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put it into a footnote as a kind of cowardly corroboration。 Nor are
our other novelists much better。 Mr。 Henry James writes fiction as
if it were a painful duty； and wastes upon mean motives and
imperceptible 'points of view〃 his neat literary style； his
felicitous phrases； his swift and caustic satire。 Mr。 Hall Caine；
it is true； aims at the grandiose； but then he writes at the top of
his voice。 He is so loud that one cannot bear what he says。 Mr。
James Payn is an adept in the art of concealing what is not worth
finding。 He hunts down the obvious with the enthusiasm of a short…
sighted detective。 As one turns over the pages； the suspense of the
author becomes almost unbearable。 The horses of Mr。 William Black's
phaeton do not soar towards the sun。 They merely frighten the sky
at evening into violent chromolithographic effects。 On seeing them
approach； the peasants take refuge in dialect。 Mrs。 Oliphant
prattles pleasantly about curates； lawn…tennis parties； domesticity；
and other wearisome things。 Mr。 Marion Crawford has immolated
himself upon the altar of local colour。 He is like the lady in the
French comedy who keeps talking about 〃le beau ciel d'Italie。〃
Besides； he has fallen into the bad habit of uttering moral
platitudes。 He is always telling us that to be good is to be good；
and that to be bad is to be wicked。 At times he is almost edifying。
Robert Elsmere is of course a masterpiecea masterpiece of the
〃genre ennuyeux；〃 the one form of literature that the English people
seems thoroughly to enjoy。 A thoughtful young friend of ours once
told us that it reminded him of the sort of conversation that goes
on at a meat tea in the house of a serious Nonconformist family； and
we can quite believe it。 Indeed it is only in England that such a
book could be produced。 England is the home of lost ideas。 As for
that great and daily increasing school of novelists for whom the sun
always rises in the East…End； the only thing that can be said about
them is that they find life crude； and leave it raw。The Decay of
Lying。
THE QUALITY OF GEORGE MEREDITH
Ah！ Meredith！ Who can define him？ His style is chaos illumined by
flashes of lightning。 As a writer he has mastered everything except
language： as a novelist he can do everything； except tell a story：
as an artist he is everything except articulate。 Somebody in
ShakespeareTouchstone； I thinktalks about a man who is always
breaking his shins over his own wit； and it seems to me that this
might serve as the basis for a criticism of Meredith's method。 But
whatever he is； he is not a realist。 Or rather I would say that he
is a child of realism who is not on speaking terms with his father。
By deliberate choice he has made himself a romanticist。 He has
refused to bow the knee to Baal； and after all； even if the man's
fine spirit did not revolt against the noisy assertions of realism；
his style would be quite sufficient of itself to keep life at a
respectful distance。 By its means he has planted round his garden a
hedge full of thorns； and red with wonderful roses。 As for Balzac；
he was a most remarkable combination of the artistic temperament
with the scientific spirit。 The latter he bequeathed to his
disciples。 The former was entirely his own。 The difference between
such a book as M。 Zola's L'Assommoir and Balzac's Illusions Perdues
is the difference between unimaginative realism and imaginative
reality。 'All Balzac's characters；' said Baudelaire； 'are gifted
with the same ardour of life that animated himself。 All his
fictions are as deeply coloured as dreams。 Each mind is a weapon
loaded to the muzzle with will。 The very scullions have genius。' A
steady course of Balzac reduces our living friends to shadows； and
our acquaintances to the shadows of shades。 His characters have a
kind of fervent fiery…coloured existence。 They dominate us； and
defy scepticism。 One of the greatest tragedies of my life is the
death of Lucien de Rubempre。 It is a grief from which I have never
been able completely to rid myself。 It haunts me in my moments of
pleasure。 I remember it when I laugh。 But Balzac is no more a
realist than Holbein was。 He created life； he did not copy it。 I
admit； however； that he set far too high a value on modernity of
form； and that； consequently； there is no book of his that； as an
artistic masterpiece； can rank with Salammbo or Esmond； or The
Cloister and the Hearth； or the Vicomte de Bragelonne。The Decay of
Lying
LIFE THE FALLACIOUS MODEL
Art begins with abstract decoration； with purely imaginative and
pleasurable work dealing with what is unreal and non…existent。 This
is the first stage。 Then Life becomes fascinated with this new
wonder； and asks to be admitted into the charmed circle。 Art takes
life as part of her rough material； recreates it； and refashions it
in fresh forms； is absolutely indifferent to fact； invents；
imagines； dreams； and keeps between herself and reality the
impenetrable barrier of beautiful style； of decorative or ideal
treatment。 The third stage is when Life gets the upper hand； and
drives Art out into the wilderness。 That is the true decadence； and
it is from this that we are now suffering。
Take the case of the English drama。 At first in the hands of the
monks Dramatic Art was abstract； decorative and mythological。 Then
she enlisted Life in her service； and using some of life's external
forms； she created an entirely new race of beings； whose sorrows
were more terrible than any sorrow man has ever felt； whose joys
were keener than lover's joys； who had the rage of the Titans and
the calm of the gods； who had monstrous and marvellous sins；
monstrous and marvellous virtues。 To them she gave a language
different from that of actual use； a language full of resonant music
and sweet rhythm； made stately by solemn cadence； or made delicate
by fanciful rhyme； jewelled with wonderful words； and enriched with
lofty diction。 She clothed her children in strange raiment and gave
them masks； and at her bidding the antique world rose from its
marble tomb。 A new Caesar stalked through the streets of risen
Rome； and with purple sail and flute…led oars another Cleopatra
passed up the river to Antioch。 Old myth and legend and dream took
shape and substance。 History was entirely re…written； and there was
hardly one of the dramatists who did not recognise that the object
of Art is not simple truth but complex beauty。 In this they were
perfectly right。 Art itself is really a form of exaggeration； and
selection； which is the very spirit of art； is nothing more than an
intensified mode of over…emphasis。
But Life soon shattered the perfection of the form。 Even in
Shakespeare we can see the beginning of the end。 It shows itself by
the gradual breaking…up of the blank…verse in the later plays； by
the predominance given to prose； and by the over…importance ass