The Press. — London, England, 1854-06-10 00:00:00

I JUNE 10, 854. but, we believe, there is no .work which exhibits so brilliant an exception as the preSetil; or pay ,so truly be called a volume of " Cabinet " poetry. He is probably nut acquainted with the very considerable merits of the New Whig (hide, to whose pungently-pleasant pages a late Prime Minister, a present Secretary of State, and a living ex Secretary to the Admiralty were constant contributors. Critical commentary on the merits of the Anti-Jacobin would be superfluous. Its satire is distinguished few the terse language of its poignant personality, which was often exces sively stinging, but seldom offensively coarse. Its best contributors, Canning and Frere, were not mere pamphleteers in verse, like the writers for the Rolli.ad They had poetical inspiration and a sprightly joyousness springing from a genial play of the mental faculties. They were " Conservatives" not only in their politics but in their loyal adherence to the ordinances and traditions of classical English literature. False sentiment, tumid diction, and mawkish cant were chastised by them with exemplary effi cacy. On the fourth edition (2 vols. Bvo.l of the prose and poetry selected from their journal they placed the epigraph, "Sparsosque recolligit ignes," and in the very last paper (No. 36) of their orginal publication the motto on discontinuance was exquisitely happy (it is not alluded to by Mr. Edmonds) : " We shall miss thee; " But yet thou shalt have freedom. ' Bo to the elements " Be free: and fare ye well I " And these lines, taken from The Tempest (pro bably by Canning), have been prophetic of the popularity of their witty verse, still quoted and admired by all lovers of the genius that is airily elegant and strong. A Hero of our Owls Times. From the Russian of Lermontor London : Bogue. IN the preface to this volume the author, cha racterised as a Russian Byron, is represented as a victim to the brutality of the Emperor Nicholas. For the offence of having published some verses in honour of the poet Pouchkin he was banished to the Caucasus—a proof of the Czar's " hostility to literature." When Nicholas heard of his death in a duel he ex claimed, "He has lived like a dog, and has died like one !" The authority for this story is not given. It must be received cum grano. Prejudice is always credulous. We smile at the simplicity of our fathers who, half a cen tury ago, believed that Napoleon in his play ground at Brienne amused himself by skinning cats alive ; yet perhaps we have not much reason to pride ourselves on superior candour. The " Hero of our Own Times " is a young Russian prince of semi-diabolical nature, with an active head but dead heart. Amid the vicious dissipations of the capital he lost all faith in goodness, and from the furnace of passion " came out cold and hard as iron, " with noble instincts for ever quenched." This hardened, intellectual voluptuary, with a beautiful person and great wealth, wanders through Southern Russia, as an " axe of destiny," gaining the love of women only to degrade and destroy them, and exercising over men a kind of satanic superiority. He is a fatalist from finding no one able to resist his will. The author has borrowed some traits from "The Ghostseer " to make the adventures of his hero more startling. Some of the scenes in which he figures are revolting from the misery occasioned by his intense selfishness; but one of the tales—the first in this volume — is written with extraordinary power, and con tains passages of beauty and pathos unrivalled in modern fiction. The hero, who is always thirsting for adven ture, visits a Russian station in the Caucasus, where he meets with a veteran captain, one Maximus Maximitch, the ideal of an honest, rough moustache, brave as a lion and tender hearted, as a girl. It is lie who relates the story to the author, when they meet as travel lers. The prince carries off the lovely daughter of a neighbouring Circassian chief, and, piqued by her coldness, sets himself seriously to win her heart. She is proof to his persuasions and presents ; so, after a time, he decides on a final measure:— " Bela,' said he, ' when I resolved to carry you away, I did it in the hope that when you knew me you would grant THE PRESS. love for love. I have been deceived in that hope ! Fare well! I leave you all I possess. If you will return to your father, you are free to do so. lam guilty in your eyes; and will punish myself fur that guilt ! Adieu! 1 leave you. I have no aim, no purpose ; but it matters not. Perhaps in exposing myself to balls and poignards I may soon be rid of my existence. When lam no more, Bela, will you bestow on me one thought,—will you forgive me ?' " He held out his hand to her, and turned away his head. " She remained silent and motionless as a statue. I was watching her through a crevice in the door. She was pale as death. " Receiving no answer, Petchorin walked a few steps, as if going. He trembled. Look you, he was just the man to act up to the very letter of the engagement that he had at first entered upon as a jest. The most unintelligible of characters! He was just at the door; all at once she made a spring, threw her arms round his neck, and subbed. Will you believe it, there were tears in my own eyes. When I say tears, I mean—in short, it was childishness." Here the captain paused. " I confess," he continued, smoothing his moustachios, " I regretted no woman had ever loved me thus." " And did their happiness last?" I inquired of hint. " Yes, indeed! Bela allowed that since she first saw Petchorin at her father's house she had often dreamed of him, and that no man had ever made so great an impres sion on her. Yes, they were happy !" But soon the kind old captain perceives that they arc happy no longer. The sorrowful de meanour of the young bride as she becomes conscious of the prince's coldness is beauti fully indicated. When she exclaims to the kind old captain, " He loves me no more !" there is an agonising struggle in her breast between her of and her pride ; but love gains the mastery, and grief quickly succeeds to anger. There is genuine heartache in the simple yes and no with which she replies to the affectionate inquiries of old Maximus : " I had a long explanation with Petchorin. I saw, with pain, that he was no longer the same towards this poor child. Not satisfied with spending half his time in hunt ing, he treated her daily more and more coldly. Bela pined away risibly; her pretty features had an expression of suffering, and her beautiful eyes had no longer the same brightness. I sometimes would say to her, ' Why do you sigh, Bela ? You are sorrowful.' " No.' _ _ " 110 you desire anything?' " No.' " ' Would you like to see your relations ? ' " I have no relations.' " For whole days the only answer that could be elicited from her was a ' yes' or a no.' She made me unhappy. I spoke to Petchorin about her." But the prince only answers him that lie is spoiled by the breath of the world, and is dis gusted with everything—a fashion of exist ence which originated, the author thinks, not with the French, but the English. So the beautiful Bela pines, her lord avoiding her as often as he can, though great danger attends his hunting excursions. He had obtained Bela by a stratagem. Her young brother fell sick with longing—such passion is not uncom mon in a Circassian breast—for the priceless steed of a neighbouring chief. The prince bad obtained the steed by stratagem to bribe the boy, and had made a deadly enemy of the Cir cassian Kazbitch, who stealthily bided his time for revenge. Petchorin and the captain, while returning from hunting, perceive a horseman speeding along the plain with some• thing white at his saddle-bow " Fortunately, thanks to the bad success of our sport, our horses were still fresh ; they seemed to slide from be neath their saddles, and at each bound we gained upon the ravisher. At length I recognised Kazbitch, but without being able to make out what he held before him. " It's Kazbitch !' I called out, as I neared Petchorin. He nodded, and spurred forward. We were within gun sh3t of the mountaineer. Whether his horse was not so strong as yours, or whether it was fatigued by a double load, I know not, but be certainly made way with difficulty. I am sure that at this moment he remembered his own good steed. Still galloping forward, Petchorin bad taken aim. Do not fire,' I exclaimed; ' do not risk your shot, we are coming up with him.' Oh, young people ! all energy and fire, where they are not wanted. " He fired. and hit one of the horse's hind legs. The startled animal advanced about ten paces, and then sunk on his knees. Kazbitch leaped to the ground. " Then we perceived that he held in his arms a woman, whose head was covered with a veil. It was Bela—poor Bela! He called out something in his own tongue, menacing her with his poignard. There was no time to lose. I fired in my turn, without daring to take aim. The hall must have struck his shoulder, for his arm fell to his side. " When the smoke hail cleared away we perceived the wounded horse stretched on the ground, and near him lay Bela. As for Kazbitch, after having thrown away his gun, he clambered like a cat along the edge of a precipice. I had a great desire to dislodge him, but my gun was not loaded. We sprung from our horses, and ran to Bela. " Poor young thing! she was lying extended without sense or movement, and the blood was fast bubbling forth from her wound. The mean scoundrel! had he struck her to the heart at once, he had been less cruel idle would have suffered less—but the back I Ah, it was indeed a brigand's stroke." She had left the fort in the warm evening, and the Circassian had pounced on her. A surgeon is called to her aid : " He came immediately, and, after having examined the wound, declared she had not four and twen! ' Jury to live but he was wrong." " She recovered?" I asked of the captain, taking hold of his hands in the excess of my joy. " No," replied the (dicer, accustomed to military pre. cision ; " but instead of four and twenty hours she died two days after." • • • * • • " Two days after—poor child ! how she suffered. We suffered too, and plentifully ! "At about ten at night she came to her senses. We were seated near her bed-side. _ _ _ " She had scarcely opened her eyes when she asked for Petchorin. "• I am here near thee, my djanetchku r—that would be, in Russ, My soul I my best beloved ! ' and he took her haul. " lam dying ! ' she said to him. We tried to comfort her—told her the surgeon had promised to bring her round. " She shook her head, and turned her face toward., the wall—poor child! she did not wish to the. " In the night she was delirous ; her head burned, and every now and then feverish slnveiings agitated her frame. "She spoke incoherently of her father, ber brother; she longed fur her own home, her dear mountains. Then abs turned to Petchorin, and called him by a thousand caressing names—or else she would ask him why he loved her no longer. " He listened in silence : leaning his bead on his hand— but I did not see a single tear moisten his eyelashes. Per haps it is not in his nature to weep, or he has sufficient strength to control his feelings. For myself, I had never been so deeply nor so painfully moved. " Towards morning the delirium ceased. For nearly an hour she remained motionless. She was pale as death, and so weak that one could hardly be certain that she breathed. Then for a few moments she was better, and she began to speak. You imagine of what? Those thoughts only come to the dying. She regretted that she was not a Christian, because in the next world her soul would not be wit h that of Petchorin, and that in heaven another would be his companion." • • • • • • " With her trembling hands she clasped convulsively the neck of her lover, as if to leave him her whole soul in this last embrace. Look you! she could not have done better than to die. Petchorin would have left her sooner or later, and the stab of the poiguard was the better of the two." One touch at the conclusion is too exquisite to be lost : "And, then, I must confess it, one thing was very pain ful to me. In the face of death she never once remem bered me—l, who had loved her u a father! if she had only said to me, Adieu, my old Maximus Maximitch ! ' I think I could have died with her. Rut, Heaven iirgive her ! And indeed, what am I, that she should think of me in that solemn moment ?" Petchorin goes to seek other adventures, — to win moro hearts and break them; and when the old captain meets him after years of ab sence ho receives but a cold shako of the hand and a hasty farewell. The artistic merit of the tale is very great It scarcely occupies fifty pages, yet characters, scenery, manners, and incidents have all the distinctness and force of truth. It will live, we think, among the most touching creations of fiction. One is inclined to suspect that the character of Petchorin had its source more from inward sentiment than outward reflection. Lermon tot indeed, hints that he has been accused of presenting to the public his own portrait, though he insists that he has only sketched a portrait from observation. However that may be, there is lurid significance in some of the closing sentences of the volume when taken in connection with his violent death so soon afterwards: — How can one help being a fatalist! But who can be convinced that he ought or ought not to do such and such a thing? How often do we nut take, as a proof, what is only an error of the senses or of judgment? I love to doubt everything; this disposition does not prevent decision of character ; far from it e —st least, as to myself; I advance with the more resolution, because I ignore what awaits me. What can happen to me worse than death ? Can one avoid death? Whoever takes up the volume will finish it of course. Yet we wish it had consisted only of the story of "Bela," as it would have left us with a more favourable impression both of the genius and nature of the author.