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Art In England
by
That young England–bless its stupid healthy soul–is more interested in life and football than in literature and art, was amply proved by the lethargy about the Laureateship. On the Continent the claims of the rivals would have set the students brawling and the journalists duelling; here it barely caused a ripple in the five o’clock teacup. My friend the Apostle was not wholly wrong; there is a development of native drama ahead of us; only it will come about peaceably,–we shall not hear the noise of the captains and the shouting. And the old conventions have a long run yet before them. They cling even to the skirts of “The Second Mrs. Tanqueray.” Indeed, the new school can scarcely be said to have appeared. The literary quality of our plays has improved, thanks to Jones and Pinero, and not forgetting Grundy. And that is all. The old school is as vigorous as ever. In the person of “Charley’s Aunt” it is alive and kicking up its petticoats, and the audience rolls in helpless laughter at Mr. Penley’s slightest movement. Talk of literature, indeed! Why, the fortunate comedian assured me that if he chose he could spin out “Charley’s Aunt” from a two-hours’ play to a four-hours’ play, merely by eking out his own “business.” Think of this, aspiring Sheridans, ye who polish the dialogue with midnight oil; realise the true inwardness of the drama, and go burn me your epigrams!
In literature, where the clash of new and old is more audible, it is still the same story. On the conservative side, the real fighting is done by Messrs. Smith, who refuse to sell the too daring publication. The radicals are crippled by the timidity of editors, and cajoled by the fatness of their purses. A gifted young story-teller has been lecturing on the Revolt of the Authors. But it seems to me our literature has already as wide a charter as is desirable. The two bulwarks of the British library are Shakespeare and the Bible, and both treat human life comprehensively, not with the onesidedness of self-styled Realism. I would advise my young literary friends to emblazon on their banner “Shakespeare and the Bible.” Real Realism is what English literature needs. The one undoubted development in recent English literature is the short story. But this is less due to any advance in artistic aspiration than to the fact that there is a good serial market for short stories, and the turnover is quicker for the trader than if he turned out long novels. Small stories, quick returns! In verity, this much-vaunted efflorescence of the conte is due to the compte. It is quite characteristic of our nation to arrive at a new art-form through this practical channel. But if you want a proof of the half-heartedness of our literary battles, turn to the “Fogey’s” article on “The Young Men” in a recent Contemporary Review. What a chance for a much-needed onslaught on our minor prophets! It might have been “English bards and Scotch reviewers” over again. But no! the Scotch reviewer’s weapon is merely a rose-water squirt. The only thing that perturbates him (as Mr. Francis Thompson would say) is my assertion that a ray of hopefulness is stealing again into English poetry. Since the days of Jeffrey we have only had one really “first-class fighting man” (Henley); but even with him there is no real party fighting, for he is catholic in his antipathies, and those whom he chastises love him, and swear that his is the least jaded Pegasus of the day. You see, therefore, how well-balanced we are in this “happy isle, set in a silver sea.” The Fogeys are respectful to the young men, and the young men actually admire the Fogeys. That the young men admire one another goes without saying. Here surely is “the atmosphere of praise” of Mr. Pinero’s hortation.
And while I do not believe that art is best nourished in this “atmosphere of praise,” preferring to read instead “an atmosphere of appraisal,” I believe that of this appraisal the more important element is “praise.” Criticism with the praise left out savours of the counsel for the prosecution rather than of the judge,–and indeed some critics assume that every author is guilty till he is proved good: if he is popular the presumption of his guilt is almost irresistible. A Henley young man once explained to me that the function of the critic was to guard the gates of literature, keeping at bay the bulk of print, for it would surely not be literature. This last is true enough; yet the watch-dog attitude generates a delight to bark and bite, and turns critic literally into cynic. Should not the true critic be an interpreter? For bad work let him award the damnation of silence. “It is better to fight for the good than to rail at the ill.”