VIOLENCE IN LITERATURE.

Dominion, Volume 2, Issue 312, 26 September 1908, Page 14

VIOLENCE IN LITERATURE.

In the "Glasgow Herald" Walter Lennart'l expresses his dislike of "a certain quality which belongs to a great deal of modern letters." "The main characteristic of that whioh appeals to the present generation," ho says, "whether in novols or in poetry—in rlrama also," and to some extent in essay writing— is a certain crude and harsh violenco, a desjierate .desiro to produce m olfcct, ind to

produca it in such a masterful fashion that the nerves tingle with the strain. Hero aro four volumes of the collected works of William Ernest Heiilcy, out of. which I am mainly interested >in the poetic portion. Hero arc tho novels of 'the successful writers —men like Joseph Conrad, Edwin I'ugh, SB I B Jn <>}o.iai oi[Ai uciu oqq—uosuiotc Jnqq.iv of Mean essays and discussions of Mr. Bart ICennody; somo of the writings, too, of Mr. H. G. Wells. There is also, over and above these, the work, botlx_ in poetry and prose, of Mr. Rudyard Kipling—the swashbuckler of genius. Heaven knows how much these writers differ from one another ill their ideals, in tho quality of their writing, in tho nature of their talents, as well, doubtless, as in their popularity. But I think they exhibit one common quality. They are rough and passionate; they strike masterful blows; they exhibit unrestrained emotion; they-paint with a big brush. I cannot imagine any of them writing with a quill pen; they probably use typewriters and fountain pens —all those appliances for saving labour and urging a mad career without stint or pause. Tho French adjective 'criard' reprosentes the effects they produce —gaudy, melodramatic, showy, creating conviction by their unblushing intensity, never winning their way by swoet unreasonableness, but forcing us to agreo with them at the point of .their literary pistols." Henley is cited as. a specially notable exponent of this violence iu letters, and tho novelists are then dealt with. "It is unnecessary perhaps to refer in any detail ■to Rudyard Kikling, jvhoso very excellence in literature sometimes suggests that there cannot be all the difference we aro apt to imagine between the literary and the journalistic spirt. For Kipling, surely; is modern journalism iucarnate-r-with its sensationalism, its terrific headlines, its glaring exhibition of vehemence, its extravagance of superlatives, 'its incapacity for argument. I am not.thinking for the moment of the bet-' ter side of Rudyard Kipling. He is not only of .course the prophet of Imperialism, which in itself is a good thing, but now and again he suddenly astonishes us with a tenderness of his own, tho tenderness, for instance, of the beautiful little story, entitled 'They,' or tho modesty of so wonderful a hymn as that which he calles 'The ■ Recessional.' But 110 one can deny the harshness of Kipling, the violent language, tho crudity of effect, the jnelodramafcie zeal of a man who, because ho has got to say something, shouts it out at the top of his voice. Some people have admired 'The Light that Failed ; to me, it is a glaring example of tho defects of Kipling's. method. Its pathos is not persuasiye, it makes ,oue ashamed of one's tears, it has none of the beautiful dignity and reserve of the highest tragedy. And sometimes there is sheer brutality in Kipling—brutal love of bloodshed and war, such as came out overand over again jn his letters from South Africa, where ho talked of 'battues' and 'drives,' and 'bags,' as though it were not human .life with which he was dealing, hut the animal spoils of a hunter. Of course tho defence is that all this is manly. Yet everyone knows who has had tho privilege of talking to, tho warriors who have mado their name in tho world, that for tho most part they are tender-hearted, sensitive, merciful men, who only, do violent things becausc they know that weakness in times of crisis is itho most cruel thing' of all, and leads to tho longest chain of suffering. But Kipling has framed himself on Napoleon, a barbarian of genius, who is an exception in this matter as he is in nearly ■ everything else. . "If it wero not tedious -I could produce much material and illustration of the particular tendency with which I am dealing. Thero aro, for instance, 'The Tales of Mean Streets,' which were received with, a chorus of applause, to a largo extpnt w/ill deserved. Everybody is to be praised who refuses to accept tho. conventional view and, tries to look, at things for himself. The majority of us of course never seb at all; wo take for grant-pd--a stupid posture only bred on tho dreary levels- of conventionality. By all means let Arthur- Morrison seo for himself, and if ho discovers things which mako a .strong and vivid appeal j:o him, let him tell us what they are in a language which will mako us listen. But ,wbat an extraordinary fact it is, that, to somo minds, especially t-o 'those who have made for thcnjsolvos a considerable reputation in our later days, the ,only aspect which appeals is sheer ugliness 1 A young man when lie begins to write poetry is nearly always a confirmed pessimist. Pessimism is the privilege of youth, and we smile when some juvenilo hierophant of the muses discovers that this is tho worst of all possiblp worlds. But what is forgiven to tender years becoraop a more serious thing when it is tho settled poso of a novelist writing about a groat city. There is probably nothing in the whole of the world which is unredeemablv ugly. If that is a paradox, lot us put it in. a slightly different fashion. No artist ,cau ever see anything without bringing into it something of his Own mind, spirit, and temper, which adds to what ho sees p. grace not.his own. Wo aro all secretly worshipping beauty in our different ways, though one -man will find it in an unsparing realism-and another in a romantic idealism. If a man' does not possess tlio senso of beauty he is something li.ko.a monster, and there is only ono worse tliinig that can happen to him—to bo devoid of the senso of humour. After alLthese thousands of years that men havo lived'on the face of the globe, after all tho reckless complaints of tho injustice and cruelty of nsture. and tho obscuro despotism of fate, it still remains' truo that ..the poet will sing and tlm artist will, paint, and tho man of the widest experience will find that life in itself has a genuine valuo exactly corresponding to his own <juick receptivity of imnression and his sensitive realisation of good."