BOOKS.

MR. BUCHANAN'S " MASTER-SPIRITS."

MR. ROBERT BUCHANAN is a prolific writer in prose as well as- verse. His range is wide, his knowledge extensive, his power of expression such as we might look for in a poet, and if, as in the- present volume, he irritates us at times by the way in which he utters his judgments, he may at least claim the credit of being plain-spoken and decisive. Master-Spirits is a taking title, but it is not specially adapted to a book of miscellaneous essays col- lected from different periodicals. Papers on Mr. Browning, Mr. Tennyson, Charles Dickens, Heine, and Hugo may perhaps not unfitly bear such a title, but these form comparatively a small portion of the volume, which contains articles on Mr. John Morley, on George Heath the Moorland Poet, on Criticism as one of the Fine Arts, on William Miller's Scottish lyrics, a chapter on the Birds of the Hebrides, and four chapters entitled " Scandinavian Studies." There is a variety of matter here, and in noticing a book composed of such miscellaneous materials, it is impossible to- do more than to touch on a few points that seem to call for comment, or that strike us as agreeably suggestive.

Mr. Buchanan, in his opening paper, has a good deal to say about critics and criticism, and as he condemns in rather strong language the anonymous system, and writes with a supercilious contempt for anonymous reviewers, he will not be surprised to• find his judgment contested. We may confess at once, while approving in the main of anonymous criticism, that the advan- tages are not wholly upon one side. The responsibility of an editor is greatly increased when the articles in his paper are un- signed, and the writers lose, for the most part, the temporary reputation they might achieve if the authorship were known. It may, perhaps, be said, too, that a man will be less guarded in his• statements, less thoughtful in his judgments, when his name is concealed from the public, and no doubt instances might be cited in which unscrupulous men have done unscrupulous acts under the veil of anonymity. So much may be conceded ; but when

Mr. Buchanan calls anonymous judgments the " worst class of priestcraft," he seems to us to be expressing a violent prejudice at

hap-hazard. " Priestcraft," as we understand the word, means- exercising an illegitimate influence over men's minds,—means asserting a power for mistaken purposes which the claimant does- not in reality possess. The anonymous critic makes no preten- sions of this kind ; be utters his opinions on matters of art or literature, stating his reasons for the judgment he has formed.. There is no priestcraft here, and a signature at the end of his article would not add to or diminish the value of the arguments employed :— " What a boon," exclaims Mr. Buchanan, " it would be to the public if" the gentlemen who do' criticism, instead of assuming the priestly robe- and sitting veiled on a tripod, were simply and fearlessly to tell us how certain works have affected them, what they like and dislike in them,. how they seem to stand in relation to other literature ! What time. this would save ! What lying it would avoid To speak with authority. is parlous' indeed. Who gains anything when Anonymous writes that Browning's last poem is sheer balderdash, or that Simeon Solomon's last picture is divinely original ? Who says so ? That is what we want to get at. If it be Smith, let.Smith come forward and sign .his. name."

• Master-Spirits. By Robert Buchanan. London: Henry S. Sing and Co. 1137a.

And what if Smith did ? Even from the author's own point of view, it is doubtful whether any advantage would bo gained. Smith, although unknown to the writer of the book he criticises, or to the artist on whose picture he comments, may be more com- petent to pronounce a just judgment than a man of undoubted genius and distinguished literary reputation. Some of the most fallacious literary judgments ever uttered have come from writers -distinguished for creative power, and it is seldom indeed that, as was the case with Coleridge, profound thought and vividness of imagination are united with critical sagacity. No doubt incom- petent critics abound, and so do incompetent writers in every department of literature ; but the public has a security in the case of reviewers, which does not seem to have occurred to Mr. Buchanan, and which seems to us of more value than the publication of signa- tures, viz., the character of the journals in which the criticisms appear. The responsibility of an editor who presides over a news- paper or review of high standing is so great, that he is not likely to fill his staff with incompetent writers, any more than the head master of a great school will sanction the appointment of incapable assistants. Mr. Buchanan is, therefore, mistaken in alleging that anonymous critics are irresponsible and" thoroughly disorganised," and it is a satisfaction to be told, after all this ani- madversion, that it is " wonderful how fairly the oracles speak, in spite of their irresponsibility."

The writer's own criticism is, we think, sometimes unsound, and sometimes lacking in good taste. For instance, he asserts that the criticisms written by Mr. Lewes " utterly fail to attract us ; they are so thoroughly, so transparently editorial." A more untrue judgment could be scarcely passed even by an anonymous critic, and we remember some years ago, when Mr. Buchanan was almost unknown to the public, reading an article on the young poet's work from Mr. Lewes's pen, so generous, so full of sympathy, so just in criticism, so hearty in the praise awarded, and, moreover, so interesting as a piece of literary workmanship, that we can hardly think it failed at the time to attract the author of Legends of Inverburn. Indeed, we think that Mr. Lewes is not only fre- quently wise and subtle as a literary critic, but that his criticisms are commonly marked by a human interest and by a generous feel- ing which removes them from the rank of what the writer is pleased to sneer at as " editorial " work. Mr. Buchanan, by the way, while allowing, with great generosity, that we have " half-a-dozen tolerable critics in England," avows that M. Taine is the finest living specimen as an artist, and that "the only criticism worth a rap belongs to the Fine-Artist." M. Taine is no doubt a charming writer, with wonderful intuitions. His blunders in the domain of -.fine art, and especially with regard to poetry, are prodigious; but he utters them delightfully, and with such a certainty of their truth, since they are in exact accordance with his preconceived theory, that the careless reader will accept them readily. When we read the " History of English Literature," no doubt, as Mr. Buchanan puts it, " our real interest for the time being is in M. Taine," but we submit that the excitement of such an interest is not legitimate, and that the really great artist is he who is able adequately to achieve the work he has undertaken. Has M. Taine given us a satisfactory History ? This is the one point open for discussion. If he has not, or to the measure in which be has not, he has failed as a critic, and his great skill as an artist, his charming egotism, his delightful gossip, are matters of secondary importance. We are not called upon to answer this question ourselves ; Mr. Buchanan has done it for us, and has decided that M. Taine's work on English literature is "radically unsound and superficial." This assertion is made in a finely written paper upon " Tennyson, Heine, and De Musset," a paper in which, directly or indirectly, M. Taine is attacked more than once. Taine's criticism on " In Memoriam," observes the essayist, is " extremely flippant," and in a note alluding to Mr. John Morley's aptitude for composing " literary labels," the writer adds, " Mr. Morley follows the modern French school of criticism, which sacrifices everything to the instinct of symmetrical classification, and when a subject does not fall under the pre-arranged heads is utterly at a loss what to do with it."

In a paper on Mr. Morley, headed " A Young English Posi- tivist," Mr. Buchanan, himself a young Scottish poet, writes with the bitterest invective of Mr. Carlyle, a countryman of his own who, whatever his defects may be,—and in our opinion they are very great,—is beyond question one of the most original, one of the moat brilliant, one of the most humorous, and one of the most earnest writers of the day. We question, in- deed, whether in some of these qualities Mr. Carlyle does not surpass any living writer of our time, yet Mr. Buchanan writes of this venerable man with a mixture of contempt and hatred which more than justifies us in the statement made above that his criticism is sometimes wanting in good taste. He has an undoubted right to think and to say that the work of Mr. Carlyle's life has been misdirected and is of an injurious tendency,—and we ourselves might even go a long way with him ;—he might say this in direct and forcible language, without any want of the modesty which seems fairly to be demanded of a young writer when criticising a literary veteran. Mr. Buchanan does nothing of the kind. In his remarks on Mr. Carlyle he shows no reticence, but fearlessly makes charges which affect the historian's character, as well as his literary position. Thus he asserts that Mr. Carlyle has " a heart so obtuse as never in the long course of sixty years to have felt one single pang

for the distresses of man as a family and social being," that " he has no heart for humanity," that he has " nerer been on the side of truth " (the italics are Mr. Buchanan's), that " his very name has become the synonym for moral heartlessness and political obtusity," that he is " heedless of the poor, unconscious

of the suffering, diabolic to the erring," and a great deal more which we do not care to repeat. This is not all. Mr. Buchanan's judgment of Mr. Carlyle as a man of letters is as mean as the estimate he forms of him as a moralist. His criticisms, he says, " are as vicious and false as they are headstrong. Had he been writing for a cultured people who knew anything at all of the subjects under discussion, they would never have been listened to for a moment." The effect of so violent a tirade even upon a reader who more or less disapproves Mr. Carlyle's teaching, is likely, we think, to be the exact opposite to that desired by the author.

How pleasant it is to turn from an unsatisfactory criticism like this, and to open a chapter descriptive of the " Birds of the Hebrides." Of golden eagles, ernes, ospreys, and kestrels, Mr. Buchanan writes with the enthusiasm and knowledge of a poet who is familiar with mountain solitudes, and this kind of reading is always delightful, since more almost than any other it takes us beyond the narrow range of our daily cares and work. We are glad that the author raises his voice against the ignorance and greed which unite in the destruction of the water-ouzel, which has been decimated in many Highland parishes,—ignorance, because the ousel never touches the spawn of fish at all; and greed, " un-

willing to grant to a bird so gentle and so beautiful even a share of the prodigal gifts of nature." Mr. Buchanan writes of this bird with something like affection Who has not encountered the little fellow, with his light eye and white breast, dipping backwards and forwards as ho sits on a stone amid the tiny pools and freshets, and rising swiftly to follow, with swift but enact flight, the windings and twistings of the stream ? And who that has ever so met him, has failed to see in his company his faithful and in- separable little mate? He likes the waterfall and the brawling lion, as well as the dark pools amid the green, mossy heath; and he is to be found building from head to foot of every mountain that can boast a burn, however tiny and unpretending. The young are born with the cry of water in their ears ; often the nest where they lie and chirp is within a few feet of a torrent, the voice of which is a roaring thunder ; and close at hand, amid the spray, the little father-ouzels sit on a mossy stone, and sing aloud.

' What pleasures have great princes ? &c.,' they seem to be crying, in the very words of the old song. To search for water-shells, and eat the toothsome larva) of the water-beetle, and to have the whole of a mountain brook for kingdom,—what royal lot can compare with this ? To the eye of the little feathered king and queen, the bubbling waters are a world miraculously tinted and sweet with summer sound. The life of the twain is full of calm joy. So at least thinks the angler, as he crouches under the bank from the shower, and sees the cool drops splashing like countless pearls nand the ouzel's mossy throne in the midst of the pool."

We are tempted to give more than one carefully drawn sketch from this charming chapter. Mr. Buchanan is at home amongst the birds, and writes of them lovingly, as a friend might write of friends. Interesting, too, in their way are the chapters entitled " Scandinavian Studies," and there is an article called " The Laureate of the Nursery," in which the Scottish poet William Miller is classed with Burns and Tannehill as a master of the Scottish lyrical dialect, which cannot fail to interest every reader. Mr. Buchanan's appreciation of Miller is very high indeed :-

" At least ten of his pieces," he writes, "aro, to use a phrase of Saint- Beuve's, petits chefs d'oeuvre,—ten cabinet pictures worthy of a place in any collection. Few poets, however prosperous, are so certain of their immortality. We can scarcely conceive a period when William Miller will bo forgotten ; certainly not until the Doric Scotch is obliterated, and the lowly nursery abolished for ever. His lyric note is unmistake- able; true, deep, and sweet-speaking generally, he is a born singer, worthy to rank with the three or four master-spirits who use the same speech."

We wish that Mr. Buchanan would edit a collection of this poet's lyrics; a dainty edition it should be, pleasant to look at, and small enough to carry about in the pocket.