THE ESSENCE OF LITERATURE.

Otago Witness, Issue 4032, 23 June 1931, Page 64

THE ESSENCE OF LITERATURE.

By

Gabriel Wells.

In Arnold Bennett’s delightful little book, “ Literary Taste,” sent to me as a gift by a friend (rightly .believing I need it), I . came upon the following passage: “Now there are two . kinds [of literature]. These two kinds are not prose or poetry, nor are they divided the one from the other by any differences of form or of subject. They are the inspiring kind and the informing kind. No other genuine division exists in literature. Emerson, I think, first clearly stated it. His terms were the literature of ‘ power ’ and the literature of ‘ knowledge.’ ” I have not been unacquainted with the distinction, whether Emerson or De Quincey first stated it; but it was Mr Bennett’s emphatic re-statement which first aroused my suspicion about its incompleteness. Here, for example, is “ The Old Wives’ Tale.” To which of the two categories does it belong? Or take “ The Midsummer Night’s Dream,” or “When We Were Very Young.” To which do they belong?

To my thinking, there is a branch of literature which is neither of the informing kind nor of the inspiring kind, but of the diverting kind. Threefold, I submit, must be the division: Literature of information, literature of inspiration, and literature of diversion. (I us e the term “diversion ” in its broadest sense, as that mental activity which, parading no purpose, responds to the demands of recreation ; or, as its root has it, re-creation.)

There is a third kind—of that I feel confident—though we may call it by whatever name we choose, so long as the designation points to the realm of imagination. To particularise: Literature of information embraces history, sociology, science; literature of diversion includes poetry, drama, romance, and literature of inspiration, embracing religion, ethics, philosophy. Let us try . and put this, classification to a simple everyday test. Suppose you enter a bookshop to pick up a book for purposes of some definite informationare you going to look among the novels, or plays, or poetry? Hardly. And yet there are imaginative writings—novels, poems, and plays—that are heavily interspersed with scientific data, like those of H. G. Wells; or that have a palpable historical background, like those of; Sir Walter Scott or Tolstoy; or that have a pungent infusion of sociology, like those of George . Bernard Shaw.

But note that such a classification does not pretend to be exhaustive, but in-

dicative; the categories are not precise, but basic. Specialisation is constantly at work to produce new varieties; correlation, a state of commingling. But, while it is allowable to skirt the underlying ultimate identity, the principle of differentiation must never be completely over-ridden.

In another part of the same book Mr Bennett poses the question: “ What are the qualities in a book which give lasting pleasure?” “This is a question,” he avers, “so difficult that it has never yet been completely answered.” And, a little further on: “ Nobody, not even Hazlitt, nor Saint-Beuve, has ever finally explained why he thought a book beautiful.” Might I offer a tentative < lue ? But first, a word of qualification. In a strict academic sense, and also in a forthright conventional meaning, the kind of literature which I named the literature of diversion is alone specifically literature.

This becomes clearer when it is realised that leisure is at the bottom of literature —alike in the making of it and in its enjoyment. To apply once more the aforesaid simple test: You ask a clerk in a bookshop for a book to read—what kind will he show you? A novel of the day, first of all. But you tell him that you are a student of literature. Still" the books he will bring' out are certain to be books by poets or novelists or playwrights, those known as the classics, or else books on such books; but never books avowedly dealing with scientific subjects or themes of philosophy. The very books in applied economics, or on hygienics, one is expected to specify. What distinguishes pure literature from other kinds of writing is the predominance of manner over matter, style over contents. This is why the essays of Pater or those of Lamb are literature; why “ Religio Medici ” or Walton’s “Angler,” and even Santayana’s philosophical studies, are literature. And this is also why, on the other hand, so many of the plays and novels nowadays are not literature; any more than the graphic newspaper accounts of - a divorce proceeding or a murder trial are In all such writings matter is put over manner. They lack the element 1 of repose, the motive of aspiration; and, hence,, therliythmic quality of expression • —style. Flat outspoken writing is not literature. It may comport with, science, but not with literature. Realistic writing is indeed simply misapplied scientific writing. While style, thus; is the determining element of literature, it is not its be-all, The airiest.poem or short ..story or playlet is not meant, to be. an empty vehicle of expression. And this brings us to the answer of Mr Bennett’s query 1 The beauty and charm of a book consists in its conveying information and inspiration in an indirect, unobtrusive, arid urbane manner. Form is the end in literature, matter the means. The true function of literature is not to equip man for life, nor to install him above it; but to make man in life more affable, more tolerant, more humane. In brief, literature exists to adorn life, arid not to render it more efficient. If literature is the means of life, as Mr Bennett declares, it is so in an indirect fashion: in that literature is a means of culture, and “ culture is life beautiful.”

I have been asked who, among the present-day authors, are, in my estimation, the three likeliest to survive. I would the question had not been put to me.

It involves me in serious embarrassment, imposing, as it does, the necessity upon me, if my appraisal is to be strictly objective, to disregard my own personal preferences, both as to inclusion and exclusion. Here, for example, is H. G. Wells, for whom I have great admiration. Had I been asked to - name the most penetrating intellect in contemporary English literature, I would have chosen H. G. Wells in that he is not consistently satisfying. And this not because he raises more points than he covers, but because he overcovers them. He outshoots the mark.

His opposite in this respect is John Galsworthy, another literary figure of a very high order, and likewise a personal favourite. Galsworthy is not quite satisfying, because he does not adequately cover his themes. What makes an author satisfying? His ability to invest the fleeting with a sense of the permanent. This is what gives to his work the ring of authority.

Those who qualify nearest under this aspect are Rudyard Kipling, Bernard Shaw, and Sir James Barrie—Kipling for power, Shaw for pleasure, Barrie for peace. 1 ”

Of the three, Shaw calls for definition specifically. Tn a- way, he is the most literary of them all. Shaw stands for diversion, and diversion is the soul of literature. To apipreciate the true inner quality of Shaw one must'turn to his letters. His letters, like his prefaces and dissertations, all partake of the

nature of the essay, dramatically conceived. Everything Shaw touches he dramatises, his own being included. His self-dramatisation makes Shaw the entrancing personality he is. Shaw, I say, is an essayist above all. And he is at his best in his letters. I consider him the greatest letter writer in the English language, if not in all literature. And yet Shaw, unlike Kipling and Barrie, has not a creative turn of mind. Shaw is not creative, but interpretative But that makes him all the more of the kind literary. For literature is the interpretation of life. Like Voltaire, with whom he shares the lifelong determination expressed in the battle-cry, “ Ecrasez Pinfame,” Shaw is not a genius, but a prodigy.

A prodigy is both more or less than a genius. A genius invents, a prodigy executes, a gpnius composes, a prodigy renders. But in the execution and rendering of a prodigy there is often more authenticity and vitality than is in the original conception. Shakespeare affords the classic illustration of. this. Shaw’s greatness lies chiefly in his supreme mastery of technique. He can write, as Arnold Bennett would have said, and did say to me once in the presence of H. G. Wells, whom he put next as a stylist, in an admirable spirit of objectivity. These three, then: Barrie, Kipling, and Shaw. But. who can tell ? An element of unpredictability enters into everything. And it is well that it is so. Otherwise life would lose much of its zest —the expected would always happen.—John o’ London’s Weekly. THE NEWEST BOOKS. THE EARTH AND ITS WAYS. “ This Reeling World.” By Firth Scott. I Cloth; 7s Gd net.) Edinburgh and London: William Blackwood and Sons, Ltd. " -- •.. • Whenever the spade of the excavator is scientifically employed evidence . is being revealed which makes the conventional estimate of Man’s antiquity more and more irreconcilable with demonstrated facts. On the other, hand, the geologi- . cal contention that Man has been on the earth for well over a million years is corroborated; while the biological deduction ; that he has attained to his present position by a definite series of evolutionary processes is supported.In these words Mr Firth Scott opens the foreword to his arresting book. The “reeling” of the earth, “the periodical divergence over thousands of years of its axis,” is a proved scientific fact, but the author is not in accord with some of the conclusions which have long been accepted as “facts.” The course of the great glacial periods are traced, and these provide material for one of the most fascinating portions of the book. “ When the Mediterranean was Arctic ” takes us back to the time when “that semi-tropical sea of to-day was icebound as the waters north of Siberia,” and that the Arctic Circle attained its “ farthest south ” when it passed through the county of Durham in the north of England. The antiquity of man and the age of the earth have always been matters of absorbing interest, and Mr Firth Scott’s book adds something to general knowledge and opens up a wide field for speculation and investigation. He claims that geological and other proofs will compel the revision of current ideas regarding the periods of prehistoric man as measured by the surviving monuments of Stonehenge, Maiden Castle, and the dolmens of Brittany. In his chapter on “ The Problems of the Past ” he asks some interesting questions following his own description of rock drawings: . - ■ . 1. Whether these rock drawings imply three parallel lines of development, one in Europe, dating from an unknown period in the very long ago; another in South Africa, dating from a more ■ recent, but also unknown, period in the less long' ago; and the third in Western Australia, still in active ex- . istence.at the present time; and (2) do they imply a common origin, with progression, stagnation, and retardation operating respectively in- Europe, Africa, - and Australia, and, if so, how and why? ...

In this and - similar passages questions of absorbing interest- are raised. The accepted answers are given, but the author in many instances throws new light' on old problems. His book may be* unorthodox from the scientific standpoint, but it’ is always thought- provoking and certainly never tedious. i -

His closing' chapter on “The Great White Race ” is especially gripping, and it closes on this note:

~ Thu s f , rom the Baltic, rather than the Mediterranean, has come that physiological incentive which makes modern .civilisation so distinct from any which preceded it. For while other civilisations were racial and restricted, modern civilisation seeks to become world-wide in its ranges, a common heritage for all races, and expressive ot a Haeti, which may be epitomised in the phrase “ Live and let live.” The mainsprings of its energies are to be traced to-day among those peoples—the British, Danish, Dutch, Norwegian, bwedish, and Teuton—who are the most direct descendants of those tribes who emerged, thousands of years ago, ct the dawn of the present interglacial, from the frozen regions beyond the Baltic, bringing with them a collective mentality destined later to change the entire social organisation of the world.

Mr Firth Scott is the author of other works, notably “ The Romance of Polar Exploration" and “The Romance of Australian Exploring.” The present volume will introduce him to a new circle of readers, and will doubtless be widely discussed by those interested in semiscientific questions. THE EVERLASTING MEMORY. “Their Name Liveth: The Book of the Scottish War Memorial.” By lan Hay. (Cloth; 22 illustrations; 5s net.) London: J ohn Lane (the Bodley Head, Ltd.). Fortitude as a people we possess, and always did; but we lack vision—perspective— above all, confidence. We are prepared to stay the course, but we arenever sanguine about winning the race. We are haunted today by two spectres, Distress and Distrust. We are discouraged about ourselves, and deeply suspicious of one another, mati and man, class and class. But the men to whom we raised the Cenotaph, the man who lies in the Abbey, the men whose names are recorded within the Casket on the Rock, were neither despondent nor . suspicious. Their sturdy confidence and their humorous philosophy were the wonder of friend and foe, while in matters of mutual reliance they were as brothers.

Major Beith opens his acknowledgment by stating that “To one whose trade is Fiction, the purveying of unadorned Fact is an unfamiliar and arduous business.” The thought would never have occurred to the reader had the author not suggested’ it, for the flowing prose of descriptive fact shows no trace of difficulty. His aim has been to place the inemorial before those of us who cannot see the edifice itself. After reading his book and seeing the illustrations it is possible to visualise the edifice in -all its details. Built .on the Castle Rock of Edinburgh, long since a popular spot familiar to visitors from all parts of the world, it adds a new call and a fragrant memory. The description is most thorough, and the author’s interpretation of Scotland’s national memorial is vigorous and beautiful, for, as he told us in “ The First Hundred Thousand,” Scotland’s mourning is national. In detail we are shown the finished work of many artists and craftsmen—the exterior walls, the Hall of Honour, the windows, the regimental and other memorials, and the Shrine itself. A short but sufficient history of the 12 Scottish regiments, from early days down to the Great War, is given. On no material point does the book fail to inform. A personal visit to the monument and a careful inspection would, of course, be more informing, but in. the hands of this sympathetic and competent guide every detail in the great purpose becomes a vivid reality. All that the reader may have previously read about the noble edifice, combined with the'photographs seen, are dwarfed beside this book. Next to the memorial itself it is the most complete and convincing tribute to the Scottish fallen. It is more than this, because it is an inspiration to those who are left behind. The quotation opening this notice is pregnantly appropriate to the times in which we, live. It should be read with his closing words:

Here then seems to be the talisman for which we are groping. Its name is Duty—the simple duty of living up to the tradition in which these men died, and of fulfilling the trust which they have plainly bequeathed to us. Let us see to it that we do not fail them, for they never failed us. A HUMAN DOCUMENT. “No Sign-Post Anywhere.” By Elizabeth Hughson. (Cloth; 65.") London: Hodder arid Stoughton, Ltd. “She’ll be good to it, Ellie. It’ll, never know—the difference. She’ll be good, I feel sure. “I know it, my dear. I saw it in her eyes.. * “ . . . That’s all shut away and done with forever. We’re starting again.”

“ It ” in this case was a baby girl only a few days old. Later “it” is Jill, a lovable lass who finds the fingers of Fate unkind. Jill’s mother committed an indiscretion at college, and the’ father of her child meets sudden death on his motor-cycle. In something worse than desperation she seeks Roger Wilbur, ex" plains her position in a moving scene. He marries her, sacrificing much of his career;' takes her to England, where Jill is born. She is adopted by Ellen Tresidder, a Cornish woman of strange temperament and large heart. She had

previously lost her own baby, and ’so Jill fills the void. Mr and Mrs Wilbur return to Canada and live .the happiest of married lives. A son, Mick,, is. born. By common consent the past is; forgotten.

Nineteen years later Mick has an Oxford undergraduate, and writes to« his mother in Canada that he is going; to Port Seatho. This is where his. mother and father left Jill. Michael, promises to be as good a man as his; father. He meets Jill, and a mutual attraction is forined. Mother and father fear complications, and the fears are only too well founded. The love-making is-, very beautiful, but there are obstacles. Jill’s, foster mother loves her with a ferocity akin to the animals, and she is suspicious of the Oxford youth who would woo the fisherman’s daughter. . Mick’s father and mother decide to visit London, and he looks forward with, pride to presenting Jill to his parents. On a fateful Saturday Mick is injured, in saving a bather’s life, and he cannot return from Port Seatho to London. So his father must go to him. He learns who Jill really is. Then Jill’s mother arrives on the scene. Here, then, are the elements of tragedy for the young lovers—“No Sign-Post Anywhere.” The author has given us a book which is no more and no less than a love story. But it is a human story—powerful where power is called for, never strained in the natural settings, sympathetic where faults lie against human frailties—always appealing. With books depending on all the aids to popularity and employing devices . sometimes open to question this story based on the eternal theme of pure love is refreshing and welcome. If it is a first novel it is an excellent beginning. A DESPERATE THROW. “ U 97.” A Play in Three Acts. By.C. S. Forester. (Cloth; 3s 6d net.) London: John Lane (the Bodley Head, Ltd.). . Horn: But could anyone have believed it! : That our Fleet—the Fleet we have given our lives to—the men we have . worked for—should have come /- to this! Mutiny! Disobedience to orders! Sailors’ and Work- . ■ men’s Councils 1 It seems un- . believable! Perhaps—perhaps—it is - even cowardice. Speigel:- Never. It is the work of British agents. Reinhold: No, gentlemen. Not British agents, but British strength ~ . .

This is a play much above the average, which reads well - and should play even better. It is a drariia of the last days of the war, -when the’ Sailors’ Council has virtual command of the High Seas Fleet. The smoking room of the Naval Officers’ Club at Cuxhaven is the scene -of the first act, and the officers present discuss certain naval aspects of the war in, the shadow of the filial catastrophe. For them all is lost, including some measure of honour. The appearance of Admiral Reinhold, who has commanded the base, creates a diversion in the room, and his hint that it is still possible to strike at the British Fleet is taken up by the dispirited officers. .Commander Speigel evolves the plan, to take U 97 to sea to make a last stroke against the Grand Fleet at Scapa Flow. This is the only submarine which remains fully commissioned and ready for sea, and which is for the moment free from the guard of the Sailors’ Council.

The second act, which is highly charged with pathos and dramatic power, is set in the drawing room of Admiral Reinhold’s official residence. Frau Reinhold has heard of the mutiny of the German Fleet and realises that the end of a nation’s hopes has arrived. She tries to console her admiral husband with a pleasing picture of their retirement in the peace of a country cottage. For hira--self the admiral has just previously sealed. his doom by a decision to take part in the hopeless submarine adventure. Commander Lucas meets at this gathering the girl, he loves, and he, too, knows he will see her no more. All sworn to secrecy, they leave the social circle, but the truth dawns on the wife and lover that a desperate move is planned. When the danger is comprehended by the others Frau Reinhold and the girl detail! the other women present, and in the dusk the submarine is seen from the window as she clears the harbour entrance. •:

; The third act is on board U 97. Every moment is charged with danger and uncertainty. The ■ submarine can only take a momentary glimpse for fear of "detection, and Commander Speigel gives his orders as the boat worms its perilous way into the: Flow. The periscope-is sighted, destroyers rush to the scene; the racing of propellers is heard, depth charges are exploding, and a crash cuts off the lights. U 97 has struck a mine, her forepart is smashed, and she lies on the bottom. A discussion takes place as to whether surrender would be justified, but Commander Speigel, revolver in hand, declares for death. As the pumps refuse to work, it is death for all down deep on the sea bottom—and the sound of propellers tells the prisoners that the

destroyers and the battleships are moving above: the Grand Fleet is putting to sea. The play would present difficulties for a stage setting, but it is full of power and pathos. Its author lias earned success in the spheres of fiction and biography. This proves his ability as a playwright. ON THE TRAMP. “ The Odyssey of an Out-of-Work.” By Terence Horsley. (Cloth; 7s 6d.). London: John Lane (the Bodley Head, Ltd.). This word unemployment has been used for so long as a catchword and a whip by Governments, Trade Unions, Ministers of Religion, and stage comedians that its personal significance has gone. The story of this out-of-work brings it back. It makes unemployment once again a thing from which real men and women suffer. This is the excuse and justification of his narrative. In the preface from which this extract is taken Mr Horsley introduces us to an unemployed man who travelled 748 miles in three and a-half months in search of work. He estimates that out of this he walked over five hundred miles. His route from Glasgow to London was 472 miles, and from London to Newcastle 270. “ The adventures which came his way during this long trek dispel the illusion that there is no longer such a thing as romance on English roads; but, what is more important, they reveal England through the eyes of an unemployed.” Mr Horsley has given us a story which is original and singularly convincing. It is the man’s narrative containing his impressions and experiences. Some of these concern workhouses and institutions to which he was compelled to go for shelter and sustenance. It carries conviction on every page, and is a book which remilins in One’s thoughts long after its reading. In view of his many disappointments there is little bitterness and nearly always hope. Those who helped him are remembered for their kindness. His part in the making of the book was a respite for which he was profoundly thankful. My future is work! Sometimes jobs have almost taken shape, only to melt away again. To-day, to-morrow, I may find the thing for which I have been looking. _ So long as it is possible to believe in it, it is possible to search for it. I fear a recurrence of that moment when I stood at the foot of the hill in the rain, for I knew there that there was no such thing as employment. It is a bogy with which I wish no dealings, illusion as I know it to be. The “Odyssey” is “dedicated with affection to an unemployed, to whom, God willing, I shall soon be able to offer a permanent post.” It deserves on its merits to win a wide circle of readers.