As a matter of fact this incident in the publication of 'The Coming of Love' is an instance of that artistic conscientiousness which up to a certain point is of inestimable value to the poet, but after that point is reached, baffles him. The poem had been read in fragments and deeply admired by that galaxy of poets among whom Mr. Watts-Dunton moved.

Certain fragments of it had appeared in the 'Athenaeum' and other journals, but the publication of the entire poem had been delayed owing to the fact that certain portions of it had been lent and lost. Morris not only offered to bring out at the Kelmscott Press an edition de luxe of the book, but he actually took the trouble to get a full list of subscribers, and insisted upon allowing the author a magnificent royalty.

Nothing, however, would persuade Mr. Watts-Dunton to bring out the book until these lost portions could be found, and notwithstanding the generous urgings of Morris, the matter stood still; and then, when the book was ready, Morris was seized by that illness which robbed us of one of the greatest writers of the nineteenth century. And even after Morris's death the poet's executors and friends, the late Mr. F. S. Ellis and the well-known bibliographer, Mr. Sydney C. c.o.c.kerell, were willing and even desirous that the Kelmscott edition of the poems should be brought out. Subsequently, when a large portion of the lost poems was found, the volume was published by Mr. John Lane. This anecdote alone explains why Mr. Watts-Dunton is never tired of dwelling upon the n.o.bility of Morris's nature, and upon his generosity in small things as well as in large.

Another favourite story of his in connection with this subject is the following. When Morris published his first volume in the Kelmscott Press, he sent Mr. Watts-Dunton a presentation copy of the book. He also sent him a presentation copy of the second and third. But knowing how small was the profit at this time from the books issued by the Kelmscott Press, Mr. Watts-Dunton felt a little delicacy in taking these presentation copies, and told Mrs. Morris that she should gently protest against such extravagance. Mrs. Morris a.s.sured him that it would be perfectly useless to do so. But when the edition of Keats was coming out, Mr. Watts-Dunton determined to grapple with the matter, and one Sunday afternoon when he was at Kelmscott House, he said to Morris:

'Morris, I wish you to put my name down as a subscriber to the Keats, and I give my commission for it in the presence of witnesses. I am a paying subscriber to the Keats.'

'All right, old chap, you're a subscriber.'

In spite of this there came the usual presentation copy of the Keats; and when Mr. Watts-Dunton was at Kelmscott House on the following Sunday afternoon, he told Morris that a mistake had been made. Morris laughed.

'All right, there's no mistake-that is my presentation copy of Keats.'

But when at last the magnum opus of the Kelmscott Press was being discussed-the marvellous Chaucer with Burne-Jones's ill.u.s.trations-Mr.

Watts-Dunton knew that here a great deal of money was to be risked, and probably sunk, and he said to Morris:

'Now, Morris, I'm going to talk to you seriously about the Chaucer. I know that it's going to be a dead loss to you, and I do really and seriously hope that you do not contemplate anything so wild as to send me a presentation copy of that book. You know my affection for you, and you know I speak the truth, when I tell you that it would give me pain to accept it.'

'Well, old chap, very likely this time I shall have to stay my hand, for, between ourselves, I expect I shall drop some money over it; but the Chaucer will be at The Pines, because Ned Jones and I are going to join in the presentation of a copy to Algernon Swinburne.'

After this Mr. Watts-Dunton's mind was set at rest, as he told Mrs.

Morris. But when Mr. Swinburne's copy reached 'The Pines' it was accompanied by another one-'Theodore Watts-Dunton from William Morris.'

Another anecdote, ill.u.s.trative of his generosity, Mr. Watts-Dunton also tells. Mr. Swinburne, wishing to possess a copy of 'The Golden Legend,'

bought the Kelmscott edition, and one day Mr. Watts-Dunton told Morris this. Morris gave a start as though a sudden pain had struck him.

'What! Algernon pay ten pounds for a book of mine! Why I thought he did not care for black letter reproductions, or I would have sent him a copy of every book I brought out.'

And when he did bring out another book, two copies were sent to 'The Pines,' one for Mr. Watts-Dunton and one for Mr. Swinburne.

Mr. Watts-Dunton, speaking about 'The Water of the Wondrous Isles,' tells this amusing story:-

"Once, many years ago, Morris was inveigled into seeing and hearing the great poet-singer Stead, whose rhythms have had such a great effect upon the 'art poetic,' the author of 'The Perfect Cure,' and 'It's Daddy this and Daddy that,' and other brilliant lyrics. A friend with whom Morris had been spending the evening, and who had been talking about poetic energy and poetic art in relation to the chilly reception accorded to 'Sigurd,' persuaded him-much against his will-to turn in for a few seconds to see Mr. Stead, whose performance consisted of singing a song, the burden of which was 'I'm a perfect cure!' while he leaped up into the air without bending his legs and twirled round like a dervish. 'What made you bring me to see this d.a.m.ned tomfoolery?' Morris grumbled; and on being told that it was to give him an example of poetic energy at its tensest, without poetic art, he grumbled still more and shouldered his way out. If Morris were now alive-and all England will sigh, 'Ah, would he were!'-he would confess, with his customary emphasis, that the poet had nothing of the slightest importance to learn, even from the rhythms of Mr.

Stead, marked as they were by terpsich.o.r.ean pauses that were beyond the powers of the 'Great Vance.'"

Chapter XIII THE 'EXAMINER'

LONG before Mr. Watts-Dunton printed a line, he was a prominent figure in the literary and artistic sets in London; but, as Mr. Hake has said, it was merely as a conversationalist that he was known. His conversation was described by Rossetti as being like that of no other person moving in literary circles, because he was always enunciating new views in phrasings so polished that, to use Rossetti's words, his improvized locutions were as perfect as 'fitted jewels.' Those who have been privileged to listen to his table-talk will attest the felicity of the image. Seldom has so great a critic had so fine an audience. Rossetti often lamented that Theodore Watts' spoken criticism had never been taken down in shorthand. For a long time various editors who had met him at Rossetti's, at Madox Brown's, at Westland Marston's, at Whistler's breakfasts, and at the late Lord Houghton's, endeavoured to persuade him to make practical use in criticism of the ideas that flowed in a continuous stream from his lips. But, as Rossetti used to affirm, he was the one man of his time who, with immense literary equipment, was without literary ambition. This peculiarity of his was eloquently described by the late Dr. Gordon Hake in his 'New Day':-

You say you care not for the people's praise, That poetry is its own recompense; You care not for the wreath, the dusty bays, Given to the whirling wind and hurried hence.

The first editor who secured Theodore Watts, after repeated efforts to do so, was the late Professor Minto, and this only came about because during his editorship of the 'Examiner' both he and Watts resided in Danes Inn, and were constantly seeing each other.

It was Minto who afterwards declared that "the articles in the 'Examiner'

and the 'Athenaeum' are goldmines, in which we others are apt to dig unconsciously without remembering that the nuggets are Theodore Watts's, who is too lazy to peg out his claim." The first article by him that appeared in Minto's paper attracted great attention and roused great curiosity. This indeed is not surprising, for, as I found when I read it, it was as remarkable for pregnancy of thought and of style as the latest and ripest of his essays. A friend of his, belonging to the set in which he moved, who remembers the appearance of this article, has been kind enough to tell me the following anecdote in connection with it. The contributors to the paper at that time consisted of Minto, Dr Garnett, Swinburne, Edmund Gosse, 'Scholar' Williams, Comyns Carr, Walter Pollock, Duffield (the translator of 'Don Quixote'), Professor Sully, Dr. Marston, William Bell Scott, William Black, and many other able writers. On the evening of the day when Theodore Watts's first article appeared, there was a party at the house of William Bell Scott in Chelsea, and every one was asking who this new contributor was. It was one of the conditions under which the article was written that its authorship was to be kept a secret. Bell Scott, who took a great interest in the 'Examiner,' was especially inquisitive about the new writer. After having in vain tried to get from Minto the name of the writer, he went up to Watts, and said: "I would give almost anything to know who the writer is who appears in the 'Examiner' for the first time today." "What makes you inquire about it?" said Watts. "What is the interest attaching to the writer of such fantastic stuff as that? Surely it is the most mannered writing that has appeared in the 'Examiner' for a long time!" Then, turning to Minto, he said: "I can't think, Minto, what made you print it at all." Scott, who had a most exalted opinion of Watts as a critic, was considerably abashed at this, and began to endeavour to withdraw some of his enthusiastic remarks. This set Minto laughing aloud, and thus the secret got out.

From that hour Watts became the most noticeable writer among a group of critics who were all noticeable. Week after week there appeared in this historic paper criticism as fine as had ever appeared in it in the time of Leigh Hunt, and as brilliant as had appeared in it in the time of Fonblanque. At this time Minto used to entertain his contributors on Monday evening in the room over the publisher's office in the Strand, and I have been told by one who was frequently there that these smoking symposia were among the most brilliant in London. One can well imagine this when one remembers the names of those who used to attend the meetings.

It was through the 'Examiner' that Watts formed that friendship with William Black which his biographer, Sir Wemyss Reid, alludes to. Between these two there was one subject on which they were especially in sympathy-their knowledge and love of nature. At that time Black was immensely popular. In personal appearance there was, I am told, a superficial resemblance between the two, and they were constantly being mistaken for each other; and yet, when they were side by side, it was evident that the large, dark moustache and the black eyes were almost the only points of resemblance between them.

It was at the then famous house in Gower Street of Mr. Justin McCarthy that Black and Mr. Watts-Dunton first met. Speaking as an Irishman of a younger but not, I fear, of so genial a generation, I hear tantalizing accounts of the popular gatherings at the home of the most charming and the most distinguished Irishman of letters in the London of that time, where so many young men of my own country were welcomed as warmly as though they had not yet to win their spurs. No one speaks more enthusiastically of the McCarthy family than Mr. Watts-Dunton, who seems to have been on terms of friendship with them almost as soon as he settled in London. Mr. Watts-Dunton was always a lover of McCarthy's novels, but on his first visit to Gower Street Mr. McCarthy was, as usual, full of the subject not of his own novels, but of another man's.

He urged his new friend to read 'Under the Greenwood Tree,' almost forcing him to take the book away with him, which he did: this was the way in which Mr. Watts-Dunton became for the first time acquainted with a story which he always avers is the only book that has ever revived the rich rustic humour of Shakespeare's early comedies. A perfect household of loving natures, warm Irish hearts, bright Irish intellects, cultivated and rare, according to Mr. Watts-Dunton's testimony, was that little family in Gower Street. I think he will pardon me for repeating one quaint little story about himself and Black in connection with this first visit to the McCarthys. On entering the room Mr. Watts-Dunton was much struck with what appeared to be real musical genius in a bright-eyed little lady who was delighting the party with her music. This was at the period in his own life which Mr. Watts-Dunton calls his 'music-mad period.' And after a time he got talking with the lady. He was a little surprised that he was at once invited by the musical lady to go to a gathering at her house. But he was as much pleased as surprised to be so welcomed, and incontinently accepted the invitation. It never entered his mind that he had been mistaken for another man, until the other man entered the room and came up to the lady. She, on her part, began to look in an embarra.s.sed way from one to the other of the two swarthy, black-moustached gentlemen. She had mistaken Mr. Watts-Dunton for William Black, with whom her acquaintance was but slight. The contretemps caused much amus.e.m.e.nt when the husband of the lady, an eminent novelist, who knew Mr. Watts-Dunton well, introduced him to his wife. I do not know what was the end of the comedy, but no doubt it was a satisfactory one. It could not be otherwise among such people as Justin McCarthy would be likely to gather round him.

At that time, to quote the words of the same friend of Mr. Watts-Dunton, Watts used frequently to meet at Bell Scott's and Rossetti's Professor Appleton, the editor of the 'Academy.' The points upon which these two touched were as unlike the points upon which Watts and William Black touched as could possibly be. They were both students of Hegel; and when they met, Appleton, who had Hegel on the brain, invariably drew Watts aside for a long private talk. People used to leave them alone, on account of the remoteness of the subject that attracted the two. Watts had now made up his mind that he would devote himself to literature, and, indeed, his articles in the 'Examiner' showed that he had only to do so to achieve a great success. Appleton rarely left Watts without saying, "I do wish you would write for the 'Academy.' I want you to let me send you all the books on the transcendentalists that come to the 'Academy,'

and let me have articles giving the pith of them at short intervals."

This invitation to furnish the 'Academy' with a couple of columns condensing the spirit of many books about subjects upon which only a handful of people in England were competent to write, seemed to Watts a grotesque request, seeing that he was at this very time the leading writer on the 'Examiner,' and was being constantly approached by other editors. It was consequently the subject of many a joke between Minto, William Black, Watts, and the others present at the famous 'Examiner'

gatherings. After a while Mr. Norman MacColl, who was then the editor of the 'Athenaeum,' invited Watts to take an important part in the reviewing for the 'Athenaeum.' At first he told the editor that there were two obstacles to his accepting the invitation-one was that the work that he was invited to do was largely done by his friend Marston, and that, although he would like to join him, he scarcely saw his way, on account of the 'Examiner,' which was ready to take all the work he could produce.

On opening the matter to Dr Marston, that admirably endowed writer would not hear of Watts's considering him in the matter. The 'Athenaeum' was then, as now, the leading literary organ in Europe, and the editor's offer was, of course, a very tempting one, and Watts was determined to tell Minto about it. And this he did.

"Now, Minto," he said, "it rests entirely with you whether I shall write in the 'Athenaeum' or not." Minto, between whom and Watts there was a deep affection, made the following reply:

"My dear Theodore, I need not say that it will not be a good day for the 'Examiner' when you join the 'Athenaeum.' The 'Examiner' is a struggling paper which could not live without being subsidized by Peter Taylor, and it is not four months ago since Leicester Warren said to me that he and all the other readers of the 'Examiner' looked eagerly for the 'T. W.' at the foot of a literary article. The 'Athenaeum' is both a powerful and a wealthy paper. In short, it will injure the 'Examiner' when your name is a.s.sociated with the 'Athenaeum.' But to be the leading voice of such a paper as that is just what you ought to be, and I cannot help advising you to entertain MacColl's proposal."

In consequence of this Mr. Watts-Dunton closed with Mr. MacColl's offer, and his first article in the 'Athenaeum' appeared on July 8, 1876.

Chapter XIV THE 'ATHENaeUM'

AS the first review which Mr. Watts-Dunton contributed to the 'Athenaeum'

has been so often discussed, and as it is as characteristic as any other of his style, I have determined to reprint it entire. It has the additional interest, I believe, of being the most rapidly executed piece of literary work which Mr. Watts-Dunton ever achieved. Mr. MacColl, having secured the new writer, tried to find a book for him, and failed, until Mr. Watts-Dunton asked him whether he intended to give an article upon Skelton's 'Comedy of the Noctes Ambrosianae.' The editor said that he had not thought of giving the book a considerable article, but that, if Mr. Watts-Dunton liked to take it, it should be sent to him. As the article was wanted on the following day, it was dictated as fast as the amanuensis-not a shorthand writer-could take it down.

It has no relation to the Renascence of Wonder, nor is it one of his great essays, such as the one on the Psalms, or his essays on Victor Hugo, but in style it is as characteristic as any:-

'Is it really that the great squeezing of books has at last begun?

Here, at least, is the 'Noctes Ambrosianae' squeezed into one volume.

Long ago we came upon an anecdote in Castellan, the subject of which, as far as we remember, is this. The library of the Indian kings was composed of so many volumes that a thousand camels were necessary to remove it. But once on a time a certain prince who loved reading much and other pleasures more, called a Brahmin to him, and said: 'Books are good, O Brahmin, even as women are good, yet surely, of both these goods a prince may have too many; and then, O Brahmin, which of these two vexations is sorest to princely flesh it were hard to say; but as to the books, O Brahmin, squeeze 'em!' The Brahmin, understanding well what the order to 'squeeze 'em' meant (for he was a bookman himself, and knew that, as there goes much water and little flavour to the making of a very big pumpkin, so there go much words and few thoughts to the making of a very big book), set to work, aided by many scribes-striking out all the idle words from every book in the library; and when the essence of them had been extracted it was found that ten camels could carry that library without ruffling a hair. And therefore the Brahmin was appointed 'Grand Squeezer' of the realm. Ages after this, another prince, who loved reading much and other pleasures a good deal more, called the Grand Squeezer of his time and said: 'Thy duties are neglected, O Grand Squeezer! Thy life depends upon the measure of thy squeezing.' Thereupon the Grand Squeezer, in fear and trembling, set to work and squeezed and squeezed till the whole library became at last a load that a foal would have laughed at, for it consisted but of one book, a tiny volume, containing four maxims. Yet the wisdom in the last library was the wisdom in the first.

The appearance of Mr. Skelton's condensation of the 'Noctes Ambrosianae' reminds us of this story, and of a certain solemn warning we always find it our duty to administer to those who show a propensity towards the baneful c.o.xcombry of authorship-the warning that the literature of our country is already in a fair way of dying for the want of a Grand Squeezer, and that unless such a functionary be appointed within the next ten years, it will be smothered by itself. Yet our Government will keep granting pension after pension to those whom the Duke of Wellington used to call 'the writing fellows,' for adding to the camel's burden, instead of distributing the same amount among an army of diligent and well-selected squeezers. We say an army of squeezers, for it is not merely that almost every man, woman, and child among us who can write, prints, while n.o.body reads, and, to judge from the 'spelling bees,' n.o.body even spells, but that the fecundity of man as a 'writing animal' is on the increase, and each one requires a squeezer to himself. This is the alarming thing. Where are we to find so many squeezers? Nay, in many cases there needs a separate sub-squeezer for the writer's every book. Take, for instance, the case of the Carlyle squeezer-what more could be expected from him in a lifetime than that he should squeeze 'Frederick the Great'-that enormous, rank and pungent 'haggis' from which, properly squeezed, such an ocean would flow of 'oniony liquid' that compared with it the famous 'haggis-deluge' of the 'Noctes' which nearly drowned in gravy 'Christopher,' 'the Shepherd,' and 'Tickler' in Ambrose's parlour, would be, both for quant.i.ty and flavour, but 'a beaker full of the sweet South'? Yet what would be the squeezing of Mr. Carlyle; what would be the squeezing of De Quincey, or of Landor, or of Southey, to the squeezing of the tremendous Professor Wilson-the mighty Christopher, who for about thirty years literally talked in type upon every matter of which he had any knowledge, and upon every matter of which he had none; whose 'words, words, words' are, indeed, as Hallam, with unconscious irony, says, 'as the rush of mighty waters'?

What would be left after the squeezing of him it would be hard to guess; for, says the Chinese proverb, 'if what is said be not to the purpose, a single word is already too much.'

Mr. Skelton should have borne this maxim in mind in his manipulations upon the 'Noctes Ambrosianae.' He loves the memory of the fine old Scotsman, and has squeezed this enormous pumpkin with fingers that are too timid of grip. In squeezing Professor Wilson you cannot overdo it. There are certain parts we should have especially liked squeezed away; and among these-will Mr. Skelton pardon us?-are the 'amazingly humourous' ones, such as the 'opening of the haggis,'

which, Mr. Skelton tells us, 'manifests the humour of conception as well as the humour of character, in a measure that has seldom been surpa.s.sed by the greatest masters'; 'the amazing humour' of which consists in the Shepherd's sticking his supper knife into a 'haggis'

(a sheep's paunch filled with the 'pluck' minced, with suet, onions, salt, and pepper), and thereby setting free such a flood of gravy that the whole party have to jump upon the chairs and tables to save themselves from being drowned in it! In truth, Mr. Skelton should have reversed his method of selection; and if, in operating upon the Professor's twelve remaining volumes, he will, instead of retaining, omit everything 'amazingly humourous,' he will be the best Wilson-squeezer imaginable.

Yet, his intentions here were as good as could be. The 'Noctes' are dying of dropsy, so Mr. Skelton, to save them, squeezes away all the political events-so important once, so unimportant now-all the foolish laudation, and more foolish abuse of those who took part in them. He eliminates all the critiques upon all those 'greatest poems' and those 'greatest novels of the age' written by Christopher's friends-friends so famous once, so peacefully forgotten now. And he has left what he calls the 'Comedy of the Noctes Ambrosianae,' i.e. 'that portion of the work which deals with or presents directly and dramatically to the reader, human life, and character, and pa.s.sion, as distinguished from that portion of it which is critical, and devoted to the discussion of subjects of literary, artistic, or political interest only.' And, although Mr.

Skelton uses thus the word 'comedy' in its older and wider meaning, it is evident that it is as an 'amazing humourist' that he would present to our generation the great Christopher North. And a.s.suredly, at this the 'delighted spirit' of Christopher smiles delightedly in Hades. For, however the 'Comic Muse' may pout upon hearing from Mr. Skelton that 'the "Noctes Ambrosianae" belong to her,' it is clear that the one great desire of Wilson's life was to cultivate her-was to be an 'amazing humourist,' in short. It is clear, besides, that there was one special kind of humour which he most of all affected, that which we call technically 'Rabelaisian.'

To have gone down to posterity as the great English Rabelaisian of the nineteenth century, Christopher North would have freely given all his deserved fame as a prose poet, and all the thirty thousand pounds hard cash of which he was despoiled to boot. His personality was enormous. He had more of that demonic element-of which since Goethe's time we have heard so much-than any man in Scotland.

Everybody seems to have been dominated by him. De Quincey, with a finer intellect than even his own-and that is using strong language-looked up to him as a spaniel looks up to his master. It is positively ludicrous, while reading De Quincey's 'Autobiographic Sketches,' to come again and again upon the nave refrain: 'I think so, so does Professor Wilson.' Gigantic as was the egotism of the Opium-eater, it was overshadowed by the still more gigantic egotism of Christopher North. In this, as in everything else, he was the opposite of the finest Scottish humourist since Burns, Sir Walter Scott. Scott's desire was to create eccentric humourous characters, but to remain the simple Scottish gentleman himself. Wilson's great ambition was to be an eccentric humourous character himself; for your superlative egotist has scarcely even the wish to create. He would like the universe to himself. If Wilson had created Falstaff, and if you had expressed to him your admiration of the truthfulness of that character, he would have taken you by the shoulder and said, with a smile: 'Don't you see, you fool, that Falstaff is I-John Wilson?' He always wished it to be known that the Ettrick Shepherd and Tickler were John Wilson-as much Wilson as Kit North himself, or, rather, what he would have liked John Wilson to be considered. This determination to be a humourous character it was-and no lack of literary ambition-that caused him to squander his astonishing powers in the way that Mr. Skelton, and all of us who admire the man, lament.