While there are few living American writers better known or more heartily admired than Mr. Brander Matthews, it has long seemed to me that the public does not sufficiently appreciate a special phase of his versatility. What that phase is, will be learned from the title I have given this paper. Mr. Matthews is a playwright, a story-teller, a composer of vers de société, a genial humorist, a bibliophile, a professor in Columbia College, and all, or most of these facts are known to the public. The variety, the wit, the charm of his writings are familiar to the people that read the magazines as well as to the people that read books; the wit and charm and sincerity of the man are familiar to his friends; but I doubt if his friends or the reading public, although they may be acquainted with his essays, whether in their detached or collected form, are fully cognizant of the fact that their favorite writer is entitled to high rank among our living critics. Now we have too few genuine critics, living or dead, to be able to afford the extravagance of sinking one of them in a novelist, a playwright, a humorist, or even in a professor, and I purpose, if possible, in this brief appreciation, to try to keep Mr. Matthews posing as a critic long enough for a satisfactory sketch to be made of him in that attitude. But this is not putting the matter fairly, perhaps, for Mr. Matthews has already collected his critical work into four easily obtainable volumes, and so has done all that can justly be expected of him. If, therefore, my sketch of him in the rôle of critic be unsatisfactory, the blame must be laid on my own defective eye and unsteady hand.

The four volumes that sum up Mr. Matthews' work as a critic are entitled, respectively, French Dramatists of the Nineteenth Century (1881 and 1891), Pen and Ink (1888), Americanisms and Briticisms (1892), and Studies of the Stage (1894). A small book on American Literature, made up from articles contributed to St. Nicholas, is announced for publication next fall, but neither this nor his scattered essays will be considered here. The four volumes named represent our critic fully and well, for each stands for a distinct phase of his critical endowment and of his accomplished work. In his French Dramatists he appears as a scholarly specialist, the product of whose serious and sustained labors is a treatise of permanent value as well as of present interest. In Pen and Ink the subtle critic appears combined with the kindly humorist, and the result is a book that charms while it enlightens. In Americanisms and Briticisms the critic and humorist displays in fuller measure that sturdy, but never overbearing love of country that has made him one of the most distinctively national of all our writers, and the result is a volume that incites to patriotism and stimulates to the pursuit of high ideals in life as well as in literature. In Studies of the Stage the critic returns to the field of his earliest labors, but lays aside to some extent his role of scholarly specialist and allows us to perceive that like a true humorist he loves Charles Lamb, that like an old theatre-goer and playwright he loves Paris, and that like a good patriot he loves America and New York.

I wish I were a competent critic of the drama from the point of view of dramatic construction, and that I were more familiar with the dramatic achievements of France, in particular, in order that I might feel qualified to speak with some authority about Mr. Matthews' most elaborate work of criticism. I do not possess the proper qualifications, however, and I cannot speak with authority. Yet it is possible for a worker in one field of literature or art to pass more or less valuable general judgments upon the work of another in a different field. It is possible, I think, for one specialist to recognize the thoroughness and soundness of the methods of research followed by another specialist; and it may happen that his recognition may be more stimulating and valuable, because less biased and prejudiced, than that vouchsafed by rivals in the same field. It is only on some such grounds as these that I can at all justify my attempt to appraise the merits of the French Dramatists of the Nineteenth Century.

I am not sure but that what most pleases me in the book is the evidence it gives of the courage possessed by its author. It requires considerable courage for a young writer (The French Dramatists appeared in 1881) to devote an enormous amount of conscientious labor to a phase of contemporary literature, and to a little-understood phase of a foreign literature at that. With a student preparing his thesis for a doctor's degree, the case is, of course, different, and after all such a student usually chooses as the subject of his lucubrations a classical theme fully weighted down with real or sham dignity. Criticism of contemporary work in the nature of the case lacks finality, and while many men are willing to devote a hasty sketch to it, we find few willing to devote a careful treatise. Yet with all due regard to the past, we are assuredly still more vitally concerned with the present, and I am by no means certain that the preponderating study devoted by us to the work of our ancestors over that of our contemporaries is not due to our better understanding of the principles of historical research than of those of philosophical criticism. Be that as it may, I heartily admire the courage evidenced by this serious attempt to trace the development of a contemporary phase of foreign literature.

That it is a serious and successful attempt is apparent to any careful reader. The easy style, the general absence of foot-notes, the brevity of the book might, indeed, tempt the casual reader to believe that it is a mere sketch and not what I have already termed it, a serious and worthy treatise. But a labored style, a superfluity of foot-notes, and portentous length are by no means essential to a serious and worthy treatise. Full knowledge of the subject in hand, general knowledge of literature and life, sympathy, enthusiasm, and a love of truth that shrinks at no self-sacrifice are essential to such a treatise, and I find them all in Mr. Matthews' book.¹ Of the hundreds of plays produced by Frenchmen during this century, he has read a large proportion, and has seen many of them acted. He has studied the development of the drama in every country and period, and has looked at each play of importance as something to be acted, not as something to be read. His point of view is therefore that of the scientific specialist, and he has produced a book that is a model of its kind. But he is something more than a dramatic critic who knows his business. He is a man who, having read and travelled widely, has thereby enlarged his knowledge of life and his human sympathies. He possesses, too, an abundant humor, that makes his judgment as kindly as it is keen. This is but to say that Mr. Matthews' critical work is informed and thorough as befits a scholar, and sane, sympathetic, and sincere as befits a man.

To prove the truth of these assertions to the satisfaction of even the most exacting reader would be difficult anywhere, and is clearly impossible in a piece of impressionist criticism. I may, however, be able to give a few grounds for the judgments I have just ventured to pass. The second chapter of the book under discussion is devoted to M. Victor Hugo, who is, perhaps, the writer of all moderns that most severely tries the sanity of a critic. He has tried Mr. Swinburne's sanity to such an extent that the result long ago ceased to be doubtful. That Mr. Matthews, however, has stood the ordeal unscathed must be apparent to anyone who will study his treatment of "Hernani." There is in it nothing hysterical, nothing subservient or extravagant. Its dominant note is sanity, but not the pseudo-sanity of the eighteenth century, which was often but another name for inappreciation. Our latter-day critic possesses too sound a judgment not to perceive clearly that "Victor Hugo is not a great dramatic poet of the race and lineage of Shakespeare," but he has too keen an appreciation of what is true and beautiful in art not to perceive with equal clearness that "Victor Hugo is a great poet, although not a great dramatic poet." These two balanced judgments are fused by a genuine enthusiasm into certain fine concluding paragraphs, too long to be given here, but to which the reader may be referred with confidence.

Almost as good as the chapter on Hugo are those devoted to Dumas Père and Eugéne Scribe: fully as good is that on Emile Augier, with whose masculine genius Mr. Matthews is in entire sympathy. But even in dealing with the author of that excellent comedy, Le Gendre de M. Poirier,² Mr. Matthews' admiration is kept within just bounds, a feat which it is needless to say grows easier when he has to deal with M. Alexandre Dumas fils and M. Victorien Sardou. The cleverness of the latter dramatist, as illustrated, for example, in the well-known use of the scrap of paper in the Pattes de Mouche, receives some neat left-handed compliments that serve well to prepare the reader for the rapier thrusts at M. Octave Feuillet in the chapter that follows. It is a broadsword, however, with which Mr. Matthews thrusts at M. Feuillet, when in his resumé of the dramatic work of the decade, 1881-1891, he says of the latter's Parisian Romance:

The sudden death of a dissipated atheist at the supper table just when he is proposing a toast to Matter strikes me as tricky, cheap, childish; as Dr. Klesmer, in "Daniel Deronda," said of an aria of Bellini's, it indicates "a puerile state of culture—no sense of the universal."

Here is a home thrust, indeed, yet with a broadsword, as I have said, not with a rapier; but, if another metaphor may be allowed, we have here a piece of criticism that clears the air with the efficacy of a stroke of lightning. Fortunately, however, our genial critic is not compelled to make much use of his heavier weapon. MM. Labiche, Meilhac, and Halvéy are more to his liking than M. Feuillet, and although he has to say some sharp words about M. Emile Zola, he is too fully alive to the latter's great epic and lyric powers to be wanting in a courtly, if somewhat distant admiration. In short, the main note of this volume as of all good criticism, is hearty admiration for what is true and worthy.

In Pen and Ink Mr. Matthews has given us what is to me not only his most charming book, but one of the most delightful books of our generation. I forget that it is made up mostly of previously published essays and think of it as a book per se—a book that can be read through at a sitting, and then taken up again and again. There is not a dull page in it, which is equivalent to saying there are many wise ones. Certainly there is a deal of common sense, a most rare and acceptable form of wisdom in the essay on "The Ethics of Plagiarism" which I should be tempted to recommend to the plagiarist-hunter were I not sure that his small brain would never let him know what hit him, if indeed it let him know that he had been hit at all. There is also a deal of common sense hid snugly away in the banter of "The True Theory of the Preface"—a bit of clever humor which I shall not spoil by attempting its condensation here. The essay that follows on "The Philosophy of the Short Story" is more serious in tone and is, perhaps, Mr. Matthews' most important contribution to formal criticism. It belongs to the very limited class of authoritative essays—essays whose value is the same in kind, if not in degree, with that of a definitive treatise. In other words it may be fairly termed an achievement in criticism just as the two sketches that follow it may be called a feat of criticism. These sketches are brief appreciations of Mr. Frederick Locker (now Mr. Locker-Lampson) and Mr. Austin Dobson who are appropriately designated as "Two Latter-Day Lyrists." Good contemporary criticism always partakes more or less of the nature of a feat, and this is especially true when the critic has to pass judgment upon a personal friend. The least straining of the praise bestowed will offend the reader who knows or suspects the relationship, as well as the friend himself, if his nature be at all sensitive. If the critic be transparently sincere, he can, perhaps, avoid the Charybdis of flattery, not to speak of the rapids into which our modern log-rollers have pushed their logs, yet his very sincerity is not unlikely to cast him upon the Scylla of depreciation. But depreciation, however slight, is an infallible solvent of friendship, and friendship, the Greeks have taught us, is the best part of life; the man, then, that criticizes his friend takes his life in his own hands. From the ease and spontaneity, however, apparent in Mr. Matthews' tributes to his two English friends, I should infer that he was hardly aware of the danger he was incurring. This means that he was not self-conscious, and perhaps we find just here the reason why his two sketches are models of their kind—as delightful to the general public as they must have been to Mr. Locker and Mr. Dobson.

Of the three remaining essays, I confess that I could easily spare one, although I should not mind seeing it transferred to Americanisms and Briticisms, if its author is desirous of preserving it on account of the original data it contains. This is the paper entitled "The Songs of the Civil War," which, while in excellent taste, appears to me to be but a slight performance and out of place in a volume of such distinction and charm as Pen and Ink. But I should not willingly part with the disquisition "On the French spoken by those who do not speak French;" and I should pull a revolver as well as a royal flush on any individual so lost to all sense of propriety as to suggest that a self-respecting American citizen could do without "Poker-talk" after having once read it. Mr. Matthews is an authority on the short story and the French drama, but he is more than an authority on poker; he is the tried and true knight-champion of that high-born and winsome, but often calumniated damsel. I cannot conceive of any more delightful treat for a native American with a sense of humor and a knowledge of our national game—and what true American is without these?—than a first perusal of this essay, unless, indeed, it be a game of poker with the author of "Poker-talk."

The buoyant patriotism of this unique closing essay of Pen and Ink makes the transition from that volume to Americanisms and Briticisms natural and easy. At least this is true for an American reader, although I should hardly say that it is true for the average British reader if Mr. Augustine Birrell's review³ of the book is to be taken as typical of the way a Briton often fails to understand the spirit of an American writer, especially if the latter chance to be of a humorous turn. "It is rank McKinleyism from one end to the other," is Mr. Birrell's judgment upon what he calls "a pleasingly-bound little volume." Mr. Birrell is nothing if not epigrammatic, but he seems to forget the dangers that beset this style of writing. The sentence I have just quoted illustrates these dangers strikingly, for it shows that Mr. Birrell is as far from understanding the true nature of the McKinleyism, of which he writes so glibly, as he is from appreciating the real spirit in which Mr. Matthews wrote his book. For he immediately proceeds to quote a sentence from the American essayist to the effect that "every nation ought to be able to supply its own second-rate books, and to borrow from abroad only the best the foreigner has to offer it." As if a true McKinleyite would not dread the pernicious influences of "the best the foreigner has to offer," far more than the influences of that foreigner's second best—always supposing, of course, that a true McKinleyite could stop to think of distinctions between best and second best (except, perhaps, in the matter of giving sops to the rich) in the presence of the horrible spectre evoked by the mere mention of the Unspeakable Foreigner! McKinley and Matthews! This is indeed a brilliantly logical combination, almost fit for a presidential ticket!

No, in spite of Mr. Birrell, Mr. Matthews is not a McKinleyite, nor is he an anarchist, as the unwary British reader might infer from his countryman's reference to the bomb contained in the American book. Neither is any "wrath" to be discovered in our amiable critic or in his pages. I grant that there was some force in Mr. Birrell's point as to the invidiousness implicit in the distinction between best and second-rate, but it would seem that he pushed his point too far. I grant, too, that Dr. Fitzedward Hall, writing in the Academy, made good certain philological points against the volume we are considering, such points having, when made against a piece of pure literature, as complete a lack of tangibility as their geometrical congeners. But I am sure that neither Mr. Birrell nor Dr. Hall has ever thoroughly comprehended the purpose of the book they criticized.

Mr. Matthews did not set out to defend the American use of "elevator" for "lift," or to laugh at the English lady who wrote her brother in America to hold himself in readiness to cross the Atlantic, as he might "have to come over on a wire," or to gird at the Saturday Reviewer's cock-sure and invincible ignorance, or even to take up arms for American spelling. He was hunting down other game, although his keen wit did occasionally lead him off on a side scent. And the game he was hunting down was a legitimate object of sport, and at the same time a noxious beast most fit to kill—a beast which we dignify too much when we call it the colonial spirit.

That Americans have in the past shown too great subservience to British literary judgment and taste, and that many of our countrymen continue in this state of bondage is a fact too patent to be denied. That such subservience should be exterminated, whether by ridicule or by serious argument, is a fact equally patent. Exactly how the ridicule and the argument are to be applied are questions on which I should not like to have to pronounce a decided opinion. It does, perhaps, seem a little hard on Miss Repplier to have Mr. Matthews proffering friendly advice as to the authors she should do her quoting from; and yet it is impossible to deny one's self the wish that so clever a woman would develop an independent spirit, and by critisising, at least at times, writers of her own country render more positive and valuable services to a literature she is well fitted to adorn. This, I suspect, is mainly what Mr. Matthews wished to say in those pages devoted to Miss Repplier that gave Mr. Birrell such unnecessary concern. Mr. Matthews himself appreciates Charles Lamb just as fully as Miss Repplier does, and has written charmingly about him. He has even written, as we have seen, an entire book on a phase of foreign literature; certainly a most illogical thing for a rank McKinleyite to do. But he has not neglected to praise his own countrymen when they have done worthy work, and he has therein displayed, in my judgment, sound sense, good taste, and wholesome patriotism. I know at least one American scribe who is deeply grateful to him for a piece of kindly criticism which, whether deserved or not, came at a time when encouragement was greatly needed. It is in praise not in blame that Mr. Matthews does his best and main critical work, which is fitting in the author of the sound essay on "The True Duty of Critics" that finds itself in this volume. It is hearty praise that is the dominant note of the much-needed appreciation of Cooper republished here, as well as of the discerning tribute to Mark Twain's best story. It is hearty praise, finally, coupled with discriminating patriotism that underlies the dedication of Americanisms and Briticisms to that countryman of ours who has written the best biography of an American man of letters and the most notable recent treatise on a great English poet, Professor Thomas R. Lounsbury, of Yale. If this be McKinleyism, I am anxious to abjure my free-trade principles.

Studies of the Stage offers less occasion for comment than the volumes that preceded it. The "Prefatory Note" shows plainly the point of view of the writer, who argues "that dramatic literature must approve itself as drama first, before it need be discussed as literature." If this seem to the casual reader a self-evident proposition, he may be requested to attend a class in English literature in one of our colleges, or else to read through a few textbooks on the subject. When he has finished such a course of training, he will be pretty sure to welcome this small book as a much-needed contribution to the study of what must be regarded by every unbiased critic as the highest achievement of the human mind in art. Of the essays that make up the volume, the most valuable is that on "The Dramatization of Novels" which, while not equal to the masterly essay on the "Short Story," is nevertheless clear-cut in its analysis and lucid in its expression. The second paper describing the "Dramatic Outlook in America" is optimistic with the optimism of a man who is, above all things, sane. The essay that follows is an accurate and therefore delightful description of "The Players," the club founded in New York by Edwin Booth, and then we have a characteristic paper on "Charles Lamb and the Theatre." After Lamb we are introduced to "Two French Theatrical Critics"—M. Francisque Sarcey and M. Jules Lemaitre, who are sketched with the light, sure touch that we recognized in the essays on Mr. Locker-Lampson and Mr. Dobson. In conclusion, we have three brief papers on themes that always take our critic at his best, on "Shakspere, Molière, and Modern English Comedy," on "The Old Comedies," and on the timely propriety of making "A Plea for Farce." It is hardly necessary to add that with this list of subjects Mr. Matthews could not help putting together a book that should instruct as well as charm.

But this article has already exceeded the limits usually allotted to impressionist criticism, and it is time to cry halt, although there are many things still that I should like to say. I have not commented sufficiently on the graceful ease and effectiveness of Mr. Matthews' style when it is at its best; nor have I, perhaps, laid enough stress on the fact that his style is not always at its best, owing, doubtless, to the hurry incident to periodical publication. Such comment is not needed, however, by so trained and experienced a writer, and the reader can without difficulty judge in this matter for himself. Yet, I cannot part from Mr. Matthews, the critic, without expressing a hope which I shall not be sorry to have him take as an exhortation. It seems to me that, judging from what he has already given us, we have the right to expect from his pen in the future critical work of even better quality and higher aims. Indeed, I am going to be bold enough to tell him definitely what he ought to do for us. He ought to write that exhaustive biography and study of Molière which is so needed in our literature, which is perhaps the most needed treatise on any foreign author at the present time. For this noble task Mr. Matthews possesses every qualification. No man living knows and loves Molière better than he does. No one has a more exact and technical knowledge of the acted drama. No one can bring to the work more genial humor, more sound tact, more serious purpose. In fine, I must protest that I do not exaggerate when I maintain that Mr. Matthews owes us a Life and Works of Molière.

NOTES

¹ A comparison of The French Dramatists with Dr. Joseph Sarrazin's scholarly monograph Das Moderne Drama der Franzosen in seinen Hauptvertretern (a later book) is by no means to the disadvantage of the American work.

² I cannot help feeling that perhaps, Le Gendre de M. Poirier is not as great a work of art as Mr. Matthews holds it to be, but I am hardly entitled to an opinion on the subject. Antoinette seems to me to be too much of a heroine and too little of a flesh and blood woman. I should be almost tempted to say that Francine of Maitre Guérin (a less successful play) is a better character but for the fact that she is plainly indebted for her existence, as Mr. Matthews has observed, to the noble figure of Marguerite Claes in Balzac's great novel, La Recherche de l'Absolu.

³ Included in his Men, Women, and Books.