The Press. — London, England, 1858-12-04 00:00:00

THE PRESS, DECEMBER 4, lB5B. 1198 came in . .° the room, ever thought of looking at the Queen of Sheba's white brocade, with de " signs upon it in gold," on which he was en gaged. Mr. Ruskin tells just a ft erwards, that he - is never satisfied till he has contradicted " himself at least three times." We should think that the explanation of the ladies' indifference is to be sought in the fact that they had been dili gently studying "Mode 'n Pointers," and were not aware that the time had some round for Mr. Ruskin to contradict himself. "Sharp and bright-eyed " they might be, but their artistic perceptions were evidently not pitched in the same key of recantation. For, observe what is said in the work to which we have just referred (vol. i. p. 18) :—" Ideas of imitation are con " temptable in the second place, because not only " do they preclude the spectator from enjoying " inherent beauty in the subject, but they can " only be received from mean and paltry subjects, " because it is impossible to imitate anything " really great. We can paint a cat or a fiddle " so that they look as if we could take them up ; ' " but we cannot imitate the ocean or the Alps. " We can imitate fruit, but not a tree ; flowers, " but not a parterre ; cut-glass, but not the " rainbow. All pictures in which deceptive powers " of imitation are displayed are therefore con " temptible ; either of contemptible subjects, or " have the imitation shown in contemptible parts of them, hits of dress, jewels. furniture, &c. We must leave Mr. Ruskin and the bevy of fair damsels that, full of the pasture, jumrs along by him And never stays to greet him. —to settle their differences with as little loss of temper as may be. The contradiction which confessedly figures in Mr. Ruskin's present argument is, that to have good Art, we must delight in it—for we cannot do with " out the luminous attraction of pleasure" any more than the earth's orbit without the sun ;—but we must also restrain our delight, and work with a stout moral purpose as well. If we do the former only, we shall share the fate of those nations which, by the pursuit of Art for the sake of pleasure only, have become enervated, corrupt. and finally ruined ; if we omit it, our Art will be cold and lifeless. To illustrate the two ex tremes, of too little and too much—of Art wholly neglected, and Art pursued for an unworthy end — Mr. Ruskin contrasts the condition of Switzer land, which, though first to assert the liberties "of Europe, and conceive the idea of equitable " laws," was in all artistic " sensibilities of the " human mind utterly deficient,"—with the state of Italy as shown in the ruined villa of' Cardinal Maurice of Savoy ; who, though he commis sioned the Paul Veroneses which Mr. Ruskin likes so well, was, with his marriage to his niece (for whom the villa was built), his Cupid-inous pictures and other graceful naughtinesses, and his notions of life in general, by no means a man for rigid moralists to look up to. In such a spot, with such associations, such a prospect, and such a theme, Mr. Ruskin could not fail to moralize eloquently ; nor is the following passage sur passed by many in the whole range of his works :-- You see, from this spot, the plain of Piedmont, on the north and south, literally as far as the eye can reach ; so that the plain Wilmette as the sea does, with a level blue line, only tufted with woods instead of waves, and crowded with towers of cities instead of ships. Then, in the lumi nions air beyond and behind this blue borizon-line, stand, as it were, the shadows of mountains, they themselves dark, for the southern slopes of the Alps of the Lego Maggiore and llellinzons are all without snow; but the light of the unseen snow-fields, lying level behind the visible peaks, is sent up with strange reflection upon the clouds ; an ever• lasting light of calm Aurora in the north. Then, higher and higher around the approaching darkness of the plain, rise the central chains, not as on the Switzer's side, a re cognizable group and following of successive and separate hills, but a willerness of jagged peaks, cast in passionate and flame profusion along the circumference of heaven; precipice behind precipice, and gulph beyond gulph, filled with the flami-g of the sunset, and forming mighty channels for the flowing.; of the clouds, which roll up against them out of the vast Italian plain, forced together by the narrowing crescent, and breaking up at last against the Alpine wall in twers of spectral sr ray ; or sweeping up its ravines with long moans of complaining thunder. Out from between the cloudy pillars, as they pass, emerge for ever the great battlements of the memorable and per petual hills: Viso, with her shepherd-witnesses to ancient faith ; Rocca-melone, the highest place of Alpine pilgrimage ; Teem, who shed her burial sheets of snow about the march of Hannibal ; Cenis, who shone with her glacier light on the descent of Cherlemain ; Paradiso, who watched with her opposite crest the stoop of the French eagle to Moreno; and underneath all these, lying in hersoft langour, this tender Italy, lapped in dews of sleep, or more than sleep —one knows not if it is trance, from which morning shall yet roll the blinding mists away, or if the fair sh'tdows of her quietude are indeed the shades of purple death. And lifted a little above this solemn plain,and looking beyond it to its snowy ramparts, vainly guardian, stands this palace dedicated to pleasure, the whole legend of Italy's past his tory written before it by the finger of God, written as with an iron pen upon the rock for ever, on all those fronting walls of reproachful Alp ; blazoned in gold of ligh s tn i t/ upon the clouds tbst still open and close their une scrolls in heaven ; painted in purple and scarlet upon the mighty missal pages of sunset after sunset, spread vainly before a nation's eyes for a nation's prayer. So stands this palace of pleasure ; desolate as it deserves—desolate in smooth corridor and glittering chamber—desolate In pleached walk and planted bower—lesolate iu that worst and bitterest abandonment which leaves no light of memory. No ruins are here of walls rent by war, and falling above their defenders into mounds of graves : no remnants are here of chapel-altar, or temple-porch, left shattered or silent by the power of some purer worship : no vestiges are here of sacred hearth and sweet homestead, left lonely through vicissitudes of fate and heaven-sent sorrow. Nothing is here bat the vain apparellings of pride sunk into dishonour ; and vain appanages of delight now no more delightsome. The hill-waters, that once flowed and flashed in the garden fountains, now trickle sadly through the weeds that en. cumber their basins, with a sound as of tears ; the creeping, insidious, neglected flowers weave their burning nets about the white marble of the balustrades, and rend them slowly, block from block, and stone from stone ; the thin, sweet• scented leaves tremble along the old masonry joints, as if with palsy, at every breeze; and the dark lichens, golden and grey, make the footfall silent in the path's centre. Such a description as the foregoing,—which is not merely a catalogue of gleaming snows, blue skies, and spreading groves, such as any word painter in prose will turn you out at five minutes' notice, but is a picture interpenetrated with the light of thought and the reflected glow of historic feeling,—is not to be met with every day. Writing of this sort would be sufficient to redeem much more onesidedness and perverseness than we find in Mr. Ruskin's Address, and, taken together with the broad views and brilliant sug gestiveness by which it is actually pervaded, it should have the effect of attracting to its pages all who value artistic appreciation or high lite rary excellence. 1. Pleasure. A Poem, in Seven Books. By Nicholas Michell. London : Tegg and Co. 2. David and Samuel; with Other Poems. By John Robertson. London : Seeleys. 1. A TONE of' voice, a note of music, a few brief words, or a perfume, will often conjure up dim, hazy memories of something in the past, so indis tinct, however, that men jestingly allude to it as having happened in a former incarnation. Very similar is the sensation one experiences in glancing through Mr. Michell's poetic tribute to the plea sures of Pleasure. We do not accuse him of downright plagiarisms so much as of startling coincidences. It would be no arduous task to select whole columns of epithets and imagery familiar to us through the effusions of previous writers. It is not his fault, of course, that these should have anticipated him, nor is he in any way to be held answerable for a circumstance so clearly beyond his control. Nevertheless, it does accidentally happen that many poets of various degrees of gemus have appeared on the world's stage prior to his owu debut, and that they have availed themselves to a most ungenerous extent of this fortuitous ad vantage. Very many of Mr. Michelle most poetic passages are thus unfairly deprived of the adventitious charm of originality, and he himself placed in the critical position of a man who trades on borrowed capital. But, making due allowance for this chronological mis adventure, we are fully justified in speaking in terms of praise of this well-sustained effort of his Muse. The time, perhaps, has gone by for didactic poetry, and here again Mr. Michell is prejudiced by the unfortunate accident of having come into the world just one hundred years too late. His versification, however, is correct and harmonious, and pleasantly conducive to gentle slumbers. Five thousand lines, or thereabouts, flow on in rhythmical monotony, without an eddy or a ripple, descriptive of the many varieties of pleasure to be derived from the natural, the in tellectual, and the moral world. These pleasures would be far greater than they are, were not men such vain, ignorant, conceited pigmies ; but on this point let us hear Mr. Michell : Prowl heir of Heaven ! poor insect of an hour ! Mortal, immortal—weak, endued with power, Behold th' enigma man ! his strange career Sweeps on in ilarkaess and in sunshine here. Dull in great thoughts, in little how acute! He soars a god —now grovels with the brute. He toils, but idly toils ; Oblivion's hand Blots out his works—slight figures stamp'd on sand• Vain his hopes burn, his glory-babbles rise, He greatly schemes, but as he schemes he dies • One moment seen, then gone ; so, darkly pass Quick flying cloud-shades o'er the summer gras s . As this small globe to all the mighty spheres, Such his brief life•point to eternal years. What can he boast, fast chained by fate below, Gnawed, like Prometheus; by a vulture—Woe? What can he boast, plumed Wisdom's highest flight Pursued through mists of doubt, and error's night ; The melancholy truth made clear alone, That light is veiled, troth's glories half unknown ^ Oh ! weep for man, but most lament his pride ; This Heaven condemns—this, this the fiends detid, The portrait is not a flattering one, but the extract shall be a pleasing sketch of a rural ev ing, apparently in a " sleepy hollow" : An English village: down the drowsy West The broad-faced sun, like Labour, sinks to rest. No wind to stir the steeple's lazy vane, A mellow topaz burns each cottage pane. The idle kine low softly on the lea, The idle peasant smokes beneath the tree ; The idle stream just lapses smooth and slow, And honied flowers are idly bending low. Some spell arrests the busy tide of life ; Hashed the green spot, as if no care or strife Could e'er bring discord to a scene so calm, Where earth looks meek content, and heaven is dal, . And now, in a different style, the burning Moscow : Hark to the cry of fire !—mad voices shout ; Like snakes of vengeance, red•tongued flames bra'; Wreath vault and dome, and course from street to sue. Ye hear the hiss, the rush of flying feet ; And oft, 'mid some dread pause, with sudden flash, Bell•laden, burning towers, down tottering, crash • O'er works of Art, o'er treasures none may Mr. Sweeps a red-surging sea, the fiery wave. Destruction holds high carnival, and Fear Mutters her charm, and shakes her hell•locks hero . These extracts may serve to give a spice of Mr. .lichell's quality, and to stimulate or satisfy the curiosity of the general reader. 2. Mr. Robertson plaintively bewails his hard lot in lacking alike " the soberness for prose, the " soul for poesy." In this he resembles the bourgeois gentilhomme who had been 4peaking prose all his life without knowing it. So Mr. Robertson writes excellent prose, though by breaking the continuity of his words he has been led to imagine that he was wreathing chaplets of verse—the only trace of imagination, by the way, that we have been able to detect in his wide-margined pages. Let the reader judge between us : Aud Samuel rode upon an ass, and went. He vac.] heifer with him, for he feared lest Saul should learn I cause for which be went, and slay him ; so he purpo with himself to veil his secret errand with the ma.t sacrifice ; and on his way he weal to where the sou' Judah tilled the land. He passed the city of the Isbusi the olive•crowned hill, and saw the stream of Kra flowing round the sides of Sion—Cbemosh was being w shipped in the vale—and came among the bare and dn. hills of Bethlehem, where shepherds watched their dee and drank their sour milk on the bleak hillsides. If this be poetry, then are we also a poet. a/ perchance, one fine morning may "hang our In "on some lone tree, and die." Or do anachrt isms constitute poesy ? In that case, indeed. 3 Robertson may assert something like a claim poetic fancy, for he makes Eliah thus hold for to Samuel : Ellin said, " Thou talk'st not with a soy : I am the eldest of my father's house : Nor was I reared in chapels among priests And women, doing always the same things. But in the camp with princes and with knights, Familiar with high arguments of biate." That, surely, is a fair exercise of poetic Heen nor was it the thought of an ordinary 11111 to place the following verse in the mouth Nero : Let Plantins kennel in the camp, If that his genius suits, Where varicose centurions tramp In vulgar hobnailed boots, Panlinus, if he finds it good, May slaughter harmless folk, May make his fingers smell of blood, May sleep upon his cloak. How severely classical is this full-length ports a Roman captain tramping throug h ports the In' with varicose veins, and in heavy high-low nor may we pass over without applause t scornfully alliterative sound in the first line. " kennel in the camp." Our poet's rhym , moreover, are not less original than his ideas, the subjoined extract will suffice to show : 1198 THE PRESS, DECEMBER 4, 1858. . -------- - --- ___ tine in:a the room, ever thought of looking at langonr, this tender Italy, lapped in dews of sleep, or more Pull in great thoughts, in little how acute! ------- ---- e Queen of Sheba's " white brocade, with de- than sleep—one knows not if it is trance, from which morning He soars a god—now grovels with the brute ma upon it in gold," on which he was en- sir hit yet roll the blinding mists awa, or if the fair shedows He toils, but idly toils ; Oblivion's hand . `. Mr. Ruskin tells us, just afterwards, that of her are indeed the shadesl of purple death. Vain out his works—slight figures stamp'd on still, snowy alittle above this solemn p sin,and looking beyond *in his hopes burn, his glory-babbles rise, never satisfied till lie has contradicted it to itsl ramparts, vainly guardian, stands this palace He greatly schemes, but as he schemes he dies • 4' at least three times." We should think dedicated to pleasure, the whole legend of Italy's past his- One moment seen, then gone ; so, darkly pass ' 'planation of the ladies' indifference is tory written before it by the finger of God, written as with Quick flying cloud-shades o'er the summer gass• tin the fact that they had been dill- an iron pen upon the rock for ever, on all those fronting As this small globe to all the mighty spheres, " :Bode walls of reproachful Alp; blazoned in gold of lighstenit/ Su Such his brief life-point to eternal years. 'ng oe m Painters," and were upon the clouds that still open and close their unWhat can he boast, fast chained by fate below, the time had come round for Mr. scrolls in heaven ; painted in purple and scarlet upon the Gnawed, like Prometheus' by a vultu W tradict himself. "Sharp and mighty missal pages of sunset after sunset, spread vainly What can he boast, plumed Wisdom's v might be, but their artistic before a nation's eyes for a nation's prayer. So stands this Pursued through mists of doubt, and error s night : *dent"), not pitched in the palace of pleasure ; desolate as it deserves—desolate in The melancholy truth made clear alone, smooth corridor and glittering chamber—desolate in That light is veiled, troth's glories half unknown 'ion. FOr, observe what is pleached x•alk and planted bower—lesolate iu that worst Oh ! weep for man, but most lament his pride • hich we have just referred and bitterest abandonment which leaves no light of memory. This Heaven condemns—this, this the fiends'deridv ' 's of imitation are con- No ruins are here of walls rent by war, and falling above their defenders into mounds of graves : no remnants are The portrait is not a flattering one, but the flex place, because not only here of chapel-faltar, or temple-porch, left shattered or silent extract shall be a pleasing sketch of a rural even ing, apparently in a " sleepy hollow" : ,ectator from enjoying lbject, but they ran of SaeCredwheer °h some and purer sweet : n o left lonelyvestigesare through here and paltry subjectx, vicistues of fate and heaven-sent sorrow. An English village : down the drowsy West The broad-faced sun, like Labour, sinks to rest. imitate anything here betahe vain apparellings of pride sunk into disho oars No wind to stir the steeple's lazy vane, ' cat or a fiddle and vain eppanages of delight now no more delightsome. fThe hill-waters, that. once flowed and flashed in the garden A mellow topaz burns each cottage pane. y\iv,eiTrkehehaeetsarhidtlheuekine low softly on the lea, 'eke them up ; ' ountams, .now neckle. sadly through the weeds that en- The idle peasant smokes beneath the tree ; Or the Alps. cumber their basins, with a sound as of tears ; the creeping, le ; flowers, insidious, neglected flowers weave their burning nets about The idle stream just lapses smooth and slow, And honied flowers are idly bending low. t not the the white marble of the balustrades, and rend them slowly, Some spell emits the busy tide of life : block from block, and stone from stone ; the thin, sweet .e powers Hashed the green spot, as if no care or strife scented leaves tremble along the old masonry joints, as if -e eon with palsy, at every breeze ; and the dark lichens, golden Could e'er bring discord to a scene so calm, Where earth looks meek content, and heaven ii Lem +s, or and grey, make the footfall silent in the path's centre. 'arts And now, in a different style, the burning of Such a description as the foregoing,—which is Moscow : ~ not merely a catalogue of gleaming snows, blue ' Hark to the cry of fire !—mad voices shout ; skies, and spreading groves, such as any word- bike vault and vengeance, red•tongued flames break re painter in prose will turn you out at five minutes' Ihissild, thdoemrues,ahndofcoanyrainegfrofzit street to street: 'totice, but is a picture interpenetrated with the •ht of thought and the reflected glow of historic And oft, 'mid some dread pause, with sudden flash, ing, i 9 not to be met with every day. Bell-laden, burning towers, down tottering, crash • O'er works of Art, o'er treasures none may Mr. ing of this sort would be sufficient to redeem m weeps a red-surging sea, the fiery wave. ore onesidedness and perverseness than SDestruction holds high carnival, and Fear in Mr. Ruskin's Address, and, taken Mutters her charm, and shakes her hell-locks here. vith the broad views and brilliant sug- These extracts may serve to give a spice of Mr. by which it is actually pervaded, it Michell's quality, and to stimulate or satisfy the the effect of attracting to its pages curiosity of the general reader. artistic appreciation or high lite 2. Mr. Robertson plaintively bewails his hard lot in lacking alike "the soberness for prose, the " soul for poesy." In this he resembles the 'oem, in Seven Books. By bourgeois gentilhomme who had been speaking London : Tcgg and Co. prose all his life without knowing it. So Mr. with Other Poems. By Robertson writes excellent prose, though by breaking the continuity of his words he has been Indon : Seeleys. led to imagine that he was wreathing chaplets of of music, a few brief verse—the only trace of imagination, by the `en conjure up dim, way, that we have been able to detect in hi the past, so mdis- wide-margined pages. Let the reader judo ly allude to it as between us : motion. Very And Samuel rode upon an ass, and went. He wet "8 in glancing heifer with him, for he feared lest Saul should learn di, tothepleao- cause for which be went, and slay him ; so be Parr'. se him f with. himself to veil his secret errand with the mask I, startling Jsauedahriticetilleadntha onean hdis HwasypashesewdeAte tceitywohferethethieebsoziteu task to the olive-crowned hill, and saw the stream of Kelm very flowing round the sides of Sion—Chemosh was being war ions shipped in the vale—and came among the bare and drew; "se hills of Bethlehem, where shepherds watched their !bait ,7 and drank their sour milk on the bleak hillsides. If this be poetry, then are we also a poet, and perchance, one fine morning may "hang white .on some lone tree, and die." Or do anachrow is constitute poesy ? In that case, indeed, Mr ertson may assert something like a claim to • fancy, for he makes Eliah thus hold forth nel : said, ' Thou talk'st not with a soy : ',e eldest of my father's house ; I reared in chapels among priests -n, doing always the same things, 'amp with princes and with knights, high arguments of state." fair exercise of poetic licen,c 'ought of an ordinary mint mg verse in the mouth 1 in the camp, 'B, 'ons tramp ts, od, ik, of blool, 'llith portra i T I the min high-lows Cause thi line.- ,me, 11,y I ,w. ig of