The Press. — London, England, 1856-10-18 00:00:00

OCTOBER 18, 1856. ifiteraturt. Craigerook Castle. By Gerald Massey. London : Bogue. Ma. MASSEY is one of the most vigorous of our rising poets. His verse shows volcanic energy. It bursts forth as if the pent-up fire could not be restrained. His utterance is not a labour, but that sweet relief from labour which the mind feels when it can shape forth the emotions that thrill it In this respect he resembles Burns. His song is a gush. But, unlike Burns, he does not seem to possess that fine perceptive genius which never can rest until its efforts are perfected. The ardour of Mr. Massey is mingled with such slovenli ness as cannot readily be forgiven him. His verse is disfigured by such abominable phrases as— Her hair a shower of beauty ! Her motion a glory-sicint and as " languorous noon " and " languorous south." We can pardon many faults to origin ality, and we must give to poets a certain liberty of enlarging the bounds of language. But to speak of the motion of a lady as being a " glory-swim," and to introduce words which are neither English nor elegant, would, if per mitted, cause our tongue to undergo that process of degradation which we are sorry to observe is making rapid way on the other side the Atlantic. " Craigcrook Castle " is Tennysonian in matter and verse. A party assembles at the castle, among whom are three ladies, described with even more than Byronic warmth of colouring. After one of those summer days which Mr. Massey exhausts his " gorgeous, golden, glorious, glittering" wealth of language to describe, the gentlemen agree to prolong the night by a rouse within the house : And each one to the banquet bring their [his] best _ In song or story. The fragments which follow are the result. They are in the most shadowy style of what may be called " indicative poetry "—poetry, that is, which does not directly describe, but which shows two or three highly-coloured pictures, and leaves the imagination of the reader to connect them together. In the introduction we note one passage giving noble expression to a noble truth : " They wrought in faith," and not" They wrought in doubt," Is the proud epitaph inscribed above Our glorious Dead who in their grandeur lie, Crowned with the garland of eternity. Because they did believe, and conquered Doubt, Tt:ey lived great lives and did their deathless deeds, Wlo in the old time walkt their perilous way, W th the grey hairs cf kingly sorrow crowned : W2O laid their heads upon the bloody block For their last pillow: who amid the flames Bore witness still, and with their quivering hands Sowed every wind with sparks of eery thought. Because they did believe, we kneel to read Wtere men and angels mingle tears of joy. Because he did believe, Columbus sailed For that new world his inner eyes had seen. He found: so Faith its new worlds yet shall find, While Doubt shakes its wise head and stays behind. Newton believed for many a year before The Hand in Heaven shook the apple down. Because we have believed, our knowledge comes : Belief, not Doubt, will touch the secret spring. Belief is that soul-attitude which sees How the pure distance of some infinite sea Relieves the dark ground of our inland life, And feels the fresh spray make its roses bloom. But Doubt turns from the light, and only sees The Shadow that it casts, and follows it; For Doubt is ever its own Deity : The shadow still dilates on darkened eyes, And lengthens as the awful night comes down. The first fragment, " The Mother's Idol Broken," is remarkable for much plaintive and beautiful verse. Little Marian, the mother'; idol, sinks into " God's lap," the grave : Oar Rose was but in blossom; Our life was but in spring ; When down the solemn midnight We heard the Spirits sing: " Another bud of infancy, With holy dews impearled ;" And in their hands they bore our wee White hose of all the world. You scarce could think so small a thing Could leave a loss so large : Her little light such shadow fling, From dawn to sunset's marge. THE PRESS. In other springs our life may be 1 In bannered bloom unfurled ; But never, never match our wee White Rose of all the world. The next fragment, " Lady Laura," is the only one with any pretence to story, and this is told in a series of tableaux. The first is the interior of a mill, where the " Factory Fiend " tramples out the soul-sparks of the children day by day. The second scene is a grand old Gothic palace, where dwells the Lady Laura. The third, a visit of the angelic young heiress to the mill, where she takes a youth From out that cruel iron world to the tender human day. In succeeding parts the youth sings his adoration. He is encountered by Ltura at the moment when in " a trembling confidence of love" he talked to himself. He fears her displeasure, but she comes to tell him that false friends have usurped her title and lands till the law shall do her right. A picture of many-sided London serves to indicate the youth's rise to fame ; and another picture shows Lady Laura welcomed home a bride with the conquering youth at her side. Nothing can be imagined more shadowy than the indications thus supplied of the incidents of the tale. We are required to accept sym bols for narrative. It bears strong resem blance to Mr. Tennyson's " Maud,' but is rather more indistinct. Many of the images are striking. Take this one : Fine actions feed Love's holy fire, Like sandal-wood of fragrant gold ; Till heavenward, glorious to behold, It breaks, in many a splendid spire. And this, of a factory lit up at night : Which like a doomed ship far away i the night Pleaded—each port-hole lighted up for help ! The fragment following, " Glimpses of the War," indicates in bursts of song the great actions of the Crimean struggle. The death ride at Balaklava is extremely spirited : Sit proud in your saddles ! grip tighter each blade! We ride, ho. we ride a magnificent raid ! Today win a glory that never shall fade. Old England for ever ! Hurrah! O the lightning of life! 0 the thunder of steeds ! Great thoughts burn within us like fiery seeds, Swift to flame out a red fruitage of deeds. Old England for ever ! Hurrah ! O the wild joy of Warriors going to die, All Sword, and all Flame, with our brows lifted high ! Ride on, happy band, for the glory swims nigh. Old England for ever ! Hurrah! Chariots of fire in the dark of death stand ; Down thro' the battle-cloud reaches a Hand To crown all who die for their own dear land. Old England for ever! Hurrah! The Sea of Flame wraps us now! take one long breath, And plunge for the prize of Immortals, beneath. Shout to the cannonade, shouting to Death : Old England fur ever ! Hurrah ! Spring to now ! dash thro' now! and cleave crest and crown ! For each foe round you strown now a wreath of renown ! In a red rain of Sabres ride down, dash them down. Old England for ever! Hurrah ! Charge back ! once again we must ride the death-ride, You Victor-few smiling in terrible pride! Charge home ! smoking hell of horse, grim, glorified! Old England for ever ! Hurrah! Now cheer for the living ! now cheer for the dead Now cheer for the deed on that bill-side red ! The glory is gathered for England's head. Old England for ever ! Hurrah ! Mr. Massey expresses bitter disappointment at the results of the contest. He anticipated a war for liberty all over the world. Our great ally is greeted with a torrent of radical wrath. We quote a couple of stanzas only as showing the ribaldry with which the poet's page is sometimes stained : There was a poor old Woman once, a daughter of our nation, Before the Devil's portrait stood in ignorant adoration. " You're bowing down to Satan, Ma'am," said some Spec tator civil: " Ah, Sir, it's best to be polite, for we may go to the Devil." Bow, bow, bow : We may go to the Devil, so it's just as well to bow. So England hails the Saviour of Society, and will tarry at His feet, nor see her Christ is he who sold him, curst 1 scariot. By grace of God, or sleight of hand, he wears the royal vesture, And at thy throne, Divine Success ! we kneel with reverent gesture, And Low, bow, bow : We may go to the Devil, RO it'a just as well to bow. Wild and rhapsodical. but vigorous and glow ing, the verse of Mr. Massey will meet with 999 many admirers. His richness of imagery, and emotional fervour, show the true poet. Oftea his thoughts are most happily expressed : Not by appointment do we meet Delight And Joy ; they heed not our expectancy • But round some c inter in the streets of life, They, on u sudden, clasp us with a smile. The finest descriptive piece is near the end of the volume, at pages Uoi-U. The description of Charrnian's habitual beauty is superb : Her bounteous breast that breathed magnificence And billowed with proud blood. There is in Byron nothing finer than this fragment, " Only a Dream." We are sorry to hear that calamity has been busy in Mr. Massey's household, and that he is now struggling sorely to keep the wolf from the door. Frankly, this should not be. The bounty of the Crown may often be more fitly bestowed on genius struggling to win its way than on genius reposing when its work is done. Such aid as, relieving the poet from the most pressing cares of life, would allow him to give more time to his productions, might gracefully be rendered to and honourably received by him. It. might also have the good effect of making him a little more discreet in the ex pression of his political opinions. The Tricks of Trade in the Adulteration of Food and Physic. London : Bogue. WE easily get accustomed to things noxious in themselves. " Custom," says Horatio, re ferring to the grave-digger's business, " Custom hath made it in him a property of " easiness." The same may be said of the horrifying disclosures made to us from time to time of the poisons contained in the food we cat and the air we breathe. Over and over again the public has been told that it takes slow poison in the adulterated bread paid for on the supposition that it is the staff of life ; in the polluted water supplied to it through lead pipes ; in the tea and sugar of its social meals ; in the viands which it buys to sustain health ; in the medicines which it pays for so dearly to cure sickness. It gets accustomed to these representations. The profitable trade of adulteration goes on ; cheap ticketing shops flourish ; gin palaces are crowded ; and the bulk of the urban population is cut off sonic twenty years before its time. By the report of the medical officer of the city of London it appears that the average life of the adult population of London is scarcely fifty years Whence this early mortality ? London itself is not unhealthy. Inhabitants of the metropolis, favorably circumstanced, attain a great age. Adverse locality and. occupation may weigh for much, but of them selves would not account fur the lamentable mortality of the industrious population. It is a question suggested by works like the present whether unwholesome food may not have some influence in shortening the dura tion of human life. We presume this little book is by Mr. Henry Mayhew, whose search into social questions has been honourable to his activity, and beneficial to the public. But the author ship of the book is of little moment. as facts only are described. Turn to what kinds of food we may, and the adulteration, not only fraud ful, but poisonous, is the same. The smoker seems to fare the best, the dram drinker the worst It would, perhaps, be no exaggera tion to affirm that on an average the life of every inhabitant in the metropolis is cut short by ten years through the impurities of his food. What wholesale murder is here There is no " crowner's quest" on the victims who have been prostrated by diseases or weak ness, slowly but surely brought on by the noxious diet to which they have been accus tomed. The " visitation of God" is cliarged with the mortality resulting from the cupidity of man. _ _ There need not be much sympathy with tho epicure, who. instead of a genuine anchovy to flavour his toast, is served with a sprat pickled in " bole Armenian " ; but the manufacture of butter, as an article of general use, is more serious. Nothing is easier, we are assured, than to make up fine Epping, fresh from Essex, for the market:— Irish salt butter of a very inferior quality is taken ; this is repeatedly worked with water, in order to free it from the