The Press.
London, England, 1858-09-18 00:00:00

THE PRESS, SEPTEMBER 18, 1`58•

If we consider the expression only, and forget
the great difference of circumstances, we may be
reminded by the naivete and fulness of the first
of these lines of Gretchen's " Gott ! war so gut !
ach war so lieb !" From whatever censure is
passed on the Bucolics in general the fourth
ought to be excepted. There need be no abate-
ment to the pleasure we feel in listening to this
rich strain of jubilation, except indeed the
hopeless obscurity of the last lines, upon which
Mr. Conington has nothing to suggest. Twist
the passage as they may, the commentators can
elicit nothing from it but a conceit so far-fetched
as to make a most lame and impotent conclusion
of so noble and well-sustained a poem. Since in
the last line Virgil plainly has llercules in his
mind, we have sometimes thought that the
whole passage may be built upon some lost
legend of the birth of Ilercules. This poem is,
in our judgment, incomparably superior to Pope's
" Messiah," which has sometimes been preferred
to it. An English imitation ought not, we think,
to be written in the rhymed couplet, but in the
measure of Lycidas.
If Virgil imitated Theocritus in an injudicious
manner, we agree with Mr. Conington that he
was injudicious in undertaking to imitate llesiod
at all. But for his singular and almost slavish
propensity to imitation, he would surely have
felt that " Works and Days " is not a poem at
all, except in its form. Many attempts have
been made to mark the difference between poetry
and prose. One thing at least seems clear, that
prose is language at work and poetry is language
at play. All the gifts of nature are at once in-
struments and ornaments. Our feet convey us to
and fro upon our necessary occasions, but when
we are at leisure we dance with them. Our
voices serve us in traffic and debate ; when work is
over, we sing with them. Language also has
two functions—the one of utility, the other of
ornament. By it we communicate important
designs, serious thoughts, whatever our minds are
anxiously engaged upon. This is language at
work. But when our minds are relaxed by
leisure, we amuse ourselves with language ; we
take pleasure in arranging words according to a
certain principle, in making them submit to laws
of rhythm and harmony. This is language at
play. Language at work is called prose ; its
chief merit is perspicuity. Language at play is
called poetry; its chief merit is melodiousness.
Now it is clear that to expound matters of business
in melodious and rhythmical language is as great a
breach of decorum as to describe beautiful objects
or glorious actions, such as naturally exhilarate
and delight the mind, in bare and commonplace
language. It was right that Homer should
describe the wrath of Achilles in measured and
musical periods, for this was a subject in which
his hearers were not practically interested ; it
was for pleasure and delight, not for business,
that they gathered round the bard. But when
the old farmer at Ascraa, indignant that his
neighbours would waste their money and neglect
their farms, and in particular that " that great
fool Verses " could not be induced to work,
wrote a pamphlet to represent to them the folly of
their conduct, lie could have no reason for
writing it in verse, and if prose had been in-
vented in his time, he would no doubt, as
Colonel Mure observes, have written it in prose.
Nothing, therefore, could be more unfortunate
than Virgil's undertaking to produce a Latin
version of this poem, enlarged and modernized.
The Georgics can neither be approved as practical
treatises nor as poems. To make them perfect
as practical treatises, all the digressions ought to
be omitted, and the remainder stripped of its
poetical embellishment ; to make them perfect
as poems, everything ought to be omitted except
the digressions. Yet Virgil's mistake was in his
circumstances a very natural one. Not only was
the Alexandrian school, which was regarded at
Rome with such unreasonable respect, fruitful
in didactic poems, but Rome had herself
produced a splendid monster of this kind
in the " De Rerum Naturti" of Lucretius. This
poem, though Cicero professes to slight it, would
naturally be received with rapture by the Epi-
cureans of Italy. Horace borrows from it; Ovid
praises it ; Virgil would seem from that most
graceful passage at the end of the second Georgic
to have regarded its author with a despairing
admiration. Mr. Conington appears to us not
to speak worthily of the poem of Lucretius. lie
speaks of the immeasurable inferiority of its corn-

position to that of the Georgics. He tries to
account for its being so unreadable. We do not
find the "De Iterum Nature" unreadable. If
its metre and style be less finished and more
prosaic than the metre and style of Virgil, the
cause of this lies in Lucretius's sincerity. He is
so much in earnest that he will not sacrifice
clearness to finish. lle is inspired by his subject;
Virgil, on the contrary, labours continually to
escape from his subject. Both poets fail equally
in the attempt to combine scientific accuracy
with poetic beauty. Both poets in many places
deliberately sacrifice one of their irreconcileable
objects of pursuit. Lucretius always prefers
science ; Virgil is faithful to beauty. But when
both poets have a fair field, we at least cannot
perceive the great superiority of Virgil. The
Lucretians and Virgilians will always form rival
camps. We, for our part, prefer the thunderous
cataract of the older unchained hexameter on
the rough crags of the "De Iterum Natura" to
the measured plash of the educated Virgilian
verse in the quiet atrium of the Georgics. We
prefer the
Altitonaus Vulturnus et Auster fulmine pollens,
to the

Frigitlus ut quondam silvis immurmurat Auster.

But whatever be the rival merits of the two
poets, it is plain that the younger was greatly
influenced by the elder. And if ever a man was
justified in writing a didactic poem it was Lucre-
tius. lie takes such delight in his subject that
the thorniest parts of it do not fatigue him. lie
seeks no repose. There is more digression in a
single Georgic than in the whole of the " De Rerum
Nature." And even where his phraseology is
most formal, or what Mr. Conington calls prosaic
—and some passages might be produced which
scarcely yield in preciseness to the propositions
of Euclid—he is never languid, never tame.
The passion for argumentation never certainly
co-existed with so much imagination, enthusiasm,
and eloquence before except in Plato, or since,
except in Dante. Virgil, as we have said,
appears to have regarded him with despairing
admiration. We will cite the passage in which
Mr. Conington discusses this matter, both because
it is to the point and because it is perhaps the
best specimen of Mr. Conington's style which
could be selected :

He occupies the rest of the book with praises of the
country life, its tranquillity and purity, its constant round
of pleasant employments, its old historic and legendary
renown. But he has already painted the destiny of a
scientific inquirer into natura in colours which can
scarcely be intended to he less glowing, and declared
that his first love is centred there. The very distinct•
ness with which Lucretius is indicat••d as the ideal
after which ha primarily aspires is itself a presumption
that the aspiration is in some sort genuine. There is,
indeed, something strange and sad, if this were the place
to dwell on it, in the spectacle of a man contemplating
the Lucretian system and. an attempt to realize the old
moral belief as two feasible alternatives, and leaving the
choice to be determined by his mental constitution;
stranger, perhaps, and sadder still, if we suppose him to
be esing words without a distinct consciousness of their
full meaning, and to be thinking really of the compara-
tive aptitude for poetical purposes of the two opposite
aspects of nature. But though such a state of mind
has no affinity to the terrible earnestness of Lucretius
himself, it is not emitharacteristic of a would-be philo-
sopher; while the touch which immediately follows, the
praise of a country life as affording no scope for the
pains of pity or of envy, seems to show a lingering
sympathy with philosophic doctrine even after he has
rosigneil himself to on unphilosophic life. Nor is this
the only passage in which we find traces of a yearning
after philosophy as the true sphere of a poet. The song of
Jopas in the first book of the 4Eneid, where several lines
are repeated from the passage we have just been considering,
shows that the conception was one which continued to
dwell with him through life; the song of Silenus, in the
sixth eclogue, is a witness no less to its early formation.
In the latter, as we there saw, a cosmogony, which though
not strictly Epicurean is expressed throughout in Lucre•
tian phraseology, is succeeded by a series of mythological
stories, as in Ovid's Metamorphoses, but the compromise
is merely equivalent to the oscillation of nand s'aown in the
Georgics between the scientific temper that defies death by
disbelieving the future and the primitive taith in wood gods
and nymphs. The same feeling shows itself in the scat-
tered 1111116 of a passionist spirit which appear, even on
trifling occasions, in the reflection on the. unequal struggle
between min and nature, as exemplified in the sowing of
puke, and the exhortation to the breeder of cattle to take
advantage of those bright days of life which are the first to
fly. The general impression which we thus gain is sin-
gularly confirmed by Virgil's biographer, who tells us, with
every appearance of truth, that just belore his last illness
he had resolved to spend three years abroad in polishing
his Eneid, and then for the rest of his life to devote him-
self to philosophy.
Such is all that can be gleaned from his works
of the views and feelings of this most reserved of
writers. Certainly no poet ever understood better

atever
how to forget himself in his work, and, wh
mistakes he may have made, no poet has more
completely avoided the error of attaching himself
to a transitory sect or school, instead of adhering
to that which is permanent and eternally
interesting.

We have not observed anything in the notes of
this edition which is remarkably worthy of notice.
We are glad to observe that Mr. Covington
adopts Weise's obvious explanation of Eel. i 54,
which has so strangely puzzled all the commen-
tators down to Forbiger. Some interesting ob-
servations on the scenery of the Bucolics have
been borrowed from Keightley; in other respects
this edition, in a critical point of view, may be
regarded as a convenient abridgment of Forbiger.

The Confessions of a Catholic Priest. London:
Chapman.

THE title of this book is somewhat calculated to
mislead a reader as to the real nature of its
contents. The " confessions " of one of those
mysterious beings whose dark intrigues fill so
many pages of theological novels, and who, after
upsetting governments all over Europe, and
having been the mainsprings of wickedness
enough to supply with incident half a dozen
Surrey melodramas, are at length entombed,
along with the secrets they possess, in the sto-
machs of avenging rats,—will excite in the minds
of a large class of persons a curiosity similar to
that with which they would decipher the con-
fidential letters of a Borgia, a Fouch6, or a
Brinvillicrs. Others, who have duly profited by
the glowing hints of M. Michelet, will at these
.words conjure up visions of gliding ecclesiastics,
with volcanic passions covered by an icy de-
meanour, who, behind latticed screens in dim
recesses of grey cathedrals, amid the heavy odours
of wafted incense, drink into greedy ears the
whispered experiences of innocent maidenhood or
conscious maturity, and cast on both alike the
trail of contaminating suggestion or the shackles
of a more unquestionable power. But the volume
before us deals neither with the cabals of Jesuit
plotters nor the perplexities of fiiir penitents.
The " Priest " was too much of a man of honour,
as well as too great an egotist, to profit by his
position in the manner to which we have alluded.
He has nothing to tell of other people's sins,
griefs, or crimes, and the egarements du caur et
de r esprit which he describes relate to himself
alone.
He describes himself as an Hungarian of noble
family, taught from an early age to look forward
to the priesthood as his vocation. He has not
the slightest real calling for it, and, in addition to
this, while preparing for ordination, falls violently
in love with his cousin, and becomes aware of
how much he shall have to sacrifice. Neverthe-
less, unwilling to disappoint his family, and
wreck his future hopes of advancement, he com-
pletes the arrangement, his cousin on her side
vowing to remain single for his sake.—Two ye.ars
later she marries an Austrian general. Hie
Priest takes his seat in the Chamber of Magnates
at Presburg, and for a short time exercises .his
ministry as a fashionable confessor. The ladies,
delighted to have as director a man of their own
rank, patronized him eagerly :
I spent the mornings at church, the afternoons at the
Diet, the evenings in the world, in which 1 mixed too roach
to be ignorant of any of the little intrigues of the society in
which I lived. I often recognized in the morning, by the
gentle voice that whispered its confidences in my ear, the.
great lady whose tnanceuvres of coquetry towards one, 01
coldness towards another, hod amused the in the evening.
'Phis double existence, as an anonymous confidant and A
man of the world, was very interesting, and gave me the
key to many secrets others would have wished to learn at
any cost.
It would have been an unique occasion for confusing the
game of others, and engaging in intrigues on my (tan
account; hut I must confess that I did not profit by my
advantages. I do not know whit I should have demo_
without iiiy love the Mathilde ; with a free heart, the.fireiilif
my youth would ve scarcely allowed me to retainitteo
passive part of a spectator. But I loved her too pure )for
profane this attachment by easy
my heart to take a share in consoling the fair penitent e.
and I was too honest to feign what I did nut feel. I 7._
stricted tayself to my part as confidant ; I gave my III' !
hearers more disinterested advice than they would pet nar
have received from an older man leas in love; and I kept
intrigues—teo.entirely
t.
their secrets far more by sentiment as a man of hoooco
than by duty as a priest, since fur me the secrecy of the
confessional scarcely existed.
He begins by being a Conservative in poOlf!ti,c4s's
but " the breath of the revolution
Passes over him; he joins the Hungarian army

with the novel office of grand-almoner, and clad in
a rod dress, but unarmed except with a great silver
crass (which, however, proves not wholly useless
as as offensive weapon), he leads his column in
several skirmishes and attacks. After the extinc-
tion of the I lungarian revolt he escapes to France
in disguise and with dyed hair, a costume
-which gives rise to a rather whimsical mishap,
not altogether in accordance with the popular
notion of the personal habits of distinguished

foreigners :
I know not how it happens, but persons habitually ill-
washed never feel dirty, whereas those who bathe regularly,
if they are deprived of water for twenty-four hours imagine
they are incrusted with dirt, although this phenomenon
could not possibly hive occurred so soon. However this
happens, is a question 1 leave to philosophers, while I
recommend the fact to their observation. As soon as I
had found a room at an hotel, and left my portmanteau, my
,nest thought was to seek for a vapour•bath. Having found
one, I exulted at the idea of being again clean, without
recollecting that my hair had been dyed. 1 was reminded
of the circumstance by feeling black drops fall on my f
ve-
Iheel, and vecing that I was half-dark, half fair. The
tuaiwfonnation once begun, it was impossible to stop half-
was,and in an hour I returned to my hotel quite another
minsand foreseeing that my identity would be questioned.
ilapply, my passport made no mention of my complexion.
As I imagined, on asking for my room, I was told it was
kept for a gentleman who had gone out. I claimed my
identity, describing the things I had left in the room. At
baigth, after much dispute, my assertion that the sleepy
rater bad made a mistake iu supposing me dark, and that
II hal always been as fair as I undoubtedly was on my
Ireton from the bath, was believed. I escaped evil con-
xepeaces ; but I learned then, and still better since, that
imistlle in disguise should not be so scrupulous as to clean•
lineet Had this adventure happened in Austria, I should

.....
'base been taken.

'On arriring in France he betakes himself to some
relatives in Lorraine. Here he is obliged to re-
•sume his priestly functions, and as he is rather more
than a sceptic in religious matters, his mental
sufferings are great. Wearied with a life of con-
stant deception, and bored by the ugly toilettes
and dull conversation of the province, he proceeds
to Paris and lives for some time a gay and plea-
sant life. His money, however, becoming ex-
hausted, he is again obliged to officiate, and with
.nany scruples to take up the priesthood simply
.as a trade. Not less repulsive to him than the
,deceit he practises, are the ideas and lives of his

!dim-priests
have lived in camps, at the mines, I have traversed
many countries, I have heard soldiers exhaling their fury
,on the field of battle, or their anguish in hospitals by
;blasphemies; I have seen the miners of the antipodes, a
race certainly unaccustomed to elegant language ; I have
Ammo sceptics and atheists of every clime and rank,—that
isita say,—that I was not brought up in cotton in a convent
of wins, like Vert•vert. I have been a soldier, and I am a
man of the world, T am therefore not unnecessarily prudish,
hat never in my life, in the camp or the mines, have
listen 4 to such blasphemies and indecent words as I have
heard from priests behind the very altar, just after saying
...bass. I was shocked ; they thought me one of their gang,
mad dill not conceal themselves from me. To live I was
maliged to stay anti hear them, unable to throw off my
!Piesily robe, and reproach them loudly with their infamy.
1 atm them naked, hideous in their hypocrisy, displaying
.all their vices, of which they dared to boast but two steps
from,the altar they profaned, and I knew that some among
them lad the reputation of saints. I was so much humbled
at being counted among these men, that it is not too much
to say that my character changed to such a degree, that
I never recovered the pure and lofty spring of enthusiasm
which hail guided me, till fatal want forced me to enter
this sacristy.

There is much more to the same effect. The
French clergy in the provinces are described as
sincere but narrow-minded, but those of Paris are
painted in the blackest colours of profligacy and
infidelity.
During the year 1851 our Priest forms a second
attachment. Mathilde R—, the daughter of a
family of the middle class, sympathizes with
Hungarian exiles and likes to hear their adven-
tures. The Othello is fascinated, and exerts
equal fascination ; the lady's parents have no
objection, and it is settled that if the Priest's
family also consent he shall throw off his orders,
become a I'rotestant, and marry Mathilde. Of
course his mother refuses, and the Priest, who
has overcome so many scruples, is vulnerable to
this. His marriage is delayed, and he writes
innumerable letters to Hungary vainly entreating
permission. His next move is still more incom-
prehensible. A commercial company is formed
to trade with Australia, and he becomes its agent,
trusting that his mother will yield rather than
drive him to so desperate a step. The family of
his intended vainly strive to alter his resolution ;
he disdains to be indebted to them for the.
assistance they proffer to enable him to get rid of
his commercial friends, and shows such joy at a