BOOKS.

MRS. ASQUITH'S AUTOBIOGR.APHY.*

"Twas thus Calypso once each heart alarmed, Awed without sense, and without beauty charmed ;

Her tongue bewitched as oddly as her eyes, Less wit than mimic, more a wit than wise ; Strange graces still, and stranger flights she had, Was just not ugly, and was just not mad ; Yet ne'er so sure our passion to create, As when she touched the brink of all we hate."

Me. Jowarr is reported to have said of "In Memoriam" (thinking, we must suppose, of its alleged super-sentimentality) that its publication could only be justified by the fact that it was written of a dead man. That appears to us to have been an wholly unnecessary remark as regards "In Memoriam." If, however, it were said of Mrs. Asquith's book that its publication could

• (1) The Autobiography of Margot deguith. London : Thornton Butter otwth. [25s. nct.]—(2) The Mirrors of Downing Street. By " .A Gentlennan with a Duster." London: NEIL and Boon. [58. net.) only be justified if it had been written by a dead woman about dead men and women, we should heartily agree. There are a dozen good reasons why memories so intimate and involving so many personal feelings and questions should always bang in the literary larder till they become tenderer and so more whole- some, but we do not intend to enter into any of these reasons in detail. In the last resort, the point is not ono for disputation. Who can argue on a question of taste ? It must be felt, not syllogized. But though we must refuse to wrangle over this matter, we may, at any rate, suggest a line of inquiry. Mrs. Asquith states in her preface that Lord Crewe saw the MSS. before Its completion and made careful criticisms. Such criticising, however, we are told, did not commit the critio to approval of all that was written. It would be interesting, from the point of social and literary psychology, to see the actual terms of reference to Lord Crewe--the most discreet of those men of the world who know the world like men.

Let the impression made by the vivid and penetrating quota- tion from Pope which we have set forth at the head of this article be placed side by side with the impression made by the account which Mrs. Asquith gives of herself during her girlhood and youth, of her appearance, of her moods and fancies, of her witticisms, of her follies, and of her love affairs—an impression supported by the memories of those who are old enough to have been young in the 'eighties. The comparison will seem almost uncanny. If the word "read," imposed upon the poet by the exigencies of rhyme, is made to connote " mad- cap " and " ugly " belle trade, the couplet gives, we will not say an exact portrait of the real Mrs. Asquith, but at any rate "the extreme characteristic impression of the thing written about"- i.e., the picture of her girlhood as she herself envisages it.

Here let us say quite plainly, and in spite of the essential and fundamental objection to the publication of the book at the present time, which we have just given, this self-study of the modern Calypso is as fascinating, as vivifying, and as full of bitter-sweet attraction as was the actual pose of Miss Mai got Tennant. In spite of the errors in taste, and of certain occa- sional breaks in a style often quite admirable when its purpose is considered, the book justifies those who have declared it to be "a true piece of literature" with all that such words import. Mrs. Asquith is much too modest when she talks of her only literary asset being " natural directness." If she was more intimate with the records of the written word she would know how priceless is the power of maintaining a sense of natural directness. It is by this gift that records of human thought, feeling, emotion, and character live and have their being. It is this, we had almost said this alone, which carries acrees the footlights of the great human theatre. It is this that makes the difference between the lay figure and the living model. Take an example in the brilliant and well-weighed studies of con- temporary statesmen, The Mirrors of Downing Street, written by " A Gentleman with a Duster," to which we hope to return, but which we have to-day associated with Mrs. Asquith's Auto- biography. The anonymous writer of The Mirrors of Downing Street is very likely a much sounder judge of character and action than Mrs. Asquith ; but though he paints the super- flees BO well, the picture does not really live. Mrs. Asquith's characters of men and women when she is at her hest, for example, her study of Mr. Balfour, though often unjust, out of drawing and of proportion and wrong in colour, have got in them a sense of his which makes us forgive all the errors. It is here, indeed, that the amateur so often beats the professional. And he beats him far more easily in literature than in the other arts ; for though literature has so subtle and to difficult a technique, it is not a physical technique controlled by a bundle of muscles, sinews, and tissues. The great example ot the amateur who succeeded almost beyond all others in word Portraiture is, of course, St. Simon. His pictures excel because, by a happy fortune, he was able to endow them with this gift of vitality.

But when the book before us is so full of life, we must not trouble any further with the metaphysics of biography and autobiography, but must at once return to the new Calypso. Mrs. Asquith tells us that what she likes best in the world is ruling, and after that writing. Her book, at any rate, proves tbe at part of the proposition. All she eays about horses

and hunting is delightful. She has got "good hands" here, as to the saddle—a quality which, curiously enough, is so often associated with horse-lovers in literature. Though she does net us the least set out to exploit her adventures in the hunting.

field, when for the purposes of her narrative she gives us an account of a run, the pages vibrate with the happiness of the

fearless and joyous rider. Many a man and many a woman whose hunting days are over will feel as he reads, "1 see no longer, I myself am there."

Though all the hunting episode, are fascinating, the best is perhaps the account of how Miss Tennant rode 'Havoc' and all that came of it. In this incident Mrs. Asquith shows another natural gift which greatly supplements her power of drawing character. She has an admirable touch in the reporting of conversations. The subject of the talk may be tiresome, and the talkers dull or distracted, but she never fails to make her report dramatic and entertaining. If it is objected that her imagination may be stronger than her memory, we can only say that, from the point of view of art, that does not matter. We are inclined to think, however, that, though there are probably innumerable inaccuracies in detail, the dialogues do represent the real impres- sion, whether right or wrong, made upon the reporter's mind. They are, that is, in no sense "fakes." Proof is to be found in their complete individualism. Peter Flower does not talk like the Master, General Booth like Lord Morley, Sir William Har- court like Lord Randolph, or Lord Salisbury like Mr. Gladstone.

No doubt many of these reported conversations arc mien to the objections which we have raised against the book as a whole,

but again this is not our point at the present moment. It is that the conversations bring a living picture before Us, and, as we have

said, are individual. We have tried them by a test which has often been applied, and rightly applied, to portrait painters. Von Dyck, Lely, and Mueller were not great portrait painters because

their portraits are all east in a similar mould. They are pictures by Van Dyck, Lely, or Mueller, rather than portraits of English or Flemish or Italian nobles, as the case may be, Coya's portraits, like the few but precious examples of Hogarth's art in this kind, are absolutely individual. The drawings of the Duke of Wellington or the pictures of Goys himself and his friends seem to belong to another world than those of the grandees of the Court of Charles IV.

And now for some examples to prove our contentions. Here is a piece of hunting and dialogue mixed which is of a high quality ;— " At the meet I examined my mount closely while the inan was lengthening my stirrup. Havoc, as he AVM called, wadi a dark chestnut, 16.1, with a coat like the back of a violin and a spiteful little head. He had an enormous bit on ; and I WILY glad to see a leather strap under the curb-chain. When 1 was mounted, Peter kept close to my side, and said You're on,, topper ! Take ken where you like, but ride your own lino: To which I replied : 'Why? Does he rush ? I had thought of following you.' PETER.: Not at all, but Ito may pull you a bit, HO keep away front the field ; the fence isn't made that he can't jump ; and as for water he's a swallow ! I wish I could say the same of mine ! We've got a brook round about here with rotten banks, which will catch the beet ! But, if we are near each other, you must come alongside and go first, and mine will very likely follow you. I don't want to spend the night swimming.' It was a good scenting-day, and we did not take long to find. I stuck to Peter Flower while the Bieester hounds raced across the heavy grass towards a hairy-looking double. In spite of the ironnionger'a shop in 'Havoc's' mouth, I hadnot the faintest control over him, so I said to Peter: You know, Mr. Flower, / can't stop your horse ! ' He looked at MO with a charming smile, and said But why should you? Hounds are running ! MARGOT 'But I can't turn hi ll !'

PETtat It doesn't matter ! They are running straight. Hullo ! Lookout! Look out for llydy ! '

We wore going great guns. I Haw is man in front of me slowing up to the double, so shouted at him : Get out of my way ! Get out of my way ! ' I Was certain that at the pace he was going he would take a heavy fall and I should be on the top of him. While mit the act of turning round to are who it was that was shouting, his willing bons, paused and I was shot past him, taking away Itis spur in my habit skirt. I heard a volley of oaths as I jumped into the jungle. 'Havoc,' however, did not like the brambles and, steadying himself as he leaded, arched with the activity of a cat over a high rail on the other side of the double ; I turned round and saw Peter's horse close behind me hit the rail and peck heavily upon landing, at which Peter gave him one down the shoulder and looked furious. I had no illusions! I was on a horde that nothing could atop ! Seeing a fine of willows in front of me, I shouted to Peter to come along, as I thought if the brook was ahead I could not poasibly keep close to him, going at that pace. To my surprinc and delight, as W. approached the willows Peter passed me, and the water widerux1 out in front of us ; I saw by his set face that it was neck or nothing with hint. Havoc was going moll within himself, but his stable-companion was precipitate and flurried ; and before I know what had happeaed Peter was in the middle of the brook and I was jumping over his heed. On landing I made a large circle round the field away from hounds, trying to pull up ; and when I could turn round I found myself facing the brook again, with Peter dripping on the bank nearest to me. Havoc pricked his ears, passed him like a flash and jumped the brook again ; but the bank on landing was boggy, and while we were floundering I got a pull at him by putting the curb-rein under my pommel and, exhausted and distressed, I jumped off. Peter bunt out laughing."

We will quote as an example of pure dialogue the amusing conversation between Mrs. Asquith and Jowett:—

" He asked me once if I ever told anyone that he wrote to me, to which I answered : I should rather thipk so I I tell every railway-porter ! ' This distressed him. I told him that he was evidently ashamed of my love for him, but that I was proud of it.

Jowyrr (after a long silence) : Would you like to have your life written, Margaret ? '

MARGOT : Not much, unless it told the whole truth about me and every one, and was indiscreet. If I could have a biographer like Fronde or Lord Hervey, it would be divine, as no one would be bored by reading it. Who will you choose to write your life, Master ' JowErr : No one will be in a position to write my life, Margaret.' (For some time he called me Margaret ; he thought it sounded less familiar than Margot.) MARGOT : What nonsense ! How can you possibly prevent it ? If you are not very good to me, I may even write it myself ! '

Jowirrr (smiling): If I could have been sure of that, I need not have burnt all my correspondence ! But you are an idle young lady, and would certainly never have concentrated en so dull a subject.'

MARooT (indignantly) : Do you mean to say you have turnt all George Eliot's letters, Matthew Arnold's, Swinburne's, Temple's, and Tennyson's ? ' JOWETT : I have kept one or two of George Eliot's and Florence Nightingale's ; but great men do not write good letters.'

MaEocrr : Do you know Florence Nightingale ? I wish I did.'

JowErr (evidently surprised that .1 had never heard the gossip connecting his name with Florence Nightingale) : 'Why do you want to know her ? '

MaBooT : Because she was in love with my friend George Pembroke's* father.'

Jowrrr (guardedly) : Oh, indeed ! I will take you to see her, and then you can ask her about all this.'

MARGOT : I should love that ! But perhaps she would not care for me.'

JowErr : I do not think she will care for you ; but would you mind that ? '

MARGOT : Oh, not at all ! I am quite unfeminine in those ways. When people leave the room, I don't say to myself, "I wonder if they like me," but, "I wonder if I like them."' This made an impression on the Master, or I should not have remembered it. Some weeks after this he took me to see Florence Nightingale in her house in South Street. Groups of hospital-ixuses were waiting outside in the hall to see her. When we went in I noted her fine, handsome, well-bred face. She was lying on a sofa, with a white shawl round her shoulders, and, after shaking hands with her' the Master and I sat down. She pointed to the beautiful Richmond print of Sidney Herbert, hanging above her mantelpiece, and said to me : I am interested to meet you, as I hear George Pembroke, the son of my old and dear friend, is devoted to you. Will you tell me what he is like ? ' I described Lord Pembroke, while Jowett sat in stony silence till we left the house. One day, a few months after this visit, I was driving in the vicinity of Oxford with the Master, and I said to him : You never speak of your relations to me, and you never tell me whether you were in love when you were young ; I have told you so much about myself ! '

Jowirrr : Have you ever heard that I was in love with anyone ? ' I did not like to toll him that, since our visit to Florence Nightingale, I had heard that he had wanted to marry her, so I said : 'Yes, I have been told you were in love once.' JowETr : Only once ? '

MA.ROOT : "Yes.' Complete silence fell upon us after this. I broke it at last by saying : What was your lady-love like, dear Master ? '

Jowrrr : Violent . . .. very violent.' After this disconeerting description, we drove back to I3alliol."

Before we leave Margot and the Master of Balliol we must say that all Jowett's letters are quite admirable, as are the conversations. His last words to his girl friend are so poignant and so characteristic that they may well be quoted. After the Master's serious illness, from which he only rallied and never recovered, Mrs. Asquith invited him to give her his experiences of having been so near death :— " JowErr (n.,t in any way put out): "I felt no rapture, no bliss." (Suddenly louking at me and taking my hand): "My dear child, you must believe in God in spite of what the clergy tell you."

There is the man in his mental habit as he lived.

Anyone who wishes to test our opinion of the characters drawn by Mrs. Asquith should oonsult the elaborate drawing of Mr. Balfour and the thumb-nail sketches of Lord Salisbury and Lord Rosebery. We shall not touch them, because in doing so

• George Earl of Pembroke, uncle ot the present Earl.

we should have once more to make our protest. AS open to objec- tion is the account of "the Souls." That, in our opinion, is an entire infringement of the implied oath of social freemasonry. We ought all to consider ourselves to have taken that oath or honour. able declaration for the joint lives of ourselves and our friends.

We began our criticism of Mrs. Asquith's biography with a quotation from Pope. We close it by quoting the words used by Samuel Rogers, tnirabile dictu, in describing Michael .Angelo's statue of Lorenzo De Medici :—

" It fascinates and is intolerable."