The Press. — London, England, 1857-02-28 00:00:00

210 that Burns must have experienced keen enjoy ments in the course of his chequered career:— In another month Burns brought his wife home to Ellisland, and his three children, for she had twice born him twins. The happiest period of his life, we have his own words for it, was that winter. But why not say that the three years 116 lived at Ellis• land were all happy, as happiness goes in this world? As hippy, perhaps, as they might have been had he been placed in some other condition apparently far better a lapted to yield him what all human hearts do most desire. His wife never had an hour's sickness, and was shwa cheerful as day, one of those Ai 4, Sound healthy children of the God of heaven, whose very presence is positive pleasure, and whose silent contentedness with her lot inspires comfort into a husband's heart, when at times oppressed with a mortal heaviness that no words could lighten. Burns says with gloomy grzndeur, " There is a foggy atmosphere native to my soul in the hour of care which makes the dreary objects seem lager than life." The objects seen by imagination ; and be who suffers thus cannot be relieved by any direct ap pltances to that faculty, only by those that touch the heart —the homelier the more sanative—and none so sure as a wife's affectionate ways, quietly moving about the house affairs, which, insignificant as they are in themselves, are fdt to be little truthful realities that banish those mon wrous phantoms, showing them to be but glooms and shadows. And how fared the gauger? Why, he did his work. Carrie says, " His farm no longer occupied the principal part of his care or his thoughts. It was not at Ellisland that he was now in general to be found. Mounted on horseback, this highminded poet was pursuing the de faulters of the revenue among the hills and vales of Niths dale ; his roving eye wandering over the charms of nature, and muttering his wayward fancies as he moved along." And many a happy day he had when thus riding about the country, in search of smugglers of all sorts, zealous against all manner of contraband. He delighted in the broad brow of the day, whether glad or gloomy, like his own fore head ; in the open air whe.her still or stormy, like his own heart While " pursuing the defaulters of the revenue," a gauger has not always to track them by his eyes or his nose Information has been lodged of their whereabouts, and he deliberately makes a seizure. Sentimentalists may see in this something very shocking to the delicate pleasures of susceptible minds, but Burns did not; and some of his sweetest lyrics, redolent of the liquid dew of youth, were committed to whitey brown not scented by the rose's attar. Why, then, we ask again, such lamentations for the fate of Burns? Why should not he have been left to make his own way in life like other men gifted or ungifted? A man of great genius in the prime of life is poor. But his poverty did not for any long time necessarily affect the welfare or even comfort of the poet, and therefore created no obligation on his country to interfere with his lot. He was born and bred in a humble station ; but such as it was it did not impede his culture, fame, or service to his people, or, rightly considered, his own happiness ; let him remain in it, or leave it as he will and can, but there was no obligation on others to take him out of it. He had already risen superior to circumstances—and would do so still ; his glory availed much in having conquered them ; give him better, and the peculiar species of his glory will depart. Give him better, and it may be, that he achieves no more glory of any kind ; for nothing is more uncertain than the effects of circumstances on character. Some mon, we know, are specially adapted to adverse circumstances, rising thereby as the kite rises to the adverse breeze, and falling when the adversity ceases. Such was probably Burna's nature—his genius being piqued to activity by the contradictions of his fortune. In answer to his own question, " How " could honoured Thomas Carlyle bring him " self to affirm that Burns had no religion ?" the Professor is not quite so successful. Burns certainly does not seem to have had that kind of religion which Carlyle means by the word, that mixture of moral resolution and isolated spiritualism which distinguished the authors of " Paradise Lost," and the " Human Under standing " ; and he had that healthy genial appreciation of physical joy which is con fessedly a lure to licentiousness, when neither subdued by incessant bodily toil, nor chastened by the higher influence of liberal education. All things considered, we think it much to his credit that he was not worse. He cordially appreciated the fun, and the adventure, and the romance, which attends on conviviality and gallantry ; but he saw the practical misery of its results: and whereas, under similar cir cumstances, many a man would have sunk into the confirmed sot, Burns remained erect to the last. As Wilscn well remarks, had ho lived to be sixty, his follies would have been no more remembered than those of many another grey-headed elder mho walks among us with respect and reverence, which, were his hot youth alone present to our minds, must be changed into very different sen timents. The second essay, entitled "Christopher on Colonsay," is replete with the Professor's peculiar drollery. It purports to be the nar rative of a trottingnuttch ridden by the Pro fewr 94 hits famous grey cob, Coloneay, 1.116111111&„. THE PRESS. against a professional jockey on a thorough bred mare. The story, we are informed by the editor, is founded upon fact. Wilson actually did ride such a race, and won it, too ; but it. is here embellished with a variety of humourous incidents, which in their own style are fully equal to either Lever or Dickens. No. 3. The essay upon Coleridge is very much what the reader would anticipate from Wilson's powers and predilections. It is more peculiarly noticeable on account of a passage upon odes, which we here transcribe : We do not know that there is a truly great ode in our language; but there are many noble ones, and among them must be placed ono of the three odes of Coleridge. Laud to the skies, ye who choose, the odes of Dryden and Pope ; but to our eyes they are lost before they reach the lower strata of clouds. Were we to liken them to balloons, we should say that the silk is well inflated, and better painted ; but that the aeronauts, on taking their seats, are too heavy for the power of ascension, so that luckily the cords are not cut, and the globes are contented to adhere tt the thedal earth. Gray's odes are far finer, and, though somewhat too formal, perhaps, the Welsh bard is full of Greek fire. Some of Mason's choruses are sonorous, and swing along not untnajestically ; and Torn Warton canght no small portion of the true lyrical spirit—witness his Kilkerran Castle song. But Collins far surpassed them all—and his odes are all exquisitely beautiful--except his Ode to Freedom, and it is sublime. Let us call it, then, and contradict ourselves, the only truly great ode in the English language. Wordsworth's Ode on the Immor tality of the Soul is pervaded by profoundest thought— philosophical in its spirit throughout—in many parts poetical in his very finest vein—and in some, more than is usual with him, impassioned ; but the poet does not carry, much less hurry, us along with him—the move ments are sometimes too raw and laborious, though stately and majestic—and though often many of the tran sitions are lyrical—nay, though, as a whole, it is a grand lyrical poem, it is not an ode, and nobody will call it so who has read Pinder. His " Dion " is an ode, but is deficient in impetuosity ; and that image of the swan on Locarno's wave, beautiful as it is in itself, is too elabo rate for its place, nor yet enough original to open with such pomp such au ambitious strain. But we shall have an article un odes in an early number—in which we hope to make good all we have said, and far more—and shall not then forget Campbell, who, in our estimation, stands next to Collins. North here surely underrates Dryden, and does him great injustice by placing him as an ode•writer merely on a level with Pope. In the general assertion that we have few fine odes, we agree with him ; and also in the opinion that those of Collins are the best. But before we assent to the dictum that we have only one truly great ode in the language, we insist upon a very rigid definition of the term. Carlyle calls " Scots wha hae "an ode ; and Shelley's " Skylark " is known by the same title. If neither of these belong legitimately to the genus " ode," Wilson may bein theright. If they do, then we consider there are at least two other truly tine odes in our literature. If the latter should be classed among the " exquisitely beautiful," rather than the " truly great," that cannot be said of Burns's lyric, in which opinion we suppose the Pro fessor would agree with us. Shelley's own opinion was that Coleridge's " France " was the finest ode in the language. The three following essays, upon Tupper's "Geraldine," De Berettger's "Helps and Hints," and Macauls.y's " Lays of Ancient Rome," are all, of course, good, but call for no special remark. The first is a well-merited castigation of the impertinent and presump tuous continuer of " Christabel "; the second an amusing resume of a work that in these days of garottiug really deserves fresh notice, being a collection of advice in regard to going through the world generally, and particularly to the traversing of lonely roads or thief haunted Londsn streets. The review of Macaulay does hint no more than justice; and is a very agreeable proof that where real excellence was manifested Wilson would throw off' political feeling, and praise with unshackled generosity. The last piece in the volume, " A Few Words on Shakespeare," though short, is one of Wilson's finest efforts. Assuming Macbeth, Othello, Hamlet, and Lear to be Shakespeare's masterworks, he gives us a brief dissertation upon each, ;Melt, indeed, touches " the root of " the matter.' We would especially recom mend to our readers the character of Othello at page 423. At the conclusion of this essay we find the following remarks : The whole character of our life and literature seems to us to show in our cultivated classes a disposition of imagination to peparate itself U9M real life, and to go over SATURDAY, into works of art. It may appear to some a mattes cie little consequence ; and perhaps they will think that it is then beginning to confine itself to its right province. Ws think there are many who will not be 60 easily satisfied; and to whom it will appear that such a separation, if it be indeed taking place, cannot be effected without grievous injury to the character of our minds. We think it possible that the great overflow of poetry in this age may be in part from this cause. And there seems to us already a great disappearance of imagination from the character of all stir passions. But life is still strong. And wherever men are assem bled in societies, and are not swallowed up in sloth or most debasing passion, there the great elements of our nature are in action : and much as in this day, to look upon the face of life, it appears to be removed from all poetry, we cannot but believe that, !n the very heart of our most civilised life—in our cities—in each great metropolis of commerce—in the midst of the most active concentration of all those relations of being which seem most at war with imagination—there the materials which imagination seeks in human life are yet to be found. _ It were much to be wished, therefore, for the sake both of our literature and of our life, that imagination would again he content to dwell with life—that we had less of poetry, and that of more strength; and that imagination were again to be found as it used to be, one of the elements of life itself; a strong principle of our nature living in the midst of our affections and passions, blending with, kind ling, invigorating, and exalting them all. Then might the spirit of dramatic literature he revived. The one greet fact that strikes us in connec tion with these observations is that the value of everything oral has declined. The drama has declined ; so has the pulpit; so has oratory, whether forensic or senatorial. With regard to the two latter, men find it so much better to be sure that they are not misled by rhetoric, than to be temporarily excited by eloquence, that a written argument is now worth fourfold a spoken one. Pulpit oratory has declined because there is no longer :my one to convince. Open infidelity is not tolerated in the upper classes ; and the Church has never set about the task of converting the lower ones by the force of eloquence. The declension of the drama remains to be ac counted for. It proceeds, we think, from much the same causes as the decline of all ob jective poetry. Life, if not less romantic) really, is certainly less full of mystery and ad venture than of yore. The publicity now given to all crimes, even in their minutest detail, renders fictitious tragedy flat and familiar. The best novels are now not tragic novels. They rather partake of the character of the Attic new comedy And in this par ticular department we doubt if the stage has materially declined. Her Majesty is a patroness of the theatre ; and we fully believe that if its hours were accommodated to modern habits, and the houses reduced in number, so that three or four of our present race of good actors could be got together, a play might be put upon the stage in a style that would not dis grace the performances of „ sixty years since.' General Count de Coward. By Henry de Riancey. Paris : Dentu. GENERAL COUTARD is a lucky man. Born of humble parents, he at an early age enlisted in the army as a common soldier, figured in the wars of the Republic and the Empire, passed through the different grades to that of general, obtained honours, and then, after the fall of the Empire, served the restored Bour• bons with zeal and fidelity until they were politically extinguished by the revolution of July, 1830, and he with them. In all this there is nothing extraordinary, and scores of men might he named in France who have run nearly the same career with infinitely greater éclat than ho (lid. But whilst such men have left no other record of their deeds than what is contained in official despatches, and in the newspapers of the day, General Coutard has been honoured by a biography of 400 octavo pages from an author whose writings are of the class that arc read and preserved ; and, consequently, his name, has become known to thousands of the present generation who had never heard of it, and stands a fair chance of reaching posterity. Truly, he is lucky. The book displays a good deal of literary art. As a matter of course, it makes the most of its hero's exploits, when, as soldier of the Republic and Empire, fighting was his voca tion ; it speaks with marked sympathy of his political services to the Bourbons, and of his veneration for them after their overthrow; it, in a word, shows that both as schlipl: 4114