Egotism is a word which has frequently an opprobrious sense attached to it. This is not the sense in which we propose to use it here. In a certain sense all genuine literature is egotistic. Whatever its subject, it is the expression of the writer's absorbing interest in it. A man who writes about horses because horses are his ruling passion is so far an egotist, though he never mentions himself. Gibbon's History is a monument of this kind of objective egotism. such cases the writer is lost in his subject. He realizes his personality indirectly; he expresses it by indirect means; and it is not for the sake of his personality that others read his work. The literature of egotism which we here have in view is distinguished by the fact that its primary subject is the author himself, or other things in relation to his own idiosyncrasies and experience.

In

Such literature is, more than any other, apt to lend itself to the service of vanity and diseased sentiment, but it is not necessarily an expression of what is vain, diseased, or foolish. Still less is such a literature of egotism to be set down as valueless or unimportant. The vainest, the most morbid, the most foolish of human beings, could he only give a picture of himself which was really complete and ac curate, would be able to produce a work of the highest interest and value; whilst, in proportion as the writer is endowed with exceptional faculties, or with a character so balanced as to render him a type of human nature

1. The Garden that I Love; Lamia's Winter Quarters; and other prose works. By Alfred Austin, Poet Laureate. London: Macmillan, 1894-98, etc.

2. The House of Quiet: an Autobiography. Edited by J. T. The Thread of Gold. By the same author. London: Murray, 1904-5.

generally, the value and interest of his self-revelation are amplified. Indeed much literature which is intensely egotistical in form, is, to all intents and purposes, universal in substance; because the elements which the writer most carefully observes in himself are elements which exist in all men, and to many men in all ages are as important as they were to him. Such is the case, for instance, with the Confessions of St. Augustine; and even more notice. ably, though in a somewhat narrower way, with the accounts of their spiritual experiences given by the later mystics. St. Teresa's accounts of her ecstasies are, in one sense, the quintessence of egotism, in another sense they are psychological documents of permanent value to the students of psychology, and even of medicine.

A similar criticism applies, with the necessary qualifications, to the literary expression of egotism on a less exalted plane. Of such literature the interest and value are two-fold. On the one hand it pleases because it is a revelation of idiosyncrasies which stamp the writer as a distinct and peculiar character, thus introducing the reader to an amiable or entertaining acquaintance. On the other hand it pleases or interests, in proportion as the reader finds in it thoughts and characteristics, not distinct from his own, but resembling them, and, by being introduced to the writer, is introduced also to himself.

For both these reasons, and for the latter reason especially, the books now before us are of a kind which deserves

3. The Upton! Letters. By T. B. London: Smith, Elder, 1905.

4. Elizabeth and her German Garden; The Solitary Summer; and other works by the same author. London: Macmillan, 1901-02.

5. From December to December: the Daybook of Melisande. London: Murray, 1905.

They be

attention. They are not only signs of the writers, they are signs of the times also. They are interesting revelations of the manner in which current conditions, social, religious, and intellectual, affect minds which, however exceptionally gifted, represent respectively numbers besides themselves. long to that class of literature to which belong Montaigne's Essays and Amiel's Journal. Montaigne not only charms the reader by exhibiting the individual peculiarities of Montaigne-his views as to the convenience of greatness, or the manner in which he played with his cat; he appeals to him also by the spirit in which he regarded lifea spirit in strong contrast to that of medieval Christendom, and arising largely out of general causes which have not yet spent themselves. gave to his experiences a universal character by dealing with his own soul as a specimen of souls in general, when submitted to influences shared by his contemporaries with himself. The books now before us, though perhaps in unequal degrees, appeal to us not only because they represent the writers themselves, but because they also represent various classes of their contemporaries.

Amiel

Without attempting to draw invidious personal comparisons, we will give to the Poet Laureate the precedence due to his office, and begin by considering the contributions which he, in the intervals between the visits of the Muses, has made to the prose literature of egotism.

Of the five or six specimens of this literature which Mr. Austin has given us, we will content ourselves with examining two-"The Garden that I Love" and "Lamia's Winter Quarters." The tone and genius which we find displayed in these are similar to the tone and genius which give their character to the others. Mr. Austin, in these works, has acquired a reputation more

consonant with the defective taste which he imputes to his contemporaries generally than with what is probably his own estimate of the comparative value of his writings. He taxes the readers of to-day with a corporate indifference to poetry; and many of his readers, whose acquaintance with his poetry is imperfect, are diligent in their study and sincere in their appreciation of his prose. This is partly due to the subjects, and partly to the qualities of his style, which bring him nearer in his prose works than in his poetry to the daily interests and comprehension of the ordinary man and woman of to-day. Divesting himself of the laurel proper to the inspired bard, he here meets them as a cultivated and accomplished man, who has indeed an occasional gift for song, but whose interests and manners are not otherwise generically different from their own. He speaks to them familiarly as the lover of his English garden, or the tasteful and scholarly traveller in the highways and byways of Italy. It is true indeed, as we shall see presently, that he manages, with much ingenuity, to enlarge this limited rôle; but such is the character in which he primarily and ostensibly presents himself to his public.

"The Garden that I Love," though written in the first person, is supposed, by a literary device, not to be written by the author. As the author, however, illustrates it with photographs of his own home, the disguise thus effected is intentionally of the most transparent kind. The book opens with a very engaging description of a small Kentish manor-house and the charming garden surrounding it. The imaginary writer presents himself to us as the owner and the gardener of this paradise, which he shares with his sister Veronica; and to them, for a visit of indefinite length, come a fascinating young lady called Lamia, and

a gentleman who is known by no other appellation than "The Poet," the imaginary writer himself being addressed similarly as "Dear Sage." The book is occupied with the conversations of this quartette, with a love-affair, ending in an engagement between the Poet and Veronica, and a tendresse of the Sage for Lamia, the end of which is indefinite; all this being set in the monologues of the Sage himself.

The reader will perceive that Mr. Austin has, for literary purposes, duplicated his own nature, and accorded to the sage and the poet in him two different personalities, so that each may, by contrast or appreciation, bring out the characteristics of the other. In saying this, we are neither surprising nor betraying any personal secret of the writer's; for the Sage, as the photographs show us, occupies Mr. Austin's home; and the Poet recites, as his own, passages from Mr. Austin's poetry. The device is, as we just now observed, ingenious. We believe it to be also altogether original; and, as related to the end in view, it is very far from being ineffective. At all events, "The Garden that I Love" is an example of the literature of egotism, which justifies its wide popularity by its signal and peculiar merits. It reveals with vividness and sincerity certain aspects of the Poet Laureate's character with which every healthy and cultivated reader will sympathize; and it does so through the medium of a style which every critical reader will admire. His prose, at its best, may indeed be taken as a model of lucidity, restraint, dignity, and appropriate music.

The predominant impression which Mr. Austin here leaves with us is that of his country home and his own personal attachment to it; this attachment being amplified into a passionate devotion to the country of which his home is for him at once the product

and symbol, and also into a healthy optimism with regard to human life generally. His many sketches of his small Kentish manor-house, with its rounded gable-ends, its walls smothered in roses, the beautiful garden which was practically his own creation, and the trees and glades of the park lying beyond it, actually place the reader amongst the scenes described, and bring to his nostrils the touch of the Kentish atmosphere. He sees the doorstep littered with drifted rose-petals. He feels the silence broken only by leaves and birds, the warmth of the sunshine, and the falling of the evening dew. The following passage, necessarily somewhat abbreviated, but not otherwise altered, will illustrate some of the qualities of Mr. Austin's mellow prose.

...

Spring is the most skilful of all gardeners, covering the whole ground with flowers, and shading off the crudest contrasts into perfect harmony; and were it April, May, and June all the year round, I, for one, would never again put spade or seed into the ground. I should select for the site of my home the heart of an English forest, and my cottage should stand half-way up an umbrageous slope that overlooked a wooded vale. . . . One would make just clearance enough to satisfy one's desire for self-assertion against Nature, and then she should be allowed to do the rest. . . . The Anemone apennina, now in full bloom in the garden that I love . . . is, as far as my experience goes, rarely seen in English gardens. It used, an indefinite number of years ago, to be sold in big basketsful by dark-eyed, darkhaired, dark-skinned flower-girls in the Via Condotti in Rome, in the months of February and March; and I recollect a good Samaritan putting the finishing touch to my convalescence, after a visitation of Roman fever, by bringing to my room a large posy of this exquisite flower, varying in color from sky-blue to pure white, and springing out of the daintiest, most feathery foliage imaginable. But with all my partial

ity for these domesticated wind-flowers, I will not pretend that they can hold a feather to undulating stretches of sylvan anemones; and in April these would be as numerous as the pink-andwhite shells of the seashore, which in color they curiously resemble, around my forest abode. . . . Just as one begins to feel a little sad because the wood-hyacinths pale, the red campion takes a brighter hue and holds up a bolder stalk, determined to see over the heads of the now fast-shooting green crosiers of the bracken; and before these unfurl themselves and get too high, the sleepy foxgloves suddenly remember that it is June, and dapple the lush dingles with their spires of freckled bells. All flowers seem to contain a secret; I suppose because they are silent. But the foxglove has always seemed to me to possess more of the mystery of things than any of its sylvan compeers.

Just as Mr. Austin here exhibits himself as a lover of England, so in "Lamia's Winter Quarters" and elsewhere he uses with equal success the same gift of style in exhibiting himself as the lover of Italy and Italian life. The manner in which his style takes the color of the things described will be seen by a few extracts from the very charming description which occurs in the opening chapter of the last-named volume. The Sage and the Poet, together with their two ladies, are enjoying a winter in the south, instead of a summer in the north; and from Provence into Italy they travel slowly in a hired carriage.

I suppose it is (says the Sage) because we are very simple folk, and lead at home a rather primitive life, that we find everything new which most other people find familiar, and so many things attractive that the bulk of the world treat as undeserving of attention. Along that magical coast, where we turned our gaze first to the seafringe, then to the hill declivities, then back again to the white-laced bays . . . while we never asked our cheerfully

communicative driver to quicken his pace, we frequently begged him to slacken it, and over and over again bade him halt altogether. . . . When luncheon-hour arrived we thereupon came to a standstill. . . . Under a carob-tree, the first Lamia had ever seen, the cloth was spread; and then she scattered rather than arranged her lately gathered flowers, with infinite taste. A short distance away, as we looked under the olive-trees across the ruddy clods and accidental wild-flowers, were the innumerable dimples of the amiable sea. . . . "Is it always like this?" asked Lamia. "Far from it," I was going to reply; but the Poet anticipated me. "Yes, always, Lamia, always, always, always! No one deserves to travel who anticipates anything less agreeable than what he is enjoying at the moment."

...

Travelling in the manner thus delightfully indicated, the friends finally settle themselves in a villa not far from Florence. Their quiet life there, with their conversations, expeditions, and impressions, embedded in the narrative and discursive comments of the Sage, form the principal substance of this agreeable and suggestive volume; and Mr. Austin, in dealing with Italy and Italian life, writes with no less charm, and an insight no less delicate, than he does when dealing with the life and the lanes of Kent. Here, indeed, the ripeness of his culture is perhaps even more apparent. Let us present the reader with one quotation

more.

Refinement is the work of time. You remember Aristotle's definition of aristocracy-ancient riches. Italy has ancient riches, the riches of law, religion, poetry, and the arts, long established; and she has, therefore, what is most precious in aristocracy. She has ancient speech, and ancient manners . . . and an ancient agriculture. We are sitting at this moment surrounded by a rural cultivation that is described with absolute accuracy in the Georgics, and again by Politian in his Rusti