“A.P.  MALASSIS.”

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We now know that Flaubert made L16 in four years out of “Madame Bovary,” which went into three editions within considerably less than a year of publication.  And yet the house of Levy is one of the most respectable and grandiose in France.  Moral:  English authors ought to go down on their knees and thank God that English publishers are not as other publishers.  At least, not always!

WORDSWORTH’S SINGLE LINES

[30 May ’08]

I have had great joy in Mr. Nowell Charles Smith’s new and comprehensive edition of Wordsworth, published by Methuen in three volumes as majestic as Wordsworth himself at his most pontifical.  The price is fifteen shillings net, and having regard to the immense labour involved in such an edition, it is very cheap.  I would sooner pay fifteen shillings for a real book like this than a guinea for the memoirs of any tin god that ever sat up at nights to keep a diary; yea, even though the average collection of memoirs will furnish material to light seven hundred pipes.  We have lately been much favoured with first-rate editions of poets.  I mention Mr. de Selincourt’s Keats, and Mr. George Sampson’s amazing and not-to-be-sufficiently-lauded Blake.  Mr. Smith’s work is worthy to stand on the same shelf with these.  A shining virtue of Mr. Smith’s edition is that it embodies the main results of the researches and excavations not only of Professor Knight, but, more important, of the wonderful Mr. Hutchinson, whose contributions to the Academy, in days of yore, were the delight of Wordsworthians.

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Personally, I became a member of the order of Wordsworthians in the historic year 1891, when Matthew Arnold’s “Selections” were issued to the public at the price of half a crown.  I suppose that Matthew Arnold and Sir Leslie Stephen were the two sanest Wordsworthians of us all.  And Matthew Arnold put Wordsworth above all modern poets except Dante, Shakespeare, Goethe, Milton, and Moliere.  The test of a Wordsworthian is the ability to read with pleasure every line that the poet wrote.  I regret to say that, strictly, Matthew Arnold was not a perfect Wordsworthian; he confessed, with manly sincerity, that he could not read “Vaudracour and Julia” with pleasure.  This was a pity and Matthew Arnold’s loss.  For a strict Wordsworthian, while utterly conserving his reverence for the most poetic of poets, can discover a keen ecstasy in the perusal of the unconsciously funny lines which Wordsworth was constantly perpetrating.  And I would back myself to win the first prize in any competition for Wordsworth’s funniest line with a quotation from “Vaudracour and Julia.”  My prize-line would assuredly be: 

    Yea, his first word of greeting was,—­
        "All right....

It is true that the passage goes on: