The Press. — London, England, 1854-07-22 00:00:00

JULY 22, 1854. yittraturt. 1. Night and the Soul. A Dramatic Poem. By J. Stanyan Bigg. London: Groom. bridge and Sons. 2. Clytia, and other Poems. By G. Gerard. London: Bosworth. 3. Haymakers Histories. By Ruther. Lon don : Bell. 4. Poetical Tentatives. By Lynn Erith. Lon don: Saunders and Otley. 5. Poems. By Matthew Arnold. Second Edi tion. London: Longmans. THAT the poetical element of our literature could be permanently suppressed by the utili tarian spirit of the age has never formed an article in our literary creed. The love for poetry is too deeply implanted in human nature; and, until an entire revolution takes place in man's character, the sounds of the lyre, when struck by genius, will always de light and thrill. A narrow utility may ignore the important functions of the ideal, but com prehensive thinking gives cordial appreciation to all those pursuits which minister to the innate love for the beautiful. The fact that few of our versifiers can be accepted as poets, in a critical sense, proves nought upon the alleged decline of love of poetry in our society. Our classical masters of song are read as much as ever, and the newest and best editions of them are sought for with avidity. If a great English poet were to arise amongst us his presence would be hailed with enthusiasm. In the absence of such a genius we feel no small curiosity in examining the tendency of our literary rhymesters. For the most part they are characterised by the same habits. They behold physical nature with the eyes of moralists, and try to produce the poetical by going into ecstasies over landscapes, and wailing at the discordance between the worlds of reality and fancy. They are tedious in description, and lash themselves into contor tions over some single lines in which the thoughts are the merest conceits, expressed in quaintly-grotesque imagery. Their sensibility to beauty is often genuine, even to excess, but their utterances of emotion are very rarely successful. Even when they find the poetical in thought, and when their minds are really stirred by feelings akin to inspiration, their expressed sentiments jar upon our ears and irritate our tastes. They forget that in so old a literature, as the English tongue boasts of, a very high staulard of execution must be maintained. What has struck us most amongst our con temporary young poets is their absence of melodious language. Never was the musical so prominent as now in our English education ; and we might expect that our poets would exhibit a finer sense of harmony. Yet in most of our aspiring versifiers there is a singular want of cadence, and, even where rhyme is preserved, the smoothness of the verse is neglected. In the last century the mediocre poets applied a good manner to paltry matter. Some of the poems imme diately before us show the converse. 1. Mr. Bigg calls his " Night and the Soul" by the title of " a dramatic poem,"—a mis nomer in any meaning of the term. His own mind is essentially moralising, with a tendency to rhapsody ; and the characters of his poem, male and female, are only echoes of himself. He seeks to place himself in the regions of poesy by brooding over the enigma of ex istence, and he seems to suffer from the " Hamlet disease " of over-reflection. Yet he has an acute sense of the worthlessness of a merely speculative mind, and he nervously describes the unfavourable side of the con temp'ative character. With something like the force of genuine moral passion, he ex claims, in the best passage of his poem : Oh! I have flung me at a mountain's foot In the still moonlight, and have wept aloud At , my own littleness and vanity. Thou a philosopher, forsooth!" I said, What hest thou found in that dim world of thine, Aught half so true and stable as this hill?" And there it stood, lifting its agged peak Proudly alo ft into the azure dark, THE PRESS. Fronting the universe, and welcoming With rugged bluffness the coquettish light That danced with child-like glee about its head, Folding its robe of pines around its breast — A stately, proud, strong something in the world, And not like me, a poor soul-sicklied thought If he had given us many such passages we should have been more pleased with him, but the chord which he has once touched finely is struck by him again and again with.mono. tonous energy. His poem is nearly two hundred pages in length, and its greatest faults are its diffuseness and reiteration. Yet his reflections are often profound and earnestly expressed, and some of his single lines—as one in the foregoing passage — A stately, proud, strong something in the world, have intensity. Unequal in his composition, he has also not sufficiently attended to har mony. A bard must fascinate as well as phi losophise. Even with his drawbacks, we have read Mr. Bigg's production with pleasure for the vigour and felicity of his occasional passages. Various phases of life are happily sketched. Thus he describes the many half broken hearts and unsuccessful natures that one meets every day : Who hath not seen them,—the dead living ones, With that sad ghastly something—meant to hide From other eyes the anguish and the woe That are consuming them,—that something, which Like the poor pallid ghost of a dead smile Plays over lips that never shall smile more — Cold as December moonbeams on snow-drifts ? And he continues : Who hath not seen them come where music is, • And high-pitched jubilance and merriment, Like a low, plaintive semi-tone to break The noisy harmony into pathos, and Gliding upon the gorgeous lighted rooms, Like a November gloom let deftly in Among the golden hours of Summer. The metaphorical illustrations of Mr. Bigg, as in the last passage, are frequently too forced. Thus, in the following lines, the faults of the Keats school of writers are very visible : Ah, 'tis a blissful night! The universe Is a great rushing hymn of praise to God. My heart is singing with the happy spheres ; Not a string jars but all is harmony. Night is the beautiful black slave of God, And bends before him ever wrapt in awe, While her great heart throbs thanks in burning stars! Such " fancy" is of a Cockaigne pattern, and not pleasing to English taste. 2. "Clytia" is a sketch in verse of an epi sode in the slave life of the Southern States of America. The author seeks to find pathos in the union of a white planter with a slave maiden. Their daughter on her father's death is sold by his creditors, and finally passes into the hands of a rich lady. Clytia becomes a cause of jealousy to her imperious mistress, and is subjected to the discipline inflicted on Uncle Tom ; but she is finally redeemed by a lover, who marries her, and all ends happily. The tale is prettily told, with some sweet passages. Clythia is thus introduced to us in a tropical landscape : And far below the tranquil waters flow'd, Tranquil and blue as those fair skies above Whose hue was mirror'd there: a gentle breeze Eldred now and then the fan-palm's languid leaves, And trembled in the rose, or sweeping through Primeval shades, awaken'd into song The forest's deep•toned lyre, and sway'd the boughs Of pine and cypress, or with lighter breath Rippled the waters, till they rose and fell In soothing sounds. Upon a bank thereby A maiden with her book and lute in hand, Stretch'd on the green sward, whiled the hours away Of that sweet summer morn. Her glancing eye Roam'd from the page, and wander'd up and down Through all the beauties of the sylvan scene, As if she read them o'er ; and now and then Her hand would touch a string, and waken forth One sad sweet note of music, which might seem To suit her pensive mood ; anon she cast Her lute aside, and on the book awhile Her thoughtful glances turn'd. As a contrast let us observe the slave maiden when exposed in the market-place for public sale : And Clytia stood alone ! and at command Mounted the hateful platform, with a sense Of something worse than death ; about her face She shook her hair luxuriant, and droop'd down The silken lashes o'er her downcast eyes, Veiling their light. And then amid the throng A humming murmur of applause arose, And hearts that had grown hard in scenes like this Felt half a pang (short lived, indeed, and weak), 687 Beholding in that public gazing-place A form so fragile and so beautiful ! Oh, with what pleading dignity she stood ! Amazed and half.abash'd, yet with such sense Of her own wrong as lent a noble grace And indignation to her bashfulness. With fair hands folded, and one step advanced, As if her feet were hasty to be gone, She stood to meet the gaze of heartless men, — To hear what hateful price was set upon The outer form, that held a spirit free To wander through all space and time, and hold Communion intimate with God himself! "The Poet's Grave " and " The Novice " are amongst the best of the miscellaneous pieces, and are carefully composed. " The Sailor's Grave" recals at once a stanza in Mrs. Hemans' affecting " Graves of a Household " " And one, o'er hin► the blue wave rolls ; He lice where pearls lie deep. He was the lov'd of all, yet none 0 er his low bed may weep ; " an idea expanded at some length in the volume before us. Like other aspirants to the poet's fame, the author of " Clytia " should be more choice in selecting unworn topics not treated of by other writers. " The Song of Death" reminds us of both Shelley and Mrs. Hemans. Considerable cleverness in execution, however, is repeatedly shown in the volume ; but it often happens that the ideas are familiar, and the perusal of " Clytia" leads us to think that originality of conception is wanted in the author's mind. Yet the per formance may be praised as full of promise in a youthful writer, whose mind, with increased reflection, will acquire more force. 3. " Haymakers' Histories " is a bad se lection of subject. The common life of a dozen women in the humblest class cannot afford sufficient poetical themes for twelve cantos in terza rima. We feel that the matter is unreal, and the manner is monotonous from the sameness of the metre. The second tale, " Lucy," one of seduction, is the best in the collection. It opens in a passage which sug gests poetical ideas, but the grammatical construction is defective in its jumble of tenses : If one who on the seabeach walks at night To watch his lady's bed-time taper burn Clear from her chamber window in his sight, Shall, after years, when she is false, return To that loved shore, hear ocean's midnight swell, And drop warm tears o'er buried love's cold urn; He will believe how I am moved to tell, Knowing such dark reverse, what must be told Of one known early and beloved so well. In many other parts of " Haymakers Histo ries" there is careless composition, even where the thoughts have some strength. 4. " Poetical Tentatives " are characterised by most of the features of our passing school of poets. The author rhapsodises over ex ternal nature, paints forest scenery, and de scribes mountain springs, and shows us that he has often read Wordsworth, Shelley, and Tennyson. He has more power of feeling the poetical than of producing it ; and tho creative is withheld from him. His poem of " The Day," describing woodland scenery, is the best in the volume. The following passage is very pleasing : Then found we a gray stone, with moss embalmed : There sat we down, and silent looked around; For there a mountain river lay in pools, In twinkling pools, within whose tideless calm, Under the surface, hung the phantom boughs That waved and waved in soundless motion there, And all about us, where the oozing stream Had given a freshness to the fragrant turf, There was a beauty, calm and shadow-like; For there the curling mosses caught the gleams Of twilight on the emerald of their locks, And now the sunbeams brightened on the flowers, And now the shadows softened in their light, And like a sea-wave in whose voice there dwells The wind's most gentle sound, so swayed the grass. And there is much more in the same strain ; but the mind tires of eternal repetitions of landscapes, and craves more various reality for its thoughts than the author of " Poetical Tentatives " would present. 5. The first edition of Mr. Arnold's "Poems" was reviewed by us at some length. (PnEss, vol. i., p. 736). In a brief preface to the pre sent edition he reiterates the sentiments expressed in his previous introduction. In his concluding words there is a spice of the sarcastic Again, with respect to the study of the classical writers of antiquity; it has been said that we should emulate rather than imitate them. I make no objection : all I say I I I .. 1