THE LITERARY PATRON.
THE death of the *Duke of Saxe-Weimar suggests the probable ending of the era of the great literary patron. The little Principality or Grand Duchy of Saxe-Weimar cannot be referred to without at once recalling the most cele- brated, and at the same time the most honourable, instance of literary patronage the world has ever known, unless we except the relation which existed between Alexander and Aristotle. In that chitrming little town of Weimar, with its park, and its Goethe and Schiller statues, and its perennial air of calm, Goethe lived for long and enchanted years, the recognised high priest of European literature. The storm and stress of his wonderful life were over, and he might have said with Shakespeare in one of the greatest of the sonnets :-
" Incertainties now crown themselves assured, And Peace proclaims olives of endless age."
He had his troubles and annoyances when the French occupied Weimar, and he had doubtless those inner tragedies of the soul of which it was his habitual custom to say little. But life flowed for him in a broad and tranquil stream; he had fought and vanquished the spectres of the mind, and his sun was sinking in a golden flood of glorious light. To this ease and quiet of his later days the friendship and patronage of Karl August largely contributed ; and if we must suppose—as probably we must—that Goethe in his gratitude was inclined to idealise Karl August, we must also say that it is a great tribute to Karl August that he recognised the nobility and genius of Goethe. Indeed, this head of a small German Duchy was the Maecenas of his time. What the wealthy Roman magnate did for Horace, that did Karl August not only for Goethe, but for Herder and Schiller, and his name is rightly held in honoured remembrance in his native land. The Grand Duke who has just died was as generous a patron of musical genius. Liszt and Wagner were the recipients of his bounty, as was Beethoven of the German aristocracy's in the early years of the century. We do not know the exact relations between these great musicians of our time and their ducal friend; but it is not unlikely that some singular incidents marked that friendship as they did that of Beethoven. Musical genius is peculiarly erratic, and in no case are great wits more nearly allied to madness.
Now, what are we to say of this relation of patron to man of genius ? It cannot be denied that at first sight it seems a source of degradation to the latter, and historically it has often been so. One is disposed to agree with Macaulay that the existence of patronage means that we are still in the dark ages of literature, and with him we exult that the little wasp of Twickenham first found the way out, for England at all events. It would be hard for the poet or artist to ignore the prejudices or the pressure of the rich man who was supporting his pen. Can such a man be free ? we ask, and we reply that he cannot. And from an ideal point of view this would be true. The poet, artist, or man of letters ought ideally, as Mill hinted, to derive his living from some routine occupation, and give his free leisure to the free play of his genius, careless whether the world approves or not. The high and pure work of his imagination should he to him his exceeding great raward. Such was the case with Spinoza, who ground glasses for his livelihood, and whose great mind was then free to roam over the universe ; but what a rare instance is his in the spiritual history of mankind. The world is full of the ills which the scholar's life assail, and the great majority of writers, at least in the modern world, have to write in order to gain bread. The ideal has been hard of attain-
meat, and one of two courses has usually been open to men of genitia—patronage or the bargain in the open market.
We live in a commercial age given over to bargaining, and we are apt to think that the poet or artist should not be exempt from the great universal custom. We live, too, in an age when men stand on their dignity, and to us the idea of a man of talent cringing before Emperor or Grand Duke is far from pleasing. We pour contempt on that poor devil of a Roman poet who has given us an account of the banquets of Domitian on the Palatine in the spirit in which a concealed " penny-a-liner" might recount for us the glories of a Lord Mayor. That attitude of mingled servility, empressement, and bewilderment at so much grandeur does not quite suit with our notions of the dignity of letters.
We do not mean to defend the patron, and are disposed to rejoice at the conclusion of his long reign. But there is surely another side to that long account to which Alexander, Maecenas, Lorenzo de Medici, Louis XIV., Chesterfield, and the Dukes of Weimar were parties. Two considerations, at any rate, suggest themselves to the critic. In the first place, unless the ideal condition to which we have referred obtains, what is the author to do who cannot sell his books, or the artist or musician who is told, like Turner or Wagner, that his works may be well, but are not for this world ? Wagner was near starvation in Paris ; Beethoven, Liszt, and many other musicians would have suffered the pangs of hunger had they depended on that feather-brained entity called the public." In our own country Edmund Spenser died "for lack of bread," Milton lived in poverty, Goldsmith was haunted by duns from cradle to grave, Johnson walked the night. round St. James's Square in lieu of a bed, Huxley in his early days found it hard to earn a living, Carlyle during the first forty years of his literary life never earned more than an average grocer, Browning during the greater part of his career never made a penny by his poems. Now all this is not accident, nor is it due to stinginess or hard-heartedness on the part of publisher or reader. It is due to the fact that great and revolutionary writers, those men of genius who derive direct from the spirit of God, must be ahead of their public. There can be at any given time but a few—a very few—who can enter into the new idea ; to the rest it is indifferent, even horrible. Carlyle tells us that but two persons—Emerson and an Irish priest—saw the light which beamed from Sartor Resartus " when it first appeared. Wordsworth would have starved over the " Lyrical Ballads " had it not been for his small Government post. Wagner would certainly have starved had it not been for the " mad " King of Bavaria. The indomitable Carlyle was able to fight his battle amid private blazes of wrath, but if we rejoice that Wagner survived, King Ludwig must enjoy his share of our gratitude. This, then, is the justification of the patron,—he may be the protector of a genius not yet understood, and so may guard the precious germ from the furious tempest or withering neglect of an evil or stupid generation.
But, in the second place, is the dealer in the literary market-place quite so free as he fancies ? Is the sacrifice to the patron any greater than that to the public ? Has not each one of us heard or read of books suppressed or injured in deference to public prejudices. We could tell of one of the most valuable works of the last generation which was truncated because the publisher assured the author that the public would never read the more elaborate original. We know that Michelangelo bad to sacrifice at the shrine of the Medici ; but how many authors are there who have not been c3mpelled to do unwilling homage before the great Dagon of Philistia ?
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