On the other hand, several English authors are condemned for their lack of nicety and respectability. Trollope, for instance, lacked that elegance and delicacy of sentiment so dear to the Encyclopædia editor’s heart. “He is,” we read, “sometimes absolutely vulgar—that is to say, he does not deal with low life, but shows, though always robust and pure in morality, a certain coarseness of taste.”
Turning from the vulgar but pure Trollope to Charles Reade, we find more of this same kind of criticism: “His view of human life, especially of the life of women, is almost brutal ... and he cannot, with all his skill as a story-teller, be numbered among the great artists who warm the heart and help to improve the conduct.” (Here we have the Britannica’s true attitude toward literature. That art, in order to be great, must warm the heart, improve the conduct, and show one the way to righteousness.) Nor is Ouida to be numbered among the great uplifters. In her derogatory half-column biography we are informed that “on grounds of morality of taste Ouida’s novels may be condemned” as they are “frequently unwholesome.”
Two typical examples of the manner in which truly great English writers, representative of the best English culture, are neglected in favor of those writers who epitomize England’s provincial piety, are to be found in the biographies of George Moore and Joseph Conrad, neither of whom is concerned with improving the readers’ conduct or even with warming their hearts. These two novelists, the greatest modern authors which England has produced, are dismissed peremptorily. Conrad’s biography draws but eighteen lines, about one-third of the space given to Marie Corelli; and the only praise accorded him is for his vigorous style and brilliant descriptions. In this superficial criticism we have an example of ineptitude, if not of downright stupidity, rarely equaled even by newspaper reviewers. Not half of Conrad’s books are mentioned, the last one to be recorded being dated 1906, nearly eleven years ago! Yet this is the Encyclopædia which is supposed to have been brought up to date and to be adequate for purposes of reference!
In the case of George Moore there is less excuse for such gross injustice (save that he is Irish), for Moore has long been recognized as one of the great moderns. Yet his biography draws less space than that of Jane Porter, Gilbert Parker, Maurice Hewlett, Rider Haggard, or H. G. Wells; half of the space given to Anthony Hope; and only a fourth of the space given to Mrs. Gaskell and to Mrs. Humphry Ward! A Mummer’s Wife, we learn, has “decidedly repulsive elements”; and the entire criticism of Esther Waters, admittedly one of the greatest of modern English novels, is that it is “a strong story with an anti-gambling motive.” It would seem almost incredible that even the tin-pot evangelism of the Encyclopædia Britannica would be stretched to such a length,—but there you have the criticism of Esther Waters set down word for word. The impelling art of this novel means nothing to the Encyclopedia’s critic; he cannot see the book’s significance; nor does he recognize its admitted importance to modern literature. To him it is an anti-gambling tract! And because, perhaps, he can find no uplift theme in A Mummer’s Wife, that book is repulsive to him. Such is the culture America is being fed on—at a price.
Thomas Hardy, another one of England’s important moderns, is condemned for his attitude toward women: his is a “man’s point of view” and “more French than English.” (We wonder if this accounts for the fact that the sentimental James M. Barrie is accorded more space and greater praise.) Samuel Butler is another intellectual English writer who has apparently been sacrificed on the altar of Presbyterian respectability. He is given less than a column, a little more than half the space given the patriotic, tub-thumping Kipling, and less than half the space given Felicia Hemans. Nor is there any criticism of his work. The Way of all Flesh is merely mentioned in the list of his books. Gissing, another highly enlightened English writer, is accorded less space than Jane Porter, only about half the space given Anthony Hope, and less space than is drawn by Marie Corelli! There is almost no criticism of his work—a mere record of facts.
Mrs. M. E. Braddon, however, author of The Trail of the Serpent and Lady Audley’s Secret, is criticised in flattering terms. The biography speaks of her “large and appreciative public,” and apology is made for her by the statement that her works give “the great body of readers of fiction exactly what they require.” But why an apology is necessary one is unable to say since Aurora Floyd is “a novel with a strong affinity to Madame Bovary.” Mrs. Braddon and Flaubert! Truly a staggering alliance!
Mrs. Henry Wood, the author of East Lynne, is given more space than Conrad; and her Johnny Ludlow tales are “the most artistic” of her works. But the “artistic” Mrs. Wood has no preference over Julia Kavanagh. This latter lady, we discover, draws equal space with Marcel Prévost; and she “handles her French themes with fidelity and skill.” Judging from this praise and the fact that Prévost gets no praise but is accused of having written an “exaggerated” and “revolting” book, we can only conclude that the English authoress handles her French themes better than does Prévost.
George Meredith is accorded almost as much biographical space as Balzac; and in the article there appears such qualifying words as “seer,” “greatness,” and “master.” The impression given is that he was greater than Balzac. In Jane Porter’s biography, which is longer than that of Huysmans, we read of her “picturesque power of narration.” Even of Samuel Warren, to whom three-fourths of a column is allotted (more space than is given to Bret Harte, Lafcadio Hearn, or Gorky), it is said that the interest in Ten Thousand a Year “is made to run with a powerful current.”
Power also is discovered in the works of Lucas Malet. The Wages of Sin was “a powerful story” which “attracted great attention”; and her next book “had an even greater success.” Joseph Henry Shorthouse, who is given more space than Frank Norris and Stephen Crane combined, possessed “high earnestness of purpose, a luxuriant style and a genuinely spiritual quality.” Though lacking dramatic facility and a workmanlike conduct of narrative, “he had almost every other quality of the born novelist.” After this remark it is obviously necessary to revise our æsthetic judgment in regard to the religious author of John Inglesant.