book, you know them all personally and are never tired of meeting them you cannot find a dull page. The distinguished author must needs be a well-read man (probably as well-read as Lytton himself); but he does not think it necessary to pelt us with his authorities, or to use forgotten jargon, and then to translate the jargon into modern English. Accepting, as a point of view, the conjecture that Lytton's divination was the secret of his success, we have seen how, in history, it triumphs over a faulty presentation of his narrative. In Eugene Aram it triumphs over a narrative that is uninteresting, not to say idiotic; and Eugene Aram has become part of the English language-no less. We all know the story. In reading it after many years we note that if the hero had only been a man of ordinary commonsense there would have been no story. For instance, he wanted to bury himself'; and so he chose the country. As librarian to a powerful and learned noble he would really have been buried; but he refused the appointment in a long speech. In the country a scholar of gloomy appearance and haughty manners naturally became the subject of malevolent gossip to the whole countryside. The villain, who would never have dreamed of seeking his victim in 'the perfumed chambers of the great,' ran him to earth easily in the country. But then, what would become of the story? We could not have enough of Corporal Bunting (a forbear of Mr. Farnol's corporal'?); if only Lord Lytton would have allowed him to talk English with sufficient lapses-perhaps as many as Stevenson allowed to John Silver. 'For the art of writing a man must cultivate himself. The art of being reviewed consists in cultivating the acquaintance of reviewers'; which is very neat, and quite in place in Kenelm Chillingly. The hero inquired of his mother, at an early age, ' Are you not sometimes overpowered by the sense of your own identity?' A boy like this attracts: 'there must be something in him '—even if he is only a phrase-maker. Lytton turns the young phrasemaker into a first-rate boxer; and on the boxer he superimposes the philanthropist. This is hardly credible: though, given a good constitution, one can afford to be versatile. To quote Corporal Bunting: So far as virtue is concerned, there is a deal in constitution; but as for knowledge of the world, one gets it oneself.' The hero is blessed with 'people' who do the right things and do not embarrass him; which is a great deal. Nevertheless he arrives nowhere in particular, and the story is perhaps a study in 'vital scepticism'; which is, after all, very much what might have been anticipated. Much of Lytton's 'lengthiness'-so often made a cause of reproach-comes from a change of fashion. Mr. Bailey (if he will forgive me for quoting him again) seizes your attention on the first page and holds it till the last page. He tells you that it is the year 1140; and if you are taken aback at the first sight of that fell date you very soon discover your mistake. Lord Lytton starts Harold in the year 1052, and proceeds to take his ease in the circumstances and personages of the time. He forgets, alas! that the author's ease is the reader's misery; and you hardly come to grips with the story till after the 323rd page, excluding footnotes. Our grandfathers, however, insisted on 'lengthiness': witness G. P. R. James and Harrison Ainsworth, not to mention the terrible Wizard of the North. Since we are considering 'lengthiness,' let us at the same time consider' artificiality' and 'false sentiment.' Sentiment has probably remained very much the same throughout the ages. Its expression varies. Take the case of a young lady who should transfer her affections. In Lytton's time the gentlemen concerned behaved with emphasis. They used invective and exclamations. They turned deadly pale, and ground their teeth, or clenched their fists: they talked of blood. The same interview fifty years later would be conducted in a more conversational manner. Take the scene in the billiard room when Leonard Jerome calmly informs Matthew Austin that he has secured the young affections of Matthew's betrothed. Nothing could be better form' as we understand 'form'; but Mr. Frere, the irascible squire, lets Austin know, bluntly enough, that' in his young days (which would be Lytton's period) supplanted lovers behaved differently. The scenes which impress us as artificial and falsely sentimental were, in all likelihood, correct representations of contemporary emotion; which does not, however, make them easy reading. Brought up as boys of his generation generally were, on St. Winifred's and Eric, the writer has heard grown men who were boys at Marlborough under Farrar maintain that at that epoch and at that school boys did talk exactly like that. We cannot be too often reminded that the magisterial ' nobody ever talked like that' is a false guide. The writer well recollects the late Lord Acton stoutly maintaining that no such person as Henleigh Grandcourt could ever have existed. Ever courteous, especially to the young and insignificant, Lord Acton allowed the writer to instance a living man who might have sat for the portrait, but maintained his ' negative.' If the writer's opinion is worth anything he would venture to point out that it is much easier to copy than to invent. This applies especially to authors like Lytton, who liked making money, and who wrote much and rapidly. In writing of his own time, or of times not far remote, he is probably correct-both as to current sentiments and the method of their expression. In writing of bygone centuries, it is clear that he has been vastly studious; but in spite of his learning and his elaborate staging he is only partially successful. Take Stevenson's Black Arrow by way of contrast. This gives us the England of the fifteenth century convincingly, and provides us, incidentally, with a credible and masterly portrait of King Richard III. Shakespeare's Richard III. is unintelligible rascality-gross, sprawling melodrama,' as Stevenson himself said. Or take Mr. Bailey's Highwayman or The Gentleman Adventurer, both of the same period (William III.-Queen Anne), or, still further back, The Sea Captain, which is Elizabethan. How the story rushes on! How the people live! Yet there is very little staging, and next to no disquisition. It is not accumulation of detail that makes the artist: it is selection of detail. We open Ernest Maltravers and read as follows : Το THE GREAT GERMAN PEOPLE A race of Thinkers and of Critics A foreign but familiar audience THIS BOOK Is dedicated By an English Author. We rub our eyes. Nevertheless stat factum. The assurance of a young man, or a man of any age, who can take a whole people under his patronage is remarkable. It is presented to us-goodnaturedly enough-in Endymion. Lord Beaconsfield introduces to us Mr. Bertie Tremaine and his brother Mr. Tremaine Bertie. Both are bent on success in public life and certain of securing it. 'You will find your habit of social familiarity embarrassing when I send you as Ambassador to Vienna or St. Petersburg,' says one brother-the haughty one-to the other. Obviously they were Mr. Bulwer Lytton and Mr. Lytton Bulwer. The assurance of the passage just quoted struck one forty years ago as slightly overdone. On reading Ernest Maltravers again, and taking note of the dedication, we conclude that, as usual, Lord Beaconsfield understated his case. This, then, is the second point to note-Lytton's assurance; which is nothing less than sublime. He succeeded very early, and his public never forsook him. He had none of the diffidence of George Eliot, who needed to be almost hounded into writing novels: and then wrote very few. On the contrary he wrote of any epochof any country and of any clime. He did not hesitate to sign such bewildering nonsense as Ernest Maltravers, dedicate it to the great German people (feeling evidently convinced that they would feel overwhelmed by his kind condescension), and then produce a sequel called Alice which (with unconscious humour) is alternatively entitled The Mysteries. It has been maintained in my presence that the secret of Lytton's strength-the best and most enduring part of his work— was the domestic narrative and the homely pathetic. We should respect all views. The Caxtons is perhaps the best known of these innocent narratives. It is quite true that in this novel the author's style is at its best. It is freed from the necessity of employing antiquated language and explaining dead incidents of dress. So the story flows easily but then there is so very little story! At the other end of the scale is the dramatic narrative of Rienzi, which it is customary to dismiss as tawdry' and 'fustian.' We may imagine the shade of Lytton amusedly inquiring: 'All very well, my gentlemanly critic, but how do you account for my popularity? Unless you propose to maintain that the age itself was fustian and tawdry and so content with my work, which quite suited it.' That is exactly what it is now the fashion to say: nobody has a good word for the Victorian age. Avoiding invective, which leads nowhere, let us ask ourselves the single question: Would anybody have heard of Rienzi if it had not been for Lytton? Historians and students might remember him as a lurid demagogue who drank too much and ran to fat; but you cannot make anything out of a man like that. A touch of Lytton's magic wand and Rienzi lives. It is true that the novel is very like the opera. We have an immeasurable stage crowded with uninteresting people, with Maas on horseback playing lead in glittering armour. Impressive, though unconvincing; but then we do not mind being unconvinced, either in the opera or on the stage. If we hunger after conviction we must read Mr. Rafael Sabatini, whose work is like an intaglio of the best period-very exquisite gems after these vast canvases. It is just ninety years ago that Lytton published The Last Days of Pompeii. It was being played as an opera in a small Italian town where the writer was dwelling thirty years ago, and in Moose Jaw, with a local star as Arbaces, when he passed through that important centre fifteen years ago. We may as well note this much. It is evidence of a very widespread popularity; and we are so often told that the novel's popularity is undeserved. We are reminded that Pompeii was a small week-end resort for the young bloods of Naples, with a population of-really one forgets. All of which may be sound information. We are also informed that the destruction of Pompeii could not have taken more than eight minutes (or is it seconds ?). The population was destroyed by the fine dust of which they used to exhibit specimens at Bertolini's Hotel after the last eruption. Two breaths of this red-hot dust, and life is extinct. Thus the famous diploma picture of the late Sir Edward Poynter must be all wrong. The sentinel is faithful unto death,' though tongues of flame descend from heaven. Pathologically, the sentinel would have been incapable of moving off his beat. It is the same with other arts. When Tennyson wrote Every moment dies a man, it was remarked that in that case the population would remain stationary, which we know is not the case. Later when we were all reading I hope to meet my Pilot face to face many and fluent were the comments pointing out the precise duty and position of a pilot relative to the course of an outgoing vessel. 'One wonders,' wrote H. D. Traill, that the question of the Pilot's certificate was not raised.' Criticisms of this nature may, or may not, adorn conversation, but they affect in nothing the artist's reputation, whether in poetry, painting, or romance. We have spoken of Lytton's 'magic touch': it required nothing less to breathe vitality into A Strange Story, which is, literally, all about magic. Young people dismiss it as 'rot'; staider folk dismiss it with staider language. Granted that it is all nonsense what a yarn it is! Here Lytton is at his very best. The period was Lytton's own-the externals are still familiar to many of us; the narrative moves rapidly, hardly hampered by explanation or citation. Even the most sceptical might well be moved to say: 'After all there may be something in it.' Behind the externals, familiar and even commonplace, lurks the disturbing presence, the Wicked Immortal. Why not? To be sure, if any man stumbled on a process by which bodily decay could be arrested, he would be unlikely to address the Royal Institution on the subject, even if that august body could be induced to invite him to do so. He would keep to himself a discovery so precious. So there may be Immortals among us; though they need not necessarily be as wicked as Margrave, or, indeed, wicked at all. In our own lifetime we have all of us heard things denounced as 'impossible'-things which are now of everyday occurrence. When electric light was a question of candles and arcs, the writer's very learned and scientific tutor described it as a ' toy'—all very well with gas in reserve, but quite useless. For instance,' |