INTRODUCTION

Now and again I glance at the correspondence columns of a paper devoted to the affairs of those interested in writing—and find to my astonishment that authors have a great dislike of unfavourable criticism. I note, for example, the letter of a hurt and angry man, who protests that he has had hard measure from the critic of the Cosmopolitan, that the Daily Mercury has clearly not read more than three pages of his book, that “Judex” in the Lyre says he is ignorant of the elements of prosody: “a harsh judgment,” the poor man exclaims, “when directed against one who has the privilege of signing himself ‘M.A. Oxon.’” And sometimes the reviewer is entreated to remember that authors have their living to get; the suggested inference being, as I suppose, that the critic should do nothing but praise the books submitted to him. In fact, there are, it seems, authors who conceive that a word of blame is a word of injury, and that a harsh notice is a hardship.

In my opinion, nothing can be farther from the truth. Could anything be duller than a monotonous song of praise? Is it not obvious that there is no sport in easy paths? If this were not so, what would become of the Alpine Clubs? A mountaineer would not thank you for a free excursion ticket to Romney Marsh or the Bedford Level. Opposition, whether it be that of a mountain side or a body of critical opinion, is one of the chiefest zests and relishes of life; and so profoundly have I felt this that for the last thirty years I have hoarded up my “notices,” with a very special eye of favour on those “notices” which are foolishly termed bad. Foolishly, for many reasons, some of which I have suggested; but chiefly because there is only one sort of notice that is really bad, and that is no notice at all. I do not know whether there are critical writers who desire to extinguish, make to cease, and bring to nought this, that or the other author; but if there be such, I take it that they are far too skilled in their craft to think that a man can be blotted out by a column of words, be they fierce or jeering. Silence is the only fatal sentence; from that there is no appeal, for it there is no remedy.

But this must be done thoroughly; and here I would submit is the error of the critic of The Referee, the late David Christie Murray, who will be found quoted in the chapter devoted to “The House of Souls.” The writer desired to “slate” the book with all his heart, and devoted the entire front page of his paper to that excellent endeavour. He compared the book to an obscene waxwork anatomical museum at a country fair: “it poisoned everything.” He was light: he said it was all “baby-Satanic-tommy-rot,” that it was “buried nastiness.” He declared that I was taking the ha’pence of the public and making a very decent “(and most indecent)” living by exhibiting the bestial side of my nature. All very well; but the critic tried to combine the method of the hearty attack with the method of silence: he neither mentioned the name of the book nor that of the author. This was faulty technique: for the next few months the Editor of The Referee was pestered by correspondents who wanted to know all about it; to ascertain for themselves the extent of the author’s depravity.

A more delicate method was employed—in perfect good faith, very likely—by The Bystander. Here the critic gave the name of the book and of the author, and praised the stories. But he pretended that I had no existence. He said that he had a very strong suspicion that I was, in reality, Mr Montagu Wood, the author of “A Tangled I.” He added that Mr Montagu Wood’s humour was recognised in “Pop” at Eton, and afterwards at the Canning Club at Oxford.

Now, let us be fair. Honour to whom honour is due; I confess that the dart of this reviewer penetrated my armour. I was genuinely annoyed—I was a lad of 44 at the time—at being practically wiped out of existence. But, on calm reflection, I wonder what Mr Wood thought of it. Perhaps he, too, was not over-pleased. But I shall always think of The Bystander with the respect that one gives to a cunning craftsman.

There are some very tolerable examples to be found in the collection relating to “The Great God Pan” and “The Three Impostors.” Of course I reject the violent, especially the morally violent. These are not in the true tradition of the fine art of reviewing. When The Manchester Guardian said that “The Great God Pan” was “the most acutely and intentionally disagreeable” book it had seen in English, the Guardian blundered. Deplorable as it may be, we must confess that such a sentence constitutes a valuable free advertisement; and The Manchester Guardian did not desire to advertise the work. Indeed it said so; and thus blundered again. And so again The Lady’s Pictorial: “Men and women who are morbid and unhealthy in mind may find something that appeals to them.” This is all wrong. Again we must deplore the anfractuosities of human nature; but to say that a book is morbid and unhealthy is to perform the office of a spielman, not of a censor.

No; the way to go about it, if you must leave the safe way of silence, is to take things lightly. Thus, in The National Observer: “In all the glory of the binder’s and printer’s arts we have two tales of no great distinction.” So The Sketch: “his bogles don’t scare”; The Daily Chronicle: “his horror, we regret to say, leaves us quite cold”; The Observer: “one shakes with laughter rather than with dread.” All these are very well; and another manner is, I think, successful. The Belfast News Letter suggested that “sensationalism is the order of the day, and must be pandered to to make the author’s pot boil.” There is something intimate in this knowledge of the author’s very disastrous private affairs which has a strange, elusive charm. Another favourite of mine is Mr Walkely’s review of “Hieroglyphics” in The Morning Leader: here again you will find intimate knowledge of the writer’s life which could not have been gathered from title pages. Thus, the opening sentence:

“I do not know whether Mr Machen is to be described as an actor who amuses his leisure with writing books or as an author who fills up his evenings by appearing on the stage.” But the article which follows, though decisive as to the demerits of the book under review, is much too long. Brevity in these affairs is of the utmost importance. If you want to say that an author is an unimportant ass, you should say it in a paragraph, not in a column.

Other reviews which I should like to recommend to the notice of the virtuoso are The Manchester Guardian on “The Hill of Dreams,” and on “Far Off Things”; also The Boston Evening Transcript review of “Things Near and Far.” The heading of this article is: “The Reflections of a Man of Self-Conceit.” The article displays my mean, sponging, irritable nature in a very masterly manner. And the very choice collection of “Outlook” reviews should not be neglected. And I have said that in my opinion the review of vehement denunciation is not of the highest merit: but I except Mr Murry’s notice of “The Secret Glory” in The Nation and Athenæum. There is a completeness about it which satisfies.

Finally, it would not be honest to conceal that there is another side to this as to most other questions. I have had “good” reviews in my day, and I give a few specimens of these. The writers of these articles I leave to the judgment of their own conscience. I only hope that, in the words of Mr Pecksniff, they have not voluntarily deserted the flowery paths of purity and peace.