19th July. Iw the June number of the Nineteenth Century is an interesting article on a subject which is not exactly new, but which' yet has a perennial attraction fora good many people—The Craving for Fiction." Writers have before now
petite of the general reader for works regretted the apparently voracious of fiction, but their openly expressed laments have not appreciably influenced the public taste, and with the extension of the means of education has come the demand, in the satisfaction of which a good many present-day authors reap a reward which would have appeared astonishing to the composers of some of the masterpieces which go to make up our literature, Sir Herbert Maxwell, Bart., M.P., who contributes the article now under consideration, is a clever, but yet curious, critic of the novel reading propensities of the present age. He has the reputation of being the best dressed man on the Conservative side of the House of Commons—which would hardly lead one to suspect: inclinations towards Grub Street. He is a fairly regular contributor to current magazines, and strangest, perhaps, of all has himself written several novels, the last of which he sent forth before plunging into the turmoil of the General Election. Under these circumstances it is seemingly curious that he should deprecate novel reading, and point to the more serious fields of literature in which relaxation and instruction are agreeably blended.
He easily proves his assertion as to the preference shown by readers for imaginary narrative over other kinds of books by reference to the statistics of certain representative libraries, such as Birmingham, where out of 855,096 volumes enquired for in the year 1891 no less than 519,595 were novels and magazines. "Such is the evidence of the public appetite for reading in a community like Birmingham, a great industrial centre, where of course works on technical subjects must be in pretty general demand. But the results are still more remarkable if the returns of libraries in districts not so exclusively industrial are examined. The table showing the number of volumes issued during the same year 1891 from the lending department of the Battersea free libraries shows that out of 178,261 volumes lent no fewer than 146,515 were novels, four-fifths of the whole—four novels to every single work in all other classes,"
Whilst therefore this strikingly preponderating fondness for fiction exists, it is an interesting subject to consider its scene. A good novelist s0 draws his effect. Is it such a terrible thing after characters that we seem to know them all, and can we be shown some "awful as individuals, and like or dislike them examples " of the confirmed and habi-accordingly. 'From the earliest times, tual consumer of fiction in the style of by fable and parable the thoughts of "the drunkard's doom " and " the opium men have been stimulated to action, fiend?" Sir' Herbert Maxwell has The present-day novel can lay claim to himself indulged rather plentifully in very ancient lineage, and the Founder the dangerous habit—and happily with- of Christendom adopted the fictional out harm—for he describes himself as mode when he spoke in parables, It "one who has read all Miss Broughton's is too late now to say that fiction, per novels (and hopes to read many more) 8¢, is injurious. We may criticise and only half of Shakespeare's plays individual examples, and point to a What then is the serious evil threaten- higher standard, but that the delineaing the novel reader? "But it is not tion of the struggles, the victories, the safe to tarry too long," Sir Herbert says, #wful dramas and the playful comedies "with this phantom company, or we|Which go to make up life shall be shall find ourselves out of tune with tabooed is a thing happily now impos-the real men and women; unbraced for sible. De Quincey took opium to the stern difficulties, the dark perplexity soothe his bodily ills and to stimulate which at one time or another, we all the phantasies of his brain, and perhaps have to encounter."
Apart from the there is something of this influence query whether the exercise of the ima- inducing hard and monotonously work-gi native powers is unnerving, this does @d humanity to seek relaxation in not seem such a terrible risk, and Sir the fortunes of the hero or heroine, as Herbert Maxwell, though he is a politi- the case may be, Has a woman been cian, has apparently yet to learn that|denied the gift of beauty," says the laying-on the colours" in an admoni- Writer, "she is free to identify herself tory picture is a time-honoured device, for the time with the fortunes of Di which very long practice has condoned.
Vernon or Tess of the D''Urbevilles, Is "This phantom company," too, seems man tied to the colourless routine of but a contemptuous way to spe counting house? What a stirring of those characters, long acquaintance Playground is open to him in the never-with whom has invested them with flagging adventures of Dumas's Trois an almost actual personality. Is Mousquetaires.
Tt is therefore, we con-the "phantom" companionship of Mr. tend, the imagination rather than the Pickwick, Sam Weller, Pendennis, Col. feeling of curiosity which prompts people Newcome, or even Becky Sharp, likely t0 read fiction. to" unbrace us for the stern difficulties In concluding, Sir Herbert Maxwell, of life any more than the "knowledge after deprecating excessive devotion to of geology or botany" which the writer fiction gives a few words of advice of the article under notice elsewhere pointing out "some other course that commends No; the fact is that from May be steered with more profit through novels a good many people draw their the sea of literature." But he is not first impressions of life, and if life does Very definite in this, his remarks being not come up to the ideal it is more summed up in the words "read aay-generally the fault of the actual than the thing beating on a definite object." "phantom" company. "The lesson of Treasure turns up in the most unlikely fiction is that life is nothing without places, and he tells how a person look-love and marriage," says the paper, and ing through a book of legal decisions not a few will agree with fiction in this, Observed the words " Best, Mr. Justice, "Tis woman's whole existence," says his great mind." Turning up the refer-the poet: giving and being given ence in the hope of finding something in—and perhaps the cynic might interesting he read: " Mr. Justice Best to add, being taken into—marriage Sid he had a great mind to commit occupies a considerable share of the the witness for perjury." This reminds time of Modern Society, and this being us of the blunder of the compiler of a so, it would be unfair and artificial to library catalogue who wrote "Mill on say that the novelist should forsake Liberty," " Ditto on the Floss." such a legitimate and prolific ground. There have, of course, been successful novels in which the love element plays no part, as for instance the works of Jules Verne, but this is one of the exceptions that proves the rule, though it is a striking fact in the case of a French writer.
Speaking generally, Sir Herbert Maxwell estimates the love of fiction very lowly, regarding it as an evidence of inquisitiveness, or discontent with one's environment. So far as the latter is concerned we are prepared to agree with him in a measure, but as to the former it seems that fiction mainly pleases when it more neatly enables the imagination to picture up a genuine We should like to hear Mr. Walter Besant, Mr. Buchanan, and perhaps Mr. George Moore reply to some of the points which Sir Herbert Maxwell so temptingly leaves open to attack.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.