25 NOVEMBER 1899, Page 17

THE DECAY OF SENSIBILITY,

THESE essays bear the same relation to serious literature that vers de societe' do to true poetry. This is not, however, against them, for prose de societg is what Mr. Gwynn intends them to be. The first paper, from which the book takes its name, is a clever piece of criticism on Miss Austen. The writer tells ne that when first published in the Condi:ill it drew upon his head a great deal of indignation. We are not surprised. The criticism is unfavourable, and Miss Austen's charm, though so widely felt, is so impalpable as to be difficult to defend. The only homage her vassals can pay her in the face of the enemy is to lose their tempers. Not that Mr. Gwynn denies her genius ; he only detracts from its quality, and agrees with Charlotte Bront6 when 'she says :—" Jane Austen was a complete and very sensible lady; but a most incom- plete and very insensible woman." Her portraits, he thinks, are true to life, but he cannot forgive her taste in the selection of her sitters. Her heroes are prigs, and for her heroines—with the exception of Emma, whom he allows to be "a nice, pretty, cheerful girl," though "as destitute of passion as the author of her being "—he has not a good word. It seems to us, however, that in spite of his dislike Mr. Gwynn continues to be intimate with these unattractive young persons, for he does not write of them as of those about whom he has read, but as real people with whom he has lived. For Miss Austen's ladies, however, Mr. Gwynn admits the excuse that women have changed for the better since the beginning of the century. Sensibility is dead, or where only moribund, it is ridiculous. Miss Ferrier's Laiy Juliana, as he points out, is now impossible. Ladies do not faint when they are put oat, nor even when they meet their husbands' relations for the first time and are disap- pointed in them. A father-in-law who shakes hands roughly, three "long-chinned spinster aunts," and "five awkward purple girls" would now be met with outward equanimity. Mr. Gwynn audaciously hopes that in the next world he may be spared the acquaintance of Miss Austen and of the society which she and Miss Ferrier depicted. For ourselves, we should like to visit their corner, though not to remain per- manently; and we feel sure that should Miss Austen come • The Decay of Semas4,ty. By Stephen Gwynn. London : John Lane. [ea]

across her critic in the Elysian fields, she will make him repent in dust and ashes, just as Elizabeth did Mr. Darcy.

But to return with Mr. Gwynn to more modern society. He gives us in one essay "a theory of talk." The theory, roughly speaking and leaving out some modifications, is this :

that talk to be good should be tete-d-Mte, should be between a man and a woman, that these two should not be very inti- mate, and that they should avoid subjects "which do not affect the personal existence of the talkers." Now the great talkers of the past, the men we may call the classics of talk, required an audience of more than one. Society, we admit, has changed its ideal, and the custom of performing to a number of people has gone down to the uneducated. No man can stand for ten minutes in a London crowd and not hear something said which will amuse him all the way home ; but tete-d-igte conversation in the lower classes, especially between a man and a woman, hardly exists. Three-quarters of the couples one sees out walking on a Sunday are quite silent, and those who speak, so far as one can overhear, do not do so to any conversational purpose. We have lately read somewhere that words are now regarded in conversation merely as counters; this may be true, but why should we neglect the round games P But though we do not agree with Mr. Gwynn as to the para- mount claims of the tete-a-gete, we do agree that two people to talk well should not be too intimate. Talk should be a luxury. Between intimates it is a necessity, and becomes a mutual demand for sympathy rather than an interchange of ideas. It leaves us happier, but not mentally richer. That such subjects as politics should rarely be touched on, because they only give ordinary talkers, "according to their intelli- gence, an occasion to conceal or to parade their ignorance," is surely too sweeping an assertion, though if the talking game is played by a man and a woman, it is too often true. Women in some ways play better than men according to Mr. Gwynn. They have their finger always on the pulse of the other player ; they see what bores and what entertains him. On the other hand, they cannot talk to each other, while men can. Perhaps as there is nothing so tiring as the continual noting of some one else's mental attitude, we may excuse this unworthy silence on the score of fatigue.

In his essay on " Scores " Mr. Gwynn declares "that no form of conversational success is so highly valued as what we call a score." "A score," he adds, "is essentially a witticism at some one else's expense." But the nature of the scores permissible has undergone much modification, and Mr. Gwynn thinks we may come to a time when none are permissible at all. It will be, no doubt, a dull time, yet old people repeat with amusement scores which seem to us mere rudenesses. The taste for witty insult as an ornament to conversation is gone,—or rather, gone down. Mr. Whistler, as this essay points out, has collected in his book the last fragments of a broken custom. Swift would not now be tolerable off the box of an omnibus. In stepping from con- versation to the sense of humour Mr. Gwynn makes what seems to us a great literary mistake. After saying that the "world's driving forces," "the men who change the face of nations," are exempt from its action, he quotes Luther as a case in point. But surely Luther is the very best instance that could be found on the other side. There are plenty more instances ; Cavonr and Bismarck might be quoted, but Luther is the trump card in the hand of the apologist for great men's humour. Has Mr. Gwynn never read his table-talk ? It is remarkable thing, as the essayist points out, that no man will ever admit to a lack of the sense of humour any more than to a lack of courage, though women will,—he thinks "because men are by no means sure that it is an excellent thing in woman." Perhaps men are right. The creation of a sense of surprise is an essential part of humour, and no man wishes to be surprised by his wife's point of view. To speak like an Irishman, he does not care much what her point of view is so long as he can be sure what it will be. "Our profession is to be dependable," said a shrewd young matron to the present writer. The want of a sense of humour means the want of a certain sensitiveness, and this want often produces in these nervous days a sunny disposition. A woman without a sense of humour seldom dislikes it in others; like the unmusical person, she is not annoyed by the sound of it, but smiles to see the plea- sure of her friends, and thinks they have "a nice resource" in the exercise of a faculty that she is without. It is surely much better that a wife should miss the point of her husband's joke than that she should see the ridiculous side of his grievance.

Perhaps the two papers in this collection which contain the most thought are the one on the mental dyspepsia of the modern reader which prevents his enjoying what Mr. Gwynn calls the wholesome sweets of literature, and the one on the end of the century. The first, called "A Plea for Apple Dumplings," contains some excellent moralising in a very palatable form. We only wish Mr. Gwynn had gone a little further in his denunciation of those gourmets of literature who must have their appetites whetted by a mouthful of raw pickled fish" before they can bring themselves to make•

a meal. The thin, unhealthy minds nourished on such dishes are becoming dreadfully conspicuous among the reading public, and middle-aged critics wince to hear great books and plays spoken of as without thought because their authors did not happen to think of anything very nasty. Mr. Gwynn thinks that due regard to his mental diet will give a man an appetite for both kinds of literature. We should advise the

dyspeptic patient who desires a cure to try a course of star- vation,—avoiding all printed matter until on some sleepless night he can read anything with delight, however wholesome. It is difficult, however, to make the simplest cure at home among ordinary surroundings. Some one should set up a retreat for intemperate readers. No access should be allowed to the public libraries, and in cases of long standing oaths might be administered to strengthen the weak against foreign stimulants.

On the subject of decadence, which he treats of in his last essay, Mr. Gwynn is encouraging. "If at the close of one of the great weeks of time we sink under a fanciful lassitude, we may fairly hope to start the next with a certain imaginative recovery." Next year we shall be convalescent, and, after all, have we been so bad as we thought ? Surely not if it is true that "Mr. Rudyard Kipling is almost beyond dispute

the characteristic voice of this decade ; and whatever Mr. Kipling is, he is not effete."

It would be unjust to conclude this notice without a word of admiration for three charming papers on the London parks, one of which is called "Nature in London." "Nightfall in Kensington Gardens," too, will delight those true lovers of Nature to whom she speaks even in a crowd, who do not entirely lose touch with her unless they can take the train and visit her alone. What more exquisite impressionist picture from one of Nature's temples in the city could we have than the following ?—

"We sat down on one of the benches by the water. Bats flitted overhead; ducks, wheeling round and round the pond and calling on the wing as all fowl do after dusk, silhouetted their stretched necks against the yellow western sky. Presently there came a soft patter beside us, and, one after another, five or six sheep popped over the low railing and came to the edge to drink. There was so much wild nature in the spectacle that the stone margin seemed curiously incongruous ; by the Serpentine among the yellow flag-iris they would have seemed more in place. All were newly clipped, of course ; I had seen the process a few days before in a pen in the Gardens where the grimy fleeces were stripped off, leaving not the downy white that one looks for, but a closely cropped hide impregnated to the very skin with a filtration of soot. Now, however, they took the soft tones of twilight as they drank not deeply but just sipping as if they did not care for this water which must reek of Cockneydom. Perhaps, however, it was natural nervousness, for nine had not struck yet and a sophisticated little fox-terrier, more Cockney than any street arab, made a dash along the walk, disturbing the quiet drinkers and gleefully dissipating a colony of ducks who had tucked them- selves up for the night on the water's edge. But still the grey multitudes came trooping in thicker and thicker through the trees, and when the Park-keeper's cry All out ! ' came across the waters, they were assembled like soldiers waiting round three sides of the pond."

In " Daisy-Pickers " Mr. Gwynn manages with great skill to squeeze an unexpected pathos out of well-dressed London children and the smutty little flowers they value "more as trophies" than from any great love of plant-life. Regent's

Park ducks serve Mr. Gwynn's descriptive turn. This is cleverly put : "The duck on dry land is low comedy per-

sonified; swimming he is still a comedian, plump, roguish, affable, and twinkling ; but when he takes to his wings he is —as the Japanese found out long ago—one of the most picturesque things in creation."

Altogether, we are sure Mr. Gwynn's book will be read with great pleasure, but the reader will lay it down with the slightly ruffled sense of having been a good deal contradicted.