respect for their elemental (irtues; and in writing forthem he was, as it were, the efferson, the triumphant democrat of English letters.

Thac'era& was intellectual; he loo'ed at men with critical e&es, and was a realist and a

pessimist. 8ic'ens was emotional; he loo'ed at men with 'indled imagination, >udgedthem b& the dreams the& cherished in their hearts, and was a romanticist and an optimist.

*oth men were humorists; but where Thac'era& was delicatel& satirical, causing us a

momentar& smile, 8ic'ens was broadl& comic or farcical, winning us b& heart& laughter.

L!5E. To one who has been trained, li'e 8ic'ens, in the school of hardship it seems themost natural thing in the world to pass o(er into a state of affluence. !t is another matter

to fare sumptuousl& e(er& da& till lu/urious habits are formed, and then be cast suddenl&

on one4s own resources, face to face with the une/pected monster of bread and butter.This was Thac'era&4s e/perience, and it colored all his wor'.

A second important matter is that Thac'era& had a great tenderness for children, a

longing for home and homel& comforts; but as a child he was sent far from his home in

!ndia, and was thrown among &oung barbarians in (arious schools, one of which, the2$harterhouse,3 was called the 2"laughterhouse3 in the bo&4s letters to his mother.

2There are three hundred and se(ent& bo&s in this school,3 wrote; 2! wish there were onl&

three hundred and si/t&1nineH3 e married for lo(e, and with great >o& began

house'eeping; then a terrible accident happened, his wife was ta'en to an insane as&lum,and for the rest of his life Thac'era& was a wanderer amid the empt& splendors of clubs

and hotels.

These two e/periences did not brea' Thac'era&, but the& bowed him. The& help toe/plain the languor, the melanchol&, the gentle pessimism, as if life had no more sunrises,

of which we are (aguel& conscious in reading The 7irginians or The 5e*"omes.

Thac'era& was born 6+++7 in $alcutta, of a famil& of English 2nabobs3 who had

accumulated wealth and influence as factors or ci(il officers. At the death of his father,who was a >udge in *engal, the child was sent to England to be educated. ere is a

significant incident of the >ourne&)

2Our ship touched at an island, where m& blac' ser(ant too' me a wal' o(er roc's and

hills till we passed a garden, where we saw a man wal'ing. RThat is *onaparte,4 said the blac'; Rhe eats three sheep e(er& da&, and all the children he can la& hands on.43

Napoleon was then safel& imprisoned at "t. elena; but his shadow, as of a terrible ogre,

was still dar' o(er Europe.


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Thac'era&4s education, at the $harterhouse "chool and at $ambridge, was neither a

happ& nor a profitable e/perience, as we >udge from his unflattering picture of English

school life in enennis. e had a strongl& artistic bent, and after lea(ing college studiedart in erman& and 5rance. 0resentl& he lost his fortune b& gambling and bad

in(estments, and was confronted b& the necessit& of earning his li(ing. e tried the law,

but ga(e it up because, as he said, it had no soul. e tried illustrating, ha(ing a smalltalent for comic drawings, and sought (arious ci(il appointments in (ain. As a last

resource he turned to the maga=ines, wrote satires, s'etches of tra(el, burlesues of

popular no(elists, and, fighting all the time against his habit of idleness, slowl& but surel&won his wa&.

is first notable wor', 7anity +air 6+?7, won a few readers4 and the critics4 >udgment

that it was 2a boo' written b& a gentleman for gentlemen3 was the foundation of

Thac'era&4s reputation as a writer for the upper classes. Other notable no(els followed, #enry 2smon , enennis, The Newcomes, The 7irginians, and two series of literar& and

historical essa&s called 2nglish #&morists and The 5our eorges. The latter were

deli(ered as lectures in a successful tour of England and America. Needless to sa&,Thac'era& hated lecturing and publicit&; he was dri(en to his 2dollar1hunting3 b&

necessit&.

!n +KG his fame was firml& established, and he won his first financial success b& ta'ing

charge of the %ornhill Maga:ine, which prospered greatl& in his hands. e did not longen>o& his new1found comfort, for he died in +K-. is earl& s'etches had been satirical in

spirit, his first no(els largel& so; but his last no(els and his $ornhill essa&s were written

in a different spirit,11not 'inder, for Thac'era&4s heart was alwa&s right, but broader,

wiser, more patient of human nature, and more hopeful.

!n (iew of these later wor's some critics declare that Thac'era&4s best no(el was ne(erwritten. is stories were produced not >o&ousl& but laboriousl&, to earn his li(ing; and

when leisure came at last, then came death also, and the wor' was o(er.

WO#C" O5 TA$CE#AF. !t would be fl&ing in the face of all the critics to suggest thatthe beginner might do well to postpone the famous no(els of Thac'era&, and to meet the

author at his best, or cheerfulest, in such forgotten wor's as the ook of allas and The

#ose and the #ing. The latter is a 'ind of fair& stor&, with a poor little good princess, arich little bad princess, a witch of a godmother, and such (illainous characters as ed=off

and ruffanuff. !t was written for some children whom Thac'era& lo(ed, and is almost

the onl& boo' of his which lea(es the impression that the author found an& real pleasure

in writing it.

!f one must begin with a no(el, then #enry 2smon 6+97 is the boo'. This is an

historical no(el; the scene is laid in the eighteenth centur&, during the reign of Jueen

Anne; and it differs from most other historical no(els in this important respect) the author 'nows his ground thoroughl&, is familiar not onl& with political e(ents but with the

thoughts, ideals, boo's, e(en the literar& st&le of the age which he describes. The hero of

the no(el, $olonel Esmond, is represented as telling his own stor&; he spea's as a


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gentleman spo'e in those da&s, telling us about the politicians, soldiers, ladies and

literar& men of his time, with fran' e/posure of their manners or morals. As a realistic

portra&al of an age gone b&, not onl& of its thoughts but of the (er& language in whichthose thoughts were e/pressed, 2smon is the most remar'able no(el of its 'ind in our

language. !t is a prodig& of realism, and it is written in a charming prose st&le.

One must add fran'l& that 2smon is not an inspiring wor', that the atmosphere is

gloom&, and the plot a disappointment. The hero, after ten &ears of de(otion to a woman,ends his romance b& happil& marr&ing with her mother. An& reader could ha(e told him

that this is what he ought to ha(e done, or tried to do, in the beginning; but Thac'era&4s

heroes will ne(er ta'e the reader4s good ad(ice. !n this respect the& are uite human.

The two social satires of Thac'era& are 7anity +air 6+?7 and The #istory of Arth&r enennis 6+:7. The former ta'es its title from that fair described in ilgrim/s

rogress, where all sorts of cheats are e/posed for sale; and Thac'era& ma'es his no(el a

morali=ing e/position of the shams of societ&. The slight action of the stor& re(ol(es

about two unlo(el& heroines, the unprincipled *ec'& "harp and the spineless Amelia. Wecall them both unlo(el&, though Thac'era& tries hard to ma'e us admire his tearful

Amelia and to detest his more interesting *ec'&.


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mumps, which one ma& catch a second time. The atmosphere of both no(elsIindeed, of

all Thac'era&4s greater wor's, with the e/ception of 2nglish #&morists and The 5our

eorges11is rather depressing. One gets the impression that life among 2the ualit&3 is adrear& e/perience, hardl& worth the effort of li(ing.

TA$CE#AF) A $#!T!$!"ect was

ne(er malicious or (indicti(e but correcti(e; he aimed to win or dri(e men to (irtue b&

e/posing the nati(e ugliness of (ice.

The result of his effort ma& be summed up as follows) Thac'era& is a no(elist for the fewwho can en>o& his accurate but pett& (iews of societ&, and his culti(ated prose st&le. e is

not (er& cheerful; he does not see' the blue flower that grows in e(er& field, or the gold

that is at e(er& rainbow4s end, or the romance that hides in e(er& human heart whether ofrich or poor. Therefore are the &oung not conspicuous among his followers.

D D D D D


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the managing of a poultr& &ard, the ma'ing of butter, and other farm or dair& matters

which at that time were left wholl& to women.

The first mar'ed change in her life came at the age of twent&1two, when the householdremo(ed to $o(entr&, and


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the ebrew race in 6aniel 6erona, a boo' of elephantine gambols in The Opinions of

Theophrastus "uch. ect to the same law; that our dail& choices ha(e deep moral

significance, since the& all react on character and their total result is either happiness or

miser&; and that there is no possible escape from the reward or punishment that is due to

one4s indi(idual action.

"uch is the message of the author4s first wor'. !n its stern insistence on the moral ualit&of life and of e(er& human action, it distinguishes eorge Eliot from all other fiction

writers of the period.

!n her first three no(els she repeats the same message with more detail, and with a gleamof humor here and there to light up the gloom& places. Aam ee 6+9:7 has been

called a stor& of earl&


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or melanchol& conclusion, lea(es an impression so powerful that we gladl&, and perhaps

uncriticall&, place it among the great literar& wor's of the Victorian era.

Of the later no(els one cannot spea' so confidentl&. The& mo(e some critics toenthusiasm, and put others to sleep. Thus, 6aniel 6erona has some e/cellent passages,

and wendolen is perhaps the best1drawn of all eorge Eliot4s characters; but for man&readers the no(el is spoiled b& scientific >argon, b& essa& writing on the ews and other

matters of which the author 'new little or nothing at first hand. !n Milemar"h shereturned to the scenes with which she was familiar and produced a no(el which some

critics ran' (er& high, while others point to its superfluous essa&s and its proneness to

morali=ing instead of telling a stor&.

3omola is another labored no(el, a stud& of !tal& during the #enaissance, and a profound

ethical lesson. !f &ou can read this wor' without critici=ing its !talian (iews, &ou ma& find

in the characters of Tito and #omola, one selfish and the other generous, the best e/ample

of eorge Eliot4s moral method, which is to show the cumulati(e effect on character of

e(er&da& choices or actions. Fou will find also a good stor&, one of the best that theauthor told. *ut if &ou read 3omola as an historical no(el, with some 'nowledge of !tal&

and the #enaissance, &ou ma& decide that eorge EliotIthough she sla(ed at this no(eluntil, as she said, it made an old woman of herIdid not understand the people or the

countr& which she tried to describe. "he portra&ed life not as she had seen and 'nown and

lo(ed it, but as she found it reflected at second hand in the wor's of other writers.

TE J%AL!TF O5 EO#E EL!OT. Of the moral ualit& of eorge Eliot we ha(ealread& said enough. To our summar& of her method this should be added, that she tried

to ma'e each of her characters not indi(idual but t&pical. !n other words, if Tito came

finall& to grief, and Adam arri(ed at a state of gloom& satisfaction 6there is no real

happiness in eorge Eliot4s world7, it was not because Tito and Adam li(ed in differenttimes or circumstances, but because both were sub>ect to the same eternal laws. Each

must ha(e gone to his own place whether he li(ed in wealth or po(ert&, in 5lorence orEngland, in the fifteenth or the nineteenth centur&. The moral law is uni(ersal and

unchanging; it has no fa(orites, and ma'es no e/ceptions. !t is more li'e the old ree'

conception of Nemesis, or the Anglo1"a/on conception of W&rd, or 5ate, than an&thing

else &ou will find in modern fiction.

!n this last respect eorge Eliot again differs radicall& from her contemporaries. !n her

gloom& (iew of life as an unanswerable pu==le she is li'e Thac'era&; but where

Thac'era& offers a cultured resignation, a gentlemanl& ma'ing the best of a bad case,

eorge Eliot ad(ocates self1sacrifice for the good of others. !n her portra&al of wea' orsinful characters she is uite as compassionate as 8ic'ens, and more thoughtfull&

charitable; for where 8ic'ens sometimes ma'es light of miser&, and relie(es it b& the

eas& e/pedient of good dinners and all1around comfort for saints and sinners, eorgeEliot remembers the bro'en moral law and the suffering of the innocent for the guilt&.

*ehind e(er& one of her characters that does wrong follows an a(enging fate, waiting the

moment to e/act the full penalt&; and before e(er& character that does right ho(ers a(ision of sacrifice and redemption.


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er real philosoph&, therefore, was uite different from that which her scientific friends

formulated for her, and was not modern but ancient as the hills. On the one hand, she

ne(er uite freed herself from the old pagan conception of Nemesis, or 5ate; on the other,her earl& udgment in stud&ing 8ic'ens,

Thac'era& and eorge Eliot as the t&pical Victorian no(elists. On 8ic'ens, as the most

original genius of the age, most people are agreed; but the ran' of the other two is open touestion. There are critics besides "winburne who regard $harlotte *rontS as a greater

genius than eorge Eliot; and man& uncritical readers find more pleasure or profit in the

*archester no(els of Anthon& Trollope than in an&thing written b& Thac'era&. !t ma&e(en be that the three or four leading no(els of the age were none of them written b& the

no(elists in uestion; but it is still essential to 'now their wor's if onl& for these reasons)

that the& greatl& influenced other stor&1tellers of the period, and that the& furnish us a

standard b& which to >udge all modern fiction.

To treat the man& Victorian no(elists adeuatel& would in itself reuire a (olume. We

shall note here onl& a few leading figures, naming in each case a no(el or two which ma&

ser(e as an in(itation to a better acuaintance with their authors.

The *rontS sisters, $harlotte and Emil&, made a tremendous sensation in England when,from their retirement, the& sent out certain wor's of such passionate intensit& that readers

who had long been familiar with no(els were startled into renewed attention. #eading

these wor's now we recogni=e the genius of the writers, but we recogni=e also a morbid,unwholesome ualit&, which is a reflection not of English life but of the personal and

unhapp& temperament of two girls who loo'ed on life first as a gorgeous romance and

then as a gloom& traged&.

$harlotte *rontS 6++K1+997 was perhaps the more gifted of the two sisters, and her

best1'nown wor's are Jane 2yre and 7illette. The date of the latter no(el 6+9-7 wasmade noteworth& b& the masterpiece of another woman no(elist,


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$harles #eade 6++1+7 was a follower of 8ic'ens in his earlier no(els, such as eg

Woffington; but he made one notable departure when he wrote The %loister an the

#earth 6+K+7. This is a stor& of student life and (agabond life in Europe, in the stirringtimes that followed the in(ention of printing. The action mo(es rapidl&; man& different

characters appear; the scene shifts from olland across Europe to !tal&, and bac' again;

ad(entures of a startling 'ind meet the hero at e(er& stage of his foot >ourne&. !t is astirring tale, remar'abl& well told; so much will e(er& uncritical reader gladl&

ac'nowledge.


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Of the later Victorian no(elists, chief among them being ourne&ing called An )nlan7oyage and Tra(els *ith a 6onkey.

The cheer& spirit of "te(enson, who bra(el& fought a losing battle with disease, is e(ident

in e(er&thing he wrote; and it was the author4s spirit, uite as much as his romantic tales

or fine prose st&le, that won for him a large and enthusiastic following. Of all the laterVictorians he seems, at the present time, to ha(e the widest circle of culti(ated readers

and to e/ercise the strongest influence on our writers of fiction.

D D D D D

!!!. V!$TO#!AN E""AF!"T" AN8 !"TO#!AN"

There is rich reading in Victorian essa&s, which reflect not onl& the practical affairs of the

age but also the ideals that inspire e(er& great mo(ement whether in histor& or literature.

5or e/ample, the intense religious interests of the period, the growth of the

Nonconformists or !ndependents, the O/ford mo(ement, which aimed to define thehistoric position of the English $hurch, the chill of doubt and the glow of renewed faith

in face of the apparent conflict between the old religion and the new science,11all these

were brilliantl& reflected b& e/cellent writers, among whom


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"omewhat apart from their age stood a remar'able group of historiansIallam,

5reeman, reen, ardiner, "&monds and others no less praiseworth&Iwho changed the

whole conception of histor& from a record of political or militar& e(ents to a profoundstud& of human societ& in all its acti(ities. !n another t&pical group were the critics, 0ater,

*agehot, utton, Leslie "tephen, who ha(e gi(en deeper meaning and enlarged pleasure

to the stud& of literature. !n a fourth group were the scientistsI8arwin, Wallace, L&ell,ustice to so man& writers, reflecting nature or

humanit& from (arious angles, and sometimes insisting that a particular angle was the

onl& one from which a true (iew could be obtained. "ome rigorous selection is necessar&;and we name here for special stud&


36/49

the "ierra Leone $olon& in Africa, was a business man who gained a fortune in trade, and

who spent the whole of it in helping to free the sla(es. !n conseuence, when


37/49

The essa&s of ect interesting.

That is udgments; the& are so often one1sided that the author declared in later life he would burn

them all if he could; but the& are all splendid, all worth reading, not simpl& for their

matter but for their st&le and for the wealth of allusion with which


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probabl& as few serious faults as an& other histor& which attempts to co(er the immense

field of the political, social and intellectual life of a nation. #ead, for e/ample, one of the

introductor& chapters 6the third is e/cellent7 which draws such a picture of England in theda&s of the "tuarts as no other historian has e(er attempted. When &ou ha(e finished that

chapter, with its wealth of picturesue detail, &ou ma& be content to read


39/49

$arl&le4s wife was a brilliant but ner(ous woman with literar& gifts of her own. "he had

alwa&s recei(ed attention; she e/pected and probabl& deser(ed admiration; but so did

$arl&le, who e/pected also to be made the center of all solicitude when he called hea(enand earth to witness against democrac&, crowing roosters, wea' tea and other grie(ous

afflictions. After her death 6in London, +KK7 he was plunged into deepest grief. !n his

3eminis"en"es and Letters he fairl& deifies his wife, calling her his ueen, his star, hislight and >o& of life, and portra&s a companionship as of two mortals in a 0aradise

without a serpent. All that is doubtless as it should be, in a romance; but the unfortunate

publication of ournals introduced a >arring note of realit&. A >ungle of contro(ersial writings has since grown up around the domestic relations of the

$arl&les,11impertinent, deplorable writings, which ser(e no purpose but to ma'e us cr&,

2Enough, let them rest in peaceH3 *oth had sharp tongues, and probabl& both were often

sorr&.

5rom the moors the $arl&les went to London and settled for the remainder of their li(es

in a house in $he&ne #ow, in the suburb of $helsea. There $arl&le slowl& won

recognition, his success being founded on his +ren"h 3e(ol&tion. !n(itations began to pour in upon him; great men (isited and praised him, and his fame spread as 2the sage of

$helsea.3 Then followed his %rom*ell and +reeri"k the 8reat , the latter completed after

&ears of complaining labor which made wrec' of home happiness. And then came a

period of unusual irritation, to which we owe, in part at least, $arl&le4s railings against progress and his deplorable criticism of England4s great men and women,11poor little

*rowning, animalcular 8e Juince&, rabbit1brained Newman, sawdustish ournals which $arl&le committed to

his friend 5roude the historian. The publication of these pri(ate papers raised a storm of protest. Admirers of $arl&le, shoc'ed at the re(elation of another side to their hero,

denounced 5roude for his dislo&alt& and malice; whereupon the literar& world di(ided

into two camps, the ane $arl&leists and the Thomas $arl&leists, as the& are still called.That 5roude showed poor taste is e(ident; but we must acuit him of all malice. 0ri(ate

papers had been gi(en him with the charge to publish them if he saw fit; and from them

he attempted to draw not a flattering but a truthful portrait of $arl&le, who had alwa&s preached the doctrine that a man must spea' truth as he sees it. Nor will $arl&le suffer in

the long run from being depri(ed of a halo which he ne(er deser(ed. Alread& the

crustiness of the man begins to grow dim in the distance; it is his rugged earnestness that

will be longest remembered.


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WO#C" O5 $A#LFLE. The beginner will do well to ma'e acuaintance with $arl&le in

some of the minor essa&s, which are less original but more pleasing than his labored

wor's. Among the best essa&s are those on oethe 6who was $arl&le4s first master7,"igns of the Times, No(alis, and especiall& "cott and *urns. With "cott he was not in

s&mpath&, and though he tried as a "cotsman to be 2lo&al to 'ith and clan,3 a strong touch

of pre>udice mars his wor'. With *urns he succeeded better, and his picture of the plowbo& genius in misfortune is one of the best we ha(e on the sub>ect. This 2ssay on

&rns is also notable as the best e/ample of $arl&le4s earl& st&le, before he compounded

the strange mi/ture which appeared in his later boo's.

The most readable of $arl&le4s longer wor's is eroes and ero Worship 6+G7, whichdeals with certain leaders in the fields of religion, poetr&, war and politics. !t is an

interesting stud& to compare this wor' with the 3e!resentati(e Men of Emerson. The

latter loo's upon the world as go(erned b& ideals, which belong not to indi(iduals but tohumanit&. When some man appears in whom the common ideal is written large, other

men follow him because the& see in him a truth which the& re(ere in their own souls. "o

the leader is alwa&s in the highest sense a representati(e of his race. *ut $arl&le will ha(enothing of such democrac&; to him common men are stupid or helpless and must be

go(erned from without. Occasionall&, when humanit& is in the "lough of 8espond,

appears a hero, a superman, and proceeds b& his own force to drag or dri(e his sub>ects to

a higher le(el. When the hero dies, humanit& must halt and pra& hea(en to send anothermaster.

!t is e(ident before one has read much of #eroes that $arl&le is at heart a force1

worshiper. To him histor& means the biograph& of a few heroes, and heroism is a matter

of power, not of ph&sical or moral courage. The hero ma& ha(e the rugged courage of a$romwell, or he ma& be an eas&1li(ing poet li'e "ha'espeare, or a ruthless despot li'e

Napoleon, or an epitome of all meanness li'e #ousseau; but if he shows superior force ofan& 'ind, that is the hallmar' of his heroism, and before such an one humanit& should bow down. Of real histor&, therefore, &ou will learn nothing from #eroes; neither will

&ou get an& trustworth& information concerning Odin,


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order can ne(er come out of chaos sa(e b& the iron grip of a go(erning hand. ence, if

&ou want to learn the real histor& of the 5rench #e(olution, &ou must see' elsewhere; but

if &ou want an impression of it, an impression that burns its wa& into the mind, &ou willhardl& find the eual of $arl&le4s boo' in an& language.

Of $arl&le4s miscellaneous wor's one must spea' with some hesitation. As an e/pressionof what some call his prophetic mood, and others his ranting, one who has patience might

tr& hooting 5iagara or the Latter 8a& 0amphlets. A reflection of his doctrine of honestwor' as the cure for social ills is found in ast an resent ; and for a summar& of his

philosoph& there is nothing uite so good as his earl& "artor #esartus 6+-7.

The last1named wor' is called philosoph& onl& b& courtes&. The title means 2the tailorretailored,3 or 2the patcher repatched,3 and the boo' professed to be 2a complete

#esartus philosoph& of clothes.3 "ince e(er&thing wears clothes of some 'ind 6the soul

wears a bod&, and the bod& garments; earth puts forth grass, and the firmament stars;

ideas clothe themsel(es in words; societ& puts on fashions and habits7, it can be seen that

$arl&le felt free to bring in an& sub>ect he pleased; and so he did. umble of

thoughts, notions, attac's on shams, scraps of erman philosoph&,11e(er&thing that$arl&le wrote about during his se(en1&ears so>ourn on his moorland farm. The onl&

(aluable things in artor are a few autobiographical chapters, such as 2The E(erlasting

Fea,3 and certain passages dealing with night, the stars, the &earnings of humanit&, the

splendors of earth and hea(en. Note this picture of Teufelsdroec'h standing alone at the North $ape, 2loo'ing li'e a little belfr&3)

2"ilence as of death, for


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A $#!T!$!"< O5 $A#LFLE. E/cept in his literar& essa&s $arl&le4s 2rumfustianish

growler& of st&le,3 as he called it, is so une(en that no description will appl& to it. !n

moments of emotion he uses a chanting prose that is li'e primiti(e poetr&. "ometimes heforgets Thomas $arl&le, 'eeps his e&e on his sub>ect, and describes it in (i(id,

picturesue words; then, when he has nothing to sa&, he thin's of himself and tries to

hold &ou b& his manner, b& his ranting or dogmatism. !n one mood he is a poet, inanother a painter, in a third a stump spea'er. !n all moods he must ha(e &our ear, but he

succeeds better in getting than in holding it. !t has been said that his prose is on a le(el

with *rowning4s (erse, but a better comparison ma& be drawn between $arl&le and WaltWhitman. Of each of these writers the best that can be said is that his st&le was his own,

that it ser(ed his purpose, and that it is not to be imitated.

!n formulating an& summar& of $arl&le the critic must remember that he is dealing with a

man of two sides, one pre>udiced, dogmatic, >ealous of ri(als, the other roughl& sincere.On either side $arl&le is a man of contradictions. 5or an odious dead despot li'e

5rederic', who happens to please him, he turns criticism into eulog&; and for a li(ing

poet li'e Wordsworth he tempers praise b& spiteful criticism. 5ootnote) $arl&le4s praiseof Wordsworth4s 2fine, wholesome rusticit&3 is often uoted, but onl& in part. !f &ou read

the whole passage 6in 3eminis"en"es7 &ou will find the effect of $arl&le4s praise wholl&

spoiled b& a heartless dissection of a poet, with whom, as $arl&le confessed, he had (er&

slight acuaintance.B e writes a score of letters to show that his grief is too deep forwords. e is (oluble on 2the infinite (irtue of silence.3 e proclaims to1da& that he 2will

write no word on an& sub>ect till he has studied it to the bottom,3 and to1morrow will

pronounce >udgment on America or science or some other matter of which he 'nowsnothing. !n all this $arl&le sees no inconsistenc&; he is sincere in either role, of prophet or

stump spea'er, and e(en thin's that humor is one of his prime ualities.

Another matter to remember is $arl&le4s constant moti(e rather than his constantmista'es. e had the gloom& con(iction that he was ordained to cr& out against the shamsof societ&; and as most modern things appeared to him as shams, he had to be (er& bus&.

ect, accounts for two things) for the mar(elous

detail of $arl&le4s portraits, and for his merciless criticism of the faults of societ& in

general, and of the Victorian age in particular.

"uch a writer in(ites both applause and opposition, and in $arl&le4s case the one is asheart& as the other. The onl& point on which critics are fairl& well agreed is that his

rugged independence of mind and his picturesue st&le appealed powerfull& to a small

circle of readers in England and to a large circle in America. !t is doubtful whether an&other essa&ist, with the possible e/ception of the serene and hopeful Emerson, had a more

stimulating influence on the thought of the latter half of the nineteenth centur&.

D D D D D


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ON #%"C!N 6++:1+:GG7

The prose of #us'in is a treasure house. Nature portra&ed as e(er&man4s ol& Land;

descriptions of mountain or landscape, and more beautiful descriptions of leaf or lichenor the glint of light on a brea'ing wa(e; appreciations of literature, and finer

appreciations of life itself; startling (iews of art, and more re(olutionar& (iews of that

frightful waste of human life and labor which we call political econom&,11all these andman& more impressions of nature, art and human societ& are elouentl& recorded in the

ten thousand pages which are the wor' of #us'in4s hand.

!f &ou would 'now the secret that binds all his wor' together, it ma& be e/pressed in two

words, sensiti(eness and sincerit&. 5rom childhood #us'in was e/tremel& sensiti(e to both beaut& and ugliness. The beaut& of the world and of all noble things that e(er were

accomplished in the world affected him li'e music; but he shran', as if from a blow, from

all sordidness and e(il, from the mammon1worship of trade, from the cloud of smo'e thathung o(er a factor& district as if tr&ing to shield from the e&e of hea(en so much needless

po(ert& and aimless toil below. "o #us'in was a man halting between two opinions) the

artist in him was fore(er troubled b& the reformer see'ing to ma'e the croo'ed places of

life straight and its rough places plain. e made as man& mista'es as another man; in his pages &ou ma& light upon error or (agar&; but &ou will find nothing to ma'e &ou doubt

his entire sincerit&, his desire to spea' truth, his passion for helping his fellow men.

L!5E. The earl& training of #us'in ma& e/plain both the strength and the wea'ness of hiswor'. is father was a wealth& wine merchant, his mother a de(out woman with

puritanic ideas of dut&. *oth parents were of "cottish and, as #us'in boasted, of plebeian

descent. The& had but one child, and in training him the& used a strange mi/ture ofse(erit& and coddling, of wisdom and nonsense.

The &oung #us'in was 'ept apart from other bo&s and from the sports which breed a

modest& of one4s own opinion; his time, wor' and lonel& pla& were minutel& regulated;

the slightest infringement of rules brought the stern discipline of rod or reproof. On the

other hand he was gi(en the best pictures and the best boo's; he was ta'en on lu/urious >ourne&s through England and the $ontinent; he was furnished with tutors for an& stud&

to which he turned his mind. When he went up to O/ford, at se(enteen, he 'new man&

things which are ree' to the ordinar& bo&, but was ignorant of almost e(er&thing that a bo& 'nows, and that a man finds useful in dealing with the world.

There were se(eral results of this earl& discipline. One was #us'in4s de(otion to art,

which came from his familiarit& with pictures and galleries; another was his minute stud&

of natural ob>ects, which were to him in place of to&s; a third was his habit of 2spea'inghis mind3 on e(er& sub>ect; a fourth was his rh&thmic prose st&le, which came largel&

from his dail& habit of memori=ing the *ible. "till another result of his lonel&

magnificence, in which he was depri(ed of bo&s4 societ&, was that his affection went outon a flood tide of romance to the first attracti(e girl he met. "o he lo(ed, and was


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laughed at, and was desperatel& unhapp&. Then he married, not the woman of his choice,

but one whom his parents pic'ed out for him. The tastes of the couple were hopelessl&

different; the end was estrangement, with humiliation and sorrow for #us'in.

At twent&1four he produced his first important wor', ect, which resulted in four more (olumes on modern painting.

*efore these were completed he had 2fairl& created a new literature of art3 b& his e(en Lam!s of Ar"hite"t&re and tones of 7eni"e. e was appointed professor of fine arts at

O/ford; he ga(e se(eral series of lectures which appeared later as Le"t&res on

Ar"hite"t&re an ainting ,


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5or twent& &ears this crusade continued; then, worn out and misunderstood b& both

capitalists and wor'ingmen, #us'in retired 6+?:7 to a small estate called 2*rantwood3

in the La'e 8istrict, is fortune had been spent in his attempt to impro(e laborconditions, and he li(ed now upon the modest income from his boo's. *efore he died, in

+:GG, his friend $harles Eliot Norton persuaded him to write the stor& of his earl& life in

r>terita. The title is strange, but the boo' itself is, with one e/ception, the mostinteresting of #us'in4s wor's.

WO#C" O5 #%"C!N. The wor's of #us'in fall naturall& into three classes, which are

called criticisms of art, industr& and life, but which are, in fact, profound studies of the

origin and meaning of art on the one hand, and of the infinite (alue of human life on theother.

The most popular of his art criticisms are t. Mark/s 3est and Mornings in +loren"e,

which are widel& used as guideboo's, and which ma& be postponed until the happ& time

when, in Venice or 5lorence, one ma& read them to best ad(antage. o& and of admiration.3 And with minute

e/actness he outlined a plan for ma'ing the nation wealth&, not b& more factories andships, but b& increasing the health and happiness of human beings.

Three uarters of a centur& earlier Thomas efferson, in America, had pleaded for the

same ideal of national wealth, and had characteri=ed the race of the nations forcommercial supremac& as a contagion of insanit&. efferson was called a demagogue,

#us'in a madman; but both men were profoundl& right in estimating the wealth of a

nation b& its store of happiness for home consumption rather than b& its store of goods


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for e/port. The& were misunderstood because the& were too far in ad(ance of their age to

spea' its trade language. The& belong not to the past or present, but to the future.

!f but one wor' of #us'in is to be read, let it be esame an Lilies 6+K97, which is one of the boo's that no intelligent reader can afford to neglect. The first chapter, 2Of Cings4

Treasuries,3 is a noble essa& on the sub>ect of reading. The second, 2Of Jueens4ardens,3 is a stud& of woman4s life and education, a stud& which ma& appear old1

fashioned now, but which has so much of truth and beaut& that it must again, li'e$olonial furniture, become our best fashion. These two essa&s 5ootnote) A third essa&,

2The


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e(en Lam!s of Ar"hite"t&re, and see there descripti(e elouence at its best. That this

superb elouence was de(oted not to personal or part& ends, but to winning men to the

lo(e of beaut& and truth and right li(ing, is the secret of #us'in4s high place in Englishletters and of his enduring influence on English life.

D D D D D

"%


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Thac'era&, enr& Esmond in "tandard English $lassics, 0oc'et $lassics; English

umorists in La'e $lassics, English #eadings; other wor's in E(er&man4s Librar&.

eorge Eliot, "ilas


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*rowning; *roo'e, 0oetr& of #obert *rowning; arrington, *rowning "tudies. Essa&s b&

"tedman, 8owden, utton, 5orster. *iographical s'etch of #obert *rowning.

6i"kens. Life, b& 5orster, b& Ward 6E.

Documents

The Victorian Age of English Literature