The Press.
London, England, 1854-11-18 00:00:00

THE PRESS.

bath of any temperature, from one of icy coldness to that
of one hundred and fatty degrees ; and we did not fail to
improve it iu some of the deeper basins of the stream,
which seemed prepared by nature for such a purpose.
Our readers will observe that Mr. Bartlett
acknowledges above his want of scientific
knowledge, and he does not often compensate
for its absence by liveliness or felicity of style.
The accompanying illustrations, however, help
the reader very much, and though the litho-
graphs from the sketches in Indian ink are
miserably executed, yet some of the miscel-
laneous drawings are clever. It is an amusing
book to look over, as some portions of it have
matter worth perusal, and, during our present
dearth of new original books of merit, we may
recommend it to the book clubs. The work is
evidently American in all respects, though
bearing a London publisher's name on its
titlepage.

The Angel in the House. The Betrothal.
London : J. W. Parker and Son.
THERE is some art in reading books properly. I
This is one to be read by the critic in very
uncritical fashion, not with quickened eye and
perception on the strain, but in easy mood,
when the air is still, and the intellect free
from the pressure of occupation, and all facul-
ties of mind and body are relaxed and disposed
to receive impressions of beauty. Such books,
to be enjoyed, must not be scrutinised too
closely ; for writings which charm the imagi-
nation most are usually marked by some
extravagance. Poetic beauty will rarely stand
the test of analysis. The mind of the reader
must be brought into correspondence with
that of the author, and sympathise with its
excitement, before the images born of its
fervour can be appreciated. The musician is
not in fault when the air is unfavourable to
the transmission of harmony. Much of the
disappointment experienced on reading books
arises from their not being taken up when
time and mood are suitable. The mind should
be serene and softened to enjoy this " Angel
of the House."
The theme is love, or rather woman, and the
blessings of her influence, to which the poet
thinks no song has yet done justice.
With college laurels three times crown'd,
And other annual honours won,
he has led a life of domestic bliss unknown to
fame, though his wife has often sweetly hinted
that renown might easily be his would he take
the trouble to seek it. On their wedding-day
he tells her that,
Not careless of the gift of song,
Nor out of love with noble fame,
he has much meditated what theme remained
unsung, and has at last
the very well-head found
Whence gushes the Pierian spring.
He will, in short, sing herself, " and love, that's
" all in all." The poet's design is further ex.
plained in some prettily-playful lines :
Imagine, love, how learned men,
Will deep-conceived devices find,
Beyond the purpose and the ken
Of the old poet's simple mind !
You, sweet, his mistress, wife, and muse,
Were you for mortal woman meant ?
Your praises give a hundred clues
To mythological intent !
And, severing thus the truth from trope,
lu you the commentators see,
Some faith, some charity, some hope,
Some, wiser, think you all the three.
I press your arm ! These are the meads
In which we pass our ]peaceful days;
There Avon runs, now hid with reeds,
Now brightly brimming pebbly hays ;
Those are our children's songs that come
With bells and bleating@ of the sheep;
And there, in yonder happy home.
We thrive on mortal food and sleep.
The " Betrothal" is told in twelve " Idyls."
Between each are verses termed by the author
"Accompaniments " and " Sentences," which—
as music fills up pauses in song—are intended,
we suppose, to relieve, connect, and adorn the
several parts of the poem. These airs—as
rather they may be called than verses—flout
in an atmosphere of fancy, and sometimes
seem as if they bad escaped tho poet's brain
before he had fully fashioned them. The
following sentences come after an " Accompa-
niment " in which the poet laments that his
gifts of song are inadequate to fame
That hymn far which the whole world longs,
A worthy hymn in woman's praise.

1097

We must suppose that he hears an exclama-
tion against his extravagance :
"Ileauty's but flesh and blood air: fye !
Head here: immortal beauty drink ! "
"Just what 1 thirst for; " I reply,
" But what's this? Bags and printer's ink!"
He hates not day whose grateful sight
Adores the sun's reflected power,
But loves acceptably the light,
Loving its colours in the dower.

Other sentences of plainer intent strike us
as of higher merit :
Wo fast, give alms, pray, weep, and wake,
And wear our hearts out. o er the word:
Ah, less of this, and let us make
More melody unto the Lord!
Happy, if on the tempest's gloom
Thou seest the covenant of God;
Rut far, far happier he on whom
The kiss works better than the rod.
0, too absurd for pity or blame,
l'rostrate, our backs against the sun,
We mourn the shadow of our shame,
When getting up would make it none.
These flights of sung are wayward, but they
sparkle with poetic genius nevertheless. In
the " Accompaniments " the thought is often
more distinct and of higher aim. That a
woman's weakness is her strength has often
been prosaically said, but the sentiment ac-
quires new force in this poet's verse :

Say that she wants the will of man
To conquer fame, not check'd by cross,
Nov moved when others bless or ban ;
She wants but what to have were loss;
Or say she holds no seals of power,
But humbly lives her life at school ;
Alas, we hare yet to hail the hour
When God shall clothe the best with rule.

Tho thought soars higher in these next
lines. Tho sentence we have marked in italics►
reads like a new discovery in philosophy :
Row long shall men deny the flower,
Because its roots are in the earth;
And crave with tears from God the dower
They have, and have despised as dearth ;
And scorn as low their human lot,
With frantic pride, too blind to see
That standing on the head makes not
Either for ease or dignity ?
But fools shall feel like fools to find
( Too late inform'd that angels' mirth
Is one in cause and mode and kind
With that which they contemn'd on earth.
- -

The next lines were probably suggested by
that beautiful passage in Schiller's " Carlos
in which one of the finest characters of the
modern drama tells how he ncuiished in the
heart of his friend the prince a hopeless pas-
sion, as he discerned a germ of life in what
seemed death to others. The coincidence may
be accidental, but the resemblance of idea is
striking :
If fate love's dear ambition mar,
And load his breast with hopeless pain,
And seem to blot out sun and star,
Love, lost or won, is countless gain :
His sorrow boasts a searet bliss
Which sorrow of itself beguiles,e-
And love in tears too noble is
For pity, save of love in smiles.
lint booking backward through his tears,
With vision of maturer scope,
how often one dead joy appears
The platform of some better hope!
Awl, let us own, the shtirpest smart
Which human patience may endure
Pays light for that which leaves the heart
More generous, dignified, and pure.•
These are detached beauties, for the " Ac-
companiments " and " Sentences," as we have
said, are mere flourishes to the poem itself.
The narrative is of the simplest kind. The
poet, after some years of travel, returns to his
guardian's house. The good dean at Sarum
Close has three daughters : their home,
made happy with graces of Christian life, is
described in some exquisite lines
For something that abode endued
With temple•like repose, an air
Of life's kind purposes pursued
With order'd freedom sweet and fair.
A tent pitch'd in a world not right
It seem'd, whose inmates, every one,
On tranquil faces bore the light
Of duties beautifully done,

• The parallel lines is Schiller (we quote from Bohn's edition
of the trauslated dramas) are:—
"I saw his lore
In its first blossnam--saw his fatal passion
Take root in his young heart. I had full power
To check it, but I did not. The attachment,
Which seem'd to me not guilty, I still nouritsli'd.
The world may censure we, but I repent not,
Nor does my heart aecnse me. I saw life
Where death appeald to othett In a lame
So hopeless I discern'd Hope's golden beam"