Literature for the Boy at the Tail of the Van

Introduction

In the following article, Arthur Machen has formulated his theory of literature and adventure in defense of working boys. It is a delightful argument. Among other subjects, the reader is treated—if too briefly—to a few positive words about a curious title by Edgar Jepson, a friend of Machen’s. It is an effective technique, for now I am quite interested in searching out that book.

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Odd Volumes:
Literature for the Boy at the Tail of the Van
by
Arthur Machen
November 14, 1910

“A boy of fifteen or sixteen sitting at the tail of a van . . . reading some sporting paper or trashy novelette”: this, says Mr. Asquith, is one of the sights that most saddens him in his ways through great cities.

It sounds plausible. Betting often leads men to sad issues; there is many a true and moving story of ruin and disaster directly traceable to “all the winners”—who are so often the cause of loss.

And, of course, it is a waste of time to read “trashy novelettes”; one should read the hundred best books and study the art of self-help—of helping oneself.

But, for all that, I have little sympathy with Mr. Asquith’s pronouncement. He is preaching in a new form the old and evil gospel of the Gradgrind family. He wants the boy at the tail of the van to go and be “something ‘ogical”: to be ‘ogical as rolls along the London streets and swings round sharp corners.

Now that van-boy is not going to be ‘ogical, and he is quite right. Mr. Asquith forgets that life without adventure is a barren waste, and that owing to a set of circumstances which we have agreed to call “civilisation” the only form of adventure open to that boy is the scarlet story or the betting news, or both.

Men and boys cannot live without “thrills” of some sort; indeed, the providing of these thrills—the “momentary delights” of Pater’s philosophy—is precisely, and exactly the business of the fine arts, their true raison d’être.

The Eastern rapt in wonder by the strolling story-teller is own brother to the boy on the van. If the tale told by the Oriental is a picturesque invention, while the Western novelette is “trashy”—well, that has been mentioned already.

The boy should read “Waverley”? No, he should not; unless he be a very exceptional boy indeed. To appreciate “Waverley” demands a certain cultured and historic habit of mind which the ordinary van-boy cannot possess. Without this habit of mind, the Walter Scott romance would not give the desiderated thrill; it would weary, it would be a horrible bore to the boy.

But, note, it is not the trashiness of the novelette that pleases; it is the thrill—of mystery and sensation, of battle and murder and sudden death. And in these things there is nothing unliterary—unless the “Odyssey” be unliterary. The story of the One-Eyed Monster and the Cave, of the Cannibal Feast, the Glowing Stake, and the Escape under the Ram’s Belly—all that is “hot stuff.”

What our writers—or some of them—should learn to do is to provide stuff which is hot with sensation, entrancing with mystery, and yet is not trashy. And it can be done, for here is an example to my hand. I took up Mr. Edgar Jepson’s “The Girl’s Head” (Greening), quite late the other night. But I did not go to bed till I read the last line; I was too anxious to penetrate the core of a most artful and bewildering mystery. And there are great moments in the book; perhaps the best of them is the description of Romney Marsh, when the head of the murdered girl seems to swim up through the wreaths and films of white vapour.

. . . .

There has always been a curious fascination about the stage—not only about art itself as an art, but about the lives and doings of actors and actresses. It is hard to define this fascination or to find a reason for it; still, there it is.

Carlyle’s explanation of the problem is somewhat cynical. He says that the only biographies worth reading are the lives of actors, because, from the nature of the case, all actors have long cast respectability to the winds.

This, of course, is a mistake of Carlyle’s since many actors are both eminently respectable and eminently dull.

Still, in spite of this fact, the stage has a glitter and glamour about it, and people like to read any matter of the theatre. To such I commend “Our Stage and its Critics,” E. F. S. (Methuen.)

E. F. S. goes into all kinds of theatrical questions, major and minor. I have merely glanced through the book, so I cannot speak with authority, but I do not think he has treated the very important subject of lighting.

There can be no doubt that in most productions of Shakespearean and costume plays there are too many limes and too much blaze. If a manager is giving a modern comedy—an affair of the drawing room—a brilliant illumination is no doubt right.

But in Shakespeare the poetry and beauty of the lime and of the legends demand glamour. The acting should suggest enchantment, so should the scenery and the music; and enchantment does not flourish under the glare of half a dozen electric battens, a fierce range of footlights, and about twenty-four raging “limes.” Mist and mystery are not identical, but we all known how the former suggests the latter, how the ugliest warehouse on the south side of the river gathers itself a magical vestment of beauty when the early mists of the morning or the sunset hazes are about it.

Of course, we want to see the actors’ faces, but there is a middle way between darkness and a flood of hard yellow light.

. . . .

Mr. Birrell’s “Obiter Dicta” is a pleasant book, so I am glad to see the reissue (Duckworth) of the first and second series in one handy volume. A pleasant book, I say, but hardly more than that. It knows nothing of the heights and depths of the literary art; but it chats gaily and readily and wittily about the surfaces of books. I should think “Obiter Dicta” is just the sort of volume to give a clever lad who is beginning to “take notice”; it would send him to the right quarters, to great originals. The first pages of “Boswell” might frighten the boy, but he will not be able to refrain from the “Life” after reading Mr. Birrell’s sketch of Dr. Johnson’s character and career. In the same way he may be led to look up Pope—an author of whom we think little and know nothing at all.

. . . .

“Mist’s Journal” must have been very lively reading. The following passage from the issue of April 5, 1718, is quoted in Mr. Frank A. Mumby’s “The Romance of Bookselling” (Chapman and Hall). The writer is speaking of the well-known publisher, Curll:—

The fellow is a contemptible wretch a thousand ways; he is odious in his person, scandalous in his fame; he is marked by Nature, for he has a [obsolete adjective] * countenance, and a debauched mien; his tongue is an echo of all the beastly language his shop is filled with, and filthiness drivels in the very tone of his voice.

There is something very hearty in this critical note on a publisher.

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*Editor’s note: This [obsolete adjective] is “bawdy.”

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The Weekly Machen

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