"I was greatly interested in the first few pages describing the scenes of my birth and young manhood. I suppose Walktown is meant for ----, if so, I was born in that part of Salford, and although I belonged to St. ---- Church, I attended very frequently St. ---- as the senior church of the district.

"I enclose an account of my conversion which will no doubt interest you. I have thought many a time that it would be an admirable theme for a novel. There are many other incidents in my life that would lend interest, especially my a.s.sociation with some of the most notorious anarchists of England and the Continent, and America, I was also a journalist on the _Clarion_, and a bosom friend of Robert Blatchford for fourteen years, John Burns, the new Cabinet Minister, slept at my house when he was an unemployed mechanic in 1885. I was personally acquainted with Mrs. Annie Besant for many years, and now she is here in Madras, the head-quarters of the Theosophical Society. I have renewed my acquaintance with her.

"I have come to think that much good might be done by treating of sacred subjects in the form that you have done, as you can by this means reach the minds and souls of those millions whom the Church cannot reach.

"The University here is turning out educated Hindus who, having parted with their heathenism have taken up Western scepticism in its place, and our Christian Missionaries are helpless to avert it, the youth here are swamped by the cheap Rationalist reprints. Could we but supply them with novels of Western life showing up the folly of Haeckel, Blatchford, Spencer and Co., in the manner you have done, it would be a powerful counter-attraction.

"Yours in Him we love.

"P.S.--The British people also need a novel that will show up 'Blatchfordism,' and you now have the ear of the reading public."

It is curious that in many of the letters I receive Mr. Robert Blatchford's name is mentioned. With some minds his writings have great power and influence, probably I imagine because of their real sincerity of purpose. It is the more cheering to know that an honest effort to render the Incarnation increasingly credible to the man in the street is not without reward. It is as difficult for me to disbelieve in the fact that Christ was G.o.d as it is difficult for Mr.

Blatchford to believe it. Where one man sees a landscape the other sees only a map. But there are, nevertheless, a great many people who deny the Catholic Faith because, while they desire to retain the name of Christians, they are unwilling to accept the obligations of Christianity. And while looking about for something to believe, a necessity of the human soul, they either find it in Mrs. Eddy and other false prophets, or finally join issue with the editor of the _Clarion_.

An author's letter-bag is always full of surprises, and such a correspondence as I am privileged to receive often entails a vast amount of extra work. But it is almost impossible not to reply to at least two-thirds of the letters that reach one, and though reply sometimes leads to a lengthy interchange of letters all are helpful and encourage one to continue, while some are full of the most illuminating suggestions.

Of this the following letter from one of the Canons of Durham Cathedral is a typical example:--

"DEAR SIR,

"In your coming story I hope you will lay stress on the fact that our 'higher' education is practically a Pagan one. All University honours, fellowships, scholarships, prizes are for proficients in Pagan literature; interesting (for some people).

Beautiful in language as this literature is, it lacks the spirit and power of the Christian Faith. The common rooms smell of Plato and Aristotle. There is no cross in a Don's life, as such, though a few rise above the normal standard.

"This system filters through the public schools down to the smallest private schools, in most of which the daily bread, the upholding of Christ as Saviour, teacher, master, example and king is left out.

"At Eton, where I was myself, religious teaching did not exist.

We had Sunday questions of which one specimen will suffice, given to my nephew the other day.

"'Of what judge is a curious incident recorded and what was the incident?' The result of this is far-reaching and deplorable.

"In Parliament the members a.s.semble by troops to hear about some personal scandal, but when the happiness of English girlhood is in question there is hardly a 'house.' And so with other questions that concern the personal holiness and happiness of our men and women and children.

"Forgive me for this taking up of your time, but your pen may do what I feel myself unable to do."

I have received a good many letters from clergymen endorsing the views I expressed in my book called _First it was Ordained_, views which I have consolidated in the previous essay, "The Fires of Moloch." I give only one example owing to reasons of s.p.a.ce. In view, however, of the strong opposition which exists, and of which I have had plenty of evidence, to any attempt to tell the truth, the following short letter, which is typical of many others, was a great pleasure to get:--

"The Clergy House, "---- E.C.

"May I say how much I have enjoyed your last book? _First, &c_.

It was hard to put it down without finishing it straight off.

"I hope it will do a power of good to stop the fearful and widespread sin.

"I do not think it at all too outspoken. The Bishop of London is quite plain on the matter. I believe a learned gynaecologist has an article supporting the statements made in his speech, in last month's _Nineteenth Century_."

I began by complaining that my post-bag often contained distressing letters asking for help which I was generally unable to supply. When I read over the correspondence which I have printed here I feel that I ought to regard my letter-box as a coffer of treasure, that my postman is indeed that same Hermes who brought the magic herb to Odysseus, my letters--

"--Wing'd postilions that can fly From the Atlantic to the Arctic sky-- The heralds and swift harbingers that move From East to West on emba.s.sies of love."

I only made what at the time I thought was a very small collection to print here--just a thin bundle taken from hundreds. Yet already I find that a third of the little pile has nearly filled my s.p.a.ce and I fear that my readers will weary, even if they have read so far.

"The man is printing his testimonials like a pill-maker!" I can hear Meletus snarl. "Who cares whether a few stupid people _do_ like his twaddle!" Lycom answers. Yet bear with me a little, brethren; you need not have read this paper, you know. Laugh if you will; laughter is the great agent that preserves a sense of proportion among us, and the man who laughs sounds the keynote of tolerance. But laugh kindly, remembering the vanity of authors and the wish of all of us to stand well with the world.

My post-bag day by day contains a certain missive which is not a letter. It is a little green, printed wrapper which most authors, painters, players, and musicians are in the habit of receiving--it is the batch of press-cuttings which show how the critics regard my books and what the paragraphists have to say. The critics are always being criticized by authors. Mr. Jones gravely points out the duty of appreciating his work that the reviewer owes to literature. Nor is it, as Mr. Birrell pointed out, in the days when he wrote delightful essays and had not been forced to dance to the dictates of political dissent, the unsuccessful author who is the loudest in complaint. The beginner, the men and women who cannot say as yet that they have achieved a definite position, these seem to have digested the poet laureate's neat advice--

"Friend, be not fretful if the voice of fame, Along the narrow way of hurrying men, Whereunto echo echo shouts again, Be all day long not noisy with your name."

But others are not so reticent. For my part I cannot understand the att.i.tude of the novelist who publishes shouts of resentment at criticism which is not to his liking--remember, in view of what I am going to say later, that I use the word _criticism_. The other day, while on a journey to the Riviera, I bought a copy of Miss Marie Corelli's last book of essays, in Paris. I read it through the night until I fell asleep, and when the sun flooded the olive trees I took it up once more, and finished it just as we ran into Ma.r.s.eilles. I suppose that this lady is the most popular writer of the day. She is a great modern force; she reaches an enormous audience, and speaks straight to their hearts. I have heard dozens of men and women say that they prefer her to any author alive or dead. Now this is surely to be in a very splendid position, is it not? Why, then, should a woman whose talents have won for her such place and power, print an angry, comprehensive, and I am afraid sometimes, spiteful indictment of all critics? I can't see her reason.

Destouches wrote:--

"La plainte est pour le fat, le bruit est pour le sot; L'honnete homme hue s'eloigne et ne dit mot!"

Miss Corelli a.s.sumes that all the reviewers are venal and dishonest, and that because they do not praise her books, books which are so influential and popular, they are bad critics. Reviewers, take them all in all, are nothing of the sort. I have written hundreds of book reviews. I have reviewed for the _Sat.u.r.day Review_, the _Academy_, and the _Bookman_, among other journals. Therefore you may a.s.sume that I met plenty of other critics, and know their polity and ways. We were all honest enough in those days--that I say without any doubt at all.

I remember Mr. Frank Harris, the then editor of the _Sat.u.r.day_, giving me a certain novel to review, and expressing himself with great point and freedom about it. As I was leaving his room he called me back, and said, as well as I can remember his words, "Remember that this is only _my_ point of view, and what I want in this case is yours. You may like the stuff, and if you do, of course you will say so."

I _didn't_ like it, and said so, but I have never forgotten the incident.

As I said in the beginning of this paper, directly my stories began to be occupied with religion as the force, _qui fait le monde a la ronde_, some of the critics began to be unkind. But what on earth is the use of wasting one's own time, and the time of the public, in fussing and complaining? The people who said this about my work were quite sincere. Their opinion is quite as good as mine, however much I don't agree with it. _Quot homines tot sententiae._ My business is to earn a living for myself and for those who are dependent on me. Thank G.o.d I can do so. My duty is to hammer away at the doctrines in which I believe, and endeavour to get others to believe in them. Therefore I must not "call or cry aloud." I must go on doing what I am doing, and doing it _sans rancune_.

Remember, and I wish Miss Corelli, for example, could see this also, that criticism of novels in our day is a purely _literary_ criticism.

The theory of modern criticism is that Art is a thing by itself and owes no duty to Ethics. The reason for Art is, art. Ten years ago I think I would almost have gone to the stake for this doctrine. I believed in it devoutly; I couldn't be patient, even, in the presence of any one who argued otherwise. I well remember the indignant anger with which I repudiated the suggestion of my father, a clergyman, that when I grew older and had suffered, when I came into real contact with the great central facts of life, I should think very differently. He was perfectly right. Art is the essential part of fiction, but it is not destroyed because it is employed as the handmaid of an ethical standpoint.

But this truth is no reason for "answering back" the critics who do not appreciate it. Nothing is quite true--except The Incarnation--a nave statement you may call it, but as a corollary of the epigram, true too! It is better, by far, to realize that modern criticism is most valuable from the purely literary point of view, and yet that the purely literary point of view is only one side of the model the artist must study before he learns how to draw.

Therefore, when any critic tells me of this or that fault in technique, I take his expert opinion for what it is worth--an expert opinion--and try to learn from his criticism. I try to learn and do better. When the post-bag discloses a criticism obviously animated by personal prejudice or dictated by the religious politics of the paper in which it appears, I grin and bear it--though I don't like it!--and console myself with the verse composed by the American poet whose critics were _always_ unfair, or at least he said so--

"The cow is in the garden, The cat is in the lake, The pig is in the hammock, What difference _does_ it make!"

No author, who has a public at all, suffers from _criticism_ which is fair or even from _criticism_ which is unfair.

An author is not well advised in publicly answering or combating either.

When Disraeli said that the critics were the "people who had failed in literature and art," he forgot that bad wine often makes excellent vinegar. I am quite certain that I have never suffered in the suffrages of my readers--and so in pocket!--from hostile criticism.

And I have had any amount of it--the little green wrapper is not always pleasant reading. But I have never shouted out that I have been personally hurt or wounded by hostile criticism, and I certainly never shall. The days are past when the _Quarterly_ could kill Keats, and the days have not arrived when the reprobatory finger which is sometimes wagged at one can take one's bread-and-b.u.t.ter away.

But sometimes--and now, please, I unsheathe my toy sword, or at least flourish my cane--the postman brings something that cannot hurt one seriously, though it stings. This something is not criticism at all.

It stings, not because of the actual attempt--even the smallest plants cannot grow unhampered by insect life--but because, puny as it may be, it is so manifestly unfair. In this regard I can sympathize with Miss Corelli because, however the critics may write of her books from the literary pedestal, they sometimes write of her, from a shelter trench, in a very different way.

One morning I read a little sneer about myself which was entirely without justification or explanation. It occurred in a Catholic magazine, which I will call _The Thesaurus_, dated June 1906, and was written by the editor, who may be designated as the Rev. Mr. Roget.

Here it is:--

"Perhaps one of those authors whom the public love--Miss Corelli, Mr. Hall Caine, or Mr. 'Guy Thorne'--may be preparing a novel with the education controversy as its theme. In that case, one can only hope devoutly that the Bishop of London will _not_ think it advisable to advertise the book from the pulpit.

Yet if one could only have heard a frank opinion of _When it was Dark_ expressed by the last Bishop of London--Dr.

Creighton--that would indeed have been a joy."

_The Thesaurus_ is a pleasant little magazine devoted to quite innocuous fiction and articles. It has, in the number I quote above, nine pages of advertis.e.m.e.nts, an article called "In the Engadine," a "Few hints on church embroidery," a very happily named story called "In a Dull Moment," etc, etc. Indeed it could not hurt a fly. I say this much, not because I have any dislike for this nice little periodical, but in order to point out that in answering its editor's remarks about me, I am not endeavouring to become known to the world, and to advertise myself by the endeavour to link my name to its editor's.

There is a certain sort of hurried and sporadic writing which is not criticism, but is irresponsible nonsense set down to fill a page no less than to gratify a prejudice.