letters to dead authors-第1部分

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Letters　to　Dead　Authors

by　Andrew　Lang



Contents：

Preface
To　W。　M。　Thackeray
To　Charles　Dickens
To　Pierre　de　Ronsard
To　Herodotus
Epistle　to　Mr。　Alexander　Pope
To　Lucian　of　Samosata
To　Maitre　Francoys　Rabelais
To　Jane　Austen
To　Master　Isaak　Walton
To　M。　Chapelain
To　Sir　John　Maundeville；　Kt。
To　Alexandre　Dumas
To　Theocritus
To　Edgar　Allan　Poe
To　Sir　Walter　Scott；　Bart。
To　Eusebius　of　Caesarea
To　Percy　Bysshe　Shelley
To　Monsieur　de　Moliere
To　Robert　Burns
To　Lord　Byron
To　Omar　Khayyam
To　Q。　Horatius　Flaccus



PREFACE



Sixteen　of　these　Letters；　which　were　written　at　the　suggestion　of　the　Editor　of　the　〃St。　James's　Gazette；〃　appeared　in　that　journal；　from　which　they　are　now　reprinted；　by　the　Editor's　kind　permission。　They　have　been　somewhat　emended；　and　a　few　additions　have　been　made。　The　Letters　to　Horace；　Byron；　Isaak　Walton；　Chapelain；　Ronsard；　and　Theocritus　have　not　been　published　before。

The　gem　on　the　title…page；　now　engraved　for　the　first　time；　is　a　red　cornelian　in　the　British　Museum；　probably　Graeco…Roman；　and　treated　in　an　archaistic　style。　　It　represents　Hermes　Psychagogos；　with　a　Soul；　and　has　some　likeness　to　the　Baptism　of　Our　Lord；　as　usually　shown　in　art。　　Perhaps　it　may　be　post…Christian。　　The　gem　was　selected　by　Mr。　A。　S。　Murray。

It　is；　perhaps；　superfluous　to　add　that　some　of　the　Letters　are　written　rather　to　suit　the　Correspondent　than　to　express　the　writer's　own　taste　or　opinions。　　The　Epistle　to　Lord　Byron；　especially；　is　〃writ　in　a　manner　which　is　my　aversion。〃



LETTERTo　W。　M。　Thackeray



Sir；There　are　many　things　that　stand　in　the　way　of　the　critic　when　he　has　a　mind　to　praise　the　living。　　He　may　dread　the　charge　of　writing　rather　to　vex　a　rival　than　to　exalt　the　subject　of　his　applause。　　He　shuns　the　appearance　of　seeking　the　favour　of　the　famous；　and　would　not　willingly　be　regarded　as　one　of　the　many　parasites　who　now　advertise　each　movement　and　action　of　contemporary　genius。　　〃Such　and　such　men　of　letters　are　passing　their　summer　holidays　in　the　Val　d'Aosta；〃　or　the　Mountains　of　the　Moon；　or　the　Suliman　Range；　as　it　may　happen。　　So　reports　our　literary　〃Court　Circular；〃　and　all　our　Precieuses　read　the　tidings　with　enthusiasm。　Lastly；　if　the　critic　be　quite　new　to　the　world　of　letters；　he　may　superfluously　fear　to　vex　a　poet　or　a　novelist　by　the　abundance　of　his　eulogy。　　No　such　doubts　perplex　us　when；　with　all　our　hearts；　we　would　commend　the　departed；　for　they　have　passed　almost　beyond　the　reach　even　of　envy；　and　to　those　pale　cheeks　of　theirs　no　commendation　can　bring　the　red。

You；　above　all　others；　were　and　remain　without　a　rival　in　your　many…　sided　excellence；　and　praise　of　you　strikes　at　none　of　those　who　have　survived　your　day。　　The　increase　of　time　only　mellows　your　renown；　and　each　year　that　passes　and　brings　you　no　successor　does　but　sharpen　the　keenness　of　our　sense　of　loss。　　In　what　other　novelist；　since　Scott　was　worn　down　by　the　burden　of　a　forlorn　endeavour；　and　died　for　honour's　sake；　has　the　world　found　so　many　of　the　fairest　gifts　combined？　　If　we　may　not　call　you　a　poet　（for　the　first　of　English　writers　of　light　verse　did　not　seek　that　crown）；　who　that　was　less　than　a　poet　ever　saw　life　with　a　glance　so　keen　as　yours；　so　steady；　and　so　sane？　　Your　pathos　was　never　cheap；　your　laughter　never　forced；　your　sigh　was　never　the　pulpit　trick　of　the　preacher。　　Your　funny　peopleyour　Costigans　and　Fokerswere　not　mere　characters　of　trick　and　catch…word；　were　not　empty　comic　masks。　　Behind　each　the　human　heart　was　beating；　and　ever　and　again　we　were　allowed　to　see　the　features　of　the　man。

Thus　fiction　in　your　hands　was　not　simply　a　profession；　like　another；　but　a　constant　reflection　of　the　whole　surface　of　life：　　a　repeated　echo　of　its　laughter　and　its　complaint。　　Others　have　written；　and　not　written　badly；　with　the　stolid　professional　regularity　of　the　clerk　at　his　desk；　you；　like　the　Scholar　Gipsy；　might　have　said　that　〃it　needs　heaven…sent　moments　for　this　skill。〃　There　are；　it　will　not　surprise　you；　some　honourable　women　and　a　few　men　who　call　you　a　cynic；　who　speak　of　〃the　withered　world　of　Thackerayan　satire；〃　who　think　your　eyes　were　ever　turned　to　the　sordid　aspects　of　lifeto　the　mother…in…law　who　threatens　to　〃take　away　her　silver　bread…basket；〃　to　the　intriguer；　the　sneak；　the　termagant；　to　the　Beckys；　and　Barnes　Newcomes；　and　Mrs。　Mackenzies　of　this　world。　　The　quarrel　of　these　sentimentalists　is　really　with　life；　not　with　you；　they　might　as　wisely　blame　Monsieur　Buffon　because　there　are　snakes　in　his　Natural　History。　　Had　you　not　impaled　certain　noxious　human　insects；　you　would　have　better　pleased　Mr。　Ruskin；　had　you　confined　yourself　to　such　performances；　you　would　have　been　more　dear　to　the　Neo…Balzacian　school　in　fiction。

You　are　accused　of　never　having　drawn　a　good　woman　who　was　not　a　doll；　but　the　ladies　that　bring　this　charge　seldom　remind　us　either　of　Lady　Castlewood　or　of　Theo　or　Hetty　Lambert。　　The　best　women　can　pardon　you　Becky　Sharp　and　Blanche　Amory；　they　find　it　harder　to　forgive　you　Emmy　Sedley　and　Helen　Pendennis。　　Yet　what　man　does　not　know　in　his　heart　that　the　best　womenGod　bless　themlean；　in　their　characters；　either　to　the　sweet　passiveness　of　Emmy　or　to　the　sensitive　and　jealous　affections　of　Helen？　　'Tis　Heaven；　not　you；　that　made　them　so；　and　they　are　easily　pardoned；　both　for　being　a　very　little　lower　than　the　angels　and　for　their　gentle　ambition　to　be　painted；　as　by　Guido　or　Guercino；　with　wings　and　harps　and　haloes。　　So　ladies　have　occasionally　seen　their　own　faces　in　the　glass　of　fancy；　and；　thus　inspired；　have　drawn　Romola　and　Consuelo。　Yet　when　these　fair　idealists；　Mdme。　Sand　and　George　Eliot；　designed　Rosamund　Vincy　and　Horace；　was　there　not　a　spice　of　malice　in　the　portraits　which　we　miss　in　your　least　favourable　studies？

That　the　creator　of　Colonel　Newcome　and　of　Henry　Esmond　was　a　snarling　cynic；　that　he　who　designed　Rachel　Esmond　could　not　draw　a　good　woman：　　these　are　the　chief　charges　（all　indifferent　now　to　you；　who　were　once　so　sensitive）　that　your　admirers　have　to　contend　against。　　A　French　critic；　M。　Taine；　also　protests　that　you　do　preach　too　much。　　Did　any　author　but　yourself　so　frequently　break　the　thread　（seldom　a　strong　thread）　of　his　plot　to　converse　with　his　reader　and　moralise　his　tale；　we　also　might　be　offended。　　But　who　that　loves　Montaigne　and　Pascal；　who　that　likes　the　wise　trifling　of　the　one　and　can　bear　with　the　melancholy　of　the　other；　but　prefers　your　preaching　to　another's　playing！

Your　thoughts　come　in；　like　the　intervention　of　the　Greek　Chorus；　as　an　ornament　and　source　of　fresh　delight。　　Like　the　songs　of　the　Chorus；　they　bid　us　pause　a　moment　over　the　wider　laws　and　actions　of　human　fate　and　human　life；　and　we　turn　from　your　persons　to　yourself；　and　again　from　yourself　to　your　persons；　as　from　the　odes　of　Sophocles　or　Aristophanes　to　the　action　of　their　characters　on　the　stage。　　Nor；　to　my　taste；　does　the　mere　music　and　melancholy　dignity　of　your　style　in　these　passages　of　meditation　fall　far　below　the　highest　efforts　of　poetry。　　I　remember　that　scene　where　Clive；　at　Barnes　Newcome's　Lecture　on　the　Poetry　of　the　Affections；　sees　Ethel　who　is　lost　to　him。　　〃And　the　past　and　its　dear　histories；　and　youth　and　its　hopes　and　passions；　and　tones　and　looks　for　ever　echoing　in　the　heart　and　present　in　the　memorythese；　no　doubt；　poor　Clive　saw　and　heard　as　he　looked　across　the　great　gulf　of　time；　and　parting　and　grief；　and　beheld　the　woman　he　had　loved　for　many　years。〃

FOR　EVER　ECHOING　IN　THE　HEART　AND　PRESENT　IN　THE　MEMORY：　　who　has　not　heard　these　tones；　who　does　not　hear　them　as　he　turns　over　your　books　that；　for　so　many　years；　have　been　his　companions　and　comforters？　　We　have　been　young　and　old；　we　have　been　sad　and　merry　with　you；　we　have　listened　to　the　mid…night　chimes　with　Pen　and　Warrington；　have　stood　with　you　beside　the　death…bed；　have　mourned　at　that　yet　more　awful　funeral　of　lost　love；　and　with　you　have　prayed　in　the　inmost　chapel　sacred　to　our　old　and　immortal　affections；　e　leal　souvenir！　　And　whenever　you　speak　for　yourself；　and　speak　in　earnest；　how　magical；　how　rare；　how　lonely　in　our　literature　is　the　beauty　of　your　sentences！　　〃I　can't　express　the　charm　of　them〃　（so　you　write　of　George　Sand；　so　we　may　write　of　you）：　　〃they　seem　to　me　like　the　sound　of　country　bells；　provoking　I　don't　know　what　vein　of　music　and　meditation；　and　falling　sweetly　and　sadly　on　the　ear。〃　　Surely　that　style；　so　fresh；　so　rich；　so　full　of　surprisesthat　style　which　stamps　as　classical　your　fragments　of　slang；　and　perpetually　astonishes　and　delightswould　alone　give　immortality　to　an　author；　even　had　he　little　to　say。　　But　you；　with　your　whole　wide　world　of　fops　and　fools；　of　good　women　and　brave　men；　of　honest　absurdities　and　cheery　adventurers：　　you　who　created　the　Steynes　and　Newcomes；　the　Beckys　and　Blanches；　Captain　Costigan　and　F。　B。；　and　the　Chevalier　Strongall　that　host　of　friends　imperishableyou　must　survive　with　Shakespeare　and　Cervantes　in　the　memory　and　affection　of　men。



LETTERTo　Charles　Dickens



Sir；It　has　been　said　that　every　man　is　born　a　Platonist　or　an　Aristotelian；　though　the　enormous　majority　of　us；　to　be　sure；　live　and　die　without　being　conscious　of　any　invidious　philosophic　partiality　whatever。　　With　more　truth　（though　that　does　not　imply　very　much）　every　Englishman　who　reads　may　be　said　to　be　a　partisan　of　yourself　or　of　Mr。　Thackeray。　　Why　should　there　be　any　partisanship　in　the　matter；　and　why；　having　two　such　good　things　as　your　novels　and　those　of　your　contemporary；　should　we　not　be　silently　happy　in　the　possession？　　Well；　men　are　made　so；　and　must　needs　fight　and　argue　over　their　tastes　in　enjoyment。　　For　myself；　I　may　say　that　in　this　matter　I　am　what　the　Americans　do　NOT　call　a　〃Mugwump；〃　what　English　politicians　dub　a　〃superior　person〃that　is；　I　take　no　side；　and　attempt　to　enjoy　the　best　of　both。

It　must　be　owned　that　this　attitude　is　sometimes　made　a　little　difficult　by　the　vigour　of　your　special　devotees。　　They　have　ceased；　indeed；　thank　Heaven！　to　imitate　you；　and　even　in　〃descriptive　articles〃　the　touch　of　Mr。　Gigadibs；　of　him　whom　〃we　almost　took　for　the　true　Dickens；〃　has　disappeared。　　The　young　lions　of　the　Press　no　long