COLOUR-BLINDNESS IN LITERATURE.


The singular phrase at the head of this Essay came to me from a
correspondent who wrote in great perplexity. This unhappy man was
quite miserable because he found that his own views of the
masterpieces of literature differed from those generally expressed;
his modesty prevented him from setting himself up in opposition to the
opinions of others, and he frankly asked, "Is there anything answering
to colour-blindness which may exist in the mind as regards
literature?" The absurd but felicitous inquiry took my fancy greatly,
and I resolved to examine the problem with care. In particular my
perturbed friend alluded to certain movements in modern criticism. He
cannot admire Shelley, yet he finds Shelley placed above Byron and
next to Shakspere; he reads a political poem by a modern master, and
discovers to his horror that he fails to understand what it is all
about. Moreover, this very free critic cannot abide Browning and the
later works of Tennyson; nor can he admire Mr. Swinburne. This is
dreadful; but worse remains behind. With grief and terror this
penitent declares that he cannot tolerate "The Pilgrim's Progress" or
"Don Quixote"; and he goes on to say, "How much of Milton seems trash,
also Butler, very much of Wordsworth, and all Southey's Epics!" Then,
with a wail of despair, he says, "These works have stood the test of
time. Am I colour-blind?" Now this gentleman's state of mind is far
more common than he supposes; only few people care to confess even to
their bosom-friends that they do not accept public opinion--or rather
the opinions of authority. The age has grown contemptible from cant,
and traditions which are perhaps highly respectable in their place are
thrust upon us in season and out of season. Regarding matters of fact