SIR WALTER BESANT (14/8/1836 - 9/6/1901)
and
ROBERT BUCHANAN (18/8/1841 - 10/6/1901)

The Evening World (New York) (10 June, 1901 - p.4)

BESANT AND BUCHANAN,
FAMOUS LITERARY MEN, DEAD

Both Novelist and Poet Had Distinguished Careers—
Besant Was Knighted by Queen—
Buchanan’s Strenuous Life.

     LONDON, June 10.—Robert Williams Buchanan, poet and playwright, succumbed to-day to an illness which had lasted almost a year.
     In October of last year, the poet had a cerebral hemorrhage, followed by paralysis of the right side and complete loss of speech. His life was despaired of at the time, but he rallied. He was born Aug. 8, 1841.

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     Robert Buchanan has been known for many years as England’s most aggressive writer. He achieved great success as poet and playwright, but it was for his criticisms of people and literature that he was most widely known.
     None was too exalted for him to attack. At the height of Kipling’s popularity he wrote the “Voice of Hooligan,” in which he accused Kipling of voicing the mob. He declared that the author of “The Seven Seas” had never uttered anything that did not suggest baseness and ignorant vainglory.
     Buchanan was born in Staffordshire, England. He was the son of a Socialist missionary who afterward became a journalist. The poet was educated at the Glasgow high school and university and went to London in 1860.
     He began newspaper work there, entering the employ of Edmund Yates, who was at the same time training Henry Labouchere. He wrote several novels, among them “The Shadow of the Sword.” Among his most successful plays were “Squire Kate,” “The Charlatan” and “Sheridan.” His most recent controversy was with Paul Potter, whom he accused of plagiarising “Sheridan.”

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SIR WALTER BESANT DEAD.
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Daily Express (11 June, 1901 - p.4)

BESANT AND BUCHANAN.
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An Appreciation of the Two Eminent
English Writers whose Deaths were
Announced Yesterday.
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By ROBERT DENNIS.

     Scarcely since the death of the Duke of Clarence and Cardinal Manning on January 14, 1892, has there been such a remarkable coincidence as the passing away within a few hours of each other of three such men as Sir Walter Besant, Robert Buchanan, and Lord Wantage. They represent a trio which filled a large space in our national life, and although they were of diverse character, they each contributed in a large degree to the greatness of the Victorian era.
     The career of Lord Wantage is dealt with elsewhere. The lives of Besant and Buchanan were so far blended together that they were both authors of no common distinction, and they illustrated the apparently irreconcilable forms which brilliant genius, great personal energy, and individual peculiarities can assume in different men.

The Meeting with Rice.

     Walter Besant was at first intended for the Church, and had a distinguished career at Cambridge, but his mind turned early towards literature, and especially to the romantic period of French poetry. His essentially human sympathies were developed by these early studies, and some of his writings so strongly impressed the late James Rice, then editor and proprietor of “Once a Week,” that he invited Besant to collaborate with him in the writing of a novel.
     The result was a literary partnership of a most remarkable character. Together the pair wrote “Ready-Money Mortiboy,” “The Chaplain of the Fleet,” “In Celia’s Arbour,” and “The Golden Butterfly.” It is amusing to recall that the artist who was entrusted with the designing of the cover of “The Chaplain of the Fleet” made it a picture of a modern man-o’-war, whereas “the Fleet” in the story was, of course, the Fleet Prison. All these stories had an extraordinary popularity, but no one ever knew what part of them was due to Rice and what to Besant.
     When Rice died in 1882 Mr. Besant began to produce novels single-handed, and one seemed to miss in them the dash, the vigour, the spontaneity, the mere story-telling which had characterised the partnership novels.

Besant Single-handed.

     Among the best known of the books written by Sir Walter Besant alone are “The Revolt of Man,” “All Sorts and Conditions of Men,” “The World Went Very Well Then,” and “Armorel of Lyonesse.” They are all pleasantly infused with the historic spirit, although there is nothing like the characterisation which belongs to the immortal Gilead P. Beck in “The Golden Butterfly.” The chief distinction Sir Walter achieved by his novels was probably the creation of the People’s Palace in the East End. His works do not possess the quality of immortality, but undoubtedly they have afforded the past generation abundant healthy entertainment.
     Besides being a writer of fiction, Sir Walter found employment for his energies in founding the Society of Authors and in conducting the work of the Palestine Exploration Fund; while he also devoted an immense amount of time and labour to a compilation of a history of London. Few men have led more busy lives, but he had his reward in the hosts of friends he made, in the financial success of his labours, and in the knighthood with which the late Queen honoured him in 1895.

The Literary Ishmael.

     Buchanan started life with the belief that he was possessed of transcendent genius. There was no height to which his ambition did not soar. He honestly regarded himself to be Shakespeare, Homer, Virgil, and all the rest of them rolled into one. His ideas on this subject were so extravagant that they brought ridicule upon his early efforts. He came to London a penniless youth, published some slight compositions, and on being somewhat severely handled by the critics, turned on them with a lash as heavy, but not so effective, as Byron’s.
     He quarrelled with everybody. He brought Edmund Yates, who had at first befriended him, to describe him in the “World” as “a scrofulous Scotch poet, to whom I have many a time lent money to buy food for his belly and sulphur for his back”—a wholly unwarranted and untrue libel, but one which illustrates the sort of feelings which Buchanan inspired in the people with whom he came in contact.
     He quarrelled finally with his publisher, and set up in business on his own account. His career as dramatist and manager was also marked by the same unfortunate failings, and so he presented the remarkable spectacle of a man of brilliant parts who failed in practically everything he undertook and made nothing but enemies all his life long.
     The mere catalogue of his works would almost fill this column. His best known novels were “The Shadow of the Sword” and “God and the Man”; while his plays ranged from French adaptations through stage versions of “Tom Jones” and “Clarissa Harlowe” down to Adelphi drama.

Comparison and Contrast.

     Here, then, is the end of two strangely contrasted lives—one the prosperous literary man whose methods were pre-eminently businesslike, and whose genius was of a wholly practical character; the other that of a literary outcast, with no more gift of worldly tact than ever belonged to the Bohemians of the eighteenth century.
     It may seem paradoxical that those who knew Robert Buchanan will say that in spite of all his literary and financial troubles, in spite of the endless quarrels and litigation which embittered his life, there was something very lovable about the man. Certainly the fidelity of his domestic friendships was remarkable. Certainly also he bore the stroke of paralysis which came upon him last October, and which deprived him of both speech and motion, with heroic fortitude. Moreover, in his poems there are many tender passages which show that this pugnacious man of letters, this unconquerable fighter, must have had some of the softer feeling which is usually ascribed to the poet. Let us think of him thus rather than as the Ishmaelite.
     Of Sir Walter Besant’s kindly nature innumerable proofs exist. When all his works are forgotten he will be remembered as the friend of the young author. No man since Dickens ever took so practical an interest in the writer who showed promise. Many of our young novelists owe their fame and fortune to Sir Walter Besant, and in fact he founded the Society of Authors in order to protect them from rapacious and unscrupulous publishers. These to a large extent existed in Sir Walter’s imagination, but all the same, credit is due to the kindly disposition which prompted him to enable young authors to obtain fair play.
     Both, then, did the work of a full life. Their literary career belongs to the last century. They were true, sound workmen, and they did their best. They have now passed away at an age which in itself proclaims how crowded their lives were with labour; for Mr. Buchanan was but sixty years of age, while Sir Walter Besant was five years older.

[From the Daily Express (11 June, 1901 - p.6)]

New-York Tribune (11 June, 1901 - p.1)

     Sir Walter Besant’s life was despaired of a few weeks ago, and there was a temporary rally, followed by his death at Hampstead yesterday. He was the founder of the Society of Authors and chief patron of literary agents, and fancied that the publishers considered him their worst enemy, whereas they liked him as a sincere and downright Englishman. The chief work of his closing years had been the preparation of an exhaustive encyclopædia of London, on the lines of Stow’s original survey. This undertaking had engrossed his leisure from novel writing for six years, and had been virtually carried to completion. Robert Buchanan, who died yesterday at Samuel Johnson’s favorite retreat, Streatham, also had controversies with his publishers, and ended by printing his own books. Unlike Besant, whom the literary world loved, Buchanan contrived to set everybody against him by his contentious disposition, and never received adequate credit for his melodious ballads and dramatic work. His illness had been protracted, and his death was well timed, since he was threatened with paralysis and mental disturbance.

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New-York Tribune (11 June, 1901 - p.3)

SIR WALTER BESANT DEAD.
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THE NOVELIST EXPIRES AFTER A FORTNIGHT’S
ILLNESS FROM INFLUENZA.

     London, June 10.—Sir Walter Besant, the novelist, died yesterday at his home, in Hampstead, after a fortnight’s illness from influenza. He was to have attended the Atlantic Union dinner ton-night and propose the toast to “English Speaking Communities.”

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     The author of “All Sorts and Conditions of Men” was born at Portsmouth in 1838. After his graduation from Cambridge he was appointed senior professor in the Royal College of Mauritius. Ill health brought about his resignation of this post, and he returned to England and devoted himself to literature.
     His first work, “Studies in Early French Poetry,” was printed in 1868, and five years later he published “The French Humorists.” These were followed by “Rabelais,” “Readings from Rabelais” and “Coligny.” For years Besant acted as secretary of the Palestine Exploration Fund, and in this capacity he wrote a “History of Jerusalem,” in collaboration with Professor Palmer, who was murdered by Arabs, and edited the great work “The Survey of Western Palestine.” In 1871 he associated himself with James Rice, Editor of “Once a Week,” and the two wrote a series of books which had great popularity. Perhaps the most popular of the Besant-Rice novels were “Ready Money Mortiboy,” “By Celia’s Arbor” and “The Golden Butterfly.” The two authors also collaborated in several plays which attained ephemeral popularity upon the stage. They were moreover frequent contributors to the magazines, many of their papers relating to old London.
     Among the novels written by Sir Walter Besant alone the earliest were “The Revolt of Man,” “The Captain’s Room” and “All Sorts and Conditions of Men,” of which the last attracted great public attention, and finally led to the establishment of the People’s Palace in the East End of London. “All in a Garden Fair,” “Dorothy Foster,” “Uncle Jack” and “Children of Gibeon” followed quickly one after the other, and then came “The World Went Very Well Then,” which had a large circulation. “The Bell of St. Paul’s,” “Armorel of Lyonnesse,” “St. Katherine’s by the Tower,” “The Ivory Gate” and “The Rebel Queen” were all popular, but none of them were in so great demand as “Beyond the Dreams of Avarice,” which was regarded as one of the best of Sir Walter’s productions. Later books were “The Master Craftsman,” “The City of Refuge,” “A Fountain Sealed” and “The Changeling,” and several volumes of short stories, mostly reprints.
     Apart from fiction, Sir Walter in 1892 wrote a book on the people of London, another on the city of Westminster and one on London. His “Rise of the British Empire” appeared in 1897.
     His earliest writings were studies in French literature; the work of his later years dealt mainly with the history and life of London.
     Mr. Besant became Sir Walter in 1895, his knighthood being one of the birthday honors conferred by Lord Rosebery, who at the same time testified to his appreciation of literature and dramatic art by knighting Henry Irving and Lewis Morris. He was the first chairman of the executive committee of the Society of Authors, was Editor of “The Author” and did much to make pleasant the relations of authors and publishers. He was also prominent in the formation of the Atlantic Union, founded for the purpose of entertaining American and colonial visitors in England. He visited the United States in 1893.

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ROBERT WILLIAMS BUCHANAN.

     London, June 10.—Robert Williams Buchanan, poet and prose writer, is dead.

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     Robert W. Buchanan was born at Caverswall, Staffordshire, England, on August 18, 1841. He was educated at the academy and high school of Glasgow, and at the university of that city. He left Scotland for London in 1860, and after that date lived generally in the capital, where he won for himself a position as journalist, novelist and playright. He visited this country twenty years ago. In 1896 he attracted considerable attention to himself by becoming a publisher on his own account, but we believe he was himself the sole author published at his establishment.
     Buchanan was fortunate in his first friends, Hepworth Dixon, Westland Marston and George Henry Lewes giving him early encouragement. Dixon was at that time Editor of “The Athenæum” and in a position to give the young Scotchman an opportunity to show his mettle. To “The Fortnightly Review,” of which Lewes was the first editor, he was a frequent contributor in the early days of that periodical. But the first thing that Buchanan did that gave him anything like notoriety was a paper on “The Fleshly School of Poetry,” which was a peculiarly malignant attack upon Swinburne, Rossetti and their followers. If he had published this over his own name it might have caused a passing sensation, and then might have been forgotten. But it appeared over a pseudonyme, which made the attack seem cowardly. At all events, there was a great todo about the matter. Swinburne retaliated with words that stung, and in a very little while the fat was in the fire with a vengeance. All his life Buchanan was dogged by that early article of his, which was not only discourteous, but uncritical.
     He had ability of a crude sort, and won a certain popularity both as a novelist and dramatist. His metrical productions hold creditable rank in the category of minor verse, though it is unlikely that any poem of his will be long remembered. He had imagination, but it was not bridled by taste; the roughness, which was most noticeable in his critical judgments, was, in fact, ever present in him, so that his work, while often vigorous and interesting, was generally without distinction. His first poems were published early in the sixties. In 1874 he collected his poems into an edition of three volumes. His first novel, “The Shadow of the Sword,” appeared in 1876 and was followed by a number of volumes of fiction, including “A Child of Nature,” “God and the Man,” “The Martyrdom of Madeline,” “Rev. Annabel Lee,” “Andromeda” and other compositions.

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Brooklyn Eagle (11 June, 1901 - p.4)

Two Busy Bees.

     The death on the same day of Sir Walter Besant and Robert Buchanan illustrates vividly one of the strong contrasts in authorship. They were of about the same age, both have been prominent and active figures in the literary life of England for the past thirty years, and neither has written a book likely to attain literary immortality. But whereas Buchanan was a truculent, militant person, with a talent for keeping his name continually in the public eye, but whose work never benefited anybody but himself, Besant was one of the most helpful writers who ever lived, and his influence is likely to grow larger after his books have become merely names in the literary calendar. And that will be because he was more intent upon helping his fellows than upon his own individual success. Besant did a good deal of critical and historical writing in his youth which has been much praised, but he did not become widely known until he entered a literary partnership with James Rice. The firm wrote a dozen or more popular novels, of which “Ready Money Mortiboy” is now perhaps the best known. They were pleasant, sunny, interesting stories for the most part, and they were calculated to leave the reader better than they found him. The joint authorship is interesting because it was one of the few successful literary collaborations. Perhaps that was because each man kept carefully to his distinct portion of the work. Rice was an editor and was attracted by some of the work Besant submitted. In the partnership he laid out the plots and attended to the business details of the authorship, while Besant wrote out the stories, while Besant wrote out the stories after they were planned. In a larger way, it was such a collaboration as many editors have with contributors to magazines.
     After Rice’s death Besant wrote the novel with which his name is most widely associated and which will be most largely responsible for his future remembrance—“All Sorts and Conditions of Men.” The book dealt in a sympathetic way with the lives and needs of the poor and it started that movement for the amelioration of the conditions of the East End of London, of which Toynbee Hall is the outcome in London and from which half a dozen settlement societies have resulted in New York. The work, which is a favorite topic with Mrs. Humphry Ward, and is described at length in her “Marcella,” did not exist when Besant’s novel was written, and that book gave the impulse which led to its organization. But long before that Besant had demonstrated his desire to help his fellows. When he began to write authorship was an utterly unorganized craft in England. There was no standard rate of pay for books, and the unknown author took practically whatever the publisher chose to give him. Besant organized and for years conducted the Authors’ Society, devoted to getting for authors what their work was fairly worth. He had a bureau which made contracts and placed manuscripts for authors; he conducted a monthly magazine, the Author, devoted to the rights and grievances of his craft, and was influential in the agitation for the national copyright law, which gave English authors royalties on their books sold here and protected American authors from the competition of cheap, uncopyrighted editions of English books. Besant has also written a column of comment in some of the English publications which has been widely quoted in this country. The result of his labors was a much better understanding of the business side of publishing on the part of English authors and much better prices for their work. Besant received his title in 1895, when Lord Rosebery was prime Minister, the same year when Henry Irving and Lewis Morris, the poet, were knighted. There were several more distinguished literary artists upon whom the honor might have been conferred, but no writer who had done more for the people among whom he lived.
     Buchanan wrote several novels and poems of much strength and vigor, which were a good deal talked about when they were new. His anonymous attack upon Rossetti, in the pamphlet, “The Fleshly School of Poets,” and Swinburne’s answer, after Buchanan’s authorship became known, was one of the sensational incidents of the literary world when it happened. But Buchanan’s books are more thoroughly forgotten than Besant’s already, and nothing in the man or his life tends to keep them in remembrance.

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From the Brooklyn Eagle (24 June, 1901 - p.6)

CORRESPONDENT’S PLEA
FOR ROBERT BUCHANAN.
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Poet’s Peace Offering Just Before
Death of Dante Gabriel
Rossetti Recalled.
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KNEW HOW TO SAY “I AM SORRY”

Analysis of “God and the Man,” Which,
It Is Held, Redeemed Bitterness of
Buchanan’s Life.
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To the Editor of the Brooklyn Eagle:
     In your editorial headed “Two Busy Bees” you say that the death on the same day of Sir Walter Besant and Robert Buchanan illustrates vividly one of the strong contrasts in authorship, and also that neither has written a book likely to attain literary immortality. That this is a fact no one can deny, and while the writer does not wish in any way to depreciate the ability of Besant as a writer, he feels that Buchanan would have been considered his peer were it not for his jealous disposition, his truculent manner and his biting sarcasm to other writers which biased his readers in the commencement of his career, and left him embittered and militant for many years of his life. His controversy with Paul Potter, whom he accused of plagiarizing “Sheridan,” his “Voice of Hooligan” against Kipling, his aggressiveness to every one who crossed him in his opinions, and his famous literary encounter with Edmund Yates, who hacked and cut him so that he ran to cover and met with the most ignominious defeat of his life, are well known, but what is not generally known is that this man with all his aggressiveness, his word cuts, his taunting sarcasms, had at one time of his life the courage and manliness to say, “I am sorry.”
     Every reader a score of years ago remembered his great fight with Dante Gabriel Rosetti, and it is to this literary word encounter that the world is indebted for a work from Buchanan which, in the writer’s opinion, entitles him to rank with England’s great writers. When Rosetti was on his deathbed Buchanan’s better nature came to his rescue. He saw his hated enemy prostrate, his fallen foe weak and exhausted, and his own cutting words came back to him, and with sorrow and regret for his cruel thrusts he asked for and received pardon from Rosetti.
     That his repentance was sincere is known by his book, “God and the Man,” dedicated to Rosetti, with verses “To An Old Enemy,” two of which are given:

I would have snatched a bay leaf from thy brow,
     Wronging the chaplet on an honored head;
In peace and tenderness I bring thee now
     A lily flower instead.

Pure as thy purpose, blameless as thy song,
     Sweet as thy spirit, may this offering be:
Forget the bitter blame that did thee wrong,
     And take the gift from me.

     At the end of your editorial you say: “But Buchanan’s books are more thoroughly forgotten than Besant’s already, and nothing in the man or his life tends to keep them in remembrance.” The writer confesses his inability to appreciate the craze for the vacillating Janice Meredith, or the Joe Millerism of David Harum, or other literary crazes of the day; but he does appreciate this one act of Buchanan’s repentance and the grandeur of his peace offering, “God and the Man,” which will be read and reread in future years, when the crazes of the day are forgotten.
     In this romance Buchanan portrays himself as Christian Christianson, with revenge in his heart, and hates famine-sickness in his soul against his enemy, Richard Orchardson, and he prays to God to give this man to him.
     And now, on his 20th birthday, a figure of manly strength and beauty, he hears a clear, silvery voice, like that of a woman, and comes face to face with Priscilla Sefton, a girl of refinement and wealth, who, with her father, has devoted her life to relieving distress and following her Master, being a disciple of Wesley. No writer ever portrayed a sweeter, nobler character than Priscilla Sefton, and it is not surprising that Christian became fascinated with her and gave to her the greatest gift a girl can have—a boy’s pure, unselfish, unadulterated love. And now his enemy confronts him again, and he sees him, like a snake in the grass, trying to poison the mind of Priscilla against him, and his rage and hatred are described in verses by Buchanan in his proem after the dedication, a few of which the writer copies for the benefit of readers who have not read the romance:

All men, each one, beneath the sun,
     I hate, shall hate, till life is done;
But of Men one, till my race is run
     And all the rest for the sake of one!

If God stood there, revealed full bare
     I would laugh to scorn His love or care.
Nay, in despair, I would pray a prayer
     Which He needs must grant—if a God He were!

And the prayer would be, yield up to me
     This man alone of all men that see!
Give him to me, and to misery!
     Give me this man. If a God Thou be!

     And now Christian with curses and prayers, because God does not grant him his prayer, feels that there is no God, and cries:

The earth is dark and the clouds go by,
But there is no God to hear my cry.

     Priscilla and her father leave for America and Christian learns that his enemy has joined them. In despair he in disguise joins the ship as a sailor. The voyage, Christian mad with rage, hate, and jealousy, the ship on fire, the passengers and crew taking to the boats, the rescue by the Dutch brig are all graphically described by Buchanan.
     The brig encounters a storm of two days and nights and is swept in a northerly direction, and they find themselves in close proximity to ice fields. The gale continuing they are surrounded by ice, and a cry goes up from the terrified sailors, for the solid ribs of oak begin to crack and yield like the shell of a breaking egg. Christian helps with the others to lands the provisions on the ice. While thus engaged a storm with blinding snow burst upon them and they could not see each other or the outline of the brig. The men shrieked to each other in terror. Some threw themselves upon their faces to avoid being swept away, others clinging to each other. Richard Orchardson, struggling back toward the brig and seeing a white shape like the shape of a man, clutches it wildly, crying for help. Scarcely had he uttered the cry when he felt himself lifted and carried away rapidly over the ice as a lioness might carry off a child, or a polar bear a small seal. Then, sick with terror, he swooned away. When he opened his eyes the starlight shone faintly down, then a white face was pressed down close to his and a voice hissed these words: “At last!”
     Christian upbraids his enemy and they hear the faint report of a gun from the brig which has separated from the ice, and Richard in terror runs madly in its direction and as he does the loose ice crumbles under his feet and with a shriek he disappears. Christian in the dim light sees the head of Richard appear and hearing his shrieks for help answers with a horrible laugh, leaving his enemy to die. Christian takes shelter in a cave and collects the provisions. After certain days, to his horror he finds Richard faint and exhausted and spares his life, warning him not to go near the cave.
     In his record he says, “I was a fool! I cried to myself. I prayed to God to give him into my hands and God hath answered my prayer. I will go back and end it all, but I went not back.”
     At last Richard’s gaunt face softens him and he shares the cave with him, but does not speak until he sees that his enemy is dying. “There lay he,” he says, “who has embittered my life! whose death I had prayed for; whose life I had sought for with murderous hands. Yet now I would have given away the world if I could have raised him up, saying live, and be forgiven. At first I could not believe he was dead. There lay Richard Orchardson or what had once been he; his feeble frame, his haggard face, all changed. No longer old nor young, but beautiful even to terror; covered with peace as with a garment, clothed with the loveliness of Death, for Death crowns all alike.” The writer in closing begs space for the last verse in Buchanan’s proem:

The night is still; the waters sleep; the skies
Gaze down with bright, innumerable eyes;
A voice comes out of heaven and o’er the sea:
“I am; and I will give this man to thee!”

     Robert Buchanan had many faults, but his “God and the Man” has redeemed them. Let us hope that in his dying hour, power was given to him to recall his touching lines “To An Old Enemy”:

I never knew thee living, O my brother!
But on thy breast my lily of love now lies;
And by that token we shall know each other
When God’s voice saith, “Arise!”

                                                                                        W. D. H.

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From The New York Times (29 June, 1901)

LONDON LETTER.
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Written for THE NEW YORK TIMES SATURDAY REVIEW by
WILLIAM L. ALDEN.

     LONDON, June. 18.—

     ..... The same day saw the death of Sir Walter Besant and Robert Buchanan, the most kindly and the most truculent of novelists. Poor Buchanan had been dead to the world for many months, and his final release was a happy event for him and for all his friends. He was at heart a thoroughly kindly man, and his rough manner was merely the outside of him. In Sir Walter Besant many a young writer has lost a kind and helpful friend. He may not have been a great novelist, but he was a thoroughly good man, and his death will be universally mourned. I have yet to learn that he ever made an enemy, and even the publishers, whom he attacked with so much vigor, respected and liked the man. His People’s Palace will keep his name green when the names of many greater novelists will have been forgotten.

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From The New York Times (6 July, 1901)

LONDON LETTER.
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Written for THE NEW YORK TIMES SATURDAY REVIEW by
WILLIAM L. ALDEN.

     LONDON, June. 15.—Drawing morals is always a pleasant amusement, for it carries with it a sense of the superiority of the drawer. The deaths of Sir Walter Besant and of Mr. Robert Buchanan have been the occasion of a great deal of solemn comment on the lives of the two men. Every one knows that Sir Walter was a genial, cheerful man, and that Buchanan delighted in quarreling. Also it is generally admitted that while Buchanan had real genius Besant had none. Furthermore, Besant was remarkably successful in his profession, and Buchanan considered himself a failure—in which verdict most people will agree. Wherefore the moral is drawn, consciously or unconsciously, that if a man wishes to succeed in literature he should cultivate the commonplace, and depend for his popularity on his personal virtues rather than on the literary merits of his books.
     There is more or less truth in this, but I hardly think it does full justice either to Besant or Buchanan. The former certainly did excellent work, and it is absurd to say that because his heroines were puppets pulled by obvious wires he had no creative genius. Character drawing was not his strong point, but that he could draw men who were alive his “Gregory Shovel” would alone prove. But there is genius in the telling of a story as well as in the creation of character, and Sir Walter could tell a story as well as any man living. Certainly he had genius of a sort, and his books should have been popular on their own merits, as they undoubtedly were.
     Buchanan also had genius, for he could create. But I doubt if his order of genius was very much the superior of Besant’s. Suppose that he had been the genial optimist that Sir Walter was—a man who charmed all his friends and never made an enemy—except of course an occasional publisher, would his genius then have been rated higher than Besant’s? Buchanan’s poetry was sometimes admirable, but he wrote a great deal of worthless verse. His novels were so good that every one said it was a great pity that they were not better. I cannot see in what respect they were superior to those of Besant, and there were certainly many respects in which they were conspicuously inferior. Granting that Buchanan had genius—and I should be the last to deny it—I fail to see in what respect his genius was more abundant in quantity or finer in quality than that of Sir Walter Besant.
     Would it not be fair to say that the chief difference between the two men was not that the one had genius and the other had not, but that one was an optimist of the most pronounced character, and the other felt that everything in life was wrong, and his mission was to set everything right? Sir Walter admitted that there was a certain amount of misery in the east of London, but it could easily be set right if the public would read and follow the teachings given in his novels. He also admitted that publishers were not as a rule the very highest kind of angels, but he felt confident that his Society of Authors would in a comparatively short time convert even the most hardened publishers. With these exceptions “the world went very well” with Sir Walter—quite as well, in fact, as it went in the days of one of his best novels. It was a good world, a beautiful world, a world full of kindness and good tobacco, if you only looked for those commodities. Sir Walter was obviously a very happy and contented man. He was not happy merely because he was successful, but he was successful because he was happy. There was a kind and lovable spirit in his books which attracted people to them. He succeeded in literature not so much because he wrote well, but because he had the most fortunate of temperaments.
     Poor Buchanan was the very opposite of Besant in temperament. He was not intentionally unkind to any one, but to his vision most things were wrong and called for hearty denunciation. He may not have been an unhappy man, but his writings certainly gave that impression to the reader. It was Buchanan’s temperament that made his life an apparent failure and that made him fall far behind Besant in the race for popularity.
     If I too, may draw a moral, I should say that the lives of these two men show that success is more apt to attend the man who is happy than the man who is unhappy. It certainly does so far as the ordinary affairs of life are concerned, and there is good reason why the same cause should have the same effect in literature. The man who is bitter and misanthropic and sour is out of place in the world, and he fails, as he deserves to. Sir Walter Besant’s creed that this is an excellent world is the true creed. It is an admirable world, in spite of its faults, and when we treat it genially and lovingly it is very apt to treat us in the same way.
     There is one thing in regard to Besant that might be said. In England it is generally believed that his “Gilead P. Beck” is a faithful representation of the Yankee. Of course, it is nothing of the sort. Sir Walter tried to make Beck speak what he assumed to be the American dialect, but no American would recognize it. Like many other English writers, Sir Walter imagined that if he gave a man a Scriptural Christian name, and also a middle letter, and then made him use a few of the expressions that a time-honored superstition has called “American,” he had drawn a Yankee. Beck is thought to be one of Sir Walter’s most lifelike characters, but he is as preposterous a stage Yankee as ever walked the boards of Barnum’s old Park Row Museum.

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