The Press. — London, England, 1854-04-22 00:00:00

376 rumoured, any who were with him in Burmah contributed to the attacks on his reputation, they had at least the sense to keep their secret, for in that army none who had libelled Godwin would have found a pleasant recep tion. Days and Hours. By Frederick Tennyson. London : J. W. Parker and Son. Ma. FREDERICK TENNYSON (a brother of the laureate) is certainly a poet, but in some danger of missing his way. His notions of the poet's nature and mission are mostly of the tempestuous kind. lie would, as he assures us, " leap into the earthquake's cradle," "untwist the typhoon," " dare shatter ing hailstones," and " cling to a column of earth lightning." Very much of his verso heaves with volcanic throbbings and hurri canous sighs. His ideal, it will be acknow ledged from the following stanzas, is a stormy one : The spirit of the Poet, like the form Of the high mountains, cleaves the heavens asunder, And flies into far realms of fear and wonder, And howling wildernesses where the storm Goes darkly with its thunder. • s • Within the lone high places of his soul Love, and Ambition, like the frost and sun, Pile up great towers, or drive the earthquakes on, Let loose the winds, or bid the torrents roll, Or make the rivers run. This disposition to heap Pelion on Olympus is not his only fault. His verse is often per vaded by that sort of obscurity which leaves the reader in doubt whether a great thought is struggling for utterance, or whether pomp of words is used to conceal poverty of meaning. He has faith in what he forcibly terms Dim thoughts that reach us from the Infinite, Faint as far seas or twilight in eclipse ; but page after page of dreamy aspiration and vague verbal sublimity, presenting nothing like a distinct image or idea to the mind, are as tiring to it as the straining to distinguish an uncertain object is wearisome to the eye. Affected and corrupt expression is a growing fault in the Roetry of our, day, and we fear that our periodical writing has much to answer for on this account. The criticism of a writer cannot be better than his taste. If an indifferent poet, neglected by the public, turns reviewer, he will be likely enough to think that he perceives imaginative power in new-coined words and fantastic phrases. No man of our author's natural talent would have ventured to put forth such conceits as these in an address of a lover to his mistress, if the public taste had not been to some extent vitiated by familiarity with bad models :- 0 Adelaide, gentle, fair, and true ; Did Nature, when she cast thy perfect heart In the pure sanctuary of her Art, Take Diamond, and dissolve it to a dew ? Did she take fixed Lightning in her hand, And with it bathe thy pure Intelligence, Thy nimble Fancy, and thy subtle Sense, A linked armour nothing may withstand? Did she rob Zephyrus of his long soft air To plait thy lucks for thee? and in thine eyes Pour the clear essence of the glad blue skies, And out thy gleaming forehead from a star? As in the above three verses, our poet is commonly much more anxious to fill —or, as he would say, to gem—his pages with glitter ing words than to care for their appropriate ness. The lark " dives into a rainbow's rivers," the sun at morn makes " sweet rain bows in the sky," Arid would " bathe his wings in sunbows," and the author's mistress, With divine eyes looking into mine, Rained down her sovran beauty's starry dew. Diamonds play a great part not only in com posing the gates of Paradise, but in forming walls of palaces and celestial towers. Golden, however, is the most favoured epithet. Golden seas wash golden waves to golden shores The poet strikes the golden chords of his golden lyre, and the warrior in golden armour shakes his golden lance. We have golden light, golden haze, and golden cloud; golden stairs lead to a golden city with golden walls, golden doors, and a kiolden citadel. Golden dawn is regularly followed by golden noon and golden eve. Fire-winged horses are shod with gold, flowers bear only golden blossoms, golden hours are passed in golden speech, and love with his golden bow is ruled by a golden GIBBON AND HIS ANNOTATORS. 1. The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. By Edward Gibbon, Esq. With Notes by Dean Milman and M. Guizot. Edited, with Additional Notes, by William Smith, LL.D. In Eight Volumes. Volume 11. London : Murray. 2. The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. By Edward Gibbon, Esq. With Variorum Notes, including thoso of Guizot, Wenck, Schreiter, and Hugo. Edited by an English Churchman. Lon don : Bohn. THE attention paid to standard editions of our classical English writers is a healthy sign of the spirit actuating a large portion of the reading public. At first sight it would seem to a superficial observer, while the catalogues of our second-hand booksellers record such numerous copies of our most celebrated authors, in every variety of type and binding, that it would be a superfluous work to reproduce fresh editions. Such is not the case ; and it is worth noting the causes that keep up this demand for reprints. Passages intelligible at the time, in the case of popular essayists like Addison or Goldsmith, become obscure at the end of half a century ; and, a hundred years hence, even the suggestive writings of Mr. Macaulay, teeming with contemporaneous allusions, will require copious annotations. But, in the case of a historian like Gibbon, the reasons that compel a demand for new editions are of a different kind. The subjects of which ho treated have been further explored : his statements have been challenged, his conclu sions impugned, and his mode of philoso phising severely criticised. Thus, while hi a THE PRESS. wand and encompassed by a golden band. Ridiculous as this epithet becomes from its constant repetition, it may pass muster in the above cases,—" golden smoke" is more ques tionable, but what shall we say to " golden thunders" ? Here, as in many like instances, the author, through the mechanical habit which has grown upon him, totally loses his discriminating faculty. He is more profuse in blazonry than the Heralds College, and spreads more gilding over his pages than covers the state coat of Garter King at Arms. Yet we repeat Mr. Frederick Tennyson is a poet, and we could cull many admirable pas sages from his volume in proof of our asser tion. He excels, when he gives his genius fair play, in charming pictures of country life, which often are as distinct and perfect as the landscapes of Wilson or Constable. The afternoon song of the blackbird brings before us village scenery under its most poetical aspects : How soft the lovelight of the West reposes On this green valley's cheery solitude, On the trim cottage with its screen of roses, On the gray belfry with its ivy hood, And murmuring mill-race, and the wheel that flings Its bubbling freshness—while the Blackbird sings. The very dial on the village church Seems as 'twere dreaming in a dozy rest ; The scribbled benches underneath the porch Bask in the kindly welcome of the West ; But the broad casements of the old Three Kings Blaze like a furnace—while the Blackbird sings. • • • Before her home, in her accustom'd seat, The tidy Grandam spins beneath the shade Of the old honeysuckle, at her feet The dreaming pug, and purring tabby laid; To her low chair a little maiden clings, And spells in silence—while the Blackbird sings. • • • • The woods, the lawn, the peaked Manorhouse, With its peach-cover'd walls, and rookery loud, The trim, quaint garden alleys, screen'd with boughs, The lion-headed gates, so grim and proud, The mossy fountain with its murmurings Lie in warm sunshine—while the Blackbird sings. • Far shouts and laughter from the farmstead peal, Where the great stack is piling in the sun ; Thro' narrow gates o'erladen waggons reel, And barking curs into the tumult run : While the inconstant wind bears off, and brings The merry tempest—and the Blackbird sings. - • i Now the good Vicar passes from his gate Serene, with long white hair ; and in his eye Burns the clear spirit that hath conquer'd Fate, And felt the wings of immortality ; His heart is throng'd With great imaginings, And tender mercies—while the Blackbird sings. " Harvest Home" is another pretty rural piece ; and as an example of the deeper feel ing and more imaginative power to be found in the volume we can point to the fine lines headed " Women and Children." We extract but the second and third stanzas : Oh if no faces were beheld on earth, But toiling manhood, and repining age, No welcome eyes of innocence and mirth To look upon us kindly, who would wage The gloomy battle for himself alone ? Or through the dark of the o'erhanging cloud Look wistfully for light? who would not groan Beneath his daily task, and weep aloud? But little children take us by the hand, And gaze with trustful cheer into our eyes; Patience and fortitude beside us stand In woman's shape, and waft to heav'n our sighs ; The guiltless child holds back the arm of guilt Upraised to strike, and woman may atone With sinless tears for sins of man, and melt The damning seal when evil deeds are done. Of the more ambitious pieces " Evening " is one of the best. The opening lines are fine, though we demur to " wheels of rayless flame ": Hush ! it is Even, dark•eyed Even, With her low song, and tender sigh, Soft•utter'd voice of Earth to Heaven Witness'd by one sweet star of high; On wheels of rayless flame she passeth by, And Peace sits by her clasp'd unto her heart; Hatred, relent ; and, Care, forget thy smart, And, Anger, droop thine eye. Dusky Memories throng her way, Bright Fancies from the shadows peep, And Hopes that panted in the day Sadly hide their eyes and weep ; Lorn Griefs look up into the balmy sky, Plumed Love upon the soundless air comes out, And Wit he bears his wavering lamp about, Despair seeks where to die. Before concluding we must allude to one other characteristic of the book. Is it through design or through carelessness that Mr. F. SATURDAY, Tennyson's verse seems to challenge compa rison with that of some of our most illustrious bards ? The poem " Evening " bears strong generic likeness to Milton's "Il Penseroso. " In the lines on the skylark are the same thoughts and the same similes that are to be found in the famous ode of Shelley. In his first verse Mr. Tennyson asks, Is it a Lira or star? whilst' in Shelley we have Like a star of heaven In the broad daylight. In the third verse is the singular line, Shrilly the arrows of his song he shivers, intended perhaps to be contrasted with Shel ley's, Keen as are the arrows of that silver, &c. Again Mr. Tennyson writes, So the victorious poet sings alone, And fills with light his solitary home, thinking it perhaps an improvement on Shel ley's, Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden Till the world, oce. Mr. Tennyson's line, Fondest hearts are stabbed with deepest pain, suggests an unfavourable comparison with Burns's, Hearts that vibrate sweetest pleasure Thrill with deepest notes of woe. And the address to Woman, To thee kind angel, 0 to thee belongs To minister unto the sick man's brow, is unfortunate, if only because Scott's lines, When pain or sickness wring the brow, A ministering angel thou, are so hackneyed. It would be easy to point out very many of such resemblances, but we certainly do not accuse our author of intentional plagiarism from works so well known. They show, how ever, the carelessness with which ho com poses, and suggest a doubt whether he has any great original power. In any future pro duction from his pen we should be glad to re cognise more careful thought, as, though some inspired minds may write from impulse, poets of this author's capacity can only hope, as his motto—Per aspera ad ardua tendo—implies, to arrive at excellence by great diligence and severe mental discipline.