ROBERT WILLIAMS BUCHANAN (1841 - 1901)

LETTERS TO THE PRESS (17)

How I Write My Plays

The Pall Mall Gazette (21 September, 1892)

“HOW I WRITE MY PLAYS.”

I.—BY MR. ROBERT BUCHANAN.

HAVING elicited from the novelists the various reasons why they do not write plays, we have asked one or two eminent playwrights to supplement what others of the same craft have written on the subject in these columns in former days, and to tell us how they write their plays. The first of these is Mr. Robert Buchanan:—
     You are good enough to ask me to describe “how I make a play,” and to send me at the same time the published reports of such excellent craftsmen as Mr. Pinero and Mr. Sydney Grundy. Mr. Pinero appears very well satisfied to work under existing conditions, while Mr. Grundy adopts a tone of defiant cynicism towards both his own work and the conditions which regulate it. For myself, I make plays because I have been taught no other trade to gain a decent living, and, having more than once frankly confessed as much, I remain at the mercy of the cranks and quidnuncs who do no literary fighting but throng the bastions of minor journals. I think that play-writing, like carpentering, is a trade to be learned, and that a dramatic author, to be successful, must be a master of stage technicalities. I have been in my time actor, stage manager, theatre manager; can at a pinch paint my own scenery, design my own “posters,” and write my own criticisms. I regret, quite as keenly as any of the New Critics, that dramatic art is regulated by commercial considerations, and that experiments on public taste are costly and dangerous. Of the many plays which I have written, only a very few are satisfactory from my point of view as a writer; among these few I include “The Nine Day’s Queen,” “Sophia,” “Clarissa,” and “The Bride of Love,” and only one of these has been phenomenally successful. As regards my modus operandi in making a play, it is, I suspect, much the same as that of other dramatists. Having got my subject, I map out my play act by act and scene by scene, and then fill in the first sketches of the leading characters. Like Mr. Pinero, I have all my work practically done before I commence the actual writing of a drama, which occupies a comparatively short space of time. In “adapting,” as it is called, I first read my original carefully and thoroughly, and then close the book for ever, only using such portions of the work as remain fixed on my memory after reading. As a consequence, I am generally responsible for the dialogue throughout, as well as for all the modifications of the subject. There may be, I believe, quite as much real originality in a so-called “adaptation” as in a play avowedly original—e.g., Shakspeare’s plays are, almost without exception, adaptations, and adaptations, in many instances, of contemporary plays. In making this observation I am quite prepared to hear that I compare myself with Shakspeare; nothing, indeed, would astonish me in this generation of fault-finding. But I will go a little further, and express my opinion that, if “Hamlet” or “Othello” were in the market now, no manager would be bold enough to produce it, and no critic would praise it if produced. “Hamlet” is a very bad play, and “Othello” a very good one; but neither would have any chance against “cocksure” criticism. We dramatists are drowned with tittle-tattle and deluged with impertinencies; and if dramatic art does not thrive, it is because ex cathedrâ criticism flourishes. At the same time, I smile at the cheery optimism which contends that the great public is the best judge of works of art and never passes contemptuously by “a good thing.” The great public is, as it has ever been, a heterogeneous mob, without taste and without ideas. The great public rushed to see “Faust” at the Lyceum and “A Man’s Shadow” at the Haymarket; it set the fashion for the screaming bayadère in Sarah Bernhardt, and for the noisy corybante in Lottie Collins; it clamours for fashion and for sensation, whether at the theatres or at the circulating library. No art can thrive as art which appeals directly to the masses, or to any mixed audience. An example of this may be found in the fact that no manager who knows his business—i.e., the business of making money—will produce a play with a tragic ending. The great public does not want tragedy, does not want “ideas,” does not want any dealings with the great issues of life and death. For this, among other reasons, dramatic writing remains a “trade,” like carpentering. I sincerely wish it were otherwise. I hope, moreover, that things may change. But there is only one cant worse than contending that great work is demanded on the stage, and that is the cant which contends that good work is never neglected.
     Still, with all its drawbacks, dramatic work is not unpleasant; its manifold technicalities redeem it from nothingness, and it is something, after all, to come face to face with the great mass of public simplicity. There is this also to be said, perhaps: that the masterpieces of the world, whether in poetry or the drama, are those which appeal to mankind at large, as well as to the cultivated individual. No great and enduring work was ever written for quidnuncs. There are noble notes to which all human nature responds, and these may be heard just as surely at (say) the Adelphi as at the home of Molière. After twenty-five years of literature, proper and improper, I have found it a relief to try and amuse great grown- up children with anecdotes and nursery tales; and perhaps, when all is said and done, this is a more useful service than attempting to edify disappointed dramatists. Shakspeare condescended to it, at any rate. It is good to feel like Shakspeare!
     I had written the above, at your request, when my attention was attracted to the communications made to your columns by living Novelists, on the subject of the Stage. Frankly, I can imagine nothing more ludicrous than the lofty air of superiority assumed by these much discredited gentlemen in writing of their dramatic brethren. It is simply an example of the shopwalkers despising the men behind the counter! Has Mr. Archer, in approaching them with cynical respect, fooled them so utterly that they forget how much they also, the writers of fiction, are despised by the heads of literary haberdashery? I can well remember the time when Mr. Hardy was producing his best work, and when the critics, smitten dumb before George Eliot, had never a good word for Mr. Hardy. I can remember the time, not at all remote, when the same critics tore Mr. George Meredith tooth and nail, and when the Mr. Archers of the world, the flesh, and the devil had nothing but contempt for him. Experiences of this kind should make men humble and generous, not spiteful and unkind. The Stage and the Novel are two widely different branches of trade, and neither at the present day has much claim to serious consideration. The latter business must certainly be in a very bad way, however, when Mr. W. E. Norris burns incense at the shrine of the author of “The Wreckers”—that stupendous genius whom Mr. Archer, on easy terms of equality, addresses as “my dear Stevenson.” Even the Stage, the poor despised Drama, would not be very hard put to it to equal the flights of the “little masters” of our log-rolling Decadence. Playwriting does require some sense of form, while novel-writing requires none. The Novel is the most incoherent, shapeless, tumble-down, haphazard structure of literary amateurism. Any tiro may attempt it with a certain success, whereas no tiro can shape even a third-rate play. While prose fiction absorbs the folly and fashion of the hour, and dies of its inaptitude to assume any coherent and enduring form, the fine Play survives, in the library if not on the stage. Rail at the Drama as you please, it has been the speech of giants, to which the Novel is the cackle of dwarfs.
     Of the few great Novels which survive there is scarcely one which has any claim whatever to be a work of art at all. The finest, such as “Don Quixote,” or “Tom Jones,” or even “The Heart of Midlothian,” is twenty times too large in bulk for its ideas. Most of the very best works of fiction extant—for example, “David Copperfield,” the “Newcomes,” the “Cloister and the Hearth”—are splendid literary patchwork, a series of brilliant sketches, held together by a carelessly invented plot. What Novel, even the greatest, can be named in the same day with the masterpieces of the Greek dramatists, of Shakspeare and his contemporaries, of Molière and Racine, of Goethe and Schiller? There may be a thousand bad plays, but the type of the play remains the highest expression of human art, whereas the Novel has no type and is of its very nature inchoate, invertebrate, and chaotic. It may, as some of your correspondents suggest, be the literary vehicle of the future; in that case, I beg to say, the last word of Art is said, and the Deluge of Dismal Prose will engulf all that is fine in literature.
     But it is the fashion to throw stones at the dramatists, just as it has been the fashion to throw stones at the novelists; and now the novelists, glad to escape for the time being, try to curry favour with the little stone-throwing boys in our literary street. It is a mean business at the best, only diversified by the quarrels of the small boys among themselves. The novelists, or the shopwalkers, have the easiest life of it, as Mr. “Lucas Malet” very pertinently pointed out; why, then, should they pose as superior to their brethren? In a word, all this fuss about kinds of art, about Literature with a capital “L,” about the divorce between the Stage and Fiction (as if the two were not too consanguineous ever to go through the marriage ceremony!), is meant to edify only one person—the minor Critic, the officious Criticaster. Mr. Archer, good man, eager for the proprieties, would marry the Drama to the lopsided and anæmic Novel. It is time to remember the table of affinities, and to remind Mr. Archer that one cannot marry one’s grandmother!

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The Pall Mall Gazette (23 September, 1892)

THE PARENTAGE OF THE NOVEL.

To the EDITOR of the PALL MALL GAZETTE.

     SIR,—It seems to me that Mr. Buchanan’s allusion to a man marrying his own grandmother is a singularly unfortunate one. Not only in point of years is the drama the grandmother of the novel, and not the grandson, as Mr. Buchanan would persuade us to think, but, apart from this, it may be fairly considered to be a direct ancestor; and, what is more, the novel is not only its descendant, but perhaps its successor. Before the comparatively modern invention of printing, and the almost recent one of publishing, the dramatists held the field. Now the conditions are changed, and Mr. Buchanan’s attempts to cut off the novelist, so to say, with an adjective, savour a little of jealousy. Before calling the novel inchoate, invertebrate, anæmic, lopsided, or what not, Mr. Buchanan should remember and make allowance for its extreme youth. But it is grotesque, all the same, to see him round on the vulgar little boy who has thrown stones at him, and solemnly curse him with his prophecy of a “Deluge of Dismal Prose.”—I am, Sir, your obedient servant,
     27, Gt. George-street, S.W., Sept. 21                                                       RANDALL DAVIES.

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The Pall Mall Gazette (30 September, 1892)

THE STORY AND THE PLAY.

To the EDITOR of the PALL MALL GAZETTE.

     SIR,—One of your correspondents objects to my description of the Novel as the “grandmother” of the Play, and suggests that the description might be more correct if the relationships were reversed. His objection, I think, is hasty, and scarcely to be sustained, unless he means to circumscribe the Novel to its life during later generations. In England and in every other country the Story, Narrative, or Novel, whether improvised in vernacular at the fireside or thrown into loose verse and doggerel, dates far back beyond any kind of drama. The earliest form of Narrative is poetical or quasi- poetical, as in the Vedas, the Eddas, Homer, and certain national Ballads. It is, with all its felicities, invariably diffuse and often somewhat nebulous. Not until a far later stage of human art does Man arrive at the highest of all forms, the Dramatic. The radical difference of method between the shapeless Novel and the well-formed Play may be seen at one glance if we compare the dramas of Shakspeare and his contemporaries with the works of fiction from which many of those dramas were adapted; or, to go still further back, the plays of Æschylus and Sophocles with the Iliad of Homer. There is nothing in the latest manifestations of the Novel to distinguish it in form from the very earliest efforts of human story telling; it is still shapeless, awkward, diffuse, and tautological, while it has lost all the qualities of youth, freshness, and simplicity. When the toothless gums now mumble about Realism and Pessimism and every other dismal “ism,” it is hard to conceive that the sound comes from the same mouth which sang to wondering peasants the interminable tale of Troy. The divine life has died for ever out of this skeleton, and only second childhood remains. Once living, fresh, beautiful, and young, the Story is now old, dropsical, and (as I said) shapeless. At its best it is only a revival of a very primitive kind of Art—a “grandmotherly” attempt to remember the narrative feats of its own childhood. Art ever walks most freely when most fettered. The loosest and clumsiest walk of Art is the Novel; its highest and noblest walk is the Play. And that is why the Play fails to be affected by the last new discovery of Disease and Dirt, through which the poor purblind Novel hopes to be saved.—I am, &c.,
     Sept. 27.                                             ROBERT BUCHANAN.
     P.S.—Being absent from town, I have only just seen the number of the Pall Mall Gazette containing the letter of your correspondent.
                                       R. B.

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W. E. Forster

The Daily Telegraph (10 November 1892 - p.4)

THE LATE MR. W. E. FORSTER.

TO THE EDITOR OF “THE DAILY TELEGRAPH.”

     SIR—In the review of Mr. G. J. Holyoake’s “Reminiscences,” published in your columns this morning, occurs the following passage: “Mr. Forster’s ruling passion, says Mr. Holyoake, rather unkindly, was ambition.” I have not as yet had an opportunity of seeing the work under review, and of perusing the author’s account of his relations with the late member for Bradford; but, having some little knowledge of Mr. Forster’s character, I am prepared to say that the statement you quote is so absurd as to be hardly worthy of serious contradiction. What chiefly impressed those who knew and loved W. E. Forster was his supreme unselfishnesss, his unflinching honesty, and his utter indifference to worldly success. These qualities, added to his phenomenal courage, were, I fancy, generally admitted by both friends and foes. “Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; and Brutus is an honourable man.” Perhaps, however, the powerful statesman, who had a shrewd insight into human character, together with a grim humour of his own, had little sympathy with those “agitators,” who hover dubiously between the homes of the working-classes and the dinner-tables of the classes who govern. He hated “trimming,” as he hated Humbug in any form.
     I was first introduced to Mr. Forster by the late Lord Houghton, at Fryston Hall, Yorkshire. My original impression of his rugged simplicity, his perfect truthfulness, his utter absence of self-seeking, remained through all our after meetings, up to the time when his fearless conscience separated him from many dear friends, and took him, at the peril of his life, to Dublin. He was not a hero-worshipper, but if he had one Hero in the world it was Mr. Gladstone. His admiration for his great chief amounted almost to idolatry, and at any moment of his career he was ready to sacrifice everything in the world—power, position, honour, everything save intellectual and moral independence—to his personal devotion. If he was “ambitious,” then I wait for a new definition of what ambition means. But he belonged to the good old Yorkshire breed of brave and honest men; he could not “trim,” he could not truckles, he was bound, under good and evil report, to obey the living voice within him at any risk and at any cost. This he did until the end, and even those who, like myself, believe that he erred in judgment, know well that what his enemies call “ambition” had no part whatever in his noble life.—I am, Sir, your obedient servant,
                                                                                                                           ROBERT BUCHANAN
     London, Nov. 9.

[Note: This was Buchanan’s response to a comment in the Telegraph review of Sixty Years of an Agitator’s Life by George Jacob Holyoake (in the edition of 9th November, 1892 - p.3). The offending remark was as follows:

“... With Mr. Forster the author was brought into rather unpleasant relations; yet it is impossible to think, after reading the account which Mr. Holyoake gives, that the slight which that statesman inflicted on him was an intentional insult. Mr. Forster’s ruling passion, says Mr. Holyoake, rather unkindly, was ambition.”

Buchanan had previously written a reminiscence of W. E. Forster following his death, which was published in The Pall Mall Gazette on 9th April, 1886 and is available here.]

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The Wandering Jew

[Richard Le Gallienne’s review of Buchanan’s poem, The Wandering Jew, was printed in The Daily Chronicle on  11th. January, 1893 and sparked a debate in that paper which lasted until the end of the month. The scale of the controversy was such that I have only transcribed a selection of the contributions, but this includes the first six letters which Buchanan wrote to the Chronicle. These are available in a separate section of the site (attached to The Wandering  Jew) and accessible from the link below.]

“Is Christianity Played Out?” - The Wandering Jew Controversy

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Is Literature Played Out?

and

Literature and Lucre

[In the May 1893 issue of The Idler, Robert Buchanan’s contribution to the ‘My First Book’ feature contained some remarks about the profession of Literature such as the following:

“To begin with, I entirely agree with Mr. Grant Allen in his recent  avowal that Literature is the poorest and least satisfactory of all  professions; I will go even further, and affirm that it is one of the least ennobling. With a fairly extensive knowledge of the writers of my own period, I can honestly say that I have scarcely met one individual who has not deteriorated morally by the pursuit of literary Fame.”

This sparked some comment and more letters in The Daily Chronicle. In July the matter was resumed and involved Walter Besant and his Society of Authors.]

The Daily Chronicle (9 May, 1893 - p.3)

IS LITERATURE PLAYED OUT?

THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY CHRONICLE.

     SIR,—Mr. Robert Buchanan writes in this month’s Idler: “I entirely agree with Mr. Grant Allen in his recent avowal that literature is the poorest and least satisfactory of all professions; I will go even further, and affirm that it is one of the least ennobling. With a fairly extensive knowledge of the writers of my own period, I can honestly say that I have scarcely met one individual who has not deteriorated morally by the pursuit of literary fame.” Such words, from an eminent literary man like Mr. Buchanan, are not pleasant reading for those who have hopes for the future of English literature. We have been taught by them of old time that literature is a sacred calling, high place in which can be won by those only who are willing for its sake to give up all—“to scorn delights and live laborious days.” Further, that “he who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter of laudable things ought himself to be a true poem.” But we have altered all that now; and, according to Mr. Buchanan, a man who would gain literary fame in these days can only do so at the price of his own moral deterioration. If this be true, are not men right in saying that amongst us literature, and the spirit and passion of it, are decadent?—Your obedient servant,

     May 7.                                                                                                          OBSERVER.

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The Daily Chronicle (10 May, 1893 - p.3)

IS LITERATURE PLAYED OUT?

THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY CHRONICLE.

     SIR,—I find the depreciation of “mere literature” uttered months ago in your columns by Mr. Robert Buchanan echoes by another correspondent, who goes even further, and declares that literature altogether is, for a time, under an eclipse. I am disposed to agree with this conclusion. Death has removed of late years the great writers of the world and there are none to take their places. Carlyle passed away in 1881, Emerson in 1882, Turgenieff in 1883, Victor Hugo in 1885, Arnold in 1888, Browning in 1889, Renan, Whitman, and Tennyson in 1892, and now Ruskin and Tolstoi are the only living writers whose fame is likely to endure, unless (which I doubt) Ibsen is to enjoy any enduring fame. And who is there to fill these vacant places? None that I can see. We have scores and hundreds of clever writers, as we have scores of clever politicians, clever draughtsmen, clever lawyers. We have the clever writer of the short story in France and America. We have the swarming crowd of clever fin de siècle young gentlemen in London, each with his little essay on some unearthed genius whom the world has got on very well without; or his little volume of “precious” poems printed on handmade paper for the poet’s friends to buy and to puff in the papers; or his little play which is to carry the town by storm and somehow quite fails to come up to time. We have the monthlies crammed with essays on every conceivable subject under the sun, every one of which one is expected to have read, or at least glanced over sufficiently to be able to talk about it if one is foolish enough to go to the literary “at homes,” where tea and talk are alike weak and overflowing. Yes, we have all these questionable advantages, evidences of an over-civilised and infinitely bored society; but we have not literature. I do not forget the excellent books which such authors as Mr. Hardy and Mr. Stevenson have given us. I do not ignore the prose poems of William Morris, though these show a quite too distinct tendens—not to say an actual moral. I admit that a tiny proportion of recent verse reveals a capacity for fine feeling and delicate expression. I am not ungrateful for the elaborate psychological analyses which M. Bourget will have us to believe are romances. But, on the whole, even this best part of contemporary literature rather depresses, while it certainly does not inspire me. I do not find to-day in our writings the cry of joy and hope which our fathers found in the offspring of Shelley’s lyre or in the masculine energy of Byron. I find a somewhat pale, puling sentimentalism, or a blank, dreary pessimism, or a vague yearning introspection; but rarely, if ever, the buoyant note of faith and courage—

Not from a vain or shallow thought
His awful Jove young Phidias wrought,

says Emerson in “The Problem”; and I much fear that the trail of the vain and shallow thought is over all our literature. Glance at any bookstall, and look with aching heart at the hundredweights of seventh-rate novels and weekly papers of all kinds to be found there; and think with pity and with terror of what the spiritual digestion of this people is likely to be in the course of a few years. Or look at the way in which men of genuine talent, if not exactly of genius, are tempted by the editors or reviews and magazines to spend their energies in perpetually providing for the readers of these productions a feast which is often, alas, of a Barmecide character. I fear, Sir, that for the time being literature is played out, and floods of mere writing have taken its place. I am not sure that it would not be wise to forswear current literature (except the inevitable newspaper) for a time, and to take to something at least half a century old.

     But there must be an adequate cause for this dearth of great literature. The truth is that the spiritual forces which produced a Hugo, a Browning, are spent; the current on which their barks were borne no longer runs with freedom. And yet, as people will still write, and as so many more than ever before are capable of writing, the commercial class which has determined to “run” literature as it “runs” railways and grocery stores, can, by judicious means, induce great numbers of people to make their living by literature. Thus, instead of being an inspiration, literature has become a profession. And as in material production the thing is to turn out a large “output,” so in literature the thing is to produce something which the average buyer wants, quite regardless of whether the thing produced is worth producing per se. And so it is that the productions of modern authors are pushed and advertised just like somebody’s pills or starch or blue. It is simply a variety of trade. We shall get over this in time, but we shall not get over it—and this is the main point—without great social changes. What society needs is literature produced spontaneously, not to order, literature which is the expression of deep thought and noble life, and not the shallow stuff, read to-day, forgotten to-morrow, which our literary traders turn out for us by the gross at the present time. The ideal condition of things would be that men should live by some kind of honest, more or less manual or mechanical or technical toil, and should create enduring art and literature in their leisure. We may never reach that ideal absolutely; but, unless we approximate to it in some degree, we shall not again enjoy a great literature. As I believe that social changes will tend more and more to the realisation of this ideal, I am ultimately hopeful while for immediate purposes a pessimist.—I am, &c.

                                                                                                                                 NEMO.

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The Daily Chronicle (11 May, 1893 - p.3)

IS LITERATURE PLAYED OUT?

THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY CHRONICLE.

     SIR,—Your correspondent “Observer” somewhat misconstrues the meaning of my remarks in the Idler, and so, I may add, does your correspondent “Nemo.” I did not express any opinion on the present condition and prospects of Literature; I merely remarked that the literary “profession” was not ennobling. Literature can always take care of itself, and contemporary judgements upon it are only the cacklings of geese in the Capitol. The gentlemen who affirm that all the great writers have departed are descendants of the gentlemen who thought Coleridge a “driveller,” Wordsworth an old woman, and Shelley a moonstruck noodle, and who bewailed pathetically the golden age of Pope and Cowper. A writer must be a dead man, either physically or morally, before the geese approve him. They hissed, until he was stiff and cold, the greatest of all living Americans, and when he was laid in his grave only one man, an atheist by profession, had the courage to speak the funeral oration. They tormented and insulted Robert Browning for forty years, and then, when Westminster Abbey opened to him, cried, “How great he was! how sane and good!” They bought twenty editions of “The Epic of Hades,” and left James Thomson and Richard Jeffreys to starve. They did, in short, what human geese do under all seasons and conditions—they asked “If Literature was played out,” and assumed that it was because they had neither eyes to discern nor souls to distinguish between real literary achievements and bogus reputations.
     That, however, was not my point. My point was that literary achievement, the hunger for applause, the pursuit of fame, seldom elevates the character. Twiddling a pen between one’s fingers is not much more noble than balancing a feather on one’s nose. Writers who, like George Eliot, enjoy the full fruition of a barren contemporary glory resemble the Dervishes who become tranced in the contemplation of their own centres umbilical. Writers who, like Browning, are pelted by the journals with rotten eggs, frequently become fussy, irritable, and morbidly eager for applause. It is a bad thing to be eternally listening for the echoes of popular praise or blame. It is a bad thing to think scribbling the be-all and end-all of existence. For this and other reasons literary people as a class are the very foolishest people in the world, and even great writers, rightly or wrongly so called, are often very little creatures, studiously bent on the meanest of all pursuits, that of “humouring their reputations.” All this, of course, is merely my humble opinion, and is founded, moreover, on a very limited experience; for I have known only two really sane men in my life—Walt Whitman and Herbert Spencer.—I am, &c.,

     May 10.                                                                                                       ROBERT BUCHANAN.

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Pall Mall Gazette (4 July, 1893 - p.5)

     Mr. Walter Besant, in commenting upon a recent paper by the irrepressible Scottish poet, playwright, novelist, and pamphleteer who has written under the names of Thomas Maitland and Robert Buchanan, makes an interesting confession. “There is one thing in my own experience,” he says, “on which I look back with great satisfaction. It is that I was able to resist the very great temptation to live by writing till such time—about eight years ago—when I thought myself justified in so doing. I then, and not till then, resigned a post which had for twenty years taken the cream of the day, and given me a certain independence.”
     Mr. Besant’s advice to young men who desire to take up literature as a profession recalls Sir Walter Scott’s remark that, while it was a good walking-stick, it was anything but a trustworthy crutch. “My own advice to a young man” (says the genial author of “All in a Garden Fair”) “would be, Do not attempt to live by literature. Earn a livelihood some other way. At all cost—at any cost—be independent of your literary work. There is hardly any kind of work which does not allow a man time for as much literary work and study as is good for him. Look at the men who have been journalists, civil servants, medical men, lawyers—anything. Be independent.”

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The Daily Chronicle (13 July, 1893 - p.3)

LITERATURE AND LUCRE.

THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY CHRONICLE.

     SIR,—In the current number of The Author, a publication in which literature is reduced to its commercial elements of tallow-chandling, Mr. Walter Besant, the editor, falls foul of me for forming a low estimate of the profession of letters—basing his diatribe, I should explain, on some remark of mine in last month’s Idler. As usual, the attack assumes the popular form of the argumentum ad hominem, Mr. Besant averring that a person like myself, who is in receipt of a Civil List pension, has no right to grumble about literary rewards and punishments. Fortunate in having been placed at a very early age above sordid needs and troubles, I had no necessity to scribble for money at all, and certainly no right to decry those who do! To this assertion Mr. Besant adds some truly “grubby” insinuations, to the effect that I am a disappointed person, envious of the pure fame of Cockney contemporaries, and not appreciated in Grub-street to the extent which I consider my due.
     Now, Mr. Walter Besant, if he had not diverted towards Grub-street the talents which were meant for mankind, and if he were less occupied in calculating how much himself and other authors are paid per line, would perceive at a glance that his argument is disingenuous. I never complained that authors asked for the pecuniary rewards of their labours; I never said that an author, in being paid for his work, became of necessity either mean or mercenary. What I did say was this—that the pursuit of Fame, of popular praise, with or without its equivalent in pence, seldom failed to deteriorate the character, and that to ensure contemporary approval, including the applause of Mr. Besant, Grub-street, and the Society of Authors, a writer must “pay the price, which oftener than not might be his living Soul.” By which statement I meant? Why, simply that the hunger for mean rewards and for mean applause was invariably demoralising. Mr. Besant’s retort discourteous is that I myself have been so demoralised. Quite so, I have done, a hundred times over, far meaner things than I care to remember, and all owing to the fact that Literature is a mean, a snobbish, and an ill-paid profession. But I have never stood up in the market-place cackling over either losses or gains; I have never taken off my hat to any bogus reputation; and I have chosen, in preference to joining any clique of authors or logrollers, the liberty of speaking my mind,—with the result that the whole tribe of professional literary men have been up in arms against me.
     Long ago, when Mr. Besant first began to wail over the wickedness of Publishers, I took leave to say that many an author had had reason to thank his stars that Publishers existed, and that, in any case, an author who could not protect himself without seeking the prudential guidance of an Author’s Society was scarcely worth protection. Doubtless I have been taken in once or twice by the dealers in literary chandlery; on the other hand, I have revenged myself once or twice by taking them in. Be that as it may, I doubt if anyone has gained much by Mr. Besant’s grimy parade of figures and ferocious insistence on managing other people’s business. If he can tell me of any struggling genius whom his society has saved from starvation, if any unappreciated author for whom his ministrations have secured appreciation and hard cash, I will take off my hat to him and say, “Well done!” But I don’t think he can. The divine rights of authors have hitherto resolved themselves into the personal rights of Mr. Besant, Cockneydom, and the Logrollers. I have always looked with suspicion on Mr. Besant’s shopkeeping bonhomie, and have regretted the time when even he, with the late James Rice, dwelt in Bohemia. Yet I am quite sure that the mere business of literature has had no demoralising effect upon him, or upon any really good fellow who has the misfortune to peddle in books. He is a good business man, and an excellent writer. I should never quarrel with him, or with anyone, for demanding the full value of his wares. Therein is no question of demoralisation. Demoralisation begins when an author trims his opinions to please his contemporaries, praises the neighbours who he hopes will praise him, conducts an honest business in the front shop, while presiding over a trades union of fellow shopkeepers in the back parlour, and flings the argumentum ad hominem at the head of any poor devil who dares to proclaim that Shopkeeping is not the highest of human aims.
     Turn for one moment, again, to the argumentum ad hominem. In or about 18170, when I was ill and broken-down, the late Earl Carnarvon and Robert Browning suggested that I should receive a pension from the Government. This pension, amounting to £100 a year, was granted by Mr. Gladstone, who first took the trouble to read such works as I had written, and who wrote to me in terms of cordial sympathy and admiration. Since then I have earned and lost large sums of money, but I have never, up to date, discovered that literature and lucre are convertible terms. It is not for my pen to proclaim what the hand which holds it has done, but I could stake my oath that I have fed more mouths, and helped more struggling comrades than all the Societies of Authors put together. I care little for Fame, and less for Money. I have known too many famous men to respect them, and too many rich men to envy them. All I ask from Mr. Besant and his fellow Authors is to be let alone. Even in my sorest tribulation, I have never prayed for any self-constituted special Providence to undertake the management of my affairs. I have as much respect, or as little, for the shopkeeping Author as for the shopkeeping Publisher. And, to sum up the whole matter, I think a writer of books may employ himself more profitably than by eternally cackling about pecuniary rewards and punishments, and obtruding on the public notice the dirtier aspects of what, after all, is purely his own business.—I am, &c.,

     July 11.                                                                                                        ROBERT BUCHANAN.

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The Daily Chronicle (13 July, 1893 - p.4)

     MR. WALTER BESANT is reported to be in the United States at the present time, but his ears ought to tingle at the way in which Mr. ROBERT BUCHANAN deals in our columns with his article in the current number of the Author. Mr. BESANT and Mr. BUCHANAN are having a very pretty quarrel as to the position of literature at the present time. Mr. BESANT seems to regard literature as a profession like law or medicine, into which men go for the purpose of making money, and which should be highly organised and perhaps legally incorporated like any other profession. To this end Mr. BESANT unfolds to aspiring young men in the pages of the Author the way in which books can be written, and the probable money which can be made at the job. The whole mystery and art of book-manufacture is unveiled to the neophyte in such a way that, if the teacher’s instructions are followed, a very respectable and even handsome income can be made on as limited a capital as can well be conceived. Mr. BUCHANAN, on his side, regards literature rather as a calling than as a profession, and has never, he tells us, yet “discovered that literature and lucre are convertible terms.” He holds that the true author, the real man of letters, writes for fame and from a deep interest. Not that he is necessarily a fool in bis business relations with his publisher. He may be quite capable of holding his own, so far as bargain-muking goes. But that is his own affair, a matter having no interest for outsiders, or at any rate no direct business interest. And however successful an author may be, it is scarcely for him to spend his superfluous energy in teaching young men who have no particular aptitude for writing, how they may go to work to earn a good income, and so occupy a respectable position in society. Mr. BUCHANAN is sick of “eternally cackling about pecuniary rewards and punishments,” and thinks that those who are interested in the “dirtier aspects” of the literary trade might just as well hold their tongues about it. We cannot, if we would. emulate the vigorous language and picturesque indictment of Mr. BUCHANAN. Both he and Mr. BESANT have done good work, and are to be mentioned as writers with the respect due to a high order of talent. But on the main question we have no doubt whatever. The association of literature with lucre is a fruitful source of demoralisation to literature. There is no objection to an author growing rich by his books, though, perhaps, a majority of the world’s great writers have found that their work never “paid,” in the world’s sordid sense. Yet, if genius can command recognition while its possessor still lives, we may be certain pecuniary as well as other rewards will come, We think none the worse of TENNYSON, of VICTOR HUGO, of MACAULAY, because they created large fortunes by their pen. We see that a cultivated and intellectual public had arisen large enough to appreciate the works of these writers and to create a demand for them. On the other hand, when CARLYLE began his career, when WORDSWORTH produced the “Lyrical Ballads,” there was no sufficient public to remunerate either author for work which not one educated man in ten cared anything for at the time when it was produced. But it is one thing to be able or fortunate enough to make a good thing out of your writings, and quite another to reiterate, month by month, and year by year, lessons as to the art of making money out of books. This is most emphatically not literature; it is merely business. The fact that the business is in a piece of property known as a novel or an essay instead of in tallow or mining shares is a mere accident of no moment. It may be said that brains are required in the making of a book; though we are inclined to dispute that statement as a universal proposition. But brains are also required in the markets or on the exchange, powers of judgment, calculation, decision and even of imagination: so that there is no real difference so far us that is concerned. If book-making can be taught as a profession, if the object of that profession is to make money, let us have done with the cant which assumes the calling of letters to be a lofty and inspiring one, and admit that it is simply a branch of trade. When we have effected that reductio ad absurdum of the great pursuit which has engaged the intellect of a SHAKESPEARE, a DANTE, a GOETHE, a BROWNING, we shall have indeed fulfilled EMERSON’S saying that—

Things are in the saddle
And ride mankind.

But before we allow mere things, mere bargaining and mechanism to ride literature, let us hope that a much-needed reaction may come, and that the calling of letters may once more assert its spiritual power as the healer, guide, and inspirer of the human race.

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Pall Mall Gazette (13 July, 1893 - p.5)

     Mr. Robert Buchanan—tardily, it is true, but vigorously, and in his own manner—has replied to certain criticisms recently passed upon a paper of his by Mr. Walter Besant. We cannot agree with the enthusiastic young man of the Chronicle—in which journal Mr. Buchanan’s effusion appears—in thinking that “Mr. Besant’s ears ought to tingle.” Because a soured and disappointed man chooses to describe the literary profession as “mean, snobbish, and ill-paid,” is no reason why more genial and more successful writers should either exhibit wrath or cease to possess their souls in patience. And in this light Mr. Besant will, no doubt, regard the matter.
     Mr. Buchanan’s letter, however, is interesting—especially those portions of it in which he speaks of himself. “I have never stood up in the market-place cackling over either losses or gains; I have never taken off my hat to any bogus reputation; and I have chosen in preference to joining any clique of authors or logrollers, the liberty of speaking my mind—with the result that the whole tribe of professional literary men have been up in arms against me.” And again: “I have earned and lost large sums of money, but I have never, up to date, discovered that literature and lucre are convertible terms. It is not for my pen to proclaim what the hand which holds it has done, but I could stake my oath that I have fed more mouths, and helped more struggling comrades, than all the Societies of Authors put together. I care little for Fame, and less for Money. I have known too many famous men to respect them, and too many rich men to envy them.” Happy Mr. Robert Buchanan! But why, if in so blessed a condition, be so querulous?

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The Daily Chronicle (14 July, 1893 - p.3)

LITERATURE AND LUCRE.

THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY CHRONICLE.

     SIR,—Just one word by way of note on your admirable leader of this morning, with the main terms of which I, of course, heartily agree. I wish to emphasise the fact that the pursuit of more Fame is fully as demoralising as the pursuit of mere Money. More than one of the great writers whom you mention paid the spiritual penalty of inordinate literary success. Tennyson, we know, suffered tortures from the slightest breath of adverse criticism. George Eliot, kept by G. H. Lewes in a moral hothouse, screened from every bleak wind that blows, said to me on one occasion, with an air of beatified superiority, “I think Mr. Dickens has done a great deal of good!” The good, the only Dickens, endured agonies of mortified vanity when a book of his failed to reach the high-water mark of sale and profit. Even those who have to wait long and wearily for appreciation are seldom content to estimate the world’s opinion at its exact worth. Browning, according to Leigh Hunt, hungered eagerly for the praise of even “his washerwoman.”

     When all is said and done, the only real enemy of Genius is public stupidity, adumbrated daily and hourly by a foolish or venal Press. The Publisher is a man of business, whose necessity it is to profit by the works which sell. If my book fails to please or to circulate, the public, not the Publisher , is responsible. But I know of many an instance of deep sympathy and large discernment on the part of Publishers. Mr. Besant assures us that they risk nothing; in my experience they often risk a good deal. I ask once more if the Society of Authors, with all its large professions, has ever led one obscure author of merit into the sunlight of prosperity and reputation? Publishers have done this again and again—helped the struggler, boiled the pot, guided the improvident, and sympathised with the deserving. There may be rascally Publishers; there are also rascally Authors. It is quite a mistake, at any rate, to regard the Writer of Books as a benignly innocent creature, absolutely at the mercy of Book-dealers and other Birds of Prey.—I am, &c.,

     July 13.                                                                                                        ROBERT BUCHANAN.

_____

THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY CHRONICLE.

     SIR,—I have read the communication under this title, which Mr. Robert Buchanan has contributed to The Daily Chronicle of this date. By Mr. Walter Besant’ request, I have charge of his correspondence during his absence in America as delegate of the Society of Authors, at the Congress now sitting at Chicago. It should, I think, be stated forthwith that some weeks must elapse before Mr. Besant can make any reply to Mr. Buchanan’s attack—that is, if he desires to make any reply.—Faithfully yours,

     Authors’ Club, July 13.                                                                 W. MORRIS COLLES.

_____

THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY CHRONICLE.

     SIR,—I have just read with surprise what seems to me an uncalled-for attack upon Mr. Walter Besant from the pen of Mr. Robert Buchanan in the columns of The Daily Chronicle.
     As a member of the Authors’ Society I should like to say that its kind offices have on several occasions saved me time, money and worry. I am not a starving person nor an absolutely unappreciated one, but I am, all the same, very grateful for being saved from “sordid” cares by those who profess to be able to deal with them better than I can. I have not yet read Mr. Besant’s letter in the Author, but I read Mr. Buchanan’s article in the Idler, and the impression I drew from it was that the writer was a disappointed artist, who did not love his work. I do not understand this feeling, as it seems to me that the love for writing is very much the same as that of the love of a man for a woman or a woman for a man. It exists because it does, and for no reason in which fame or lucre are concerned. I have just written a book, and if I should never get by it a pennyweight of praise, of fame, or of money, I should be glad I wrote it, with the “exceeding great joy” of a woman who has brought a child into the world. I believe the true artist does not ever feel disappointed except when he is dissatisfied with his own handicraft, the which can be improved by time and patience. And although I feel sure that public recognition always comes, sooner or later, to those who deserve it, I am equally sure that, in the case of some Chattertons, it is pushed off many years for lack of a little help at the right moment. That help Mr. Besant and his myrmidons are trying to supply. If they are at time too zealous, I think a successful author should be the last to sling stones at them.—Yours very truly,

     The Writers’ Club, 190, Fleet-street, E.C. July 13.                       MARY L. PENDERED.

[Note:
Mary Pendered (1858-1940) was a prolific author and as well as the one on wikipedia, there is a biography on this Kent site. there are biographies at wikipedia and this Kent site.]

The Sheffield Evening Telegraph (14 July, 1893 - p.3)

     There is in this morning’s “Chronicle” a characteristic letter bespattered with capitals on “Literature and Lucre” by Robert Buchanan, who is always ready to tilt his lance no matter what the cause. To-day he wishes “to emphasise the fact that the pursuit of mere Fame is fully as demoralising as the pursuit of mere Money,” and he points the moral with numerous illustrations. Browning, for instance, according to Leigh Hunt, “hungered eagerly for the praise of even his washerwoman.” It may have been so, but in the case of authors without either Money or Fame, the washerwoman is generally understood to be quite as hungry for payment as her client is for praise.

     Mr. Buchanan on this occasion holds a brief for the Publisher, and contends that “the only real enemy of Genius is public stupidity,” which is another way of saying that the world knows nothing of its greatest men. But Publishers are different; again and again they have “helped the struggler, boiled the pot, guided the improvident, and sympathised with the deserving. There may be rascally Publishers; there are also rascally Authors. It is quite a mistake, at any rate, to regard the Writer of Books as a benignly innocent creature, absolutely at the mercy of Book-dealers and other Birds of Prey.” Certainly no one would be foolish enough to so regard Mr. Robert Buchanan.

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The Bazaar, Exchange and Mart, And Journal of the Household (17 July, 1893 - Vol. XLIX, p.150)

THE LITERARY WORLD.

MR. ROBERT BUCHANAN hurls from his turret of Thor a thunderbolt at those who degrade literature “to its commercial elements of tallow-chandling.” His letter to the Daily Chronicle of the 13th inst. is ponderous and unmerciful; it comes crashing among the army of logrollers—those who praise the neighbours who, they hope, will praise them in return, and would grind them to powder did it not fortunately happen that the log-roller’s armour is impenetrable and his frame unbreakable. Mr. Buchanan quarrels with no man for exacting the full value of his literary wares, and with no man for doing his best to outstrip his fellows up the slopes of Parnassus, or along the more prosaic road that leads at last to fame and fortune. These are aspirations inherent to a greater or less extent in the breasts of all who take a pride in their work, and cannot be stifled. What he objects to is the forced partnership of literature and lucre, plus the little dirty tricks played by a mob of gentlemen who write with ease, and he is right.
     Mr. Buchanan is confident that “the pursuit of fame, or popular praise, with or without its equivalent in pence, seldom fails to deteriorate the character, and that to secure contemporary approval a writer must pay the price which oftener than not maybe his living soul.” The price he pays is, in other words, his independence, for no one can conduct an honest business in the front shop while presiding over a trades union of fellow shopkeepers in the back parlour. Yet this s undoubtedly done every day, and there is hardly a literary journal in the kingdom that is not “log-rolled” to the top of its bent. The editor may or may not be aware of the practice; but even if he is, it is a great question whether it would be worth his while to change a whole staff only to put another combination in its place. The most he can do is to qualify fulsome praise, to correct the language of adulation, to prevent scurrilous abuse of some miserable wretch outside the clique, and generally to be as fair and impartial as he possibly can under the untoward circumstances of the case. It is not the business of a critic to please his friends or to chastise those who he thinks cannot assist him, but it is his business to inform the public of what is going on in the Literary World, so that they may be in a position to keep pace with the times. The log-roller necessarily degrades literature “to its commercial elements of tallow-chandling,” for he sells his stock-in-trade, which is his freedom, for a mess of something worse than pottage, and lies daily, or whenever he can, in the columns of the papers, and is not ashamed. In plain and very blunt English, he is a disgrace to literature, and Mr. Buchanan evidently thinks so too.

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The Bazaar, Exchange and Mart, And Journal of the Household (19 July, 1893 - Vol. XLIX, p.171)

THE LITERARY WORLD.

THE “Literature and Lucre” controversy which the Daily Chronicle hoped to raise—and in the very thick of the Parliamentary rehearsal too—seems to have practically collapsed, Mr. Buchanan’s interesting letter having only called forth one or two washy replies. That letter was of course directed against Mr. Besant, who happens at this moment to be doing something at Chicago, and is therefore unable to respond. In six or eight weeks he may appear in his wrath to pound away at Mr. Buchanan’s sturdy form, but we very much doubt whether he will, in that event, succeed in injuring it. Mr. Besant is of course an excellent writer, but he is not a good controversionalist—at least, not so good by a long way as his practised rival.

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The Literary World (21 July, 1893 - Vol. 48, p.52-53)

     When two great men quarrel, it is sometimes interesting to find out who began. This remark applies to the war between Mr. Robert Buchanan and Mr. Walter Besant, in which the latter has the disadvantage of being absent from the scene of action, and therefore unable to strike back while the public mind still thrills with the former’s impassioned periods. Mr. Buchanan evidently regards Mr. Besant as the aggressor. His letter in The Daily Chronicle begins thus:

     In the current number of The Author, a publication in which literature is reduced to its commercial elements of tallow-chandling, Mr. Walter Besant, the editor, falls foul of me for forming a low estimate of the profession of letters—basing his diatribe, I should explain, on some remark of mine in last month’s Idler. As usual, the attack assumes the popular form of the argumentum ad hominem, Mr. Besant averring that a person like myself, who is in receipt of a Civil List pension, has no right to grumble about literary rewards and punishments. Fortunate in having been placed at a very early age above sordid needs and troubles, I had no necessity to scribble for money at all, and certainly no right to decry those who do! To this assertion Mr. Besant adds some truly ‘grubby’ insinuations, to the effect that I am a disappointed person, envious of the pure fame of Cockney contemporaries, and not appreciated in Grub-street to the extent which I consider my due.

Upon this follow two long paragraphs of explanation of what Mr. Buchanan did say and did mean in his Idler article, interspersed with sneers and growls at Mr. Besant, and the most contemptuous remarks about the Society of Authors. But it is evident that Mr. Besant’s reference to Mr. Buchanan’s Civil List pension was the ‘unkindest cut,’ and the one that produced the most rankling wound. It is at first sight difficult to understand why it should. Mr. Besant is not opposed to pecuniary rewards being granted to authors by the State. It is part of his annual complaint, we believe, that they are so rarely bestowed. Why, then, should Mr. Buchanan be so ready to take the reference as a covert insult? Presumably because Mr. Besant used the fact of the pension to discount Mr. Buchanan’s masked attack, in The Idler, on the Society of Authors. If Mr. Buchanan was so anxious for peace—‘All I ask,’ he says, ‘from Mr. Besant and his fellow-authors is to be let alone’—he should not have written thus:

     With a fairly extensive knowledge of the writers of my own period I can honestly say that I have scarcely met one individual who has not deteriorated morally by the pursuit of literary fame.

___

[A reply of sorts to Buchanan’s letter occurs in an article in The Times of 18th August, written by Walter Besant about the Congress of Authors, which he had attended in Chicago in July, 1893. The full article is available here, but the following passage relates to Buchanan:

     “Another kind of literary man is he who is continually inveighing against the baseness of connecting literature with lucre. He appears in this country, on an average, once a year, with his stale and conventional rubbish. Where this kind of talk is sincere, if ever it is sincere—mostly it comes from those who have hitherto failed to connect literature with lucre—it rests upon a confusion of ideas. That is to say, it confuses the intellectual, artistic, literary worth of a book with its commercial value. But the former is one thing, the latter is another. They are not commensurable. The former has no value which can be expressed in guineas, any more than the beauty of a sunset or the colours of a rainbow. The latter may be taken as a measure of the popular taste, which should, but does not always, demand the best books. No one, therefore, must consider that a book necessarily fails because the demand for it is small; nor, on the other hand, is it always just or useful to deride the author of a successful book because it is successful. In the latter case the author has perhaps done his best; it is the popular judgment that should be reproved and the popular taste which should be led into a truer way.
     A book, rightly or wrongly, then, may be a thing worth money—a property, an estate. It is the author’s property unless he signs it away; and since any book, in the uncertainty of the popular judgment, may become a valuable property, it is the author’s part to safeguard his property, and not to part with it without due consideration and consultation with those who have considered the problem. And it is the special function of such a Conference to lay down the data of the problem, and so to help in producing, if possible, a solution. But as for the question—is it sordid, is it base, for an author—a genius—to look after money? Well, a popular author is not always a genius. But even those who are admitted to have some claim to the possession of genius have generally been very careful indeed with regard to the money produced by their writings. Scott, Byron, Moore, Dickens, George Eliot, Thackeray, Trollope, Tennyson, Wilkie Collins, Charles Reade—almost every man, or woman, of real distinction in letters can be shown to have been most careful about the money side of his books. It is left for the unsuccessful, for the shallow pretenders, or for some shady publisher’s hack, to cry out upon the degradation of letters when an author is advised to look after his property. Let us simply reply that what has not degraded the illustrious men who have gone before will not degrade those smaller men, their successors.”]

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The Literary World (29 September, 1893 - Vol. 48, p. 218)

     The September number of The Author contains Mr. Besant’s replies to the attacks on the Society of Authors by Mr. Robert Buchanan and Mr. Andrew Lang. Mr. Besant disposes of the latter by repeating and enforcing his statement that authors are dependent on publishers, and not, as Mr. Lang says, on the public. He does not condescend to bandy epithets with Mr. Buchanan, but hints that he is a hopeless person.

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The Author (1 September, 1893 - Vol. 4, Issue 4, pp. 131-132)

[The September, 1893 issue of The Author is available on the website of ‘The Society of Authors, 1884-1914’. The relevant pages are below, but since most of the item is a reply to Andrew Lang, I have extracted the passages referring to Buchanan.]

I find that during my absence in America, I have been the object of some delicate and appreciative courtesies from the delicate and courteous pen of Mr. Robert Buchanan in the Daily Chronicle, and, by an interesting coincidence, at the same time, the subject of certain pages in Longman’s Magazine from the pen of Mr. Andrew Lang. It is not often that one can enjoy the privilege of coupling these two writers together. Indeed I never remember any instance before in which the opinions of Mr. Lang or is methods coincided with those of Mr. Buchanan. It would be interesting to discover, if one could, the mental process which could lead these two poets to this simultaneous attack—surely, a coincidence—upon the Society which does its best to maintain the interests of those who follow, as they themselves follow, literature as a profession. What Mr. Buchanan says, however, is what one expects from Mr. Buchanan. What Mr. Lang says is not what one expects from Mr. Lang. That is the main difference.
...
     The author’s independence will be secured for him from the moment that his pay—the commercial side of his work—is put, once for all, on such a footing of recognised terms and proportions as will make him absolutely independent of the publisher and dependent solely on the public, as a physician, or a barrister, or an architect, or a solicitor, is independent. This can be done, and will be done, by the arrival at an understanding between honourable publishers and leading writers. Whatever understanding this may be, it must rest upon the basis of the demand for a book by the public. Our efforts have been all along directed to showing the literary profession the meaning of their property so that they may see the necessity of coming to such and understanding.
     Mr. Lang does his best—Mr. Buchanan does his best—to retard this most desirable condition of things; the former by representing the author as already, and actually, dependent upon the public alone; and by supposing him already possessed of so much technical knowledge as to enable him to know what he should receive for an unpublished book. The latter does his little best to darken counsel by prating foolishness about Literature and Lucre. When we do come to that attempt, however, I have hopes that we may find Mr. Andrew Lang in the conference—or congress—or committee—or meeting. Mr. Buchanan, I am sure—that is, I hope and trust—will not be present. Meantime we are not dependent on the public—no—no—a thousand times NO—we are dependent on the publishers, which is the reason why some of us dispose of our wares through the agency of a third person.
     And as to those material interests which are so sordid to the Scottish bard—I mean Mr. Buchanan—let us take courage and go on safeguarding them and so degrading Literature with Lucre, in the company of Scott, Byron, Dickens, Thackeray, Reade, Wilkie Collins, George Eliot, Tennyson, and a goodly number of living men and women into whose company it is an honour and a distinction to be received.

Dick Sheridan

The Era (26 August, 1893)

MR. BUCHANAN’S “DICK SHERIDAN.”

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ERA.

     Sir,—May I call the attention of English dramatic authors to the following facts:—
     Nearly eighteen months ago Mr Daniel Frohman, of the Lyceum Theatre, New York, read and accepted a comedy from my pen entitled Dick Sheridan. Before finally agreeing to produce it, he desired that Mr Edward Sothern, his leading man, should also read it, which Mr Sothern did, expressing thereupon, verbally and in writing, his unqualified approval. The agreement was then signed, and a small advance on royalties paid down in the customary manner. From that period, the earlier months of 1892, until a few weeks ago, I have been in frequent communication with Mr Frohman without receiving any intimation whatever that he was dissatisfied with the play. On the contrary, he wrote from time to time informing me that Mr Sothern was “studying the period” and “taking fencing lessons.” He also announced, both here and in America, that the play of Sheridan, from my pen, would open his present season. I was considerably surprised, therefore, when, some weeks since, I received a letter from him informing me that he did not think my play would be quite successful, and that he had accepted another by an American author on the same subject. He, however, suggested that he should play my first and last acts, and pay me 2 per cent. of the gross receipts for the use of the same.
     The play of Sheridan will shortly be produced in England at the Comedy Theatre, under the management of Mr Comyns Carr. It is in every respect original, save in so far as it follows certain real incidents of Sheridan’s life. I have Mr Daniel Frohman’s written statement to the effect that it was not until long after his announcement of my play (which he had undertaken to produce) that he received any manuscripts by American authors on the same subject. Sheridan; or, the Maid of Bath, by Mr Paul M. Potter, is now advertised for immediate production at the Lyceum Theatre, New York.
     The facts are very simple. An American manager having read and accepted a play on a particular subject, keeps it by him for eighteen months without any hint of dissatisfaction. His leading actor also reads the play and approves of it; its imminent production is announced in the public press, but at the eleventh hour, when it is too late for the English author to make other arrangements, the American manager announces his intention of altering his mind.
                                       I am, Sir, yours truly,
                                                                 ROBERT BUCHANAN.
     London, Aug. 24th, 1893.

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The Era (23 September, 1893)

PAUL POTTER AND ROBERT BUCHANAN.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ERA.

     Sir,—With the virulence which he mistakes for vigour, Mr Robert Buchanan has been abusing me because Mr Daniel Frohman has preferred my play of Sheridan to his. I know nothing of the differences between Mr Buchanan and Mr Frohman. I know nothing of Mr Buchanan’s manuscript on the subject of Sheridan. Having served my apprenticeship in dramatic criticism, I have no such opinion of Mr Buchanan’s abilities that I should care to borrow his ideas. But in case he is imitating the tactics of the cuttlefish, which darkens the waters to conceal its depredations, I beg to give him notice that my play is protected by international copyright, and that I will prosecute him if he attempts to reproduce the scenes, dialogue, or “business” which I have invented.
                                       Your obedient servant,
                                                                   PAUL M. POTTER.
     Lyceum Theatre, New York, Sept. 8th.

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Era (30 September, 1893 - p.7)

     “SHERIDAN: OR, THE MAID OF BATH,” is still the subject of a bitter controversy. Mr Robert Buchanan recently attacked Mr Daniel Frohman, alleging unfair dealings with his play. Mr Frohman and Mr Paul M. Potter, the author of the American version recently produced in New York by Mr Sothern, have replied. Our own correspondent has thrown some fresh light on the whole business, and now we are in receipt of another letter from Mr Buchanan, who deals out libellous accusations so liberally that we are compelled to refuse him publication. Mr Buchanan was very angry, because from his first letter we expunged matter that was libellous; he will be angrier perhaps when he finds that we have thought it necessary to suppress his second altogether.

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The Era (7 October, 1893)

DANIEL FROHMAN & ROBERT BUCHANAN.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ERA.

     Sir,—I am informed that Mr Robert Buchanan declares in the London Telegraph that I have “pirated” his play of Dick Sheridan. The facts are these:—Over a year ago Mr Buchanan sent me a manuscript on the subject of Dick Sheridan. Subsequently I saw him in London, and explained to him that many alterations would be required in his play to make it suitable to our audiences. He agreed that many changes were needed. His letters to me on the subject show his arrangement of his work in the play. I agreed that if the play was not produced I should pay him a forfeit. Later, in considering the manuscript, I found that the play required more than mere alterations for our purposes—it needed radical readjustment. Mr Buchanan forbade us in a letter from making any changes. There was nothing to do but to abide by Mr Buchanan’s instructions. I therefore rejected his play and paid the forfeit.
     But meanwhile a comedy entitled Sheridan; or, the Maid of Bath, written by Mr Paul M. Potter, and designed for Mr Richard Mansfield, had come into my possession. It was largely a fanciful work, introducing some of Sheridan’s originals, some of the scenes in his plays and much of his published wit. It was in every way unlike Mr Buchanan’s play; and yet it occurred to me that one incident in the latter work might strengthen the close of the former work. So I offered to buy this incident from Mr Buchanan. Mr Buchanan refused to sell it, and I proceeded to produce Mr Potter’s play precisely as it was originally written. It cost me considerably more than Mr Buchanan’s play, and I had nothing to gain by making the substitution, save that I now had a piece which has been proved to be good, instead of a piece which the London critics will soon, I understand, have an opportunity of testing.
                             Your obedient servant,                             DANIEL FROHMAN.
     Lyceum Theatre, New York, Sept. 21st, 1893.

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Caine and Rossetti

Pall Mall Gazette (26 October, 1893 - p.5)

     Mr. Hall Caine does not agree with Mr. Buchanan that literary men are mean creatures. On the contrary he defends Mr. Buchanan against himself. In the course of an interview in the Young Man he tells the following story.
     When Rossetti was lying near to death at Birchington, Buchanan, who many years before had published an article about him, called “The Fleshly School of Poetry” (bitter to the last degree, and most unjust)—produced a book called “Ballads of Life, Love, and Humour.” The book was sent to Caine for review, and one day Rossetti came into his room and saw it lying open before him. Rossetti picked it up, and his expression became contemptuous when he saw whose book it was. But suddenly he turned and said, “I should like you to read some of this book to me.”
     That night Caine read a long ballad about the burning of witches at Leith, and also a number of shorter poems, and then out of another book of Buchanan’s a ballad called “Judas Iscariot.” He listened with deep interest, every now and then breaking out with, “Well, that’s good, anyhow! . . . There is no denying it, that’s good work” and so on. Then came the more pathetic passages, and he melted in tears, and at the end of “Judas” he said, “That is a fine ballad. It is worthy of anybody whatever.” Now if there was one man in the world, Mr. Hall Caine declares, for whom Rossetti had an unfriendly feeling, it was the author of that poem, but he was not little enough to deny genius to his enemy.
     After Rossetti’s death Hall Caine came to London and took chambers at Clement’s Inn. Buchanan was one of his first callers, and after a while he said, “I want to talk about Rossetti.” He deeply regretted what he had written; in a manly way he expressed his sorrow, and said he would be sorry all his life. Then Caine told him the story related above. He flushed up, was deeply moved, and at last said, “Are you trying to pile coals of fire on my head?” With these two experiences before him Hall Caine refuses to accept the dictum that literature makes men mean.

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The Daily Chronicle (28 October, 1893 - p.3)

THE PROFESSION OF LITERATURE.

THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY CHRONICLE.

     SIR,—In the current number of an amiable publication, the Young Man, Mr. Hall Caine confides to a Christian Interviewer (very appropriately, since the modern interview, with all its recrudescences and inaccuracies, was certainly invented by the early Christians) his belief that Literature is a Noble Profession, and that I was very ill-advised, if not very disingenuous, when I hinted in your columns and elsewhere that it was frequently a degrading one. Mr. Caine’s statement might pass, as well fitted for the intelligence of the inquiring young Christian, but unfortunately it is associated with other statements which are not merely inaccurate but misleading. Mr. Caine states, for example, that I “Quarrelled with George Eliot and George Lewes because I had discovered, when about twenty years of age, the hollow mockery of literary life.” “I tell you,” Mr. Caine adds, with the zeal of a literary hot gospeller, “that he does not mean it! . . . .  Literature is the only reason for Mr. Buchanan’s public existence. It has paid him handsomely, it has made him famous, and it is a disloyal thing to kick down the ladder by which he has climbed!”
     These be brave words, and serious as is the charge that they contain, I know they are not meant unkindly. Mr. Caine, however, explains that we are personally acquainted, and the inference is that he believes I have a habit of saying what I do not mean. Among the many personal failings placed to my discredit, want of candour has not hitherto been included. Even those who regard me as a dunce and a blunderer have been good enough to admit that my mistakes are due to stupidity rather than to insincerity. I find it necessary, therefore, to repeat that I do think the profession of literature is one which far too frequently degrades its followers, in so far as it leads them to trim and tinker, blow hot and blow cold, for the sake of material rewards and punishments. Mr. Caine has mentioned the names of George Eliot and G. H. Lewes. The lady, great and accomplished as she was, lived in a moral glasshouse, heated by contemporary adulation, and watched assiduously by her husband, whose whole life was devoted to “humouring” her exotic reputation. One of the strongest injunctions laid upon me by Lewes was never to express a literary opinion which might provoke critical animosity, and if I had dangerous views on any subject, to “keep them to myself.” I once informed him that, on first coming to London, I had to keep body and soul alive by writing potboilers for a weekly journal of fiction. “For God’s sake,” he said, “don’t tell this to anyone else, for if you ever achieve reputation as a poet, the fact will be used against you.” In other words, this kind and sympathetic man, remembering his own experience, asked me to trim and tinker my life in order to represent it otherwise than it was, or had been. Mr. Lewes, again, suffered agonies from those criticisms which his Sybil was never allowed to read. He would travel miles out of his way to secure her a favourable review. The late Lord Houghton expressed to me on one occasion his objection to criticising the “Spanish Gypsy,” for which he cared very little, in the Edinburgh Review. He wrote the criticism, he said, to “oblige Lewes,” and because Lewes “begged” him to write it.
     Having travelled so far into facts, I may travel a little further. Mr. Hall Caine expresses the opinion that an author is ill-advised when he forsakes his own work in order to criticise his contemporaries. This, no doubt, is true; there is always discretion in silence, and a man who holds his tongue, even in his cheek, will as a rule get along comfortably. Now, years ago I wrote an article on the “Fleshly School of Poetry,” dealing sarcastically and, as I afterward thought, unfairly with the amourettes of Dante Gabriel Rossetti. I daresay that article should never have been written, but such as it was it expressed not merely my own opinion, but that of the greatest of my contemporaries. Again and again, in conversation with me, Robert Browning had denounced the indecencies and absurdities of the school in question, just as for certain verbal improprieties he denounced Whitman. After the publication of the article, Tennyson told me that in his opinion Rossetti’s sonnet on “Nuptial Sleep” was one of the “filthiest” poems ever written. Well, I printed my pinion, while those who shared it were silent. When after long reflection, I concluded that I had written hastily and unjustly, I published that conclusion also, and I did so at a time when the school in question had gone right under the weather, and when no possible benefit could come to me from admitting my blunder. I may remark en passant, that I first began to suspect my own criticism on discovering that it had earned the warm approval of the late Archbishop Manning; from which I argued that it must have been uninstructed.
     To return to Mr. Hall Caine. I am sincerely glad that he has so high an opinion of the honesty and disinterestedness of literary men, and that he finds in them only love, gentleness, nobility, and above all, candour. He ought to be a good judge of all these qualities, for he has been on the staff of the Athenæum, and he has known many disinterested literary men, such as Mr. Swinburne, the late Mr. Bell Scott, and Mr. Theodore Watts. It is pleasing, in this connection, to hear that he is about to write a new “Life of Christ.” Here, surely, is a famous opportunity for complete honesty and candour. Trimming and tinkering here, is long out of date! We shall know what a professional literary man really thinks and feels on the greatest of all subjects, the one subject on which all men are so honest; and we shall be spared all the platitudes once employed to humour a world-wide reputation. Even Renan tinkered his subject a little, restoring with his left hand what he stole with his right. Even Strauss was a “trimmer” here and there. It is in my friend Hall Caine’s power to show us that the profession of literature is the finest possible preparation for the profession of Christianty.—I am, &c.,

     London, Oct. 25.                                                                                          ROBERT BUCHANAN.

     P.S.—I have made no comment on two anecdotes told by Mr. Caine concerning myself and the late D. G. Rossetti. Flattering as they are to both of us, I trust that they will be accepted cum grano salis. The subject is one which I would rather pass by in silence, except to say that no one knows better than Mr. Hall Caine (of whose loyalty and devotion to Rossetti there can be no question) that the cruellest misrepresentations ever endured by the poet were due to the conduct of his own intimate friends. He was not the weak, querulous, feeble person pictured to his admirers, and capable of being “snuffed out by an article.” He was a man in every sense of the word, and with his great sufferings and untimely end criticism, adverse or favourable, had nothing whatever to do.

                                                                                                                           R. B.

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Pall Mall Gazette (28 October, 1893 - p.5)

     So Mr. Robert Buchanan repudiates, both on his own part and that of the literary profession, the defence offered by Mr. Hall Caine. He will still have it that literature is not a noble profession, and is frequently a degrading one, and as for himself, why his one virtue is candour.
     In his letter of repudiation in the Chronicle this morning Mr. Buchanan relates that one of the strongest injunctions laid upon him by Lewes was never to express a literary opinion which might provoke critical animosity, and if he had dangerous views on any subject, to “keep them to myself.” Buchanan once informed Lewes that, on first coming to London, he had to keep body and soul alive by writing potboilers for a weekly journal of fiction. “For God’s sake,” he said, “don’t tell this to anyone else, for if you ever achieve reputation as a poet the fact will be used against you.” “In other words, this kind and sympathetic man, remembering his own experience, asked me to trim and tinker my life in order to represent it otherwise than it was, or had been.”
     As to the two anecdotes told by Mr. Caine concerning Buchanan and the late D. G. Rossetti which were reproduced in this column, Mr. Buchanan says: “Flattering as they are to both of us, I trust that they will be accepted cum grano salis. The subject is one which I would rather pass by in silence, except to say that no one knows better than Mr. Hall Caine (of whose loyalty and devotion to Rossetti there can be no question) that the cruellest misrepresentations ever endured by the poet were due to the conduct of his own intimate friends. He was not the weak, querulous, feeble person pictured to his admirers, and capable of being ‘snuffed out by an article.’ He was a man in every sense of the word, and with his great sufferings and untimely end criticism, adverse or favourable, had nothing whatever to do.”

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St. James’s Gazette (28 October, 1893 - p.15)

MR. ROBERT BUCHANAN AND D. G. ROSSETTI.

     In a letter to the Daily Chronicle Mr. Robert Buchanan recalls a famous literary controversy. All admirers of Dante Gabriel Rossetti remember the attack made on him anonymously by Mr. Buchanan, under the title “The Fleshly School of Poetry,” and Rossetti’s answer, “The Stealthy School of Criticism.” Mr. Buchanan afterwards retreated from attacking Rossetti’s poems as immoral. This is the short account of the matter which he gives to-day:—“Years ago, I wrote an article on the ‘Fleshly School of Poetry,’ dealing sarcastically and, as I afterwards thought, unfairly with the amourettes of Dante Gabriel Rossetti. I dare say that article should never have been written; but such as it was it expressed not merely my own opinion, but that of the greatest of my contemporaries. Again and again, in conversation with me, Robert Browning had denounced the indecencies and absurdities of the school in question, just as for certain verbal improprieties he denounced Whitman. After the publication of the article Tennyson told me that in his opinion Rossetti’s sonnet on ‘Nuptial Sleep’ was one of the ‘filthiest’ poems ever written. Well, I printed my opinion, while those who shared it were silent. When, after long reflection, I concluded that I had written hastily and unjustly, I published that conclusion also, and I did so at a time when the school in question had gone right under the weather, and when no possible benefit could come to me from admitting my blunder. I may remark en passant, that I first began to suspect my own criticism on discovering that it had earned the warm approval of the late Archbishop Manning; from which I argued that it must have been uninstructed.”

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The Daily Chronicle (31 October, 1893 - p.3)

THE PROFESSION OF LITERATURE.

THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY CHRONICLE.

     SIR,—Surely Mr. Robert Buchanan’s recent deliverances upon the profession of Literature—the latest of which appears in your columns to-day—are, to say the least, beside the mark. I have not read the article by Mr. Hall Caine, which Mr. Buchanan tosses and gores with such characteristic vigour; but if Mr. Caine has really said that all men of letters are characterised by “love, gentleness, nobility, and candour,” and has implied that these flowers of virtue are indigenous to the soil of their profession, his amiability has led him into an exaggeration too obvious to stand in need of such trenchant exposure. In fact, it reminds me of nothing but that delicious drawing of Mr. du Maurier’s, in which one lady is explaining to another that she cannot associate with people in trade, for though her own husband is commercial, he is in the coffee trade, where they are all gentlemen. “Dear me!” exclaims our astonished listener. “Why you can’t say that of the Church, the Bar, the Army, the Navy, or even of the House of Lords! I don’t wonder at your being so exclusive.” The moment we begin to think of our own particular coffee trade as the home of all the virtues and graces we lose our footing on the solid ground of fact; but I fail to see that such footing is better maintained by the man who asserts that a coffee trader is almost necessarily a disreputable person, or at any rate that association with coffee tends to make him such. All-round praise of the members of any profession must be fatuous: all-round abuse of them is equally fatuous; and when the abusive person belongs to the profession he assails, it is indiscreet and ill-conditioned as well. It is impossible to avoid the question, “If the profession of Literature has such a degrading influence upon its followers, what influence has it had upon that very distinguished follower Mr. Robert Buchanan?” If, however, Mr. Buchanan himself has obtained the “material rewards” of literature without stooping “to trim and tinker, blow hot and blow cold,” is it not bare justice as well as common kindliness to assume, in the absence of positive evidence to the contrary, that other men of letters, probably many of them, have done the same?
     But, after all, the point is that all such generalisations must be, as I have said, beside the mark. Take half-a-dozen randomly-selected callings—those of a clergyman, a lawyer, a man of letters, a confidential clerk, a butcher, and an omnibus conductor. Each has its special opportunities of honest usefulness, each has its special temptations to dishonest injuriousness, or something else not less degrading. In each calling some will avail themselves of the former, others will yield to the latter. What it is necessary for Mr. Robert Buchanan to show is that the opportunities of literature are more likely to be neglected, its temptations more likely to be welcomed, than those of any other calling; and this showing he does not even attempt. Before he writes another word on the lines of his recent article in the Idler and of the letter published to-day in the Chronicle, he should inform us distinctly what there is in the telling of pretty stories like those of Mr. William Black, or in the singing of dainty songs like those of Mr. Norman Gale, or in the writing of graceful essays like those of Mr. R. L. Stevenson, which is calculated to degrade a man by making him mean or spiteful or hypocritical or self-seeking. I certainly do not think that any one of these writers would have made such a reference to two distinguished fellow-workers as Mr. Buchanan himself has made to Mr. Swinburne and Mr. Theodore Watts, a reference which is all the more regrettable because it is a matter of public knowledge that Mr. Buchanan’s personal relations with the eminent poet and the not less eminent critic have long been hostile.
     I have certainly no personal hostility to Mr. Buchanan. He knows how recently and how warmly I have expressed my admiration for his beautiful work in verse, and I cannot but feel sure that it must be the expression of something beautiful in the nature of its producer. But Mr. Buchanan seems to delight in turning his worst side outwards, and I must believe that in his letter he does injustice to himself not less than to others. At any rate, I am sure that there is more truth in the old quotation which tells us that the ingenuous arts soften and humanise the manners than there is in his diatribes against the profession of Literature.—I am, Sir, yours faithfully,

     Wandsworth, Oct. 28.                                                      JAMES ASHCROFT NOBLE.

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The Daily Chronicle - (2 November, 1893 - p.3)

THE PROFESSION OF LITERATURE.

THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY CHRONICLE.

     SIR,—Mr. James Ashcroft Noble’s letter of admonition is a very pretty product of the Gentle Life tempered by the Minor Criticism. The writer is very naturally shocked that anyone should doubt the beneficent intentions and merciful action of his beautiful Literary Providence, as expressed in kindly “notices” and “reviews” at half-a-guinea a column. I have to thank him with all my heart for assuming that, since he thinks some of my verses tolerable, even “beautiful,” I must have something “beautiful” in my disposition. But I do not deserve his encomium. There is nothing beautiful about me—nothing, at any rate, which his Literary Providence, with its system of weekly rewards and punishments and its final Heaven of anthologies, would consider beautiful. I am not to be saved by his ministrations. I prefer to be damned in my own way, rather than to be saved with Mr. Stevenson.
     The mention of that latter-day saint of the Logrollers reminds me that Mr. Noble is in one respect, I will not say unjust, but mistaken. I never said that the writing of pretty stories, or that any kind of writing, was degrading; I would not even apply the adjective to writing for the literary journals. I applied the word to the Profession of Literature, not to Literature pure and simple, but I did not even say that the Profession of Literature was degrading in itself; I merely suggested that it often became so when associated with the quest of immediate rewards and punishments, and the lust for puffs in the critical market. Whether I am right or wrong is a question to be decided by each man’s experience; my experience is that the “cadging” for praise extends to the very highest literary “suckles,” and that the anxiety of even great men to secure cheap recognition would have amused Sam Weller if that facetious spirit had ever been present at any sort of literary “sworry.” Mr. Noble’s tu quoque is hardly to the point. I never held myself up as a shining Light and an Example. I have written for a living chiefly because I never learned any other trade. I never imagined that the writing of books—good, bad, or indifferent—gave me any claim to personal respect other than I should have deserved for baking bread or sweeping crossings. My experience again is, that a very poor human creature can often write “beautiful” books, just as a very poor creature can turn out beautiful confectionery. This, I know, is the ugly side of my character, and I am not astonished that it has shocked Mr. Noble.—I am, &c.,

     Nov. 1.                                                                                                         ROBERT BUCHANAN.

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The Literary World (3 November, 1893 - Vol. 48, p.334)

     Few people, we fancy, take Mr. Robert Buchanan seriously when he is on the war-path. He so entirely spoils his case always by exaggeration. But for the sake of the few who might be led to think there was something in his attack on his fellow-craftsmen in literature, it was worth while for some one to answer him seriously. This Mr. James Ashcroft Noble, the well-known critic, has done in The Daily Chronicle. We quote a part of the letter, with which we fancy most people will cordially agree.

     What it is necessary for Mr. Robert Buchanan to show is that the opportunities of literature are more likely to be neglected, its temptations more likely to be welcomed, than those of any other calling; and this showing he does not even attempt. Before he writes another word on the lines of his recent article in The Idler and of the letter published to-day in The Chronicle, he should inform us distinctly what there is in the telling of pretty stories like those of Mr. William Black, or in the singing of dainty songs like those of Mr. Norman Gale, or in the writing of graceful essays like those of Mr. R. L. Stevenson, which is calculated to degrade a man by making him mean or spiteful or hypocritical or self-seeking. I certainly do not think that any one of these writers would have made such a reference to two distinguished fellow-workers as Mr. Buchanan himself has made to Mr. Swinburne and Mr. Theodore Watts, a reference which is all the more regrettable because it is a matter of public knowledge that Mr. Buchanan’s personal relations with the eminent poet and the not less eminent critic have long been hostile.

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St. James’s Gazette (4 November, 1893 - p.12)

     Does not Mr. Robert Buchanan’s vindication of his conduct in the matter of his notorious criticism of Rossetti go some way to be a vindication of his view of the meanness of the literary man? Mr. Buchanan attacked Rossetti pseudonymously. The authorship of the criticism was discovered, and the criticism itself widely resented. Mr. Buchanan made Rossetti the fullest retractations in prose and verse. Now that Rossetti is dead he informs the world that Browning and Tennyson (who are also dead) held the same views that he himself expressed in his original attack. Only, sharing his opinion, they were silent; he spoke out—pseudonymously.

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