Are We Civilised?

Scholarly Book of Reminiscences

SEVENTY YEARS AMONG SAVAGES. By Henry S. Salt. London: George Allen and Unwin, Ltd. 12S 6d net.

“Man is a bloodthirsty savage not much changed since the first Stone Age.” This is the opinion of “the gloomy Dean,” and it is endorsed by Mr Henry Salt, one of the founders of the Humanitarian League, who has written a volume giving reasons for the faith that is in them, and sprinkling his them with entertaining anecdotes and reminiscences.

One of his stories relates to a Lower Master at Eton, the Rev. F. E. Durnford—to who the author refers in his “Eton under Hornby”—who between strokes of the rod would interject such moral reproofs as “You nahty, nahty boy!” or “Have you seen your uncle lately?” Mr Salt is inclined to be equally whimsical with his readers. In the midst of raillery and castigation because of the “Hunnish sports and fashions” and generally savagery of mankind he introduces a pleasantly humorous touch. He is, in short, the gentle faddist. The “crank,” though usually harmless, is often something of an insufferable nuisance, but Mr Salt, who admits that he, himself, is “a friendly savage,” is one with whom most men could bear with some degree of equanimity. He knew so many literary celebrities and is so agreeably garrulous about them that many who read this book will vote him a delightful old man.

One might infer from the title that the author describes experiences in some South Sea isle. Mr Salt, however, holds that we need not leave the shores of Britain in order to see the barbarian at work and play. Savagery, he maintains, is rampant in the United Kingdom, and as in the case of a much-discussed Eton Mission to China, which led to the offer of a Chinese Mission to Eton by a certain Mr Ching Ping, who, it was hinted, came from this side of Suez, it might be profitable if a South Sea islander were to exert a civilising influence in our midst. Mr Salt is strongly opposed to vivisection, bloodsports, flogging, etc. He has long been a vegetarian—a habit of life he began to cultivate when a master at Eton, which he says “has always been a home of cruel sports”—

“Was it Waterloo that was won in the Eton Playing Fields? I have sometimes thought it must have been Peterloo.”

In course of time Mr Salt sought and found emancipation in a cottage among the Surrey hills, where many thoughtful people where wont to visit him. One of the frequent visitors was Mr G. B. Shaw, whose wit, says Mr Salt, “is as genuine and spontaneous as that of Sydney Smith.” There are many little glimpses into the lives of literary celebrities, including Ruskin, Meredith, and Swinburne. The Lake scenery, Ruskin told the author, almost compensated him for the loss of Switzerland, which he could not hope to see again; his feeling for it was one less of affection than of “veneration.” But the sunsets were a disappointment to him, “for the sky above the Old Man was often sullen and overclouded, and this he attributed to the poisonous influence of the copper mines.”

Referring to Meredith, Mr Salt says:—

“The formality and punctiliousness of Mr. Meredith’s manner, with his somewhat ceremonious gestures and pronunciation, perhaps affected a visitor rather unfavourably at first introduction; but after a few minutes this impression wore off, and one felt only the vivacity and charm of his conversation. It was a continuous flow of epigrams, as incisive in many cases as those in his books. . . . His eyes were remarkably keen and penetrating, and he watched narrowly the effect of his points; so that even to keep up with him as a listener was a considerable mental strain.”

The following is a glimpse of Swinburne at the Pines at Putney, where he resided with Mr Watts-Dunston:—

“At the luncheon which followed our walk, Mr Swinburne was present, and one could not help observing that in personal matters, as in his literary views, he seemed to be almost dependent on Mr Watts-Dunton; he ran to him with a new book like a poetic child with a plaything. His amiability of manner and courtesy were charming; but his delicate face, quaint chanting voice, and restlessly twitching fingers, gave an impression of weakness. He talked, I remember, of Meredith’s ‘Sandra Belloni’ and ‘Diana of the Crossways,’ and complained of their obscurity (‘Can you construe them?’)

In his concluding chapter Mr Salt, in answer to the question “Are we a civilised people?” points out that the physical and mental sciences have far outrun the moral, that despite our discoveries and accomplishments, “we are still barbarians at heart.” “In this sense, then,” he adds, “we are savages, and the knowledge of that fact is the first step towards civilisation.” He is convinced that no League of Nations or of individuals can avail unless there be a change of heart. Mr Salt in one of the many good stories scattered throughout the book tells of a Cambridge competitor for the English Prize Poem who wrote as follows on the recovery from a serious illness of the Prince of Wales (afterwards Kind Edward):—

“Flashed o’er the land the electric message came:
‘He is not better, but he’s much the same.’”

That, if we mistake not, is pretty much Mr Salt’s verdict on the state of the world to-day. But Mr Salt has done his best, and with great sincerity and charm, to enable the erring sons of men in their true light to see what he describes as “savage survivals.” His book is a delightful species of literary work—the agreeable homily.