Book review: Literature For The People, by Sarah Harkness

Telling the story of Scottish publishing giants Daniel and Alexander Macmillan, this book can never quite shake a slight air of hagiography, writes Stuart Kelly

It was with dripping irony that Lytton Strachety called his most famous book Eminent Victorians, and it was a necessary corrective to the Victorian biography. I confess I have something of a penchant for those old volumes: Lockhart’s Scott, Southey’s Nelson, Morley’s Gladstone or even AC Benson’s biography of Archbishop EW Benson. It is ironic that Thomas Carlyle – himself the subject of such a book by James Froude – disparaged “vacuum-biographies” with the words: “How delicate, how decent is English biography, bless its mealy mouth!” Although Sarah Harkness’s volume on the Victorian publishers Daniel and Alexander Macmillan is not itself Victorian, it cannot quite dispel the airs of camphor and antimacassar. The final words, about Alexander, are from his gardener and exemplify the slight air of hagiography. “He shewed me how to look for the best and highest in everything, and instilled into my young mind the very finest principles and ideals”.

It is an interesting book, if you are interested in publishing history, and it is unfortunate that Alexander Macmillan, the longer lived of the brothers, seems to gave been a pretty decent cove. If you want more rip-roaring publishing biographies, there’s Carlo Feltrinelli’s Secret Service about his father Giangiacomo or John De St Jorre’s The Good Ship Venus about the genius and rogue Maurice Girodias. Alexander and Daniel were born into an agricultural family on Arran. Neither went to university but both ended up in the book trade, both retail and publishing, and consequently gravitated towards London. Although it is not really mentioned, the Scottish parish education system may have had some input: other than that, their Scottishness is limited to conspicuous accents, singing sentimental Scots songs and eventually naming a house Knapdale. Daniel suffered from tuberculosis and Alexander sciatica, which they dealt with predictably manfully. There was a strong Scottish element in 19th century British publishing – Chambers, Constable and John Murray are all still existing in some form – though it was never an organised faction.

Nor did Macmillan have any predisposition towards their fellow Scots. Among the most notable of their stable were Tom Hughes (of Tom Brown’s Schooldays), Charles Kingsley and Lewis Carroll (to whom Macmillan was infinitely patient but did dissuade from asking young female readers to send in their photographs); Tennyson, Arnold and Christina Rossetti (about whom there is too little here) and “Darwin’s Bulldog”, TH Huxley. They also published the now-forgotten figures FD Maurice (author of The Kingdom Of Christ), Francis Palgrave of the poetry anthology The Golden Treasury and JR Green (author of A Short History Of The English People) – I seem to have acquired copies of all three. Among other ventures still with us today were the periodical Nature and Grove’s History Of Music and Musicians.

An illustration of The Mad Hatter's Tea Party from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll, first published by Macmillan in 1865. PIC: The Print Collector/Print Collector/Getty Images

There is little literary criticism in this book, but there is a careful examination of how literary networks operate. Macmillan had his “Tobacco Parliaments”, dinners for like-minded associates and authors, just as Murray had his “Four O’Clock Friends”. Parliamentary candidates would describe themselves as “Macmillan’s man”. In terms of period allegiances, where Church and State were intertwined, both Daniel and Alexander were connected to the Christian Socialism movement, rather than the Oxford Movement; but again, whether this derived from any vestigial childhood Calvinism goes unexplored. The events have an inadvertent comedy in the shoehorning in of significance: a typical meeting might feature “George Stovin Venables, a journalist and barrister, mostly remembered for having broken Thackerary’s nose at school” and “John Llewellyn Davies, crusading cleric and alpinist who would be the grandfather of the boy who inspired Peter Pan”.

There are skeletons in the closet. Daniel’s widow, Fanny, had severe mental health problems, her death making such headlines as “Melancholy Death Of A Lady By Burning”. Her daughter was similarly institutionalised. Alexander’s son, Malcolm, never really settled to anything and had various spells of nervous breakdown. He died in mysterious circumstances while travelling near Mount Olympus. His body was never found, and his travelling companion’s account of events seems suspicious. But whether these family tragedies were the result of nature or nurture is unknowable. What is clear is that the Macmillans were used to struggle, and some of their children less capable of doing so.

The Macmillans published at a time when it was still seen as a moral endeavour, and both brothers were subtle at maintaining cordial relations between opposing groups. They did chafe slightly at being “trade”, and it is noticeable that Alexander seemed to much prefer having his partner George Craik deal with the awkward financial aspects of the business. In one astute letter to Malcolm, Alexander outlines the benefits of practical rather than academic work. It is no surprise that at the outset of Samuel Smiles’ Self-Help (himself a Scot) discusses the potters Palissy, Böttgher and Wedgwood as epitomes before they were smartened into ceramicists.

This is a book to refer to again if not to read again. It is also melancholy. Much later, Macmillan set up an imprint, Macmillan New Writing, derided as “the Ryan Air of publishing”. Alexander Macmillan would have been aghast. That said, I have the promotional book they published about themselves – Michael Barnard’s Transparent Imprint – which, given it is not listed on Amazon, might even be worth a bob or two.

Literature For The People, by Sarah Harkness, Macmillan, £25