Things Near and Far
by . New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1923. 12mo. 250 pp. $2.00.
SOME years ago, when the legend of the ‘Angels of Mons’ was buzzing in men’s ears, certain brave folk ventured to say that the dream had risen out of ‘The Bowmen,’ a tale by Mr. Arthur Machen. ‘Machen? ‘ said the world. ‘Pray who is he? ‘
This poignant, luminous, and serene little autobiography is the author’s own reply. The tale runs after this manner: —
There was once an author in England who went through the world ‘wondering and dreaming and setting his heart on the hopeless endeavor of letters’; a mystical inheritance was his, for even as great mountains and woods with shadowy Celtic names still possess the English landscape of his shire, so did the shadow of the Celtic dream possess his soul. Of the reading and writing of literature he could make naught but pathways to ecstasy, climbing white ways to the hill of the ecstasy of beauty. And he came among his own, and wrote for them, but they gave him no welcome, for they sought the beauty that walks soberly and with pious counselors, whilst this man came to them with beauty and dreaming wonder and even a little madness.
And thus year followed lonely year, the man became a bookseller’s prisoner, an actor, and even a Northcliffe journalist, yet remained true to his creed and his haunting dream. But presently wise folk beheld him trudging the hill and acclaimed him from the plain.
Thus runs the tale of Arthur Machen of Caerleon of Siluria in Roman Britain, the neglected master of London of ‘the nineties’; Arthur Machen of The Hill of Dreams, The Secret Glory, and The House of Sauls. More or less disregarded by a generation, he now finds his works appearing in collected editions in both America and Great Britain, and collectors searching old shops for his first, forgotten books.
It is not as a figure of the nineties, however, that Arthur Machen should be judged. There is little of these famous years in the autobiography, no gossip of the great fantastics who first opened doors into the freedoms of our day, no jargoning of those eager and combative schools. A dreamer content with his dream, Mr. Machen belongs to no period; his measure of life and art is that ecstasy which is older than the stars. Indeed much of the ancient outcry against him probably rose from critical bewilderment, and a mistaken identification of his purpose with the doctrine of L’Art pour l’art, and Other catchwords which fluttered banners thirty years ago.
The gold of the present book is its simple, dispassionate revelation of a rare personality and a distinguished artist. The narrative moves with easy grace, the tone is extraordinarily conversational; one an almost touch the armchair at one’s side.
Those who wish to go on with Mr. Machen will do well to read this book before they take up The Hill of Dreams. This latter book, for all its beauty, for all its lovely chiming of words and sounds, is a strange book, and one can best understand and savor it by knowing the lonely author and his creed.
HENRY BESTON.