ROBERT WILLIAMS BUCHANAN (1841 - 1901)
ROBERT BUCHANAN AND THE MAGAZINES
Illustrated Times (5 January, 1861 - p.11)
The second number of Temple Bar is a very great improvement on the first; there is more variety in the selection of the articles and a lighter tone throughout. Graver readers are, however, not uncared for; there is a scientific article on “Light,” clearly and intelligibly written, and educing much novel thought; and an admirable description of a coal-mine and colliery explosions, called “What our Coals Cost Us,” and understood to be written by Professor Ansted. Articles of a Household-Words descriptive character are “The Houseless Poor” and “A Visit to the Iron-clad Ship.” Mr. Sala contributes three papers to the number—a complete and concise summary of the events of the year, written with great force, and in its concluding portion with much beauty of expression, called “Annus Mirabilis;” a continuation of the pleasant “Travels in Middlesex;” and the first instalment of his new novel, “The Seven Sons of Mammon,” which promises admirably. Nothing can be better than the description of the millionaire and his surroundings, while so far, at least, the story possesses the grand merit of being kept close to its point, and being free from that diffuse wandering in which its author occasionally indulges. Lovers of old literature will delight in a charming essay on “Robert Herrick,” written in the true spirit of appreciation There are three poems in the number—one by Mr. Stigant; a second of the “London Poems,” full of fine thought and eloquent expression; and a musical song, by Mr. Mortimer Collins.
The Evening Herald (2 May, 1861 - p.7)
Temple Bar flourishes after its manner. “The Seven Sons of Mammon” is the opening story, and is this month, so far as we can see, something more original than last. We detect no “wine” in the present number borrowed without leave or acknowledgement, to use the words of a succeeding paper, “from another man’s vintage,” and this is at least an improvement. “A Jovial Bishop” is a readable and clever paper, “Broad Awake” is sketchy, as Mr. Edmund Yates’ productions not unusually are. “The Real and the Conventional Nigger” should be read at the present time as a counterpoise to the extravagant sympathy in which we are likely to indulge respecting “the men and brethren” of the new American confederation. “For Better, for Worse” is as good as before. “London Poems: Belgravia” is musical and readable; “Clouds” contains some good thoughts; a sketch of “Elizabeth Berkeleigh, Margravine of Anspach,” is respectable; “John’s Wife” is an agreeable story; “On Quacks” is well written, if not very original; “In the Temple Gardens” is well told; and “Three Times” embodies a good idea in three sweet verses. The little poem, in fact, is a perfect gem.
The Evening Herald (4 July, 1861 - p.7)
Temple Bar is up to its average. The inevitable “Seven Sons of Mammon” commences the number; “The Burg- keeper’s Secret” is a good story; “Chalk” contains a good deal of readable and enjoyable information about those white cliffs of Albion for the neighbourhood of which every one in London is sighing; “Aged Forty” is not worth criticism; “Holy Mr. Herbert” is one of those excellent papers upon minor celebrities of the past which Temple Bar would do well to make a specialty; “Spell-bound” is a short but tolerably good story; “Of the Mountebank Family” records the popular history of the gladiators and fun-makers of old in a sufficiently pleasant fashion; “London Poems” contains “A City Preacher,” very well written; “For Better for Worse” drags its slow length along; “Told at Frascati” reads well; “In Loco Parentis” deserves like commendation; and the concluding piece is some poetry of good quality, suggested by Mr. Holman Hunt’s wonderful picture “Christ in the Temple.” We must not forget to mention as part of the number a complacent, self-satisfied preface, by Mr. Sala, to the volume just concluded.
Donne The Metaphysician
Illustrated Times (10 August, 1861)
Temple Bar is vigorous as ever. We have a rather smaller instalment of “The Seven Sons of Mammon” than the interest created by it led us to wish for; but when the quality is so excellent, complaint would be ungracious. There is rather more than the usual allowance of poetry; but perhaps none of it deserves, as verses go, any severe criticism. Mr. Williams Buchanan, who seems to be a regular contributor, ought to become a poet. So thinking and so hoping, we would advise him to write less and blot more. The article upon Donne, the metaphysician, is, on the whole, pleasant, entertaining, and appreciating; but would it not be as well if not quite so many magazine-writers were on such uncommonly good terms with their readers? This trick of familiarity is borrowed from Mr. Thackeray, who is becoming so objectionable in this particular as to warn, not instigate, further imitation. The article on “Fires” is full of useful and practical suggestions, and there is a capitally-told and true story of an attempt at deception of the Kaspar Hauser kind, under the title “A Real German Mystery.” There are also a description of life “In the Mining Districts” and two or three short stories.
The Hampshire Advertiser (10 June, 1865 - p.7)
THE FORTNIGHTLY REVIEW.—No. II.
We may congratulate the editor, Mr. George Henry Lewes, as well as the publishers, Messrs. Chapman and Hall, on so far a completely successful undertaking. Besides Mr. Lewes’s work, the present number contains articles by Anthony Trollope, Lord Edward St. Maur, Professor Beesly, Robert Buchanan, Sheldon Amos, and George Meredith, as well as a review of public affairs during the last fortnight, and some notices of new books by W. M. Call and John Dennis. Mr. Anthony Trollope gives another instalment of the story, “The Belton Estate,” which commenced in the first number and promises to be in its pure, simple way as attractive as any of his former works. He also makes his appearance in the character of a reviewer, taking for his subject the poems of Henry Taylor, for whom he has, as is natural, a vast respect and admiration.
. . .
Another article, which will probably be read by the majority with equal pleasure, is that by Mr. R. Buchanan, on “Thorswalden and his English Critics.” The writer protests with much energy and some show of reason against the “goody” style of criticism which estimates a man of genius from a very small standing-point, and without any species of dramatic power. Mr. George Meredith’s verses, “Martin’s Puzzle,” have that peculiar flavour of rural life which is now- a-days found only in perfection in the writings of the author. The review of public affairs and the article on “Democracy in England,” by Mr. Sheldon Amos, are written in much the same key, that which is commonly termed “Advanced Liberalism.” We believe that we have already named the fact that Mr. Lewes is, or was at least, not long since, one of the reviewers of new books for the Times.
Immorality in Authorship
The Saturday Review (29 September, 1866 - Vol. XXII, pp. 386-387)
SINCERITY IN LITERATURE.
AN essay on “Immorality in Authorship,” by Mr. Robert Buchanan, in the last number of the Fortnightly Review, would be worth examining if only for its quaint illustration of that passion for symmetry which exercises such resistless influence over certain minds. There are people whose appreciation of a truth seems to depend upon its capability of being neatly rounded off and closely packed in a convenient formula. To subject it to any conditions or limitations is, in their estimation, to spoil its portability and shape. It must be, like Aristotle’s wise man, a “blameless cube,” smooth and polished on all sides, offering no irregular angularities awkward for the pocket or unpleasant to the eye. And as, unluckily for these passionate lovers of symmetry, truth is not always thus conveniently compressible, they are occasionally driven to treat it after a somewhat tyrannical Procrustean fashion, and get rid of angularities by a rough-and-ready process of rubbing them off. How far the truth is improved by the process depends upon what standard of perfection you take. From one point of view, no doubt, a few touches of the scissors would vastly improve a daddy-longlegs; from being straggling and incompressible it would become at once neat and rotund. Not that these followers of Procrustes are, like him, conscious of their tyranny. They would probably say that they are not clipping truth but condensing it—reducing it to its very marrow and essence until it attains that simplicity which has been declared to be the soul of philosophy, and which makes it as easily and universally applicable as a patent pill, or the skilfully-prepared beef-lozenge which enables the traveller to carry an ox in his waistcoat pocket.
Lloyd’s Weekly London Newspaper (16 May, 1869 - p.8)
In the Broadway, “Stretton” progresses apace, while Minnie Thomas’s “False Colours” gets worse and worse. Miss Phœbe Cary’s poem is graceful and pathetic. Miss Cary’s genius is so well known, however, that it needs no comment. We can afford space for the first half of “Amy’s Love-Letter:”
. . .
Robert Buchanan has contributed a clever criticism of Emerson, which contrasts strongly with a certain illiberal review of Tennyson, of which we have already written. Buchanan treats his subject tenderly and thoughtfully; perceiving the failings of the man he criticises, and perceiving and making much of the good side of the character and works which, he says, possess a vast influence over a “big and boisterous people.” “The Follies of Fashion,” professedly written by a woman, is, we are confident, the production of masculine genius. From the first of this series, we have always suspected the signature “A Woman,” to be a false one; and this last essay on the “Follies of Fashion,” to our mind, settles the question. G. M. Hoppin gives a delightful description of the Adirondac Lakes, and we long for a glimpse of the forests, afire with the glow of the reddened foliage. A learned paper on heraldry—as forming hieroglyphics of history—is the final one in this excellent number of Broadway.
George Heath, The Moorland Poet
Glasgow Herald (4 March, 1871)
In Good Words Mr Robert Buchanan introduces to the general public the poems of George Heath, the Moorland Poet. Heath was born at Gratton, a hamlet in the moorlands of Staffordshire, on the 9th of March, 1844. He was born of poor parents, and, after learning to read and write, was apprenticed to a carpenter. He died in 1869 of consumption, in which he lingered for four years. Mr Buchanan, as becomes a brother poet, gives us a very loving sketch of poor Heath, in whose fate and genius he finds a striking resemblance to David Gray, the author of the “Luggie.” Among other specimens of the “Moorland” muse we have the following:—
THE POET’S MONUMENT.
Sad are the shivering dank dead leaves
Dead! dead! ’mongst the winter’s dearth,
None of the people will heed it or say,
No one will think of the dream-days lost,
No one will raise me a marble, wrought
My life will go on to the limitless tides,
The glories will gather and change as of yore,
But thou, who art dearer than words can say,
I shall want thee to dream me my dream all through—
And, Edith, come thou in the blooming time—
And bend by the silently settling heap,
And look in thy heart circled up in the past,
Encirqued with the light of the pale regret,
This month’s number is more than usually readable. We are glad to notice another sketch of Scottish life and manners from the graphic pen of the author of “Peasant Life in the North.”
Mr. John Morley’s Essays
The Sheffield Daily Telegraph (6 June, 1871 - p.3)
The Contemporary opens with a very interesting and significant article by Mazzini on the Commune, in which he briefly discusses its aims and proceedings.
Mr. Robert Buchanan has a vigorous paper on Mr. John Morley’s Essays, which is made very remarkable by a scathing, we had almost said savage, censure of Carlyle, which he seizes an opportunity to introduce in the course of it. The article indeed abounds in hard words and knocks dealt out straight from the shoulder on all sides. In discussing Mr. Morley’s essay on Byron, which he considers as perhaps the best ever written on the subject, he declares it “flawed, because the writer, who has just recommended a severe handling of the criminal classes, seems unconscious that he is dealing with a great criminal’s life and character. Scientific criticism, so sharp to the anti-social outcasts, might be less merciful to the outcast whose hand was lifted against every man’s life and reputation, and who was consciously unjust, tyrannous, selfish, false, and anti-social.” “We do not agree,” says Mr. Buchanan, “with Mr. Morley that the public has nothing to do with Byron’s private life. The man invited confidence for the sake of blasting the fair fame of others; and the lie of his teaching is only to be counteracted by the living lie of his identity. If revolters and criminals are to be gibbeted, then we claim in the name of Justice the highest gibbet for Byron.” The Contemporary also contains a very delightful attempt by the Rev. James Davies to re-habilitate those sweet idyllists, Bion and Moschus, and rescue them from the shadow of their great master, Theocritus, which teems with charming quotations; a short essay on the “Range of Intellectual Conception,” by Mr. Ruskin, and several other contributions of the widely catholic character for which this able monthly is celebrated.
The Examiner (7 October, 1871)
Mr Ruskin says in the new number of his Fors Clavigera, “There was an article—I believe it got in by mistake, but the editor, of course, won’t say so—in the ‘Contemporary Review,’ two months back, on Mr Morley’s Essays, by a Mr Buchanan, with an incidental page on Carlyle in it, unmatchable (to the length of my poor knowledge) for obliquitous platitude, in the mud-walks of literature.” Many will be disposed to say nearly the same of an article in this month’s ‘Contemporary,’ by a Mr Thomas Maitland, who commences a series of strictures on “The Fleshly School of Poetry,” with seventeen pages about Mr Dante Rossetti.
The Fleshly School Of Poetry: Mr. D. G. Rossetti
Reviews of Buchanan’s original article are available in the Fleshly School Controversy section of the site.
Glasgow Herald (10 February, 1872)
Saint Pauls.—In the continuation of the late Nathaniel Hawthorne’s “Romance of Immortality,” there is some excellent writing, with the faint cropping up of a new tragic element in the double form of incompatibility in the temperament of the two lovers, and of a mysterious document which will probably turn out to contain directions for the attainment of immortality on this earth. There is a capital article by Mr Robert Buchanan on Dickens, who is happily designated “The ‘Good Genie’ of Fiction.” There is a poem entitled “Supreme Love,” by John Banks, who, if we mistake not, is also Robert Buchanan. Again, “The Ballad of Judas Iscariot,” although unsigned, is wonderfully like a coin of Mr Buchanan’s mintage. We have also a clever and characteristic poem by the author of “St Abe and his Seven Wives.” Henry Holbeach and Matthew Browne have each an article a piece. These apparent two are one and the same person, whose real name, however, is neither Holbeach nor Browne. Mr Buchanan makes some strong statements regarding Dickens. “The world,” he says,” has decided long ago that Dickens was beyond all parallel the greatest imaginative creator of this generation, and that his poetry (the best of it), although written in unrhymed speech, is worth more, and will probably last longer, than all the verse-poetry of this age, splendid as some of that poetry has been.” This is decidedly generous on the part of the critic, but we should doubt if it is altogether an accurate prophecy. Of Mr Buchanan’s criticisms on Dickens’ humour we quote one passage:—
“Shakespeare’s humour, even more than Chaucer’s, is of the very essence of divine quiddity. Between Shakespeare and Dickens, only one humorist of the truly divine sort arose, fluted magically for a moment, and passed away, leaving the Primrose family as his legacy to posterity. Swift’s humour was of the earth, earthy; Gay’s was shrill and wicked; Fielding’s was judicial, with flashes of heavenlike promise; Smollett’s was cumbrous and not spiritualising; Sterne’s was a mockery and a lie (shades of Uncle Toby and Widow Wadman, forgive us, but it is true!); and, not to catalogue till the reader is breathless, Scott’s was feudal, with all the feudal limitations, in spite of his magnificent scope and depth. Entirely without hesitation we affirm that there is more true humour, and, consequently, more helpful love, in the pages of Dickens than in all the writers we have mentioned put together; and that, in quality, the humour of Dickens is richer, if less harmonious, than that of Aristophanes; truer and more human than that of Rabelais, Swift, or Sterne; more distinctly unctuous than even that of Chaucer, in some respects the finest humorist of all; a head and shoulders over Thackeray’s, because Thackeray’s satire was radically unpoetic; certainly inferior to that of Shakespeare only, and inferior to his in only one respect—that of humorous pathos. It is needless to say that in the last-named quality Shakespeare towers supreme, almost solitary. Falstaff’s death-bed scene is, taken relatively to the preceding life, and history, and rich unction of Sir John, the most wonderful blending of comic humour and divine tenderness to be found in any book—infinite in its suggestion, tremendous in its quaint truth, penetrating to the very depths of life, while never disturbing the first strange smile on the spectator’s face. Yes; and therefore overflowing with unutterable love.”
Mr Holbeach continues his articles on “Literary Statesmen.” His present subject is the Duke of Argyll, whom he describes as being “in politics and sociology a Conservative-Liberal; and if that phrase were admissible in another sphere, it would be applicable to the Duke as a thinker in theology and philosophy. His intellect moves with great caution, and not without something of the spirit which expresses itself in the proverbial saying—‘A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.’” The writer says of his Grace that “there is no speculative knight-errantry about him. He feels his way in every subject that he touches, and even with a degree of punctiliousness which has an effect not quite cheerful.” “There was,” continues Mr Holbeach, “a Scotch Professor of Logic who, being urged to go and fight a duel with a man who called him a liar, said, with perfect bonhomie—‘What for fight him? Let ’em pruv it, sir; let ’em pruv it.’ It is the same in all his writings.” These indicated features of the Duke’s character as a thinker Mr Holbeach proceeds to illustrate in a very happy manner, and the whole article, we may say, is as well written as it is interesting. The ballad of “Judas Iscariot” is a curious, indeed, a fine production, the last three verses whereof will show what final fate the poet assigns to the man whom all the world regards as a traitor:—
“’Twas the Bridegroom stood at the open door,
‘The Holy Supper is spread within,
The supper wine is poured at last,
Criticism as One of the Fine Arts
The Nonconformist (3 April, 1872)
The other magazines of Messrs. Strahan and Co. may be noticed in a single paragraph. St. Paul’s is good, but wants relief. Hawthorne’s “Septimus” is subtle, but unfinished and unsatisfactory, becoming, indeed, more and more so as we go on. Miss Ingelow’s story is more enjoyable. Walter Hutcheson surely has some arrière pensée in “Criticism as a Fine Art,” which, however, is clever; but why does he not cite Mr. Matthew Browne among the critics, whose personality is frequently communicated with peculiar strength! The “Saint Abe” ballad is not so good as we should expect; it wants local colouring.
Glasgow Herald (9 April, 1872)
Saint Pauls.—Hawthorne’s “Septimus: a Romance of Immortality,” winds slowly and curiously along.
. . .
“B.”—Mr Robert Buchanan, we presume—has an able and characteristic poem on Mazzini. Mr Walter Hutcheson writes a sort of clever, snappy, happy-go-lucky sort of paper on “Criticism as One of the Fine Arts.” He declares that “scientific criticism is fudge—as sheer fudge as scientific poetry, as scientific painting; but criticism does belong to the fine arts; and, for that reason, its future prospects are positively unlimited.” “Criticism now-a-days,” he says, “simply means (it is doubtful whether at any time it has meant much more) the impression produced on certain minds by certain products.” Listen to how certain things and persons impress Mr Walter Hutcheson:—
HOPE FOR THE LOST.
“It is great fun—fun given to poor mortality, alas! too seldom—to see the advent of some outrageous genius, some
prodigy of the Euphocion order, starting up to the horror of criticism, and carrying all the masses before him by simple charm. Wonderful is that gift of producing on thousands of people precisely the same set of favourable impressions; wonderful is that gift, whether possessed by a Dickens, a Tennyson, or a Tupper. Fortunately the great mass of people are their own ‘tasters,’ judging for themselves at first hand, and they won’t be guided by the literary priests, however so wise; and it is simply delicious to observe how reputations grow, in spite of all the priesthood do to tramp them down. Let no man despair merely because the few who write abuse him. The abuse simply means that he is not wanted by Smith, Brown, and Jones; while all the time he is being eagerly waited for by all the legions of the Robinsons, to whom every word he drops is a revelation. Longfellow has ceased to be a favourite with reviewers, but he has his compensations. George Eliot is praised by every reviewer in the country, but the public knows, for all that, that she has never fulfilled her original promise. Dickens was abused by genteel journals, but what cared he?”
“In England here, critics for the most part assume the editorial tone, and are proportionally uninteresting. To the long list of critics who write without edification, either because they decline self-revelation or are unpleasant when revealed, may be added, in modern times, the names of Mr. Lewes, late editor of the Fortnightly Review, and the Duke of Argyll. These gentlemen sign their articles, but utterly fail to attract us—they are so thoroughly, so transparently, editorial. Critics of the higher class, on the other hand, may be found in Mr. Arthur Helps, Mr. Matthew Arnold, and (with a strong editorial leaven) in Mr. R. H. Hutton, who has recently published two volumes of essays. Mr. Arnold may or may not be an interesting being, but he never for a moment represents himself as what he is not. We know him as thoroughly as if we had been to school with him. We do not get angry with what he says, so much as with his insufferable manner of saying it. Mr. Helps is, once and for ever, the optimist man of the world. Mr. R H. Hutton shows us, as in a mirror, his deep-seated prejudice, his quick sympathy with ideas as distinguished from literary clothing, and his genial love of microscopic délicatesse. We know at once that this last critic will pass Hugo by and adore Tennyson; that he will find great pleasure in the poetry of Mr. Keble; and that his sympathy with revolt will take no more violent form than a predilection for the critical poems of Mr. Arnold! And just in so far as they tell us so much, just in so far as they suffer us to see their prejudices and their limitations, are these gentlemen good critics—critics rapidly advancing their profession to a place among the fine arts. Let them come!—the more the merrier! We would sooner take the opinion of Mr. Hutton, or Mr. Helps, or Mr. Arnold, or even Mr. Sala,—any of these gentlemen individually—than that of any unknown oracle, from the Times downwards. Besides, unknown oracles can be bought; but to buy clever men is not so easy.”
“Seraphina Snowe” is the title of a poem by the author of “St. Abe and his Seven Wives.” The present production is clever, but it seems to increase the already existing suspicion that the author is not an American but an Englishman, if not a Scotchman. The article on “Our Dinners” is worthy of being carefully studied by all who are in the habit of giving dinners or of eating them.
Pity the Poor Drama!
Leicester Chronicle and the Leicestershire Mercury (18 May, 1872 - p.2)
ST. PAUL’S has altered its outside garb, but in our judgment the alteration is not an improvement. It apes the ancient style of covers, and looks old fashioned. “Child-life as seen by the poets,” is a charming paper, one of the most perfect illustrations of the motto of the magazine. “A neat repast, light and choice, of Attic taste.” “Body and Character,” is a scrappy bit of writing on the relation of the mind and body, a subject treated very fully in one of the older numbers of the Quarterly. A single paragraph in that paper contained more stuff than the four pages of Henry Holbeach’s meandering gossip. Walter Hutcheson writes a pathetic paper, sadly too true, under the dolorous plaint, “Pity the poor Drama!” How low dramatic writing has fallen, who does not know? but still let every lover of the legitimate drama read this lament for himself. “Love in Heaven,” will have its readers; but the “Funeral of Mr. Maurice,” will win for itself a wider circle of attraction. The poetry of the number is by Robert Buchanan, and the author of “St. Abe and his Seven Wives.” Buchanan’s “Faces on the Wall,” consists of a beautiful series of sonnets. Miss Ingelow’s tale grows in fascination, and Septimius grows in weirdness. Aunt Kezia dies, despite her elixir of life; and Septimius is more than ever bent on discovering the one lacking ingredient to make it potent to ward off death.
The Era (23 June, 1872)
AND, while on the subject of the wilful propagation of error, we may possibly call attention to the scurrilous abuse of the English Stage, its artists, actors, actresses, and critics, published in the May number of the St. Paul’s Magazine, and signed by Mr. Walter Hutcheson. We need scarcely add that the magazine is no longer edited by Mr. Anthony Trollope. We have nothing to do with the opinions of the young man. We deal merely with his facts, and when he boldly and unblushingly tells the public that the “actors of the present day are unable to parse an ordinary speech in Shakespeare; that they do not know French and German; that they have the manners of strolling players and cockney clerks; that actresses cannot look like women of gentle breeding, and, with rare exceptions, are not virtuous; that the gentlemen engaged to review new plays for the various newspapers are ignorant, ill-educated, and are not generally striking in appearance, save for a certain tendency to wear false shirt-fronts, and to smell of mysterious liquors;” we tell Mr. Hutcheson that his impertinence is only excused by his ignorance. He has libelled wantonly and extravagantly a Profession of eminence and distinction; he has put on record facts which he must know are utterly untrue; and he has dashed off what he may call a spirited article, but one which from henceforth will deny him that very title of “gentleman” which he is so anxious to secure for the Stage. It is the fashion of the day to say that such poor and illiterate stuff as that poured out in the columns of the St. Paul’s Magazine, slanderous and wicked as it is, should be treated with the contempt it deserves. Newfoundlands and retrievers do the same for puppy-dogs; but when the puppy takes to biting as well as barking measures somewhat stronger are required. When a gentleman so far forgets himself as to deny virtue to honest and hard-working women, and call an honourable and equally hard-worked set of men drunken—without a shadow of justification for either statement—he should be ordered to hold his tongue, with an alternative which possibly might not be pleasant even to such a manly personage as Mr. Walter Hutcheson.
Prose and Verse
Glasgow Herald (10 September, 1872)
Saint Pauls.—Miss Jean Ingelow’s story, “Off the Skelligs,” moves rather slowly and unsensationally along. The weakness of the tale seems to be its superabundance of talk and its poverty of incident. The strange adventures in El Dorado of “John Mardon, Mariner,” by the author of “St. Abe,” has advanced into the second part, but is not yet finished. There is some quaint and curious versification in the poem, and the local colouring is pretty true to South America, though here and there perhaps slightly overdone. We have next a slight sketch of the Italian Poet Filicaia, with a fine and faithful, rather than a brilliant analysis of his poetry. Then comes a portion of “An Old Letter,” containing a brief but keenly and cunningly wrought effort of storyology, by Catherine Saunders. Under the title “Head Dresses,” M. E. Haweis supplies a singularly interesting paper on colour, which might be perused with advantage by readers of both sexes. We shall just give a taste of it by quoting a couple of passages:—
. . .
Mr Walter Hutcheson discourses on “Prose and Verse” with good sense and some acuteness. One passage will show partly what he means:—
WHEN COMES THE GREAT POET?
“A truly great poet is not he who wearies us with eternally sweet numbers; is not Pope, is not Poe, is not even Keats. It is he who is master of all speech, and uses all speech fitly; able, like Shakespeare, to chop the prosiest of prose with Polonius and the Clowns, as well as to sing the sweetest of songs with Ariel and the outlaws ‘under the greenwood tree.’ It is not Hawthorne, because his exquisite speech never once rose to pure song; it is Dickens, because (as could be easily shown, had we space) he was a great master of melody as well as a great workaday humorist. It is not Thackeray, because he never reached that subtle modulation which comes of imaginative creation; and it is not Shelley, because he was essentially a singer, and many of the profoundest and delightfullest things absolutely refuse to be sung. It is Shakespeare par excellence, and it is Goethe par hasard. Historically speaking, however, it may be observed that the greatest poets have not been those men who have used verse habitually and necessarily; and if we glance over the names of living men of genius, we shall perhaps not count those most poetic who call their productions openly “poems.” Meanwhile, we wait on for the miracle-worker who never comes—the poet. We fail as yet to catch the tones of his voice; but we have no hesitation in deciding that his first proof of ministry will be dissatisfaction with the limitations of verse as at present written.”
Mr Henry Holbeach includes Sir John Lubbock in his “Literary Statesmen,” and gives a somewhat sketchy sketch of the scientific baronet.
Pall Mall Gazette (7 October, 1874 - pp.9-10)
MR. ROBERT BUCHANAN AND GOETHE.
WE hear a great deal in these days of the function of “the seer.” England has at the present moment a tolerable supply of this interesting class. Mr. Carlyle’s example in raving at nearly every judgment the mass of men have formed is largely followed. We have among us, however, one “seer” whose achievements promise to outdo those of all rivals—Mr. Robert Buchanan. Most writers, however dogmatic in particular departments of thought, have a certain moderation in others. They recognize that one small brain can scarcely include all knowledge, and that no doctor can pronounce conclusively on all questions. Mr. Buchanan is above such scruples. He has the grand manner of one to whom every subject is equally familiar. In an offhand way he decides on the constitution of the universe or the latest school of poetry. The accepted estimate of famous writers he brushes aside with contempt; settling by a phrase the position of men like Sterne, Thackeray, or Carlyle. The writer he has last honoured with his notice is Goethe. Hitherto Goethe has been regarded as a man of lofty genius; his name has been supposed to mark an important epoch in the forward movement not only of German but of European literature. Mr. Buchanan has obtained fresh insight in these matters, and in an elaborate article in the New Quarterly Magazine takes the world into his confidence. And it seems that we have all been wrong in our conceptions of the author of “Faust” and “Wilhelm Meister.” There will be no excuse for mankind if they retain the old delusions. Mr. Buchanan has spoken.
Lloyd’s Weekly Newspaper (25 October, 1874)
NEW QUARTERLY MAGAZINE.
The New Quarterly Magazine, which has acquired already much popularity among the more thoughtful and serious readers of modern periodical literature, thoroughly deserves the success it has achieved. The men and women who contribute to its solid pages, are writers whose opinions are worth studying and remembering. It seems to us that the great fault of most of the magazine literature with which England is afflicted at the present time is, that there is so little worth remembering or recalling. How few of the “padding” sketches and articles and novelettes which appear month after month, would bear a second reading! It would seem that the English people have a special taste for this poor literature; it is certain that it flourishes in no other country in the same degree. The Americans have their periodicals, it is true; but few of us would complain if we could boast a Scribner’s Monthly, and Atlantic Monthly, as average specimens of popular reading.
His habit of cold impassiveness and stately reserve grew upon him at Weimar; and repelled many of his friends, who were not slow to express their irritation in words. “Outside relations,” he said, “make our existence, and at the same time devastate it; nevertheless, one must withdraw oneself occasionally from study, for I don’t think it healthy to be completely isolated like Wieland.” Schiller, faithful to him as he was faithful in all things, was rewarded by a certain amount of confidence, much the same as Goethe would have vouchsafed to a clinging mistress, Lili or Frederika; and when Schiller died, the blow went straight home to Goethe’s heart. When the aged and noble-minded Klopstock thought fit to remonstrate on the disorderly living encouraged by Goethe at Weimar, the “privy councillor’s” reply was cold and keen as ice. He solicited no confidence and he tolerated no interference. His affectations—for they were affectations— alienated his best friends. “What the devil possesses this Wolfgang!” cried Mark, a friend of his childhood; “why on earth will he play the courtier and the valet-de-chambre? Has he nothing better to do?” And the same excitable person said to Goethe himself, “Look here, Goethe! when I compare what you are with what you might have been, all that you have written seems to me contemptible!” But his most troublesome relations appear to have been with Herder. The great ideal philosopher and the great poetic image-former possessed a strange attraction for each other, by virtue of the individual strength of each; yet they never perfectly comprehended one another, and on one side, at least, there was a great deal of irritation. They met for the first time at Strasburg, when Herder was twenty-two years of age, and Goethe seventeen. This was in 1766. Twenty years afterwards, when both were at the zenith of fame, when Goethe’s name was a household word with young Germany, and Herder’s gigantic “Ule” was delighting all philosophers of the old school, Herder had not yet abandoned the air of patronage which he had affected to his junior student, and Goethe, on his side, had not forgotten Herder’s epigram on his name—
“Thou! descendant of Gods, or of Goths, or of Gutters!”
There was no love lost between the two; and their mode of intercourse was rather that of two rival swordsmen than of affectionate friends. On the whole, Goethe seemed rather afraid of Herder’s mighty mind, knowing well that its great scheme of the Universal Idea, with all its practical tendencies towards Optimism and the regeneration of Humanity, was exactly the scheme which refused admittance to so shallow and slight a theory as that of mere self-culture and “pyramid building.” “It is doubtful,” Herder once cried passionately, apropos of Goethe’s cold-bloodedness and affectation—“it is doubtful if a man has any right to raise himself to a sphere where all suffering, true or false, real or merely imaginary, becomes equal to him; where he ceases to be a Man, if he does not cease to be an Artist; and whether this right, once admitted, does not imply the absolute negation of human character. No one cares to envy the gods their eternal tranquillity; they may regard everything on earth as a mere game the chances of which they direct as they please. But we are men, men subject to all human wants, and we do not care to be amused for ever with theatrical attitudes. You study nature in all her phenomena from the hyssop to the cedar of Lebanon. But I should not like you, for all that, to conceal from me the most beautiful phenomena of them all—Man, in his natural and moral grandeur.” To the same effect, though with less success, protested others—Wieland, Jacobi, even Schiller. But Goethe, though the criticism struck home, was not to be moved. Affectation and indifference, two elements quite contrary in themselves, had blended together to form the one pose that he kept for the rest of his life: a pose thoroughly theatrical, as Herder’s keen eye at once detected, but so long used as to become natural at second hand. An earthquake would not have changed it. The statue stood, in courtier’s costume, calm, holding a microscope. A thunderbolt might have dashed the statue to the ground; but it would have altered nothing. To alter Goethe now, God would have had to obliterate him altogether.
The picture we have of Goethe elaborating his “Theory of Colour” in the Duke’s gardens at Weimar, unmoved by the mighty throes of the great French Revolution, uninterested in its leaders, indifferent to anything that did not immediately concern himself—is by no means a pleasant one; and most persons will leave Mr. Buchanan’s paper with a regret that so great a mind should have been combined with various peculiarities of temperament that cloud the works left behind in his name. Goethe’s dying words, “More light,” should have been his rallying cry through life!
The Examiner (10 April, 1875)
In Mr. Robert Buchanan’s “Personal Reminiscence” of Thomas Love Peacock, in the New Quarterly Magazine, the most interesting point is that, on a certain sunshiny day, several years ago, Mr. Robert Buchanan might have been seen “going on pilgrimage” to Lower Halliford, with “youth in his limbs, reverence in his heart, a pipe in his mouth, and the tiny Pickering edition of Catullus (a veritable lepidum libellum, but, alas! far from novum) in his waistcoat pocket.” Mr. Buchanan does not tell us what he had for breakfast before he started; but he communicates the equally interesting fact that, though Mr. Peacock had a horror of tobacco, and he had made a solemn promise not to smoke within five hundred yards of Mr. Peacock’s house, he is ashamed to say that he “violated the arrangement,” and “well remembers one night stealthily opening the bedroom window in the house at Halliford and ‘blowing a cloud’ out into the summer night.” Some people will be surprised to hear that there was perfect agreement between Mr. Peacock and Mr. Buchanan, except on the subject of tobacco-smoke. This, Mr. Buchanan says, proved “the one dark cloud of misunderstanding between them.”
The Modern Stage
The Glasgow Herald (8 July, 1875 - p.2)
The New Quarterly Magazine opens with a thoughtful, discriminating paper on De Quincey, by the editor. ...
The article which is likely to attract most attention is the somewhat splenetic dissertation on the shortcomings of “The Modern Stage,” by Mr Robert Buchanan. Like most people who have given any thought to the subject, Mr Buchanan finds in theatrical affairs much to blame and condemn; but fortunately some things meet with favour in his sight, and he occasionally bestows a considerable measure of praise, of the lofty patronising kind, which some very modest people would perhaps prefer to have exchanged for a little wholesome abuse. The keynote of much that follows is struck in what seems to us a quite unnecessarily violent assault upon the Lord Chamberlain’s office of censor. We quote the passage as one which shows how heedlessly unjust Mr Buchanan can be, apparently for no other reason than in the interests of a well-rounded sentence:—
“The present writer will certainly not be suspected of a love for l’école brutale, as a certain class of dramatic literature is called in Paris, but he would rather see that school flourish on every stage from London to Aberdeen than suffer the spokesman of an illiterate and irresponsible court, dressed in a little brief authority, to dictate on what terms and under what restrictions the enjoyments of the public are to be admissible. Such interference is another phase of that oppressive legislation which appears elsewhere in the form of a Contagious Diseases Act; it is intolerable in itself; but that a functionary who incarnates the most degraded superstitions of society, and who presides, so to speak, over the open indecency of a levée crush, when the rank and beauty of our land are transformed like Circe’s swine, under the ignoble pressure of degraded ambition—that such a functionary should play Petronius to our pleasures is a hideous farce, a monstrosity, a scandal.”
It is this much-abused official who is to blame because dramatic art in this country suffers from “a conspiracy on the part of authors, managers, and actors to emasculate and conventionalise all their productions.”
“But recent experience has shown that people who go to the play possess, with all their ignorance, a fair share of human enthusiasm, and that a few touches of that nature which makes all the world kin will reconcile them even to pretty stiff attacks on their prejudices. They had a prejudice against ‘sensational’ death-scenes, which Mr. Irving conquered in a night. They had another ridiculous prejudice in favour of ‘happy endings,’ which Mr. W. S. Gilbert has successfully violated over and over again. They disliked the ‘poetical’ drama, but Mr. Wills has taught them to tolerate it. They had an aversion to ‘Irish’ pieces, but were instantaneously converted by the ‘Colleen Bawn.’ In a word, they are adolescent, ready to accept any decent education the enlightened may offer them. Education they want; who is to undertake the task of supplying it to them?”
Mr Buchanan has no hope of this education coming from the managers, and though we have some actors—“none perhaps great, but a few admirable”—they are at the mercy of their employers, and must also be passed by. This brings Mr Buchanan to the authors and the critics, the former of whom are taken in hand at once, and the latter are, so to speak, returned to the lock-up, the trial of their case being reserved to the last. “The Lady of Lyons” is first examined, and is summarily dismissed, being declared “worthless as literature, worthless even as a vehicle of good acting;” but a “commonplace and interesting play.” As to Sheridan Knowles, “his characters are simply marionettes, admirably dressed and excellently managed,” Dr Westland Marston “possesses a true poetical instinct,” Mr Wills is highly spoken of, and so, with some qualifications, is Mr Tom Taylor. Mr Buchanan is quite lavish in his praise of Mr Gilbert, whose “Happy Land” he considers “the primest political satire of this generation;” but it is amusing to find him, after censuring managers, actors, and authors alike for their attempts to meet the wants of Mr Podsnap’s “young person,” condemning a certain passage in “Pygmalion and Galatea” as “simply nasty,” and calling upon the Lord Chamberlain to be consistent and suppress it as well as the “Demimonde.” We have not space to follow Mr Buchanan through his criticism of the modern dramatists, much of which seems to us perfectly just and reasonable. We prefer to go on to the end, where, we imagine, is to be found (perhaps unconsciously to the writer) the raison d’être of the whole article. Mr Buchanan appears somehow to have a feud with the critics, especially the dramatic critics, and he devotes the last pages of his article to their vivisection, “not because they are worth consideration in themselves, but because they arrogate pretensions, and try to adjudicate claims.” It is, it seems, a misconception to suppose that the dramatic critics of the London press are to any great extent “disappointed dramatic authors.” They have not “sufficient literary calibre for the production of any sort of play at all,” but “for the most part are small authors of Cockaigne, as nameless as they are incompetent, who, for a pittance, undertake work which few authors of position could be persuaded to do for an income.” After this tirade the reader will perhaps expect some cases in point, but he will be disappointed. Mr Buchanan names five London papers—the first being the Times, to whose theatrical critic he gives a page of rather vulgar abuse, saying, however, at the same time that he is assured “that he does his work with as little prejudice as possible.” In regard to the other four, the critic of one “is a worthy and unprejudiced gentleman, his only dramatic works being the admirable yearly pantomime at Drury Lane;” of other two he knows nothing save their names, while the fourth “is so distinguished as a novelist and a writer of choice English, that it is extraordinary to find him among theatrical critics at all.” Of the critics in the weekly journals, Mr Buchanan tells us he knows nothing, and then proceeds to relate some cock-and-bull story about somebody who is in the habit of writing theatrical notices for “at least three newspapers—and evening daily, a literary weekly, and a semi-sporting weekly.” And this is all he has to give in support of his sweeping charges of incompetence against a whole class of men who, for aught he has shown to the contrary, may be as able and conscientious as Mr Buchanan himself. But even Mr Buchanan seems to admit that the critics have some slight elements of goodness left, for
“Despite all the faults of their incompetence, have recently shown a disposition to encourage poetic work, or work which they consider poetical, and to recognise the claims of such authors as endeavour to elevate the drama. Their knowledge may be inadequate, and their taste questionable, but they seem trying with all their might to discover what is best, and if the managers paid them more respect and the public placed more confidence in them, they might really be of some service in preaching the cause of the higher drama.”
The stage is not likely to benefit much by this last essay of Mr Buchanan, and we should be sorry if any thoughtless person is led by it to suppose that the author of “The Madcap prince” is a “disappointed dramatic author” who has fallen back upon dramatic criticism either for a “pittance” or for an “income.”
The Graphic (10 July, 1875 - p.16)
In the New Quarterly we have for the price of half-a-crown some 300 pages of excellent reading. Mr. Robert Buchanan’s paper on “The Modern Stage” contains a great deal of sound sense, but his plain speaking will probably give offence in certain quarters, especially among managers, playwrights, and dramatic critics. Most of the latter, he says, are small authors of Cockaigne, who are not, as somebody alleged, disappointed dramatic authors, for they do not possess sufficient literary calibre for the production of any sort of play at all.
The Bradford Observer (10 July, 1875 - p.6)
The New Quarterly Magazine, July. London: Ward, Lock & Tyler.
. . .
Mr. Robert Buchanan, whom we confess we like better as a poet than as a critic, has a paper on “The Modern Stage.” Of course, it contains many observations and opinions that are original and suggestive, but the writer is only now and then to be depended upon as to correctness of judgment. With respect to our actors, Mr. Buchanan allows that there is some merit in almost all the dramatic food that they provide us with, but, for all that, the whole thing is very poor. Even Mr. Burnand’s burlesques have had merit of one kind or another, Mr. Buchanan thinks, but, “amid the chaos of London theatres,” we are “blinded by the flash of tinsel and spangle, and deafened by the noise of semi-nude incapables.” He attacks the Lord Chamberlain for inconsistency, and very rightly too; he considers our actors much more intelligent than our managers; and he deprecates playwrights pretty generally. The Lady of Lyons he considers both worthless as literature and worthless as a vehicle for good acting; and Sheridan Knowles he styles as the Chadband of dramatists, the Moody of the defunct classical school. At the head of living dramatists he places Mr. Wills, and he has a moderately good word to say for Mr. Gilbert, Mr. Tom Taylor, Mr. Albery, and one or two others. He hits Mr. Boucicault hard; he christens the late T. W. Robertson the Trollope of the stage; he says the best feature of Mr. Byron’s pieces is their innocence of all intent; their worst, their vulgarity; and he concludes with a merciless attack upon the London dramatic critics, Mr. Oxenford, the Times’ critic, in particular. For all that, Mr. Buchanan speaks hopefully of the future of the stage, and he looks for its regeneration from the customary quarter—education. His concluding words are, “Let a genuine critical interest in dramatic art be manifested, and the modern stage may recover the respect of philosophy, and secure once more a place in the hearts of men.”
[Buchanan’s article also prompted a couple of responses in the pages of London Society. Volume 28 of which is available at the Hathi Trust.]
London Society (September, 1875 - Vol. 28, pp. 215-220)
From ‘The Modern Stage, And Some Of Its Critics’ by ‘BUSYBODY’.
... One of the poets of the period, Mr. Robert Buchanan, has recently, in the pages of the ‘New Quarterly Magazine,’ made the world aware of what he thinks about the modern stage. He tells us that, if poets and philosophers glance ‘contemptuously at the theatre,’ the ‘real fault lies with the intellectual barrenness of this generation.’ It does not lie, he explains, with the modern actors and the modern public, but in the fact that we have no great dramatist. ‘Let a great dramatist arise, and he will find great actors, and perhaps a great manager.’ A ‘great manager,’ in Mr. Buchanan’s sense, would be truly a portent in these days, and we hardly know where we are to look for him, unless we are to have a Minister of Dramatic Entertainments, and even then we doubt if he would be much superior to Messrs. Hollingshead and Chatterton, of whom Mr. Buchanan speaks in terms of undisguised reproach. In truth Mr. Buchanan’s position should be reversed; let the great actors arise, and he may be sure that the dramatist and the manager will not be wanting. Ask any dramatist of the present day if his heart has not been almost broken, and his whole energies discouraged, by the way in which his characters are cast, and the. wretched incompetence of the actors who have to fill all but the two leading parts. Is it not well known to those initiated into green-room mysteries that actors in taking engagements are expected to play under Mr. So-and-So, that is that they are to subordinate their conceptions and their talents to the ‘leading’ gentleman or lady of the theatre? Has not one part to be ‘cut down’ and another part to be ‘written up’ to suit the scale of art in each particular dramatic temple? Will Othello 216 suffer Iago to divide the honours with him? In point of fact, has not the actor too often to play according to his salary? And further, are not the fortunes of a theatre made to depend generally upon the excellences of one or two performers, and not upon the merits of the company as a whole? It is true that in theatres where the broadest humour is made the backbone of the entertainment, care is taken that all the actors shall be funny alike; but then the comic actor depends so much upon being played up to, and if the audience once loses its sense of merriment it naturally becomes depressed, and the comedian has very uphill work to bring the broad grins back again, when once they have given place to yawns. In short, it is folly to talk of ‘intellectual barrenness’ in days like these. Shakespeare, we know, was not for an age, but for all time, and for stage purposes he is still alive. But where are the actors? Mr. Irving must be sufficiently satiated with adulation, and it is not necessary here to sicken him with further praise, but let the two hundred audiences who assisted at the unexampled run of ‘Hamlet’—no such very marvellous achievement, after all—bear witness how painfully mediocre were all the representations of the other characters. King, Ghost, Polonius, Horatio, Laertes, were wearisomely commonplace. Each might have played the other’s part, and the play would have proceeded just the same. There was not the slightest individuality about them—no attempt at conception—no attempt at acting—no attempt at anything save due recitation of the words assigned. And if the greatest dramatist that the world has ever seen is thus treated, what encouragement is there, in England, at all events, for literary and inventive genius to turn its attention to the stage?
London Society (October, 1875 - Vol. 28, pp. 378-379)
From ‘How The World Wags’ by ‘RAPIER’.
With reference to those poor critics, I see that Mr. Robert Buchanan, of all people in the world, has been penning what he probably imagines to be a scathing satire. According to this ‘poet,’ they live on a pittance, and are about as vicious as their small intelligence permits them to be; and indeed it is probable that Mr. Buchanan thinks a useful lesson might be taught to journalists and writers generally if a few of these miserable wretches—the critics—were taken and hanged pour encourager les autres. How Mr. Buchanan comes to know the private income of gentlemen with whom he has no acquaintance he omits to state. Criticism by itself may not be a very remunerative profession; but if the writer were acquainted with his subject he would be aware that critics do not live by criticism alone. When the editor of a newspaper wants a critic he does not go into the byways of the East-End and ask the first dishonest-looking stranger he meets to come and write about the drama; on the contrary, the post is, I believe, offered to some one on the staff of the paper, who is known to have a knowledge of things dramatic, or else to some journalist of reputation. There is probably no critic on an important paper who, besides attending the theatres, does not write leaders, or novels, or essays, or articles of some sort—and very likely a little of all—for his own paper and for several others. That the critics did not like Mr. Buchanan’s play, ‘A Madcap Prince,’ may or may not have proved their bias and want of intellect. The attack, however, comes very badly from Mr. Buchanan; and though 379 raking up old scandals is not an agreeable task, it is well that readers should be reminded of that scarcely creditable episode in Mr. Buchanan’s career with reference to his attack on Messrs. Swinburne, Rossetti, and others. Writing under the name of Robert Maitland, he proceeded to the annihilation of his contemporaries, holding up as a bright example to them the glowing talents and perfect taste of a certain Mr. Robert Buchanan. Unless I am very greatly in error, he denied the authorship of the article just about the time that, unluckily for his reputation, his publishers admitted it.
The Nonconformist (12 April, 1876)
The New Quarterly Magazine is determined to maintain its well-earned reputation for freshness and vigour. Mr. Robert Buchanan opens the present number with a paper on “Lucretius and Modern Materialism,” which one would have thought was not altogether in Mr. Buchanan’s way, but it is now difficult to say what is not easy to him in the way of literature. The article is clever, but just a little flippant. “Primæval Packing of the Middle Ages” is a curious exhumation of dead leaves and flowers of an olden time. Mr. John Dangerfield has given a good story in “Alex Fairford.” The description of the characteristics of the Fairford family is a specimen of fine literary art. Mr. Drummond gives some exceedingly interesting incidents of African travel in an article with that title, which every reader will wish had been longer. Mr. Crawford writes with critical and scholarly knowledge on “Ancient and Mediæval Music,” and there is an appreciative estimate of Artemus Ward and the humourists of America in an article, with capital illustrations, by Mr. Matthew Turner. Mr. Turner might, however, have traced this singular humour to its source in the old Puritans—of whom all these new writers are descendants. A pleasant little tale by Mr. Marston, and the “Current Literature and Current Criticism,” completes this number. Of the last we have to say that it is marked by sound breadth and intimate knowledge, and has none of the drawbacks to which we felt compelled to make reference in January. It is a thoroughly interesting and exceedingly well-executed literary review, more interesting, even to old reviewers, and more happily done than we should have conceived to be possible.
The Examiner (10 May, 1879)
The chief feature of Temple Bar is an admirable personal sketch of the late Sidney Dobbell, by Mr. Robert Buchanan. Let us hope it will bring readers to the comparatively neglected poems, “Balder” and “The Roman,” which contain passages unsurpassed in beauty and vigour by anything that has been written for the last fifty years. The problematical task of making the rather slippery memoirs of Captain D’Artagnan, one of the heroes of Dumas’ “Three Musketeers,” the basis of a magazine article intended for popular reading in the reign of Queen Victoria is cleverly solved.
Free Thought in America
The Graphic (4 April, 1885)
In the North American Review, “Free Thought in America” contains Mr. Robert Buchanan’s views on the teachings of Colonel Robert Ingersoll, and of Mr. Frothingham. Of the first he says that he represents the natural reaction of American Bohemianism against the Puritanism of Boston and the overstrained Transcendentalism of Brook Farm. The vice of America accentuated in Colonel Ingersoll is “its materialism,” and, says Mr. Buchanan, “we owe much to the gods, but for them Europe would have been Americanised long ago,” and he goes on to show what a bad thing this would be for us. With Mr. Frothingham he is less severe; but misses in him “the charm of those fairy stories of God which will continue to add to human happiness so long as the heart of man is as a child’s, and some glimpses of a heavenly dream remain.”—Mr. Charles D. Warner’s “A Study of Prison Management” is descriptive of the system in vogue in Elmira Reformatory, and supplies suggestive reading for members of Social Science Congresses.
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