FICTION.
BEHIND THE BEYOND.*
Ma. STEPHEN LEACOCK, who presides over the department of Political Economy in McGill University, Montreal, indemnifies himself for his official allegiance to the dismal science by periodical excursions into the domain of irresponsible frivolity. His recreations are described in the latest edition. of Who's Who as "cricket, carpentering, and gardening "— an admirable choice—but happily be can still find leisure to recreate others by those beneficent contributions to the gaiety of nations which began with Literary Lapses and are con- tinued on the same plane of high-spirited fooling in the volume before us. The special quality of his humour is not very easy to define. But in two points, his underlying "horse sense " and his joyous extravagance of language, he recalls the immortal Artemus Ward. There is, however, a notable difference between them. Mr. Leacock, though he dissembles his culture most effectually, at the same time has always got it in reserve as matter for burlesque, to satirize pre- tentious ignorance or to support the healthy prejudices of the Philistine. Prigs and pedants or those who in- sincerely profess an enthusiasm which they are very far from feeling receive short shrift at his hands. On the other hand, we should be sorry for Mr. Leacock if his scepticism as to the value of the classics, as expressed in Homer and Humbug, were to be interpreted literally. Mr.
Leacock is essentially a humanist, though he upholds the heresy that there is more stuff in one modern author than in Homer, Demosthenes, and " the whole lot of them." But when he sets to work to satirize his own insincerity in the matter we can forgive him everything for the result of the process :—
" So, as I say, I began to lie about the classics. I said to people who knew no Greek that there was a sublimity, a majesty about Homer which they could never hope to grasp. I said it was like the sound of the sea beating against the granite cliffs of the Ionian Esophagus, or words to that effect. As for the truth of it, I might as well have said that it was like the sound of a rum distillery running a night shift on half time. At any rate, this is what I said about Homer, and when I spoke of Pindar—the dainty grace of his strophes—and Aristophanes—the delicious sallies of
his wit, sally after sally, each sally explained in a note calling it
a sally—I managed to suffuse my face with an animation which made it almost beautiful. I admitted, of course, that Virgil, in spite of his genius, had a hardness and a cold glitter which resembled rather the brilliance of a cut diamond than the soft grace of a flower. Certainly, I admitted this: the mere admission of it would knock the breath out of anyone who was arguing. From such talks my friends went away sad. The conclusion was too cruel. It had all the cold logic of a Syllogism (like that almost brutal form of argument so much admired in the Paraphernalia
of Socrates). For if-
4. Virgil and Homer and Pindar had all this grace, and pith and these sallies,— And if I read Virgil and Homer and Pinder,
And if they only read Mrs. Wharton and Mrs. Hnraphry Ward, Then where were they ?"
So continued lying brought its own reward in the sense of superiority, and I lied more. When I reflect that I have openly
expressed regret, as a personal matter, even in the presence of women, for the missing books of Tacitus, and the entire loss of the Abracadabra of Polyphemus of Syracuse, I can find no words in which to beg for pardon. In reality I was just as much -worried over the loss of the ichtbyosaurus. More, indeed: I'd like to have seen it ; but if the books Tacitus lost were like those he didn't, I wouldn't. I believe all scholars lie like this. An ancient friend of mine, a clergyman, tells me that in Hesiod he finds a peculiar grace that he doesn't find elsewhere. He's a liar. That's all. Another man, in politics and in the legislature, tells me that every night before going to bed be reads over a page or two of Thucydides to keep his mind fresh. Either be never goes to bed or he's a liar. Doubly so: no one could read Greek at that frantic rate : and anyway his mind isn't fresh. How could it be he's in the legislature. I don't object to this man talking • Behind the Beyond: and other Contributions to Human Knowledge. By Stephen Leacock. Illustrated by A. H. Fish. London: John Lane. [38. 6d. net.]
freely of the classics, but he ought to keep it for the voters. My own opinion is that before he goes to bed he takes whisky : why call it Thucydides ?"
The longest and the best thing in the book, however, is the delightful burlesque of a modern problem play, treated in the " potted " style introduced by the late Mr. Pelissier, with a running commentary on the attitude of actors, audience, and dramatist. When the hero walks on alone we read that "if he bad been accompanied by a chorus, that would have been a burlesque ; if four citizens in togas had been with him, that would have been Shakespeare; if two Russian soldiers had walked on after him, that would have been melodrama." Lady Cicely, the heroine, is being "starved." "All that she has is money, position, clothes, jewellery. These things starve any woman; they cramp her. That's what makes problem playa." Her lover is a "narrow young man in a frock coat." All the audience can see that he is "just the sort of ineffectual young man that a starved woman in a problem play goes mad over." All the artificiality, the false pathos, the meretricious glitter, and the inherent snobbery of these tertiary deposits derived from La Dame aux Camelias are remorselessly satirized in this admirable squib. The spurious melancholy of the third act, diluted with 30 per cent. of silence; the demeanour of the injured husband, " much aged but very firm and quiet "; the atmosphere of philanthropy, gentleness, and resignation— all these points lead up to the general judgment of the audience that "it is a perfectly rotten play but very strong." On the other hand, " just inside the theatre, in the office, is a man in a circus waistcoat adding up dollars with a blue pencil, and be knows that the play is all right." Of the group of sketches headed "Familiar Incidents " we like " Lost Oppor- tunities " and " My Unknown Friend" best. The latter is an amusing variant on the familiar experience of being recognized by someone whom you cannot for the life of you remember. In this case the stranger is an impostor, and his victim, believ- ing the recognition to be genuine, plays into his hands with disastrous results to himself. It may not be generally known that this is a common device resorted to by flat-catchers, and the present writer has read Mr. Leacock't extravaganza with peculiar pleasure, since the trick was once unsuccessfully played off on him by a plausible young man in Kensington. Miss Fish's fantastic illustrations are decidedly clever, though unequal. She is over-addicted to one type of physiognomy, and her method, which recalls that of Beardsley, is not always attuned to the robust humour of Mr. Leacock.
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