Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1913-11-24

great heroisms. Wordsworth penetrates
far into the human SOUL and discovers
i nature inscribed therein. Victor Hugo is
on fire with a humane impulse. Dick
ems smites the chords Of humor and
pathos. Carlyle revels in the immensities
and veracities of being. Emerson re-
ports faithfully the visions and media
tons of his moods. Whitman sings his
comradeship into our heart of hearts.
| In one way or another, each of these
men has fulfilled some true and noble
| function of literature and has taught us
/ to know a great book when we read it.
Have not serious and intelligent readers.
| then, a just grievance, If. in their read
| fail to find the qualities that quicken
the human pulse with the joy of vigorous
and commanding life. of personality? 1t
seems to me that they have. There are,
| 1t is true, no two men whose genius
is quite the same, and II there were. one
of them would be superf1uous. but genius
of some sort writer must possess II
! his work would compel Intelligent atten-
| and know not otherwise how to earn his
bread than by writing balderdash. an
enlightened society would generously
pension him as reward for silence.
Now If 1t be true, as 1t is, that CO.
temporary literature is ailing: If our
writer's do not inspire and bring home
to US the feeling that life is large
and their own souls heroic, whose is
the fault? Does it lie In the writer's
themselves? Or in the public? Or in
both? Or shall it be said that life has
diminished since the elder days Of art,
and that human personal. ties have
dwindled almost to the vanishing point?
It is useless for critics to tell US that
literary eras have always been succeed
ed by eras of literary sterility, for. even
If this be true. 1t should not be accepted
as an inevitable cond.t ton of human ty;
rather should it be regarded as dis
gence of the race must overcome, unless
we are to believe that geniuses are a
fixed quantity. few In number. who con-
descend to visit the earth only during
the prop .tious seasons. Such theory
might be satisfactory to the devotees of
certain esoteric philosophers and reli-
ons, but 1t will not be accepted by per-
sons who find only too much evidence
that genius is wasted every year and
every day as If it were of no more i'm
portance than the dead leaves of Oc
tober. which are hurled hither and
thither by the roaring winds. The
world is always full of young men who
give promise of noble performance. yet.
in the end. most ingloriously IA l. Again,
l ask, whose is the fault, IL. in this pres
ent year, the last of natures perennial
miracles, there be among us little genius
of achievement visible; nothing, indeed.
for the most part but waste plot of
dull and commonplace conventionalities
Mass Indifferent to Letters.
There can be, 1 think, but one answer
to the question, which will cover the
larger number of observed facts. Our
answer must be that present-day democ-
racy does not care for great literature.
When theatrical managers tell us that
the production of Shakespeares plays,
or other classical pieces, means ruin to
them; when publishers demand of an
author that he write down to the level
of plebeian and silly feminine taste;
when the majesty Of the law is invoked
whenever a master dares to paint life
as it is, or even as it ought in his opin-
ion, to be; we find the reasons, or some
of the reasons, why our literature is
suffering from dearth of distinction.
Books to be published must be written
to crafty the mob, and If the mob pre-
fers as it usually does. mediocre poems
mediocre novels and even mediocre