The Aftermath; Or, Gleanings from a Busy Life / Called upon the outer cover, for purposes of sale, Caliban's Guide to Letters

by Hilaire Belloc

REVIEWING.

The ancient and honourable art of Reviewing is, without question, the most important branch of that great calling which we term the “Career of Letters.”

As it is the most important, so also it is the first which a man of letters should learn. It is at once his shield and his weapon. A thorough knowledge of Reviewing, both theoretical and applied, will give a man more popularity or power than he could have attained by the expenditure of a corresponding energy in any one of the liberal professions, with the possible exception of Municipal politics.

It forms, moreover, the foundation upon which all other literary work may be said to repose. Involving, as it does, the reading of a vast number of volumes, and the thorough mastery of a hundred wholly different subjects; training one to rapid, conclusive judgment, and to the exercise of a kind of immediate power of survey, it vies with cricket in forming the character of an Englishman. It is interesting to know that Charles Hawbuck was for some years principally occupied in Reviewing; and to this day some of our most important men will write, nay, and sign, reviews, as the press of the country testifies upon every side.

It is true that the sums paid for this species of literary activity are not large, and it is this fact which has dissuaded some of our most famous novelists and poets of recent years from undertaking Reviewing of any kind. But the beginner will not be deterred by such a consideration, and he may look forward, by way of compensation, to the ultimate possession of a large and extremely varied library, the accumulation of the books which have been given him to review. I have myself been presented with books of which individual volumes were sometimes worth as much as forty-two shillings to buy.

Having said so much of the advantages of this initial and fundamental kind of writing, I will proceed to a more exact account of its dangers and difficulties, and of the processes inherent to its manufacture.

It is clear, in the first place, that the Reviewer must regard herself as the servant of the public, and of her employer; and service, as I need hardly remind her (or him), has nothing in it dishonourable. We were all made to work, and often the highest in the land are the hardest workers of all. This character of service, of which Mr. Ruskin has written such noble things, will often lay the Reviewer under the necessity of a sharp change of opinion, and nowhere is the art a better training in morals and application than in the habit it inculcates of rapid and exact obedience, coupled with the power of seeing every aspect of a thing, and of insisting upon that particular aspect which will give most satisfaction to the commonwealth.

It may not be uninstructive if I quote here the adventures of one of the truest of the many stout-hearted men I have known, one indeed who recently died in harness reviewing Mr. Garcke’s article on Electrical Traction in the supplementary volumes of the Encyclopædia Britannica. This gentleman was once sent a book to review; the subject, as he had received no special training in it, might have deterred one less bound by the sense of duty. This book was called The Snail: Its Habitat, Food, Customs, Virtues, Vices, and Future. It was, as its title would imply, a monograph upon snails, and there were many fine coloured prints, showing various snails occupied in feeding on the leaves proper to each species. It also contained a large number of process blocks, showing sections, plans, elevations, and portraits of snails, as well as detailed descriptions (with diagrams) of the ears, tongues, eyes, hair, and nerves of snails. It was a comprehensive and remarkable work.

My friend (whose name I suppress for family reasons) would not naturally have cared to review this book. He saw that it involved the assumption of a knowledge which he did not possess, and that some parts of the book might require very close reading. It numbered in all 1532 pages, but this was including the index and the preface.

He put his inclinations to one side, and took the book with him to the office of the newspaper from which he had received it, where he was relieved to hear the Editor inform him that it was not necessary to review the work in any great detail. “Moreover,” he added, “I don’t think you need praise it too much.”

On hearing this, the Reviewer, having noted down the price of the book and the name of the publisher, wrote the following words—which, by the way, the student will do well to cut out and pin upon his wall, as an excellent example of what a “short notice” should be:—

“The Snail: Its Habitat, &c. Adam Charles. Pschuffer. 21s. 6d.

“This is a book that will hardly add to the reputation of its author. There is evidence of detailed work, and even of conscientious research in several places, but the author has ignored or misunderstood the whole teaching of ___________ and the special discoveries of ___________ and what is even more remarkable in a man of Mr. Charles’ standing, he advances views which were already exploded in the days of ___________.”

He then took an Encyclopædia and filled up the blanks with the names of three great men who appeared, according to that work, to be the leaders in this branch of natural history. His duty thus thoroughly accomplished and his mind at rest, he posted his review, and applied himself to lighter occupations.

Next day, however, the Editor telephoned to him, to the effect that the notice upon which he had spent so much labour could not be used.

“We have just received,” said the Editor, “a page advertisement from Pschuffer. I would like a really good article, and you might use the book as a kind of peg on which to hang it. You might begin on the subject of snails, and make it something more like your ‘Oh! my lost friend,’ which has had such a success.”

On occasions such as these the beginner must remember to keep full possession of himself.

Nothing in this mortal life is permanent, and the changes that are native to the journalistic career are perhaps the most startling and frequent of all those which threaten humanity.

The Reviewer of whom I speak was as wise as he was honourable. He saw at once what was needed. He wrote another and much longer article, beginning—

“The Snail: Its Habitat, &c. Adam Charles. Pschuffer. 21s. 6d.

“There are tender days just before the Spring dares the adventure of the Channel, when our Kentish woods are prescient, as it were, of the South. It is calm ...”

and so forth, leading gradually up to snails, and bringing in the book here and there about every twentieth line.

When this long article was done, he took it back to the office, and there found the Editor in yet a third mood. He was talking into the telephone, and begged his visitor to wait until he had done. My friend, therefore, took up a copy of the Spectator, and attempted to distract his attention with the masterful irony and hard crystalline prose of that paper.

Soon the Editor turned to him and said that Pschuffer’s had just let him know by the telephone that they would not advertise after all.

It was now necessary to delete all that there might be upon snails in his article, to head the remainder “My Kentish Home,” and to send it immediately to “Life in the Open.” This done, he sat down and wrote upon a scrap of paper in the office the following revised notice, which the Editor glanced at and approved:—

“The Snail: Its Habitat, &c. Adam Charles. Pschuffer. 21s. 6d.

“This work will, perhaps, appeal to specialists. This journal does not profess any capacity of dealing with it, but a glance at its pages is sufficient to show that it would be very ill-suited to ordinary readers. The illustrations are not without merit.”

Next morning he was somewhat perturbed to be called up again upon the telephone by the Editor, who spoke to him as follows:—

“I am very sorry, but I have just learnt a most important fact. Adam Charles is standing in our interests at Biggleton. Lord Bailey will be on the platform. You must write a long and favourable review of the book before twelve to-day, and do try and say a little about the author.”

He somewhat wearily took up a sheet of paper and wrote what follows:—a passage which I must again recommend to the student as a very admirable specimen of work upon these lines.

“The Snail: Its Habitat, &c. Adam Charles. Pschuffer. 21s. 6d.

“This book comes at a most opportune moment. It is not generally known that Professor Charles was the first to point out the very great importance of the training of the mind in the education of children. It was in May, 1875, that he made this point in the presence of Mr. Gladstone, who was so impressed by the mingled enlightenment and novelty of the view, that he wrote a long and interesting postcard upon the author to a friend of the present writer. Professor Charles may be styled—nay, he styles himself—a ‘self-made man.’ Born in Huddersfield of parents who were weavers in that charming northern city, he was early fascinated by the study of natural science, and was admitted to the Alexandrovna University....”

(And so on, and so on, out of “Who’s Who.”)

“But this would not suffice for his growing genius.”

(And so on, and so on, out of the Series of Contemporary Agnostics.)

“ ... It is sometimes remarkable to men of less wide experience how such spirits find the mere time to achieve their prodigious results. Take, for example, this book on the Snail....”

And he continued in a fine spirit of praise, such as should be given to books of this weight and importance, and to men such as he who had written it. He sent it by boy-messenger to the office.

The messenger had but just left the house when the telephone rang again, and once more it was the Editor, who asked whether the review had been sent off. Knowing how dilatory are the run of journalists, my friend felt some natural pride in replying that he had indeed just despatched the article. The Editor, as luck would have it, was somewhat annoyed by this, and the reason soon appeared when he proceeded to say that the author was another Charles after all, and not the Mr. Charles who was standing for Parliament. He asked whether the original review could still be retained, in which the book, it will be remembered, had been treated with some severity.

My friend permitted himself to give a deep sigh, but was courteous enough to answer as follows:—

“I am afraid it has been destroyed, but I shall be very happy to write another, and I will make it really scathing. You shall have it by twelve.”

It was under these circumstances that the review (which many of you must have read) took this final form, which I recommend even more heartily than any of the others to those who may peruse these pages for their profit, as well as for their instruction.

“The Snail: Its Habitat, &c. Adam Charles. Pschuffer. 21s. 6d.

“We desire to have as little to do with this book as possible, and we should recommend some similar attitude to our readers. It professes to be scientific, but the harm books of this kind do is incalculable. It is certainly unfit for ordinary reading, and for our part we will confess that we have not read more than the first few words. They were quite sufficient to confirm the judgment which we have put before our readers, and they would have formed sufficient material for a lengthier treatment had we thought it our duty as Englishmen to dwell further upon the subject.”

Let me now turn from the light parenthesis of illuminating anecdote to the sterner part of my task.

We will begin at the beginning, taking the simplest form of review, and tracing the process of production through its various stages.

It is necessary first to procure a few forms, such as are sold by Messrs. Chatsworthy in Chancery Lane, and Messrs. Goldman, of the Haymarket, in which all the skeleton of a review is provided, with blanks left for those portions which must, with the best will in the world, vary according to the book and the author under consideration. There are a large number of these forms, and I would recommend the student who is as yet quite a novice in the trade to select some forty of the most conventional, such as these on page 7 of the catalogue:—

“Mr. —— has hardly seized the pure beauty of”

“We cannot agree with Mr. —— in his estimate of”

“Again, how admirable is the following:”

At the same establishments can be procured very complete lists of startling words, which lend individuality and force to the judgment of the Reviewer. Indeed I believe that Mr. Goldman was himself the original patentee of these useful little aids, and among many before me at this moment I would recommend the following to the student:—

	{	Absolute	}
	{	Immediate	}
	{	Creative	}
	{	Bestial	}
	{	Intense	}
“There is somewhat	{	Authoritative	}	in Mr. ——’s style.”
of the	{	Ampitheatrical	}	Mrs. ——’s
	{	Lapsed	}	Miss ——’s
	{	Miggerlish	}
	{	Japhetic	}
	{	Accidental	}
	{	Alkaline	}
	{	Zenotic	}

Messrs. Malling, of Duke Street, Soho, sell a particular kind of cartridge paper and some special pins, gum, and a knife, called “The Reviewer’s Outfit.” I do not know that these are necessary, but they cost only a few pence, and are certainly of advantage in the final process: To wit:—Seizing firmly the book to be reviewed, write down the title, price, publisher, and (in books other than anonymous) the author’s name, at the top of the sheet of paper you have chosen. The book should then be taken in both hands and opened sharply, with a gesture not easily described, but acquired with very little practice. The test of success is that the book should give a loud crack and lie open of itself upon the table before one. This initial process is technically called “breaking the back” of a book, but we need not trouble ourselves yet with technical terms. One of the pages so disclosed should next be torn out and the word “extract” written in the corner, though not before such sentences have been deleted as will leave the remainder a coherent paragraph. In the case of historical and scientific work, the preface must be torn out bodily, the name of the Reviewer substituted for the word “I,” and the whole used as a description of the work in question. What remains is very simple. The forms, extracts, &c., are trimmed, pinned, and gummed in order upon the cartridge paper (in some offices brown paper), and the whole is sent to press.

I need hardly say that only the most elementary form of review can be constructed upon this model, but the simplest notice contains all the factors which enter into the most complicated and most serious of literary criticism and pronouncements.

In this, as in every other practical trade, an ounce of example is worth a ton of precept, and I have much pleasure in laying before the student one of the best examples that has ever appeared in the weekly press of how a careful, subtle, just, and yet tender review, may be written. The complexity of the situation which called it forth, and the lightness of touch required for its successful completion, may be gauged by the fact that Mr. Mayhem was the nephew of my employer, had quarrelled with him at the moment when the notice was written, but will almost certainly be on good terms with him again; he was also, as I privately knew, engaged to the daughter of a publisher who had shares in the works where the review was printed.

A YOUNG POET IN DANGER.

Mr. Mayhem’s “Pereant qui Nostra.”

We fear that in “Pereant qui Nostra,” Mr. Mayhem has hardly added to his reputation, and we might even doubt whether he was well advised to publish it at all. “Tufts in an Orchard” gave such promise, that the author of the exquisite lyrics it contained might easily have rested on the immediate fame that first effort procured him:

“Lord, look to England; England looks to you,”

and—

“Great unaffected vampires and the moon,”

are lines the Anglo-Saxon race will not readily let die.

In “Pereant qui Nostra,” Mr. Mayhem preserves and even increases his old facility of expression, but there is a terrible falling-off in verbal aptitude.

What are we to think of “The greatest general the world has seen” applied as a poetic description to Lord Kitchener? Mr. Mayhem will excuse us if we say that the whole expression is commonplace.

Commonplace thought is bad enough, though it is difficult to avoid when one tackles a great national subject, and thinks what all good patriots and men of sense think also. “Pour être poête,” as M. Yves Guyot proudly said in his receptional address to the French Academy, “Pour être poête on n’est pas forcément aliéné.” But commonplace language should always be avoidable, and it is a fault which we cannot but admit we have found throughout Mr. Mayhem’s new volume. Thus in “Laura” he compares a young goat to a “tender flower,” and in “Billings” he calls some little children “the younglings of the flock.” Again, he says of the waves at Dover in a gale that they are “horses all in rank, with manes of snow,” and tells us in “Eton College” that the Thames “runs like a silver thread amid the green.”

All these similes verge upon the commonplace, even when they do not touch it. However, there is very genuine feeling in the description of his old school, and we have no doubt that the bulk of Etonians will see more in the poem than outsiders can possibly do.

It cannot be denied that Mr. Mayhem has a powerful source of inspiration in his strong patriotism, and the sonnets addressed to Mr. Kruger, Mr. O’Brien, Dr. Clark, and General Mercier are full of vigorous denunciation. It is the more regrettable that he has missed true poetic diction and lost his subtlety in a misapprehension of planes and values.

“Vile, vile old man, and yet more vile again,”

is a line that we are sure Mr. Mayhem would reconsider in his better moments: “more vile” than what? Than himself? The expression is far too vague.

“Proud Prelate,” addressed to General Mercier, must be a misprint, and it is a pity it should have slipped in. What Mr. Mayhem probably meant was “Proud Cæsar” or “soldier,” or some other dissyllabic title. The word prelate can properly only be applied to a bishop, a mitred abbot, or a vicar apostolic.

“Babbler of Hell, importunate mad fiend, dead canker, crested worm,” are vigorous and original, but do not save the sonnet. And as to the last two lines,

“Nor seek to pierce the viewless shield of years,

For that you certainly could never do,”

Mr. Mayhem must excuse us if we say that the order of the lines make a sheer bathos.

Perhaps the faults and the excellences of Mr. Mayhem, his fruitful limitations, and his energetic inspirations, can be best appreciated if we quote the following sonnet; the exercise will also afford us the opportunity (which we are sure Mr. Mayhem will not resent in such an old friend) of pointing out the dangers into which his new tendencies may lead him.

“England, if ever it should be thy fate

By fortune’s turn or accident of chance

To fall from craven fears of being great,

And in the tourney with dishevelled lance

To topple headlong, and incur the Hate

Of Spain, America, Germany, and France,

What will you find upon that dreadful date

To check the backward move of your advance?

A little Glory; purchased not with gold

Nor yet with Frankincense (the island blood

Is incommensurate, neither bought nor sold),

But on the poops where Drake and Nelson stood

An iron hand, a stern unflinching eye

To meet the large assaults of Destiny.”

Now, here is a composition that not everyone could have written. It is inspired by a vigorous patriotism, it strikes the right note (Mr. Mayhem is a Past Seneschal of the Navy League), and it breathes throughout the motive spirit of our greatest lyrics.

It is the execution that is defective, and it is to execution that Mr. Mayhem must direct himself if he would rise to the level of his own great conceptions.

We will take the sonnet line by line, and make our meaning clear, and we do this earnestly for the sake of a young poet to whom the Anglo-Saxon race owes much, and whom it would be deplorable to see failing, as Kipling appears to be failing, and as Ganzer has failed.

Line 1 is not very striking, but might pass as an introduction; line 2 is sheer pleonasm—after using the word “fate,” you cannot use “fortune,” “accident,” “chance,” as though they were amplifications of your first thought. Moreover, the phrase “by fortune’s turn” has a familiar sound. It is rather an echo than a creation.

In line 3, “craven fears of being great” is taken from Tennyson. The action is legitimate enough. Thus, in Wordsworth’s “Excursion” are three lines taken bodily from “Paradise Lost,” in Kipling’s “Stow it” are whole phrases taken from the Police Gazette, and in Mr. Austin’s verses you may frequently find portions of a Standard leader. Nevertheless, it is a license which a young poet should be chary of. All these others were men of an established reputation before they permitted themselves this liberty.

In line 4, “dishevelled” is a false epithet for “lance”; a lance has no hair; the adjective can only properly be used of a woman, a wild beast, or domestic animal.

In line 5, “incur the hate” is a thoroughly unpoetic phrase—we say so unreservedly. In line 6, we have one of those daring experiments in metre common to our younger poets; therefore we hesitate to pronounce upon it, but (if we may presume to advise) we should give Mr. Mayhem the suggestion made by the Times to Tennyson—that he should stick to an exact metre until he felt sure of his style; and in line 8, “the backward move of your advance” seems a little strained.

It is, however, in the sextet that the chief slips of the sonnet appear, and they are so characteristic of the author’s later errors, that we cannot but note them; thus, “purchased not with gold or Frankincense” is a grievous error. It is indeed a good habit to quote Biblical phrases (a habit which has been the making of half our poets), but not to confuse them: frankincense was never used as coin—even by the Hittites. “Incommensurate” is simply meaningless. How can blood be “incommensurate”? We fear Mr. Mayhem has fallen into the error of polysyllabic effect, a modern pitfall. “Island blood” will, however, stir many a responsive thrill.

The close of the sonnet is a terrible falling off. When you say a thing is purchased, “not with this but——” the reader naturally expects an alternative, instead of which Mr. Mayhem goes right off to another subject! Also (though the allusion to Nelson and Drake is magnificent) the mention of an iron hand and an eye by themselves on a poop seems to us a very violent metaphor.

The last line is bad.

We do not write in this vein to gain any reputation for preciosity, and still less to offend. Mr. Mayhem has many qualities. He has a rare handling of penultimates, much potentiality, large framing; he has a very definite chiaroscuro, and the tones are full and objective; so are the values. We would not restrain a production in which (as a partner in a publishing firm) the present writer is directly interested. But we wish to recall Mr. Mayhem to his earlier and simpler style—to the “Cassowary,” and the superb interrupted seventh of “The Altar Ghoul.”

England cannot afford to lose that talent.

ON POLITICAL APPEALS.