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where they know better, the name and fame of the British Female suffer for Pippin's achievement yet.'

This human quality in Henley's work would, it need hardly be said, not suffice in itself to make him the critic he is. It is, rather, that, when this nature in him is stirred, his critical faculty becomes alert also, and he discovers an authoritative sense of literary values When, as in the case of Landor, the emotion of his subject escapes him, the expression of that emotion naturally enough seems to him to be in itself something inadequate. And all that can be said about it, as in every case of aesthetic appreciation, is that, so far as Henley's mind was concerned, the expression was inadequate. Landor remains, and Henley proves his worth elsewhere, and little harm is done. In the 'Fielding' and 'Burns,' on the other hand (one returns to these essays since, on the whole, they stand as the best of Henley's achievement), his personal sympathy with the life of his subject finds the nicest modulation in the analysis that he makes of the form in which that life found expression. And these papers are full not only of human understanding but of critical wisdom. We have not only warm-hearted persuasion, but a very rare insight into the processes of literary art. This, for example, of Fielding, is perfect in its discrimination and embodies a general principle that inferior criticism always overlooks:

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he has ever a kindly, and at the same time a leisurely, half-laughing, half-reticent mastery of his creation, which he never permits to get out of hand; so that he is able, on occasion, to assert, and to make us assent to, such an outrageous familiarity as that of the boxing of Squire Western's ears, by a person unnamed, whose sole title to credence is that, being an officer and a gentleman, he is as well acquainted with Squire Western as Squire Western's creator. That is to say, a great deal better than Sir Walter Scott and Mr Saintsbury. Sir Walter thought that Mr Western ought to have retaliated; Mr Saintsbury (speaking, he says, as a Tory) agrees, and seems to think this inimitable and daring touch the Novelist's "one slip." For myself, I am, like Mr Dobson, of Mr Fielding's party; for the reason that he knew his Western, and that his Western, if we are to accept him at all, must be accepted on his terms.'

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And so it is always when he is in touch with his subject. He may sometimes be deceived by a manner as to what lies behind. To the example of Landor might be added that of Philip Sidney, in whom Henley could see only affectation and conceit, and in whom he only permitted himself vaguely to suspect that there was a heart beating under the buckram and broidery and velvet,' so that the poet of Astrophel and Stella' remained for him but a brilliant amorist.' · In that gallant and formal carriage, expressive of an age when with the grand manner went grand manners, Henley could see little more than a strut; and so he could make no acquaintance with one of the truest of the English love poets. But, when he does understand, he nearly always does it with great thoroughness; and in his best work he never fails to test even his warmest sympathy with a writer's temper by a clear apprehension of principles governing the creative energy.

On the whole, Henley stands for a quite definite thing in modern English letters. He was not a great imaginative writer; and, though he had a good style, it was not a notably distinguished one, such as, shall we say, that of Mr Edmund Gosse. Nor, on the other hand, was he a great and original moralist, moving in lonely ways of speculation. But he did perhaps as much as any writer of his time to enlighten the ever-vexed problem of the relation of morality to art. Nothing more justly provokes suspicion in the critical mind than the art which seems to include in its purpose what the Americans call 'moral uplift.' The first sign of the critical mind, indeed, is a very proper pride in the conviction that, for better or worse, it would like to solve its own spiritual problems for itself. Such minds go to art because in that atmosphere, more perhaps than in any other, they are braced precisely for these solutions; and they rightly resent any presumption on the part of the artist that he is being sought, not for this purpose, but as a sort of spiritual ready reckoner. The critical mind is, therefore, and properly, never so touchy as when it suspects that it is being got at by the artist; and, indeed, it is a perfectly sound æsthetic instinct, since, when the artist is thinking about instructing the world instead of understanding it, he is inevitably up Queer Street.

But to understand this is by no means the same thing as to suppose that the artist ought not to concer himself with moral issues, or that he is transgressing i he plainly shows himself to be impressed by-to call it by its simplest name-goodness; and the critical mind is continually getting itself confused about this issue It is one thing for an artist to say, 'Be good, sweet maid,' and quite another thing for him to create a Cordelia, and make it perfectly clear to us that he thinks Cordelia admirable. Every acute critic sees the defect in Be good, sweet maid,' but a great many critics who should know better become defensive (or offensive as the case may be) about the Cordelias of art.

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Now, Henley, as has been said already, was a good man, and he loved goodness. He was under no illusions as to what goodness really was, and, as was shown by his acrimonious treatment of some of Stevenson's whitewashers, he neither hoped nor wanted to find paragons of virtue among men. He was perfectly aware, too, that in this world of expediency the values of vice and virtue are continually falsified; so that he knew, for example, that in the sum Burns was a much better man than any of his detractors. But, when all is said, the fact remains that Henley did immensely cherish the ordinary decent things of charity and tolerance and fortitude and devotion. And, while he was the last man in the world to tell his fellows that they ought to foster these things, he was eager in his praises whenever he found them. Had he been a great creative artist, his world would have been alive with this best kind of virtue, and it would have been his to survive the common charge of sentimentalising life. As he was not a great creative artist, this instinct in him found its fullest expression in criticism: and it does so in such a way as perhaps might persuade even the most intellectual critic that, in an artist, to be moral is not necessarily to be damned.



Two Emperors, five Kings, five Grand Dukes, six Dukes, and seven Princes, all of them reigning Sovereigns under the old régime in Germany and the former AustriaHungary, have lost their thrones as a consequence of the war. The only German Sovereign left in Central Europe is Prince John II of Liechtenstein. Liechtenstein is one of those anomalous small States, like the Principality of Monaco and the Republics of Andorra and San Marino, which contrived to preserve their independence intact amid the national groupings and regroupings of the 19th century. It has an area of 65 square miles, and a population of a little under 11,000. It lies on the border between Switzerland and Austria; and until the collapse of the Hapsburgs it was in effect (though never in law) a dependency of the latter. It had no army, however; and at the outbreak of the war it declared its neutrality. Since the collapse it has negotiated a Customs Treaty with Switzerland, under which in effect it has become a Swiss dependency. The Principality has a Diet, in which there is a small party which professes Republican opinions; but its propagation of them amongst the population is considerably hampered by the circumstance that the Principality is mostly the private property of the Prince, who, as he draws almost all of the revenue, also defrays almost all of the expenditure. The victory of Republicanism would accordingly imply the introduction of taxes, from which this fortunate State is at present entirely immune; and also, if it were to join Germany or Switzerland, some form of military service. In these circumstances competent observers incline to the view that Prince John can continue to count on the dutiful allegiance of his subjects.

In Germany before the collapse there were numerous similar States, though none were quite so small as Liechtenstein. In two German States (Prussia and Baden) the Sovereigns abdicated in 1918. In two others (Bavaria and Brunswick) the Sovereigns were formally deposed. In the remainder the Sovereigns amicably handed over the administration, withdrawing for the most part either to their country estates or abroad. The Governments which succeeded them thereupon

adopted some Democratic State title, generally 'Free State' or 'People's State,' or in one case (Baden) 'Republic.' Some of the smaller ones united with one another. Eight of the Thuringian States (the Duchies of Saxe-Weimar, Saxe-Meiningen, Saxe-Altenburg and Gotha, the two Principalities of Reuss combined as one State, and the two Principalities of SchwarzburgRudolstadt and Schwarzburg-Sondershausen separately) combined to form the United State of Thuringia (Einheitsstaat Thüringen) with Weimar as its capital. Saxe-Coburg, from whose reigning house in the 19th century Belgium and Bulgaria drew their rulers and Queen Victoria her Consort, preferred to join Bavaria. Three other small Principalities (the two Lippes and Waldeck) are likely in the near future to join Prussia.

To interpret these political developments as the triumph of the People's Will in conflict with the monarchic, or the militarist, or any other reactionary principle, would be misleading. The struggle with Liberalism, which occupied the energies of most of the German Princes during the first half of the 19th century, had no counterpart in the second. All of these princes, with the exception of the three Grand Dukes of the North (the two Mecklenburgs and Oldenburg), had granted Constitutions in or after the Revolutions of 1848; and the founding of the Empire in 1870 in broadening the horizon of both Sovereigns and subjects had cut the ground from under these political conflicts. The issue of Republicanism versus Monarchy in the small States had not in fact been on the tapis of practical politics in Germany any time in the last fifty years. In many or most of them it would probably never have been raised after the collapse, had not the Allies, or rather President Wilson *-for, so far as is known, the Allies made no pronouncement on the subject-indicated their desire for the establishment of republican institutions in Germany as a preliminary to the negotiation of peace. The loyalty of the average non-Prussian German to his Bundesfürst in the latter years of the Empire was a mildly romantic, eminently harmless, sentiment, which he inherited, accepted, and displayed on appropriate

*In his Note of Oct. 23, 1918.

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