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explanation in the Scandinavian mythology of how the
art of poetry arose is so curious and so interesting
that I have abbreviated it from Anderson's translation
of Bruge's Talk. It began with a war between the gods
and a people called the Vans. They agreed to hold a
meeting to fix terms of peace, and they settled their
dispute in this way: both went to a jar and spit into
it. As they were unwilling to let this mark of peace
perish, they shaped it into a man, who was so wise that
he could answer any question put to him. Once when this
man came to the home of the dwarfs two of them killed
him, and let his blood run into two jars and a kettle;
then they mixed honey with the blood, and made a mead,
and whoever drinks of it becomes a scald and a sage.
After this exploit the dwarfs drowned a giant by the
name of Gilling, and when they told his wife she began
to cry. One of them plotted her death, as he was tired
of her bawling, and his brother let a millstone drop
on her head. This proceeding of the dwarfs enraged Suttung,
the son of Gilling, and he took the dwarfs out to sea
and left them on a rocky island, which was flooded at
high tide. To get away they promised Suttung the precious
mead. He accepted it and hid it away, putting his daughter
to guard it. The Asas became possessed of the mead in
the following manner:—Odin set out from home,
and came to a place where nine thralls were mowing hay.
He offered to whet their scythes, and did it so well
that they asked if the whetstone was for sale. He answered
that he would buy it must pay a fair price. But as each
one wanted it Odin threw it into the air, and in the
scramble each thrall brought his scythe upon the other's
neck and cut his head off. When the giant who owned
the thralls complained to Odin that he did not know
where to get other workmen Odin said he would do the
work of the nine men if the giant would get him a drink
of Suttung's mead. The giant promised to try to get
it for him, and Odin did the work of nine men for the
summer. But when they went to Suttung he refused to
give them any mead. Then Odin proposed to the giant
that they should get the mead by some trick. So Odin
produced an auger, and the giant commenced to bore a
hole through the rock where the mead was hidden. When
the hole was bored Odin changed himself into a serpent
and crept into the hole. He made friends with Suttung's
daughter, and she promised him three draughts of the
mead. He emptied the ten jars and the kettle with these
three draughts. Then he took on the form of an eagle
and flew away, and Suttung also changed himself to an
eagle, and flew after him. When the Asas saw Odin coming
they put their jars out in the yard, and when Odin reached
them he spewed up the mead. But Suttung had so nearly
caught him that he dropped some of the mead. As no care
was taken of this it became the share of poetasters.
But Odin gave the mead to the Asas and to those man
who are able to make verses.
S.
Along
with the increased abundance of every other kind of
popular literature the present day has become very prolific
in children's stories and all kinds of writing intended
for the benefit and amusement of children. A great deal
of it is wonderfully excellent of its kind, although,
as in most other things, there is room for many new
departures. I have been reading with satisfaction a
new story for boys written by a Canadian, Mr. James
Macdonald Oxley, in many respects an interesting and
instructive book. One of the good things that can be
done for children is to provide them with interesting
and wholesome stories, in which much practical information
in regard to this earth and the things that move and
grow upon it is incorporated. In "Fergus McTavish"
Mr. Oxley has given a lively sketch of the working of
the Hudson Bay Company, its organisation and personnel,
together with many instructive pictures of the wild
country, with which it has to do. All this information
is conveyed to the mind of the young reader through
the medium of a pleasant and vivacious narrative. The
narrative may be forgotten, but the lad's mind will
be clearer and fuller than it was before. Mr. Oxley's
story is in some degree a lesson on the bringing up
of boys, and, though I do not agree with some of the
precepts delivered by the elder McTavish to his son,
there is plenty of wisdom in this feature of the book.
It seems to me that this kind of work might be carried
much further, and with excellent artistic as well as
moral and educational effect. A great deal of the higher
class of knowledge, scientific results and the serious
thought of the day in simple forms might be infused
into the minds of children of fourteen or fifteen years
of age by means of beautiful and attractive stories.
L.
Miss
Molly Elliot Seawell has returned to the attack on the
literary inferiority of women, in a letter to The New
York Critic, in answer to Mr. Higginson, who had valiantly
taken up the cudgels for the other side. Some time ago
Miss Seawell wrote a strong article in The Critic, in
which she put forward the theory "That in the nobler
part of human nature—the emotions and the affections—women
are superior to men. In the inferior part of human nature—the
mere intellect—men are superior to women."
To the first part there was no answer, but the second
part raised a very storm of literary indignation, especially
from the gentler sex, though there were a few champions.
The intellectual result of the storm was a lack of denial
by proof of Miss Seawell's statement, that no woman
has accomplished immortal literary work, that is, work
that has lasted down the ages. That there has been no
female Homer or Shakespeare is perfectly true, and in
the main Miss Seawell is right in her brave assertion.
The only question that arises is concerning George Eliot.
Mrs. Browning and George Sands can easily be passed
by when compared with the giant, masculine literary
intellects of the ages, but when we come to George Eliot
I am doubtful. The mind that produced Silas Marner got
as near to the Shakespearian level as any this side
his day. The only way I can explain George Eliot satisfactorily
to myself is to deny for her the truly feminine qualities,
in short, to say she does not represent the normal woman
at her best, but that her great intellectual genius
is due to an abnormal masculinity in her nature. Many
persons in looking at her portrait have noticed this.
The features suggest those of a Savanarola. But is this
conclusion perfectly fair to either George Eliot or
her sex? Perhaps Mr. Higginson is partly right, and
woman's intellect has only begun to develop. We do not
know what the future may bring forth in this direction.
We have many remarkable women to-day in literature,
but when we come to look at the great range of all literature
Miss Seawell is right; the immortals are of the sterner
sex. This is, without doubt, an important question,
and while we would be moved to agree with Miss Seawell's
conclusion, yet, to use Sir Roger's impartial dictum,
"When it comes down to a hearty discussion, much
might be said on both sides," and, as the present
weather is too hot, we would rather not fall foul of
any the gentler sex in an argument of this kind.
C.
In
connection with the above it is interesting to note
the list of strong female writers that America has produced
during the last two or three decades. Such names as
Helen Hunt Jackson, in verse and prose, and Edith M.
Thomas, Helen Gray Cone and many others in verse, and
half a score of strong prose writers, such as C.H. Craddock,
Miss Wilkins, Octave Thanet, Rebecca H. Davis, Mary
Hallock Foote, show that if women cannot obtain supreme
excellence in literature they can, at least, reach comparatively
lofty heights in contemporary writing, and that the
woman of to-day is closely pushing man in this direction.
C.
I
find the following statement in a literary journal:—"A
series of papers in which eminent novelists will tell
how they came to write their most popular book has been
arranged for by the editors of The Idler, Mr. Jerome's
new magazine." Papers are to be contributed by
Mr. Clark Russell, Mr. Besant, Mr. Bret Harte, Mr. Kipling,
Mr. Barrie and others. If there is something rather
disgusting in the hunger of the public of our day for
an undignified familiarity with the habits and craft
secrets of distinguished persons there is something
much more disgusting in the readiness of distinguished
persons to gratify it. People are beginning to complain,
and not without truth, of a decadence in literary art.
It would be strange indeed if literary art did not decline
under the influence of a state of things such as is
indicated by the quotation made above. It is only in
solitude and seclusion from public curiosity that the
fruit of a man's genius can be fully and wholesomely
developed. Praise, indeed, and recognition of a serious
kind, are very useful to him; but the coarse contact
with the popular touch, which is getting to be the demand
of the day, cannot be otherwise than utterly destructive
of that silent and patient concentration which is the
secret of the great in art. It is as if the writer's
personality were dispersed among the multitude, and
only by a feverish and violent effort is he able to
gather his forces together for an important undertaking.
This is no doubt the reason why our younger writers,
while they produce so much, never succeed in giving
to any one work the large and generous stamp of immortality.
L.
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