romantic types of life. The England of Fielding and the Scotland of
Scott were breezy, boisterous, disorderly, picturesque, and jolly
worlds, where gay and hot spirits got into mischief and played mad
pranks as, in the words of the old song, "They powlered up and down a
bit and had a rattling day." Laws, police, total abstinence, general
education, and weak digestions have put an end to pranks, as we are all
proud to say. The result is that Romance, finding little of romance in
the real world, has taken two different lines in the desperate effort
to amuse us somehow. The virtuous line is the phonographic
reproduction of everyday life in ordinary situations. The disreputable
line is Zolaesque bestiality, and forced, unreal, unlovely, and
hysterical sensationalism.
It cannot be more than a paradox to pretend that _fin de siecle_ has
anything to do with it. But it is a curious coincidence how the last
decade of modern centuries seems to die down in creative fertility.
The hundred millions who speak our English tongue have now no accepted
living master of the first rank, either in verse or in prose. In 1793
there was not one in all Europe. In 1693, though Dryden lingered in
his decline, it was one of the most barren moments in English
literature. And so in 1593, though the _Faery Queen_ was just printed,
and Shakespeare had begun to write, there were nothing but the first
streaks which herald the dawn. But this is obviously a mere
coincidence; nor can an artificial division of time affect the rise or
fall of genius. It may be that, in these latter days, when our age is
the victim of self-conscious introspection, the close of a century
which has shown such energy may affect us in some unconscious way.
Perhaps there is a vague impression that the world is about to turn
over a new page in the mighty ledger of mankind, that it is now too
late to do much with the nineteenth century, and that we will make a
new start with the twentieth.
The world is growing less interesting, less mysterious, less manifold,
|