A. C. BENSON.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 19529, 11 July 1925, Page 4

A. C. BENSON.

EYERY-DAY ESSAYIST. By Constant Reader. Arthur Christopher Benson may be regarded as a pioneer in what can bo called the art of everyday essay writing—an art in which he has had hosts of imitators, notably Richard King and “Alpha of tho Plough,” The every-day essay is distinguished from tho literary essay in its dealing with everyday things and in its appeal to a latent religious instinct found almost universally in the middle-class mind. Mr Benson certainly prepared himself for his essay writing by serving an apprenticeship to poetry—indeed, many of his poems are essays in little. Take, for instance, “My Will.” Of its five stanzas I quote three, the final one being peculiarly applicable to A. C. Benson’s recent departure:— I would live, if I had my will. In an old stone range on a Yorkshire hill; Ivy-encircled, lichen streaked. Low and mullioned, gable-peaked, With a velvet lawn, and a hedge of yew. An apple orchard to saunter through, Hyacinth-scented in spring’s clear prime. And rich with roses in summer time. And a waft of heather over tho hill, Had I my will! Then in the winter, when gusts pipe thin, By a clear fire would I sit within, Warm and dry in the ingle-nook, Reading at ease in a good grave book; Under tho lamp, as I sideways bend, I’d scan tho face of my well-loved friend ; Writing my verses with careless speed, One at least would bo pleased to read; Thus sweet leisure my days should fill, Had I my will! Then when the last guest steps to my side; —May it be summer, the windows wide, — I would smile as the parson prayed, Smile to think I was once afraid; Death should beckon me. take my hand. Smile at the door of tho silent land; Then the slumber, how good to sleep Under tho grass where the shadows creep, Where the headstones slant on the windswept hill, I shall have my willl The entire poem reflects accurately enough A. C. Benson’s attitude towards Life—and Death. It is in this dual aspect that ho compares favourably with other essayists and poets. Rarely is there found a man who views with such equanimity tho two great issues. There wore times, however, when that equanimity was severely shaken. Tho incident which “turned ipe in an instant from a careless boy into *a troubled man” is recorded in “The House of Quiet,” described as “An Autobiography,” which, issued anonymously as “edited by J. T.,” was first published in February, 1904: — Our host carelessly said that a groat Revivalist was to address a meeting that night. Someone suggested that wo should go. I laughingly assented. The meeting was held in a hall in a side street Wo went smiling and talking and took our places in a crowded room. The first item was the appearance of an assistant, who accompanied the evangelist, as a sort of precentor—an immense, bilious man, with black hair, and eyes surrounded by flaccid, pendent, baggy, wrinkles —who oamo forward with an unctuous gesture and took his plnco at a small harmonium, placed so near the front of tho platform that it looked as if both player and instrument must inevitably topple over; it was inexpressibly ludicrous to behold. Rolling his eyes in an affected manner. I ho touched a few simple chords, and then a marvellous transformation came over the room. In a sweet, powerful voice, with an exquisite simplicity, combined with irresistible emotion, ho sang “There Were Ninety and Nino.” The man was transfigured. A deathly hush came over tho room, and I felt my eyes fill with tears • hi.j physical ropulsivenesa slipped from him, and loft a sincere impulsive Christian whoso simple music spoke straight to the heart. Then tho preacher himself—a heavylooking, common-place man, with a sturdy figure and no grace of look or gesture—stepped forward. I have no recollection how he began, but ho had not spoken half a clo/en sentences before I felt as though he and I were alone in the world. . . . Every word ho said burnt into my soul. Tho narrative goes on to tell of miserable weeks of physical and norvous suffering; of an unavailing appeal to an eminent Roman Catholic friend, and of an eventual escape “into a calmer, quieter, more tranquil frame of mind.” This all happened at Cambridge. In "The Thread of Gold” Mr Benson writes in quite another strain of Oxford as “a city I have seen but seldom, and which appears to mo one of the most beautiful things in the world.” He continues:— The spirit of Oxford is more the spirit of the Renaissance than the spirit of the Schoolmen; and personally I prefer that ccclesiasticism should be more of a flavour than a temper; I moan that though I rejoice to think that sober ecclesiastical influences contribute a serious grace to the life of Oxford, yet I am glad to feel that tho spirit of too place is liberal rather than ecclesiastical. Such traces as one sees in the chapels of tho Oxford Movement, in tho shape of paltry stained glass, starved rerodoaes, modem Gothic woodwork, would bo purely deplorable from tho artistic point of view, if they did not possess a historical interest. They speak of interrupted development, an attempt to put back the shadow on the dial, to return to a manner and more rigid tone, to put old wino into new bottles, which betrays a want of confidence in the expansive power of God. I hate with a deepseatod hatred all such attempts to bind and confine the rising tide of thought. I want to see religion vital and not formal, elastic and not cramped by precedent and tradition. _ And thus I love to see worship enshrined in noble classical buildings which seem to me to speak of a desire to infuse the intellectual spirit of Greece, tho dignified imperialism of Romo into the more timid and secluded ecclesiastical life, making . it fuller, larger, more free, more deliberate. Mr Benson goes on to enlarge on and enthuse over the soul of Oxford, its inner spirit, that which lends it its satisfying charm. There is a source of dignity of the intellect, with opportunities for peaceful and congenial work, all joined to a tide of youthful life that floods every comer of the place. This leads up to a eloquent panegyric : And so it is that Oxford is in a sort a magnetic polo for England; a pole not perhaps of intellectual energy, or strenuous liberalism, or clamorous aims, or political ideas; few, perhaps, of the sturdy forces that make England potently great, centre there. The greatness of England is. I suppose, made up by her breezy, loud-voiced sailors, her lively, plucky soldiers, her ardent undefeated merchants, her tranquil administrators ; by the stubborn adventurous spirit that makes itself at homo everywhere, and finds it natural to assume responsibilities. But to Oxford set the currents of what m.av bo called intellectual emotion, tho ideals that may not make for immediate national greatness, but which, if delicately and faithfully nurtured, hold out at least a hope of affecting the intellectual and spiritual life of the world. There is something about Oxford which is not in the least typical of England, but typical of tho larger brotherhood that is independent of nationalities; that is akin to tho spirit which in any land and in every ago has produced imperishable monuments of tho ardent human soul. The tribe of Oxford is tho tribe from whose heart sprang tho Psalms of David, Homer and Sophocles, Plato and Virgil, Dante and Gootho, aro all of tho same divine company.

It was the “Upton Letters” first published in .May, 1905, which wont into thirteen editions within the following throe years, that made A. C. Benson famous, and the fame, in the first place, was duo to anonymity. “When the. ‘Upton Letters’ were published,” says the author, ‘‘l meant them to bo anonymous, it was a perfectly honest desire. I did not want to mystify anyone or to excite anyone’s curiosity. I had a certain number of things I wanted to say, or rather that I wished .said; because I had no wish to promulgate them as my own opinions. I wanted the book to speak for itself, to be judged on its own merits. I disguised, rather carefully. I thought, the* setting of the hook, and my publishers will boar witness to the careful precautions which were taken that the authonship should be kept concealed. However. the secret was not long bidden. Inquisitive people laid two and two together. My friends recognised the threadbare idea and the wearisomely familiar phrases. Even The Times, that groat and dignified organ, which does not generally occupy itself in small matters, in the Literary Supplement, which I think is the best and soundest critical paper I know, though it often reviews mv books very disdainfully, scolded mo vehemently and rather inconsistently for not confessing the authorship.’’ in an attempt to avoid publicity Mr Bensou fell into the very trap from which he nought to l-.e delivered. “Owing to the fact,” ho writes, “that I have been credited with writing the book, it has been supposed that it is a deliberate picture of the school.

Eton, where I spent some six and twenty years of my life as boy and master. The result is that rny old friends and colleagues have been not unreasonably annoyed bv the supposition that the dramatis person® of tlie Letters are drawn from themselves : or rather they feci that the whom picture is an unfair one; and I candidly Confess that this is the case; but the mistake I made was a natural one, and arose from a sincere anxiety not to travesty the likeness of any actual person.” Mr Benson emphasises the point that all his gallery of portraits was purely imaginary, and that it was no part of his design to draw the picture of an institution. When “From a College Window” appeared it was subjected to similar criticism, and in a preface to the volume Mr Benson wrote;

It is very hard to explain that the book is not autobiographical, when there is so much that is autobiographical in it; but I began it anonymously, and though I mingled a good deal of my own experiences with the book, yet it was a highly idealised figure, infinitely more virtuous, comfortable, philosophical, and sedate than myself, whose reflections I had to represent. But the result is undoubtedly a dreadful muddle of trulh and fiction, and my critics are certainly not to blame for not discerning where the real ends and the imaginative begins. It is a tribute to A. C. Benson’s fame ns an essayist that in 1912, Mr Max Beerbohm selected him as one of the subjects for parody in “A Christmas Garland.” The parody is headed “ Out-of-llarm’s Way. Chapter XLII. Christmas.” It is a clever imitation of Mr Benson’s style, as the following extract shows; —

By reason of the athletic exercises »I his earlier years, Percy had retained in middle life a certain lightness and firmness of tread; and this on Christmas morning, between his rooms and the cathedral, was always so peculiarly elastic that he might almost have seemed to be rather running than walking. . . . It was this spiritual aspect of Christmas that Percy felt to be hardly sufficiently regarded or at least dwelt on, nowadays, and ho sometimes wondered whether the modern Christinas had ~not been lo some degree inspired and informed by Charles Dickons. ... In regard to Christmas, he could not help wishing' that Charles Dickens had laid more stress on its spiritual element. It was right that the feast should bo an occasion for good cheer, for (ho savoury meats, the steaming bowl, the blazing log, the traditional games. But was nipt the modem world with its almost averted bias towards materialism, too little apt to think of Christinas ns also a time for meditation, for taking stock, ns it were, of the things of the soul? Percy had hoard that in London nowadays there was a class of people who sate down to their Christmas dinners in public hotels. Ho did not condemn this practice. He never condemned a thing, hut, wondered rather, whether it were right, and could not help feeling that somehow it was not.