The evening telegraph. [volume] (Philadelphia [Pa.]) 1864-1918, 1870-10-22
THE POETRY OF THE WAR.

From the ~ Y. Tribune.
Victor Hugo's first letter having drawn, as
he states, replies from ten thousand Prussians
in two days time "a feat of postal service
which we commend to the attention of Mr..
CreswelD, he is now at ease, delightedly pelt-
ing all Paris with epistles. His friend and
brother Bombastes Swinburne, on the other
side of the channel not to be outdone,
wreaks his afflatus on unhappy France in an
ode. There is the prerogative of your lite
rary man. The tragedies that wiring the
hearts of nations are SO much ''stock" for
him. He coolly hales them into his shop,
and turns you off neat little Job at an hours
notice, and so much a line.
We protest. AS Hugo and Swinburne nod
at each other, and pish and pash with letter
and ode over bleeding France we see again
Betsey Prig and the immortal Sairey hobnob-
bing over the dying patient, and compound
ing a salad out of stale garden stuff and
dash of liquor. This last collection of stro-
phes, antistrophes, and epodes of which Swim
burne has now made a bouquet and presented
ga Victor Hugo" strongly resembles that
Expansive vegetable which unfolded into an
umbrella, yet which Betsey could dispose of
in her pocket" Considered as to intention,
its proportions are vast; bat when you look
for sense, it dwindles and becomes ininites-
NAL. 1t is worth attention, however, as
Swinburne is the poetical exponent of Young
GnBlhnu anu tulS Que, we are tOlu, 'emOO-
dies it's highest ideal of lyric genius" There
is the usual magnificent flow of faultless
rhythm, the usual crash and glitter of
''days shod with flame, ''thunders standing
astounded, ''ravening hours, and ''godS
effused," and gods, in short, in as many
postures as a circus troupe. But behind these
we are only able to discover one distinct idea
"a figure that seems to tantalize the poet very
much as that remarkable Cheshire cat did
in hot 1l.r1
ished, until nothing but grin was left sus-
pended in air" Mr.. Swinburnes mysterious
presence appears to consist principally
of a brow. With regard to this brow
we are kept in constant anxiety. 1t
moves in the red dawn, it walks,
it has feet and lips, and not only beautiful
brief tears on top of its eyelids, but knees
which goes to prove what brow is capable
of when left to its resources. With regard,
however. to its moral character, Mr.. Swim
burne seems himself to be in doubt. On one
line he informs us it is ''mother many
wounded, and on the next "bride;" finally
he accuses it of murderous proclivities-
''Thine own soul hast thou slain and burnt
away, dissolving it with poison into foul
thin fume." Supposing its soul thus COM
fortably disposed of, imagine our amazement
to learn further on that this Brow itself is
the Brow's Gown souls buried head, with the
deadly wounds the poison left upon her" !"
But what is our surprise to that of q Brow,
| who, having first slain and then burnt up and
afterwards poisoned aud dissolved into fume
| its soul, finds that souls head coming back
burned and with poison wounds (whatever
| they may be) upon her, and not only coming
back but disclosing the bewildering fact that
| that Brow's souls head is the Brow per Sc
| No wonder it demands in perplexity. ''How
shall her weak hands hold up my weak hands
to fight?" How indeed?
There are other abnormal curiosities in this
remarkable poem-iron shafts that discharge
waves, forts with blood foundations, seals
that can tether cattle, ETC., etc. What con-
nection the whole matter has with France we
hope to hear explained when M. Hugo full
inmates his inevitable letter of thanks. There
are, we are happy to say, but few references
to the peculiarly rank class of subje which
Mr.. Swinburne usually delights to gloat over
in detail, and which are ordinarily supposed
to pertain especially to Sairey Camps and
] Betsey Prig's profession, although those
I ladies are decent enough to shut the doors
when they discuss them. Mr.. Swinburne has
probably taken late hint from them.
1t is curious to note how little genuine
| poetry ever grows out of any war. The few
true utterances which remain after our own
contest are singularly disproportioned to the
| The noble thoughts astir among men seem
| none left to spare for the song -mongers.
| Consequently we have to content ourselves
| with such trumpet blasts as this, deafening us
with sound and fury, but assuredly signifying
nothing.