66 finds means of taking the place of Catherine's son in prison, manages to secure his escape, and assumes in prison the designation, "number 41,' of the escaped youth. The guillotine is now in full swing the victims being taken, one by one, in numerical order; and Number 41 being called in due course, the Hero-sadly, firmly, nobly-steps out upon the scaffold, with sacred calm upon his brow. The horror of the scene is lost in its moral grandeur. Existence, indeed, is dark for the time under the sorrows of Life and Death, but the Eternal Glory is dawning in the background.1 14. The obtuseness of the Public to the sublime in dramatic Art.-In passing, just a word about the representation of this play at the Lyceum. In his impersonation of the Hero I think that Sir Henry Irving's art is nothing short of perfectmore especially, if possible, in that bit of dumb show when he appears upon the scaffold at the close of the play. I have never more fully felt the emotion of the sublime than at that moment. The scene, indeed, was entrancing in its sublimity— a spectacle to be always remembered. But the entrancement was broken all too soon, for when I saw it, the silly part of the audience hastened, in the very midst of the scene, to bustle on its coats and cloaks and wrappers with no more apparent feeling or perception of the grandeur of the representation which was in progress in front of them than if they had been regarding some piece of Jack Pudding buffoonery. Such persons are to be cordially recommended not to prepare to encounter the elements in future until the curtain has duly fallen. 15. The greater the art, the deeper its religious 1 Analogous to the historic incident discussed, supra, chap. iii. sect. 29. ness. I may add that this particular impersonation of Robert Landry has still more deeply, if possible, impressed upon me the convictiona conviction which I have long held-that, other things being equal, the greater the art, the deeper will be its religiousness; or conversely, the deeper its religiousness, the greater will be the art. As Mr Quiller-Couch says: "The Spiritual element in man is the highest object of his study. Nine-tenths of what is worthy to be called Literature being concerned with this spiritual element, for that it should be studied-from firstly up to ninthly--before anything else." 1 16. The entirely painful is not a profitable subject. -In the next place, I think we may take it that the perfectly painful should be wholly avoided both in Literature and Art. "A well-known German poet had shown Goethe his album. 'You cannot imagine what stuff it contains,' said Goethe. 'All the poets write as if they were ill, and the whole world were a Lazaretto. . . . This is a real abuse of poetry, which was given to us to hide the little discords of life, and to make man contented with the world and his condition. But the present generation is afraid of all such strength, and only feels poetical when it has weakness to deal with. I have hit on a good word to tease these gentlemen. I will call their poetry Lazaretto-Poetry, and I will give the name of Tyrtæan-Poetry to that which not only sings war-songs, but also arms men with courage to undergo the conflicts of life""2; which, I think, is very nobly said. Carlyle, in his graphic and mordantly humorous manner, speaks of Shelley as "filling the earth with inarticulate wail, like the infinite inarticulate grief and weeping of 1 'On the Art of Reading,' p. 18. a 'Conversations with Eckermann,' p. 277. forsaken infants." 1 The Literature of to-day, also, is filled with the stock perplexities and platitudes of woe. Agonies which, let us hope, are not really felt by the writers with such poignancy as they suggest, writhe and wail in their pages "Torment and loud lament and furious rage." I think they make a mistake. For instance, what sensible person wants to have poems, or novels, or pictures, or statuary of such life as is depicted, say, in that ghastly novel? I will not mention the name of it. It simply launches one into profitless misery. The book is clever: it seems vital. The story may be veritable history, for aught one knows, though, for Pity's sake, I would fain hope that it is not, for I find it more utterly grievous and depressing and desolating than a visit to a Hospital for incurables. Indeed it is much more so, for the Hospital for incurables may be brightened by hope, serenity, religion, but this wretched novel is filled with the absolute blankness and dolefulness of despair, both temporal and eternal. A funeral might be quite a brisk event compared with the perusal of the book. I felt distinctly the worse of it. Despite its vitality, no thanks for this story. May the author fail to flourish in that kind of literature! "The City of Dreadful Night' may be mentioned as another work of the dismal kind. If it were seriously taken to heart, one can scarcely but think that its main tendency would be to promote suicide that the whole population of London would be crowding towards the Thames. The book seems to have been written with a countenance as long as pessimism and the spirit we owe 1 'Essays,' Vol. iii. p. 31. of mutiny against Nature could draw it. Healthy literature cannot be produced in such a spirit. May paralysis fix upon the pens of all such writers. Take some even of Mr W. E. Henley's poems, especially those entitled "In Hospital." 1 They are characterised by keen perception and strong feeling of some of the painful incidents and phases of Hospital life, and they are expressed in such language and with such tone and rhythm as to make the reader see what the poet sees and feel what he feels; but they are painful and doleful both in subject and treatment-they are LazarettoPoetry, and we can scarcely be grateful for them. In the remainder of the volume there is much indefinite, vague, incoherent writing, mostly in the same tone of gloom and sadness, which sinks sometimes into the utterance of sheer despair. I might specify another example of this dolorous kind of literature in Synge's Riders to the Sea.' This play depicts a situation in some peasant fisherfolks' lives, which certainly impresses us with the cruel tragedy of it all, and makes us wonder that men should be born to encounter the possibility of so heart-breaking an existence; but the author sheds no light upon it, and does not seek to shed any light upon it. The whole story is one of mourning, lamentation, and woe. I doubt if there is either profit or pleasure to be derived from this kind of literature, even though there be a manifestation of fine ability both in the design and in the execution of the work. Give us Tyrtæan, not Lazaretto-Poetry. 17. Lazaretto-Poetry and Tyrtæan-Poetry.-To Man is given a tremendous commission under the Sun-namely, to contend with Evil in every conceivable form, from the Cradle to the Grave. To do this intelligently and successfully, he needs 1 'Poems,' 1898. every kind of encouragement and assistance. Lazaretto-Poetry can only distress, weaken, and perhaps paralyse him in the great warfare; but inspire him with Tyrtæan Poetry, and you may help to carry him through to glorious victory : "Wha will be a traitor knave? This is the spirit to inculcate and cherish against all the powers of Death and Hell. 18. Madness is not a profitable subject.-Again, the depicting and representing of Bedlam madness should, on the whole, be excluded from the drama and from imaginative literature in general. In any case, the representation of all kinds of delirium should be kept at a minimum. In relation to this question I hope, by-and-by, to discuss King Lear. All representations, too, of the imbecile should be resolutely excluded from the fair Palace of Art, likewise all senile maundering and debility. The more true to nature the impersonations of such characters may be, the more painful it will probably be to witness them. Shun the unprofitable. Nor is the frequent presence of very eccentric persons at all desirable. In no case, probably, should an eccentric person occupy a central, or even a very prominent, position in a work of imagination. For instance, I fancy we have too much of the good-hearted, aphoristic, and crazy baronet, Sir Austin Feveral, in Mr Meredith's novel of the name. His aphorisms, indeed, are intended for intellectual needles, but I am afraid that they are, for the most part, needles |