Introduction

THIS lectureship is connected with the name of William George Clark, a fellow of Trinity. It is through him we meet today, and through him we shall approach our subject.

This lectureship is linked to William George Clark, a fellow of Trinity. We meet today because of him, and through him we will approach our subject.

Clark was, I believe, a Yorkshireman. He was born in 1821, was at school at Sedbergh and Shrewsbury, entered Trinity as an undergraduate in 1840, became fellow four years later, and made the college his home for nearly thirty years, only leaving it when his health broke, shortly before his death. He is best known as a Shakespearian scholar, but he published two books on other subjects to which we must here refer. He went as a young man to Spain and wrote a pleasant lively account of his holiday called Gazpacho: Gazpacho being the name of a certain cold soup which he ate and appears to have enjoyed among the peasants of Andalusia: indeed he appears to have enjoyed everything. Eight years later, as a result of a holiday in Greece, he published a second book, Peloponnesus. Peloponnesus is a graver work and a duller. Greece was a serious place in those days, more serious than Spain, besides, Clark had by now not only taken Orders but become Public Orator, and he was, above all, travelling with Dr. Thompson, the then Master of the college, who was not at all the sort of person to be involved in a cold soup. The jests about mules and fleas are consequently few, and we are increasingly confronted with the remains of Classical Antiquity and the sites of battles. What survives in the book—apart from its learning—is its feeling for Greek country-side. Clark also travelled in Italy and Poland.

Clark was, I believe, a Yorkshireman. He was born in 1821 and went to school at Sedbergh and Shrewsbury. He entered Trinity as an undergraduate in 1840 and became a fellow four years later. He made the college his home for nearly thirty years. He left only when his health failed, shortly before his death. He is best known as a Shakespeare scholar, but he published two books on other subjects that we must mention here. As a young man, he went to Spain and wrote a pleasant, lively account of his holiday called Gazpacho. Gazpacho was the name of a cold soup he ate among the peasants of Andalusia and apparently enjoyed. Indeed, he seems to have enjoyed everything. Eight years later, after a holiday in Greece, he published a second book, Peloponnesus. Peloponnesus is a more serious book, and a duller one. Greece was a serious place in those days, more serious than Spain. Besides, Clark had by then not only been ordained but also become Public Orator. Above all, he was travelling with Dr. Thompson, who was then Master of the college. Dr. Thompson was not at all the sort of person to get involved with a cold soup. Consequently, there are few jokes about mules and fleas. Instead, we increasingly find ourselves facing the remains of Classical Antiquity and the sites of battles. What endures in the book, apart from its scholarship, is its feeling for the Greek countryside. Clark also travelled in Italy and Poland.

To turn to his academic career. He planned the great Cambridge Shakespeare, first with Glover, then with Aldis Wright (both librarians of Trinity), and, helped by Aldis Wright, he issued the Globe Shakespeare, a popular text. He collected much material for an edition of Aristophanes. He also published some Sermons, but in 1869 he gave up Holy Orders—which, by the way, will exempt us from excessive orthodoxy. Like his friend and biographer Leslie Stephen, like Henry Sidgwick and others of that generation, he did not find it possible to remain in the Church, and he has explained his reasons in a pamphlet entitled The Present Dangers of the Church of England. He resigned his post of Public Orator in consequence, while retaining his college tutorship. He died at the age of fifty-seven, esteemed by all who knew him as a lovable, scholarly and honest man. You will have realized that he is a Cambridge figure. Not a figure in the great world or even at Oxford, but a spirit peculiar to these courts, which perhaps only you who tread them after him can justly appreciate: the spirit of integrity. Out of a bequest in his will, his old college has provided for a series of lectures, to be delivered annually "on some period or periods of English Literature not earlier than Chaucer," and that is why we meet here now.

Now for his academic career. He planned the great Cambridge Shakespeare, first with Glover, then with Aldis Wright. Both were librarians of Trinity. With Aldis Wright’s help, he also published the Globe Shakespeare, an edition for general readers. He gathered a great deal of material for an edition of Aristophanes. He also published some sermons, but in 1869 he gave up Holy Orders. His decision, by the way, will spare us excessive orthodoxy. Like his friend and biographer Leslie Stephen, Henry Sidgwick, and others of that generation, he felt unable to remain in the Church. He explained his reasons in a pamphlet called The Present Dangers of the Church of England. As a result, he resigned as Public Orator, but kept his college tutorship. He died at fifty-seven. All who knew him valued him as a lovable, scholarly, and honest man. You will have realized that he belongs to Cambridge. He was not a figure in the wider world, or even at Oxford. Instead, he embodied a spirit unique to these courts: the spirit of integrity. Perhaps only you who walk through these courts after him can fully appreciate that spirit. Using money he left in his will, his old college has arranged an annual lecture series. The lectures are to be "on some period or periods of English Literature not earlier than Chaucer." And that is why we meet here now.

Invocations are out of fashion, yet I wanted to make this small one, for two reasons. Firstly, may a little of Clark's integrity be with us through this course; and secondly, may he accord us a little inattention! For I am not keeping quite strictly to the terms laid down—"Period or periods of English Literature." This condition, though it sounds liberal and is liberal enough in spirit, happens verbally not quite to suit our subject, and I shall occupy the introductory lecture in explaining why this is. The points raised may seem trivial. But they will lead us to a convenient vantage post from which we can begin our main attack next week.

Invocations are out of fashion, yet I wanted to offer this small one for two reasons. First, may a little of Clark's integrity stay with us throughout this course. And second, may he pay us a little less attention! For I am not following the stated terms quite strictly: "Period or periods of English Literature." Although this requirement sounds broad and is broad enough in spirit, its wording does not quite fit our subject. I shall spend this introductory lecture explaining why the wording does not fit. The points I raise may seem trivial. But they will give us a useful vantage point from which to begin our main attack next week.

We need a vantage post, for the novel is a formidable mass, and it is so amorphous—no mountain in it to climb, no Parnassus or Helicon, not even a Pisgah. It is most distinctly one of the moister areas of literature—irrigated by a hundred rills and occasionally degenerating into a swamp. I do not wonder that the poets despise it, though they sometimes find themselves in it by accident. And I am not surprised at the annoyance of the historians when by accident it finds itself among them. Perhaps we ought to define what a novel is before starting. This will not take a second. M. Abel Chevalley has, in his brilliant little manual,¹ provided a definition, and if a French critic cannot define the English novel, who can? It is, he says, "a fiction in prose of a certain extent" (une fiction en prose d'une certaine étendue). That is quite good enough for us, and we may perhaps go so far as to add that the extent should not be less than 50,000 words. Any fictitious prose work over 50,000 words will be a novel for the purposes of these lectures, and if this seems to you unphilosophic will you think of an alternative definition, which will include The Pilgrim's Progress, Marius the Epicurean, The Adventures of a Younger Son, The Magic Flute, The Journal of the Plague, Zuleika Dobson, Rasselas, Ulysses, and Green Mansions, or else will give reasons for their exclusion? Parts of our spongy tract seem more fictitious than other parts, it is true: near the middle, on a tump of grass, stand Miss Austen with the figure of Emma by her side, and Thackeray holding up Esmond. But no intelligent remark known to me will define the tract as a whole. All we can say of it is that it is bounded by two chains of mountains neither of which rises very abruptly—the opposing ranges of Poetry and of History—and bounded on the third side by a sea—a sea that we shall encounter when we come to Moby Dick.

We need a vantage point, because the novel is a vast, shapeless mass. There is no mountain to climb, no Parnassus or Helicon, not even a Pisgah. The novel is certainly one of literature’s damper regions, watered by a hundred streams and occasionally turning into a swamp. I do not wonder that poets despise the novel, though they sometimes find themselves in it by accident. Nor am I surprised that historians are annoyed when the novel accidentally finds its way among them. Perhaps we should define a novel before we start. This will not take a second. M. Abel Chevalley has provided a definition in his brilliant little handbook,¹ and who better than a French critic to define the English novel? A novel, he says, is "a fiction in prose of a certain extent" (une fiction en prose d'une certaine étendue). That is quite good enough for us. Perhaps we may go so far as to add that the length should be at least 50,000 words. For these lectures, any fictional prose work over 50,000 words will count as a novel. If this definition seems unphilosophical to you, will you think of another? Your definition must include The Pilgrim's Progress, Marius the Epicurean, The Adventures of a Younger Son, The Magic Flute, The Journal of the Plague, Zuleika Dobson, Rasselas, Ulysses, and Green Mansions, or give reasons for leaving them out. Some parts of our spongy landscape do seem more fictional than others, it is true. Near the middle, on a grassy mound, stands Miss Austen with the figure of Emma beside her. Thackeray stands there too, holding up Esmond. But I know of no intelligent statement that defines the whole landscape. All we can say is that two mountain ranges border it, neither rising very steeply. These are the opposing ranges of Poetry and History. On the third side lies a sea, a sea we shall encounter when we come to Moby Dick.

Let us begin by considering the proviso "English Literature." "English" we shall of course interpret as written in English, not as published south of the Tweed or east of the Atlantic, or north of the Equator: we need not attend to geographical accidents, they can be left to the politicians. Yet, even with this interpretation, are we as free as we wish? Can we, while discussing English fiction, quite ignore fiction written in other languages, particularly French and Russian? As far as influence goes, we could ignore it, for our writers have never been much influenced by the continentals. But—for reasons soon to be explained—I want to talk as little as possible about influence during these lectures. My subject is a particular kind of book and the aspects that book has assumed in English. Can we ignore its collateral aspects on the continent? Not entirely. An unpleasant and unpatriotic truth has here to be faced. No English novelist is as great as Tolstoy—that is to say has given so complete a picture of man's life, both on its domestic and heroic side. No English novelist has explored man's soul as deeply as Dostoevsky. And no novelist anywhere has analysed the modern consciousness as successfully as Marcel Proust. Before these triumphs we must pause. English poetry fears no one—excels in quality as well as quantity. But English Action is less triumphant: it does not contain the best stuff yet written, and if we deny this we become guilty of provincialism.

Let us begin by considering the restriction "English Literature." We shall, of course, take "English" to mean written in English. It does not mean published south of the Tweed, east of the Atlantic, or north of the Equator. We need not concern ourselves with accidents of geography. We can leave those to the politicians. Yet even with this definition, are we as free as we would like? When discussing English fiction, can we completely ignore fiction written in other languages, particularly French and Russian? If we considered only influence, we could ignore such fiction. Our writers have never been much influenced by writers from continental Europe. But I want to discuss influence as little as possible during these lectures, for reasons I shall soon explain. My subject is a particular kind of book and the forms it has taken in English. Can we ignore the corresponding forms it has taken in continental Europe? Not entirely. Here we must face an unpleasant and unpatriotic truth. No English novelist is as great as Tolstoy. In other words, none has given so complete a picture of human life, both domestic and heroic. No English novelist has explored the human soul as deeply as Dostoevsky. And no novelist anywhere has analysed modern consciousness as successfully as Marcel Proust. We must pause before these achievements. English poetry need fear no rival. It excels in quality as well as quantity. But English fiction is less triumphant. It does not include the best work yet written, and if we deny this, we are guilty of provincialism.

Now, provincialism does not signify in a writer, and may indeed be the chief source of his strength: only a prig or a fool would complain that Defoe is cockneyfied or Thomas Hardy countrified. But provincialism in a critic is a serious fault. A critic has no right to the narrowness which is the frequent prerogative of the creative artist. He has to have a wide outlook or he has not anything at all. Although the novel exercises the rights of a created object, criticism has not those rights, and too many little mansions in English fiction have been acclaimed to their own detriment as important edifices. Take four at random: Cranford, The Heart of Midlothian, Jane Eyre, Richard Feverel. For various personal and local reasons we may be attached to these four books. Cranford radiates the humour of the urban midlands, Midlothian is a handful out of Edinburgh, Jane Eyre is the passionate dream of a fine but still undeveloped woman. Richard Feverel exudes farmhouse lyricism and flickers with modish wit, but all four are little mansions, not mighty edifices, and we shall see and respect them for what they are if we stand them for an instant in the colonnades of War and Peace, or the vaults of The Brothers Karamazov.

Now, a narrow local outlook is no fault in a writer and may even be his greatest strength. Only a snob or a fool would complain that Defoe is too Cockney or Thomas Hardy too rural. But a narrow local outlook is a serious fault in a critic. A critic has no right to the narrowness that creative artists are often entitled to. He must have a broad outlook, or he has nothing at all. Although the novel enjoys the freedoms of a creative work, criticism does not. Too many little mansions in English fiction have been praised as grand buildings, to those books’ own disadvantage. Take four at random: Cranford, The Heart of Midlothian, Jane Eyre, Richard Feverel. We may be attached to these four books for various personal and local reasons. Cranford radiates the humour of the urban midlands. Midlothian is a handful of Edinburgh. Jane Eyre is the passionate dream of a fine woman who is still not fully developed. Richard Feverel brims with farmhouse lyricism and flashes with fashionable wit. But all four are little mansions, not mighty buildings. We will see and respect these books for what they are if we briefly place them beside greater works: among the colonnades of War and Peace, or beneath the vaults of The Brothers Karamazov.

I shall not often refer to foreign novels in these lectures, still less would I pose as an expert on them who is debarred from discussing them by his terms of reference. But I do want to emphasize their greatness before we start; to cast, so to speak, this preliminary shadow over our subject, so that when we look back on it at the end we may have the better chance of seeing it in its true lights.

I will not often refer to foreign novels in these lectures. Still less would I pretend to be an expert kept from discussing them by the limits of these lectures. But I do want to emphasize their greatness before we begin. I want, so to speak, to cast this initial shadow over our subject. That way, when we look back on our subject at the end, we may see it in a truer light.

So much for the proviso "English." Now for a more important proviso, that of "period or periods." This idea of a period of a development in time, with its consequent emphasis on influences and schools, happens to be exactly what I am hoping to avoid during our brief survey, and I believe that the author of Gazpacho will be lenient. Time, all the way through, is to be our enemy. We are to visualize the English novelists not as floating down that stream which bears all its sons away unless they are careful, but as seated together in a room, a circular room, a sort of British Museum reading-room—all writing their novels simultaneously. They do not, as they sit there, think "I live under Queen Victoria, I under Anne, I carry on the tradition of Trollope, I am reacting against Aldous Huxley." The fact that their pens are in their hands is far more vivid to them. They are half mesmerized, their sorrows and joys are pouring out through the ink, they are approximated by the act of creation, and when Professor Oliver Elton says, as he does, that "after 1847 the novel of passion was never to be the same again," none of them understand what he means. That is to be our vision of them—an imperfect vision, but it is suited to our powers, it will preserve us from a serious danger, the danger of pseudo-scholarship.

So much for the qualification "English." Now for a more important qualification, "period or periods." The idea of a period means development over time, with an emphasis on influences and schools of writing. That is exactly what I hope to avoid in our brief survey. I believe the author of Gazpacho will be lenient. Time is to be our enemy throughout. We are not to picture English novelists floating down the stream that carries all its sons away unless they are careful. Instead, we are to imagine them sitting together in a circular room, something like the British Museum reading-room. They are all writing their novels at the same time. As they sit there, they do not think "I live under Queen Victoria, I under Anne, I carry on the tradition of Trollope, I am reacting against Aldous Huxley." They are much more aware of the pens in their hands. They are half hypnotized, and their sorrows and joys pour out through the ink. The act of creation brings them close together. Professor Oliver Elton says that "after 1847 the novel of passion was never to be the same again," but none of them understand what he means. That is how we are to picture these novelists. The picture is imperfect, but it suits our abilities. It will protect us from a serious danger, the danger of false scholarship.

Genuine scholarship is one of the highest successes which our race can achieve. No one is more triumphant than the man who chooses a worthy subject and masters all its facts and the leading facts of the subjects neighbouring. He can then do what he likes. He can, if his subject is the novel, lecture on it chronologically if he wishes because he has read all the important novels of the past four centuries, many of the unimportant ones, and has adequate knowledge of any collateral facts that bear upon English fiction. The late Sir Walter Raleigh (who once held this lectureship) was such a scholar. Raleigh knew so many facts that he was able to proceed to influences, and his monograph on the English novel adopts the treatment by period which his unworthy successor must avoid. The scholar, like the philosopher, can contemplate the river of time. He contemplates it not as a whole, but he can see the facts, the personalities, floating past him, and estimate the relations between them, and if his conclusions could be as valuable to us as they are to himself he would long ago have civilized the human race. As you know, he has failed. True scholarship is incommunicable, true scholars rare. There are a few scholars, actual or potential, in the audience today, but only a few, and there is certainly none on the platform. Most of us are pseudo-scholars, and I want to consider our characteristics with sympathy and respect, for we are a very large and quite a powerful class, eminent in Church and State, we control the education of the Empire, we lend to the Press such distinction as it consents to receive, and we are a welcome asset at dinner-parties.

Genuine scholarship is one of humanity’s highest achievements. No one achieves a greater triumph than someone who chooses a worthy subject and masters all its facts. They must also master the main facts of related subjects. Then they can do as they please. If their subject is the novel, they can lecture on it chronologically if they wish. They can do so because they have read all the important novels of the past four centuries. They have also read many unimportant ones and know enough about any related facts relevant to English fiction. The late Sir Walter Raleigh was such a scholar. He once held this lectureship. Raleigh knew so many facts that he could go on to examine influences. His study of the English novel takes a period-by-period approach, which his unworthy successor must avoid. Like the philosopher, the scholar can contemplate the river of time. The scholar cannot see the river as a whole. But the facts and personalities float past, and the scholar can assess their relationships. If scholars’ conclusions could be as valuable to us as to the scholars themselves, they would have civilized humanity long ago. As you know, scholars have failed. True scholarship cannot be passed on, and true scholars are rare. There are a few scholars, actual or potential, in the audience today, but only a few. There is certainly no scholar on the platform. Most of us are pseudo-scholars, and I want to consider our characteristics with sympathy and respect. After all, we are a very large and quite powerful class, prominent in Church and State. We control the education of the Empire. We lend the Press as much distinction as the Press agrees to accept. And we are welcome guests at dinner parties.

Pseudo-scholarship is, on its good side, the homage paid by ignorance to learning. It also has an economic side, on which we need not be hard. Most of us must get a job before thirty, or sponge on our relatives, and many jobs can only be got by passing an exam. The pseudo-scholar often does well in examination (real scholars are not much good), and even when he fails he appreciates their innate majesty. They are gateways to employment, they have power to ban and bless. A paper on King Lear may lead somewhere, unlike the rather far-fetched play of the same name. It may be a stepping-stone to the Local Government Board. He does not often put it to himself openly and say "That's the use of knowing things, they help you to get on." The economic pressure he feels is more often subconscious, and he goes to his exam, merely feeling that a paper on King Lear is a very tempestuous and terrible experience but an intensely real one. And whether he be cynical or naïf, he is not to be blamed. As long as learning is connected with earning, as long as certain jobs can only be reached through exams, so long must we take the examination system seriously. If another ladder to employment was contrived, much so-called education would disappear, and no one be a penny the stupider.

At its best, pseudo-scholarship is ignorance paying tribute to learning. It also has an economic side, and we need not judge that harshly. Most of us must get a job before thirty or live off our relatives. And many jobs can only be got by passing an exam. The pseudo-scholar often does well in exams (real scholars are not much good at them). Even when he fails, he appreciates the inherent majesty of exams. Exams are gateways to employment, with the power to shut people out or grant them success. An exam paper on King Lear may lead somewhere, unlike the rather far-fetched play of the same name. The paper may be a stepping-stone to the Local Government Board. The pseudo-scholar does not often tell himself openly, "That's the use of knowing things, they help you to get on." The economic pressure he feels is more often subconscious. He goes to his exam simply feeling that a paper on King Lear is a stormy and terrifying experience. But he feels it is an intensely real experience. And whether he is cynical or naïve, he is not to blame. As long as learning is connected with earning, and certain jobs are accessible only through exams, we must take exams seriously. If another route to employment were devised, much so-called education would disappear, and no one would be any less intelligent.

It is when he comes to criticism—to a job like the present—that he can be so pernicious, because he follows the method of a true scholar without having his equipment. He classes books before he has understood or read them; that is his first crime. Classification by chronology. Books written before 1847, books written after it, books written after or before 1848. The novel in the reign of Queen Anne, the pre-novel, the ur-novel, the novel of the future. Classification by subject matter—sillier still. The literature of Inns, beginning with Tom Jones; the literature of the Women's Movement, beginning with Shirley; the literature of Desert Islands, from Robinson Crusoe to The Blue Lagoon; the literature of Rogues—dreariest of all, though the Open Road runs it pretty close; the literature of Sussex (perhaps the most devoted of the Home Counties); improper books—a serious though dreadful branch of enquiry, only to be pursued by pseudo-scholars of riper years, novels relating to industrialism, aviation, chiropody, the weather. I include the weather on the authority of the most amazing work on the novel that I have met for many years. It came over the Atlantic to me, nor shall I ever forget it. It was a literary manual entitled Materials and Methods of Fiction. The writer's name shall be concealed. He was a pseudo-scholar and a good one. He classified novels by their dates, their length, their locality, their sex, their point of view, till no more seemed possible. But he still had the weather up his sleeve, and when he brought it out, it had nine heads. He gave an example under each head, for he was anything but slovenly, and we will run through his list. In the first place the weather can be "decorative," as in Pierre Loti; then "utilitarian," as in The Mill on the Floss (no Floss, no Mill; no Mill, no Tullivers); "illustrative," as in The Egoist; "planned in pre-established harmony," as by Fiona MacLeod; "in emotional contrast," as in The Master of Ballantrae; "determinative of action," as in a certain Kipling story, where a man proposes to the wrong girl on account of a mud storm; "a controlling influence," Richard Feverel; "itself a hero," like Vesuvius in The Days of Pompeii; and ninethly, it can be "non-existent," as in a nursery tale. I liked him flinging in non-existence. It made everything so scientific and trim. But he himself remained a little dissatisfied, and having finished his classification he said yes, of course there was one more thing, and that was genius; it was useless for a novelist to know that there are nine sorts of weather, unless he has genius also. Cheered by this reflection, he classified novels by their tones. There are only two tones, personal and impersonal, and having given examples of each he grew pensive again and said, "Yes, but you must have genius too, or neither tone will profit."

When he turns to criticism, to a task like this one, he can do real harm. He follows a true scholar’s method without having a true scholar’s tools. He classifies books before he has understood or read them. That is his first crime. Classification by date. Books written before 1847, books written after 1847, books written after or before 1848. The novel in the reign of Queen Anne, the pre-novel, the ur-novel, the novel of the future. Classification by subject matter is sillier still. The literature of Inns, beginning with Tom Jones. The literature of the Women's Movement, beginning with Shirley. The literature of Desert Islands, from Robinson Crusoe to The Blue Lagoon. The literature of Rogues is the dreariest of all, though the Open Road comes pretty close. The literature of Sussex (perhaps the most devoted of the Home Counties). Indecent books form a serious though dreadful field of study, only for older pseudo-scholars. Novels about industrialism, aviation, foot care, the weather. I include the weather on the authority of the most amazing work on the novel I have encountered in years. The book came to me across the Atlantic, and I shall never forget it. It was a literary manual called Materials and Methods of Fiction. I shall conceal the writer’s name. He was a pseudo-scholar, and a good one. He classified novels by date, length, location, sex, and point of view, until no further classification seemed possible. But he still had the weather up his sleeve. When he brought the weather out, it had nine categories. He gave an example for each category, for he was anything but careless. Let us go through his list. First, the weather can be "decorative," as in Pierre Loti. Then "utilitarian," as in The Mill on the Floss (no Floss, no Mill, no Mill, no Tullivers). Then "illustrative," as in The Egoist. Then "planned in pre-established harmony," as by Fiona MacLeod. Then "in emotional contrast," as in The Master of Ballantrae. Then "determinative of action," as in a certain Kipling story. In that story, a man proposes to the wrong girl because of a mud storm. Then "a controlling influence," as in Richard Feverel. Then "itself a hero," like Vesuvius in The Days of Pompeii. And ninth, the weather can be "non-existent," as in a nursery tale. I liked his throwing in non-existence. That addition made everything so scientific and tidy. But the writer himself was still a little dissatisfied. After finishing his classification, he said yes, of course there was one more thing: genius. Knowing there are nine sorts of weather was useless to a novelist unless he also had genius. Encouraged by this thought, the writer classified novels by tone. There are only two tones, personal and impersonal. After giving examples of each, he grew thoughtful again and said, "Yes, but you must have genius too, or neither tone will profit."

This constant reference to genius is another characteristic of the pseudo-scholar. He loves mentioning genius, because the sound of the word exempts him from trying to discover its meaning. Literature is written by geniuses. Novelists are geniuses. There we are; now let us classify them. Which he does. Everything he says may be accurate but all is useless because he is moving round books instead of through them, he either has not read them or cannot read them properly. Books have to be read (worse luck, for it takes a long time); it is the only way of discovering what they contain. A few savage tribes eat them, but reading is the only method of assimilation revealed to the west. The reader must sit down alone and struggle with the writer, and this the pseudo-scholar will not do. He would rather relate a book to the history of its time, to events in the life of its author, to the events it describes, above all to some tendency. As soon as he can use the word "tendency" his spirits rise, and though those of his audience may sink, they often pull out their pencils at this point and make a note, under the belief that a tendency is portable.

Constant references to genius are another feature of the pseudo-scholar. He loves mentioning genius because saying the word saves him from trying to discover what it means. Literature is written by geniuses. Novelists are geniuses. There we are. Now let us classify them. And he does. Everything he says may be accurate, but all of it is useless because he moves around books, not through them. He either has not read them or cannot read them properly. Books have to be read. Unfortunately, reading takes a long time, but it is the only way to discover what books contain. A few tribes described as savage eat books, but reading is the only method of absorbing them known to the West. The reader must sit down alone and struggle with the writer, and the pseudo-scholar refuses to do so. He would rather connect a book to the history of its time or to events in its author's life. Or he connects it to the events it describes and, above all, to some tendency. As soon as he can use the word "tendency", his spirits rise. And though his audience's spirits may sink, they often pull out their pencils at this point and make a note. They believe a tendency is something they can carry away.

That is why, in the rather ramshackly course that lies ahead of us, we cannot consider fiction by periods, we must not contemplate the stream of time. Another image better suits our powers: that of all the novelists writing their novels at once. They come from different ages and ranks, they have different temperaments and aims, but they all hold pens in their hands, and are in the process of creation. Let us look over their shoulders for a moment and see what they are writing. It may exorcise that demon of chronology which is at present our enemy and which (we shall discover next week) is sometimes their enemy too. "Oh, what quenchless feud is this, that Time hath with the sons of men," cries Herman Melville, and the feud goes on not only in life and death but in the by-ways of literary creation and criticism. Let us avoid it by imagining that all the novelists are at work together in a circular room. I shall not mention their names until we have heard their words, because a name brings associations with it, dates, gossip, all the furniture of the method we are discarding.

That is why, in the rather loosely organized course ahead, we cannot study fiction by historical period. We must not focus on the stream of time. Another image is better suited to our abilities: all the novelists writing their novels at once. They come from different ages and social ranks, and they have different temperaments and aims. But they all hold pens in their hands and are in the act of creating. Let us look over their shoulders for a moment and see what they are writing. Looking may drive out the demon of chronology, our enemy for now. As we shall discover next week, chronology is sometimes the novelists’ enemy too. "Oh, what an endless feud Time has with the sons of men," cries Herman Melville. And the feud continues not only in life and death, but in the back roads of literary creation and criticism. Let us avoid that feud by imagining all the novelists at work together in a circular room. I shall not mention their names until we have heard their words. A name brings associations, dates, and gossip, all the baggage of the method we are abandoning.

They have been instructed to group themselves in pairs. We approach the first pair, and read as follows:—

They have been told to form pairs. We approach the first pair and read the following:

It is obvious that here sit two novelists who are looking at life from much the same angle, yet the first of them is Samuel Richardson, and the second you will have already identified as Henry James. Each is an anxious rather than an ardent psychologist. Each is sensitive to suffering and appreciates self-sacrifice; each falls short of the tragic, though a close approach is made. A sort of tremulous nobility—that is the spirit that dominates them—and oh how well they write!—not a word out of place in their copious flows. A hundred and fifty years of time divide them, but are not they close together in other ways, and may not their neighbourliness profit us? Of course as I say this I hear Henry James beginning to express his regret—no, not his regret but his surprise—no, not even his surprise but his awareness that neighbourliness is being postulated of him, and postulated, must he add, in relation to a shopkeeper. And I hear Richardson, equally cautious, wondering whether any writer born outside England can be chaste. But these are surface differences, are indeed no differences at all, but additional points of contact. We leave them sitting in harmony, and proceed to our next pair.

Clearly, these two novelists look at life from much the same angle. Yet the first is Samuel Richardson, and you will already have recognized the second as Henry James. Both explore the mind with anxiety rather than passion. Both are sensitive to suffering and value self-sacrifice. Both fall short of tragedy, though they come close. A kind of trembling nobility is their ruling spirit. And oh, how well they write! Not a word is out of place in their abundant prose. A hundred and fifty years separate them. But aren’t they close in other ways, and might we not benefit from seeing them as neighbours? Of course, as I say this, I hear Henry James beginning to express his regret. No, not his regret, but his surprise. No, not even his surprise, but his awareness that he is being described as someone’s neighbour. And the neighbour in question, he must add, is a shopkeeper. And I hear Richardson, equally cautious, wondering whether any writer born outside England can be chaste. But these are surface differences. Indeed, they are not differences at all, but further points of similarity. We leave the two sitting in harmony and move on to our next pair.

These two funerals did not by any means happen on the same day. One is the funeral of Mr. Polly's father (1920), the other the funeral of Mrs. Gargery in Great Expectations (1860). Yet Wells and Dickens are describing them from the same point of view and even using the same tricks of style (cf. the two vases and the two decanters). They are, both, humorists and visualizers who get an effect by cataloguing details and whisking the page over irritably. They are generous-minded; they hate shams and enjoy being indignant about them; they are valuable social reformers; they have no notion of confining books to a library shelf. Sometimes the lively surface of their prose scratches like a cheap gramophone record, a certain poorness of quality appears, and the face of the author draws rather too near to that of the reader. In other words, neither of them has much taste: the world of beauty was largely closed to Dickens, and is entirely closed to Wells. And there are other parallels—for instance their method of drawing character, but that we shall examine later on. And perhaps the great difference between them is the difference of opportunity offered to an obscure boy of genius a hundred years ago and to a similar boy forty years ago. The difference is all in Wells' favour. He is far better educated than his predecessor; in particular the addition of science has strengthened his mind out of recognition and subdued his hysteria. He registers an improvement in society: Dotheboys Hall has been superseded by the Polytechnic. But he does not register any change in the novelist's art.

These two funerals certainly did not happen on the same day. One is the funeral of Mr. Polly's father (1920), the other the funeral of Mrs. Gargery in Great Expectations (1860). Yet Wells and Dickens describe the funerals from the same point of view, even using the same stylistic tricks. (Compare the two vases and the two decanters.) Both are humorists who bring scenes to life visually, creating effects by listing details and impatiently turning the page. Both are generous-minded. They hate shams and enjoy expressing their outrage at them. They are valuable social reformers and have no intention of keeping books confined to library shelves. Sometimes their lively prose scratches like a cheap gramophone record, revealing a certain lack of quality. The author's face comes rather too close to the reader's. In other words, neither writer has much taste. The world of beauty was largely closed to Dickens, and is entirely closed to Wells. There are other parallels, such as their way of creating characters, but we shall examine those later. And perhaps the greatest difference between them lies in the opportunities available to an unknown boy of genius. Those opportunities were different a hundred years ago from those available to a similar boy forty years ago. The difference is entirely in Wells' favour. He is far better educated than his predecessor. In particular, his scientific education has strengthened his mind beyond recognition and calmed his hysteria. Wells reflects an improvement in society: Dotheboys Hall has been replaced by the Polytechnic. But he reflects no change in the novelist's art.

What about our next pair?

What about our next pair?

The passage last quoted is, of course, out of Tristram Shandy. The other passage was from Virginia Woolf. She and Sterne are both fantasists. They start with a little object, take a flutter from it, and settle on it again. They combine a humorous appreciation of the muddle of life with a keen sense of its beauty. There is even the same tone in their voices—a rather deliberate bewilderment, an announcement to all and sundry that they do not know where they are going. No doubt their scales of value are not the same. Sterne is a sentimentalist, Virginia Woolf (except perhaps in her latest work, To the Lighthouse) is extremely aloof. Nor are their achievements on the same scale. But their medium is similar, the same odd effects are obtained by it, the parlour door is never mended, the mark on the wall turns out to be a snail, life is such a muddle, oh, dear, the will is so weak, the sensations fidgety—philosophy—God—oh, dear, look at the mark—listen to the door—existence is really too ... what were we saying?

The last passage quoted is, of course, from Tristram Shandy. The other passage was from Virginia Woolf. She and Sterne are both fantasists. They start with a small object, flutter away from it, and settle on it again. They combine a humorous appreciation of life’s muddle with a sharp sense of its beauty. Even their voices have the same tone: a rather deliberate bewilderment. Both announce to anyone and everyone that they do not know where they are going. No doubt they value different things. Sterne is a sentimentalist. Virginia Woolf is extremely detached, except perhaps in her latest work, To the Lighthouse. Nor are their achievements on the same scale. But their medium is similar, and it produces the same odd effects. The parlour door is never repaired. The mark on the wall turns out to be a snail. Life is such a muddle, oh, dear, the will is so weak, the sensations so restless. Philosophy, God, oh, dear, look at the mark, listen to the door. Existence is really too ... what were we saying?

Does not chronology seem less important now that we have visualized six novelists at their jobs? If the novel develops, is it not likely to develop on different lines from the British Constitution, or even the Women's Movement? I say "even the Women's Movement" because there happened to be a close association between fiction in England and that movement during the nineteenth century—a connection so close that it has misled some critics into thinking it an organic connection. As women bettered their position the novel, they asserted, became better too. Quite wrong. A mirror does not develop because an historical pageant passes in front of it. It only develops when it gets a fresh coat of quicksilver—in other words, when it acquires new sensitiveness; and the novel's success lies in its own sensitiveness, not in the success of its subject matter. Empires fall, votes are accorded, but to those people writing in the circular room it is the feel of the pen between their fingers that matters most. They may decide to write a novel upon the French or the Russian Revolution, but memories, associations, passions, rise up and cloud their objectivity, so that at the close, when they re-read, some one else seems to have been holding their pen and to have relegated their theme to the background. That "some one else" is their self no doubt, but not the self that is so active in time and lives under George IV or V. All through history writers while writing have felt more or less the same. They have entered a common state which it is convenient to call inspiration,² and having regard to that state, we may say that History develops, Art stands still.

Doesn’t chronology seem less important now that we have pictured six novelists at work? If the novel develops, isn’t it likely to develop differently from the British Constitution, or even the Women's Movement? I say "even the Women's Movement" because fiction in England and that movement were closely linked during the nineteenth century. The connection was so close that some critics mistakenly thought the two were naturally bound together. As women improved their position, those critics claimed, the novel improved too. Quite wrong. A mirror does not develop because a historical pageant passes in front of it. The mirror develops only when it gets a fresh coating of mercury, in other words, when it gains new sensitivity. And the novel’s success lies in its own sensitivity, not in the success of its subject matter. Empires fall, voting rights are granted, but what matters most to those writers in the circular room is different. It is the feel of the pen between their fingers. They may decide to write a novel about the French or the Russian Revolution. But memories, associations, and passions rise up and cloud their objectivity. So when they finish and reread their work, someone else seems to have held their pen and pushed their theme into the background. That "someone else" is undoubtedly their own self, but not the self so active in time, living under George IV or V. Throughout history, writers at work have felt more or less the same. They have entered a shared state that we can conveniently call inspiration,² and with that state in mind, we may say: History develops, Art stands still.

History develops, Art stands still, is a crude motto, indeed it is almost a slogan, and though forced to adopt it we must not do so without admitting it vulgarily. It contains only a partial truth.

History develops, Art stands still is a crude motto. In fact, the motto is almost a slogan. Though we are forced to adopt it, we must acknowledge its crudeness. The motto contains only a partial truth.

It debars us in the first place from considering whether the human mind alters from generation to generation; whether, for instance, Thomas Deloney, who wrote humorously about shops and pubs in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, differs fundamentally from his modern representative—who would be some one of the calibre of Neil Lyons or Pett Ridge. As a matter of fact Deloney did not differ; differed as an individual, but not fundamentally, not because he lived four hundred years ago. Four thousand, fourteen thousand years might give us pause, but four hundred years is nothing in the life of our race, and does not allow room for any measurable change. So our slogan here is no practical hindrance. We can chant it without shame.

First, it prevents us from considering whether the human mind changes from generation to generation. For example, Thomas Deloney wrote humorously about shops and pubs during the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Does he differ fundamentally from his modern counterpart, who would be someone of the calibre of Neil Lyons or Pett Ridge? In fact, Deloney did not differ fundamentally. He differed as an individual, but not because he lived four hundred years ago. Four thousand or fourteen thousand years might make us pause. But four hundred years is nothing in the life of the human race, allowing no room for any measurable change. So our slogan presents no practical obstacle here. We can chant the slogan without shame.

It is more serious when we turn to the development of tradition and see what we lose through being debarred from examining that. Apart from schools and influences and fashions, there has been a technique in English fiction, and this does alter from generation to generation. The technique of laughing at characters for instance: to smoke and to rag are not identical; the Elizabethan humorist picks up his victim in a different way from the modern, raises his laugh by other tricks. Or the technique of fantasy: Virginia Woolf, though her aim and general effect both resemble Sterne's, differs from him in execution; she belongs to the same tradition but to a later phase of it. Or the technique of conversation: in my pairs of examples I could not include a couple of dialogues, though I wanted to, for the reason that the use of the "he said" and "she said" varies so much through the centuries that it colours its surroundings, and though the speakers may be similarly conceived they will not seem so in an extract. Well, we cannot examine questions like these, and must admit we are the poorer, though we can abandon the development of subject matter and the development of the human race without regret. Literary tradition is the borderland lying between literature and history, and the well-equipped critic will spend much time there and enrich his judgment accordingly. We cannot go there because we have not read enough. We must pretend it belongs to history and cut it off accordingly. We must refuse to have anything to do with chronology.

The loss is more serious when we consider how literary tradition develops and what we miss by not examining it. Beyond schools, influences, and fashions, English fiction has techniques that change from generation to generation. Take the technique of laughing at characters. Mocking someone to expose their absurdities is not the same as teasing them. The Elizabethan humorist approaches his victim differently from the modern humorist and uses different tricks to get a laugh. Or take the technique of fantasy. Virginia Woolf resembles Sterne in both her aim and her overall effect, but differs in how she achieves them. She belongs to the same tradition, but to a later stage of it. Or take the technique of conversation. I wanted to include two dialogues among my paired examples, but could not. The use of "he said" and "she said" changes so much over the centuries that it affects the surrounding text. So although the speakers may be imagined in similar ways, they will not seem similar in an extract. Well, we cannot examine questions like these, and must admit that we lose something by leaving them out. Yet we can leave aside changes in subject matter and the development of the human race without regret. Literary tradition is the borderland between literature and history. A well-prepared critic will spend much time there, making his judgment richer as a result. We cannot go there because we have not read enough. We must pretend literary tradition belongs to history and exclude it on that basis. We must refuse to have anything to do with chronology.

Let me quote here for our comfort from my immediate predecessor in this lectureship, Mr. T. S. Eliot. Mr. Eliot enumerates, in the introduction to The Sacred Wood, the duties of the critic. "It is part of his business to preserve tradition—when a good tradition exists. It is part of his business to see literature steadily and to see it whole; and this is eminently to see it not as consecrated by time, but to see it beyond time." The first duty we cannot perform, the second we must try to perform. We can neither examine nor preserve tradition. But we can visualize the novelists as sitting in one room, and force them, by our very ignorance, from the limitations of date and place. I think that is worth doing, or I should not have ventured to undertake this course.

For our comfort, let me quote Mr. T. S. Eliot, who held this lectureship immediately before me. In the introduction to The Sacred Wood, Mr. Eliot lists the critic’s duties. "Part of his job is to preserve tradition, when a good tradition exists. Part of his job is to see literature clearly and as a whole. Above all, this means seeing literature not as made sacred by time, but as existing beyond time." We cannot carry out the first duty, but we must try to carry out the second. We can neither examine nor preserve tradition. But we can picture the novelists sitting in one room. Through our very ignorance, we can force them out of the limits of time and place. I think this exercise is worth doing, or I would not have dared to give this course.

How then are we to attack the novel—that spongy tract, those fictions in prose of a certain extent which extend so indeterminately? Not with any elaborate apparatus. Principles and systems may suit other forms of art, but they cannot be applicable here—or if applied their results must be subjected to re-examination. And who is the re-examiner? Well, I am afraid it will be the human heart, it will be this man-to-man business, justly suspect in its cruder forms. The final test of a novel will be our affection for it, as it is the test of our friends, and of anything else which we cannot define. Sentimentality—to some a worse demon than chronology—will lurk in the background saying, "Oh, but I like that," "Oh, but that doesn't appeal to me," and all I can promise is that sentimentality shall not speak too loudly or too soon. The intensely, stiflingly human quality of the novel is not to be avoided; the novel is sogged with humanity; there is no escaping the uplift or the downpour, nor can they be kept out of criticism. We may hate humanity, but if it is exorcised or even purified the novel wilts, little is left but a bunch of words.

How, then, should we approach the novel, that spongy territory of prose fiction whose length is so hard to pin down? Not with any elaborate tools. Principles and systems may suit other art forms, but they cannot apply here. Or if we do apply them, we must re-examine the results. And who will do the re-examining? Well, I am afraid the human heart will. We will rely on personal responses, rightly distrusted in their cruder forms. The final test of a novel will be our affection for it. We judge our friends in the same way, and anything else we cannot define. Sentimentality, a worse demon than chronology for some, will lurk in the background. It will say, "Oh, but I like that," "Oh, but that doesn't appeal to me." All I can promise is that sentimentality will not speak too loudly or too soon. We cannot avoid the novel's intensely, suffocatingly human quality. The novel is soaked in humanity. There is no escaping the uplift or the downpour, and neither can be kept out of criticism. We may hate humanity, but if humanity is driven out or even purified, the novel wilts. Little remains but a bunch of words.

And I have chosen the title "Aspects" because it is unscientific and vague, because it leaves us the maximum of freedom, because it means both the different ways we can look at a novel and the different ways a novelist can look at his work. And the aspects selected for discussion are seven in number: The Story; People; The Plot; Fantasy; Prophecy; Pattern and Rhythm.

And I chose the title "Aspects" because it is unscientific and vague, giving us the greatest possible freedom. The title also refers both to different ways we can look at a novel and to how novelists view their work. I have chosen seven aspects to discuss: The Story, People, The Plot, Fantasy, Prophecy, Pattern and Rhythm.