[From _The Edinburgh Review_, October, 1802]
_Thalaba, the Destroyer: A Metrical Romance_. By ROBERT SOUTHEY. 2 vols.
12 mo. London.
Poetry has this much, at least, in common with religion, that its
standards were fixed long ago, by certain inspired writers, whose
authority it is no longer lawful to call in question; and that many
profess to be entirely devoted to it, who have no _good works_ to
produce in support of their pretensions. The catholic poetical church,
too, has worked but few miracles since the first ages of its
establishment; and has been more prolific, for a long time, of Doctors,
than of Saints: it has had its corruptions and reformation also, and has
given birth to an infinite variety of heresies and errors, the followers
of which have hated and persecuted each other as cordially as other
bigots.
The author who is now before us, belongs to a _sect_ of poets, that has
established itself in this country within these ten or twelve years, and
is looked upon, we believe, as one of its chief champions and apostles.
The peculiar doctrines of this sect, it would not, perhaps, be very easy
to explain; but, that they are _dissenters_ from the established systems
in poetry and criticism, is admitted, and proved indeed, by the whole
tenor of their compositions. Though they lay claim, we believe, to a
creed and a revelation of their own, there can be little doubt, that
their doctrines are of _German_ origin, and have been derived from some
of the great modern reformers in that country. Some of their leading
principles, indeed, are probably of an earlier date, and seem to have
been borrowed from the great apostle of Geneva. As Mr. Southey is the
first author, of this persuasion, that has yet been brought before us
for judgment, we cannot discharge our inquisitorial office
conscientiously, without premising a few words upon the nature and
tendency of the tenets he has helped to promulgate.
The disciples of this school boast much of its originality, and seem to
value themselves very highly, for having broken loose from the bondage
of ancient authority, and re-asserted the independence of genius.
Originality, however, we are persuaded, is rarer than mere alteration;
and a man may change a good master for a bad one, without finding
himself at all nearer to independence. That our new poets have abandoned
the old models, may certainly be admitted; but we have not been able to
discover that they have yet created any models of their own; and are
very much inclined to call in question the worthiness of those to which
they have transferred their admiration. The productions of this school,
we conceive, are so far from being entitled to the praise of
originality, that they cannot be better characterised, than by an
enumeration of the sources from which their materials have been derived.
The greater part of them, we apprehend, will be found to be composed of
the following elements: (1) The antisocial principles, and distempered
sensibility of Rousseau--his discontent with the present constitution of
society--his paradoxical morality, and his perpetual hankerings after
some unattainable state of voluptuous virtue and perfection. (2) The
simplicity and energy (_horresco referens_) of Kotzebue and Schiller.
(3) The homeliness and harshness of some of Cowper's language and
versification, interchanged occasionally with the _innocence_ of Ambrose
Philips, or the quaintness of Quarles and Dr. Donne. From the diligent
study of these few originals, we have no doubt that an entire art of
poetry may be collected, by the assistance of which, the very _gentlest_
of our readers may soon be qualified to compose a poem as correctly
versified as Thalaba, and to deal out sentiment and description, with
all the sweetness of Lamb, and all the magnificence of Coleridge.
The authors, of whom we are now speaking, have, among them,
unquestionably, a very considerable portion of poetical talent, and
have, consequently, been enabled to seduce many into an admiration of
the false taste (as it appears to us) in which most of their productions
are composed. They constitute, at present, the most formidable
conspiracy that has lately been formed against sound judgment in matters
poetical; and are entitled to a larger share of our censorial notice,
than could be spared for an individual delinquent. We shall hope for the
indulgence of our readers, therefore, in taking this opportunity to
inquire a little more particularly into their merits, and to make a few
remarks upon those peculiarities which seem to be regarded by their
admirers as the surest proofs of their excellence.
Their most distinguishing symbol, is undoubtedly an affectation of great
simplicity and familiarity of language. They disdain to make use of the
common poetical phraseology, or to ennoble their diction by a selection
of fine or dignified expressions. There would be too much _art_ in this,
for that great love of nature with which they are all of them inspired;
and their sentiments, they are determined shall be indebted, for their
effect, to nothing but their intrinsic tenderness or elevation. There is
something very noble and conscientious, we will confess, in this plan of
composition; but the misfortune is, that there are passages in all
poems, that can neither be pathetic nor sublime; and that, on these
occasions, a neglect of the embellishments of language is very apt to
produce absolute meanness and insipidity. The language of passion,
indeed, can scarcely be deficient in elevation; and when an author is
wanting in that particular, he may commonly be presumed to have failed
in the truth, as well as in the dignity of his expression. The case,
however, is extremely different with the subordinate parts of a
composition; with the narrative and description, that are necessary to
preserve its connection; and the explanation, that must frequently
prepare us for the great scenes and splendid passages. In these, all the
requisite ideas may be conveyed, with sufficient clearness, by the
meanest and most negligent expressions; and if magnificence or beauty is
ever to be observed in them, it must have been introduced from some
other motive than that of adapting the style to the subject. It is in
such passages, accordingly, that we are most frequently offended with
low and inelegant expressions; and that the language, which was intended
to be simple and natural, is found oftenest to degenerate into mere
slovenliness and vulgarity. It is in vain, too, to expect that the
meanness of those parts may be redeemed by the excellence of others. A
poet, who aims at all at sublimity or pathos, is like an actor in a high
tragic character, and must sustain his dignity throughout, or become
altogether ridiculous. We are apt enough to laugh at the mock-majesty of
those whom we know to be but common mortals in private; and cannot
permit Hamlet to make use of a single provincial intonation, although it
should only be in his conversation with the grave-diggers.
The followers of simplicity are, therefore, at all times in danger of
occasional degradation; but the simplicity of this new school seems
intended to ensure it. _Their_ simplicity does not consist, by any
means, in the rejection of glaring or superfluous ornament--in the
substitution of elegance to splendour, or in that refinement of art
which seeks concealment in its own perfection. It consists, on the
contrary, in a very great degree, in the positive and _bonâ fide_
rejection of art altogether, and in the bold use of those rude and
negligent expressions, which would be banished by a little
discrimination. One of their own authors, indeed, has very ingeniously
set forth (in a kind of manifesto that preceded one of their most
flagrant acts of hostility), that it was their capital object "to adapt
to the uses of poetry, the ordinary language of conversation among the
middling and lower orders of the people." What advantages are to be
gained by the success of this project, we confess ourselves unable to
conjecture. The language of the higher and more cultivated orders may
fairly be presumed to be better than that of their inferiors: at any
rate, it has all those associations in its favour, by means of which, a
style can ever appear beautiful or exalted, and is adapted to the
purposes of poetry, by having been long consecrated to its use. The
language of the vulgar, on the other hand, has all the opposite
associations to contend with; and must seem unfit for poetry (if there
were no other reason), merely because it has scarcely ever been employed
in it. A great genius may indeed overcome these disadvantages; but we
can scarcely conceive that he should court them. We may excuse a certain
homeliness of language in the productions of a ploughman or a milkwoman;
but we cannot bring ourselves to admire it in an author, who has had
occasion to indite odes to his college bell, and inscribe hymns to the
Penates.
But the mischief of this new system is not confined to the depravation
of language only; it extends to the sentiments and emotions, and leads
to the debasement of all those feelings which poetry is designed to
communicate. It is absurd to suppose, that an author should make use of
the language of the vulgar, to express the sentiments of the refined.
His professed object, in employing that language, is to bring his
compositions nearer to the true standard of nature; and his intention to
copy the sentiments of the lower orders, is implied in his resolution to
make use of their style. Now, the different classes of society have each
of them a distinct character, as well as a separate idiom; and the names
of the various passions to which they are subject respectively, have a
signification that varies essentially according to the condition of the
persons to whom they are applied. The love, or grief, or indignation of
an enlightened and refined character, is not only expressed in a
different language, but is in itself a different emotion from the love,
or grief, or anger, of a clown, a tradesman, or a market-wench. The
things themselves are radically and obviously distinct; and the
representation of them is calculated to convey a very different train of
sympathies and sensations to the mind. The question, therefore, comes
simply to be--which of them is the most proper object for poetical
imitation? It is needless for us to answer a question, which the
practice of all the world has long ago decided irrevocably. The poor and
vulgar may interest us, in poetry, by their _situation_; but never, we
apprehend, by any sentiments that are peculiar to their condition, and
still less by any language that is characteristic of it. The truth is,
that it is impossible to copy their diction or their sentiments
correctly, in a serious composition; and this, not merely because
poverty makes men ridiculous, but because just taste and refined
sentiment are rarely to be met with among the uncultivated part of
mankind; and a language, fitted for their expression, can still more
rarely form any part of their "ordinary conversation."
The low-bred heroes, and interesting rustics of poetry, have no sort of
affinity to the real vulgar of this world; they are imaginary beings,
whose characters and language are in contrast with their situation; and
please those who can be pleased with them, by the marvellous, and not by
the nature of such a combination. In serious poetry, a man of the
middling or lower order _must necessarily_ lay aside a great deal of his
ordinary language; he must avoid errors in grammar and orthography; and
steer clear of the cant of particular professions, and of every
impropriety that is ludicrous or disgusting: nay, he must speak in good
verse, and observe all the graces in prosody and collocation. After all
this, it may not be very easy to say how we are to find him out to be a
low man, or what marks can remain of the ordinary language of
conversation in the inferior orders of society. If there be any phrases
that are not used in good society, they will appear as blemishes in the
composition, no less palpably, than errors in syntax or quality; and, if
there be no such phrases, the style cannot be characteristic of that
condition of life, the language of which it professes to have adopted.
All approximation to that language, in the same manner, implies a
deviation from that purity and precision, which no one, we believe, ever
violated spontaneously.
It has been argued, indeed (for men will argue in support of what they
do not venture to practise), that as the middling and lower orders of
society constitute by far the greater part of mankind, so, their
feelings and expressions should interest more extensively, and may be
taken, more fairly than any other, for the standards of what is natural
and true. To this it seems obvious to answer, that the arts that aim at
exciting admiration and delight, do not take their models from what is
ordinary, but from what is excellent; and that our interest in the
representation of any event, does not depend upon our familiarity with
the original, but on its intrinsic importance, and the celebrity of the
parties it concerns. The sculptor employs his art in delineating the
graces of Antinous or Apollo, and not in the representation of those
ordinary forms that belong to the crowd of his admirers. When a
chieftain perishes in battle, his followers mourn more for him, than for
thousands of their equals that may have fallen around him.
After all, it must be admitted, that there is a class of persons (we are
afraid they cannot be called _readers_), to whom the representation of
vulgar manners, in vulgar language, will afford much entertainment. We
are afraid, however, that the ingenious writers who supply the hawkers
and ballad-singers, have very nearly monopolised that department, and
are probably better qualified to hit the taste of their customers, than
Mr. Southey, or any of his brethren, can yet pretend to be. To fit them
for the higher task of original composition, it would not be amiss if
they were to undertake a translation of Pope or Milton into the vulgar
tongue, for the benefit of those children of nature.
There is another disagreeable effect of this affected simplicity, which,
though of less importance than those which have been already noticed, it
may yet be worth while to mention: This is, the extreme difficulty of
supporting the same low tone of expression throughout, and the
inequality that is consequently introduced into the texture of the
composition. To an author of reading and education, it is a style that
must always be assumed and unnatural, and one from which he will be
perpetually tempted to deviate. He will rise, therefore, every now and
then, above the level to which he has professedly degraded himself; and
make amends for that transgression, by a fresh effort of descension. His
composition, in short, will be like that of a person who is attempting
to speak in an obsolete or provincial dialect; he will betray himself by
expressions of occasional purity and elegance, and exert himself to
efface that impression, by passages of unnatural meanness or absurdity.
In making these strictures on the perverted taste for simplicity, that
seems to distinguish our modern school of poetry, we have no particular
allusion to Mr. Southey, or the production now before us: On the
contrary, he appears to us, to be less addicted to this fault than most
of his fraternity; and if we were in want of examples to illustrate the
preceding observations, we should certainly look for them in the
effusions of that poet who commemorates, with so much effect, the
chattering of Harry Gill's teeth, tells the tale of the one-eyed
huntsman "who had a cheek like a cherry," and beautifully warns his
studious friend of the risk he ran of "growing double."
* * * * *
The _style_ of our modern poets, is that, no doubt, by which they are
most easily distinguished: but their genius has also an internal
character; and the peculiarities of their taste may be discovered,
without the assistance of their diction. Next after great familiarity of
language, there is nothing that appears to them so meritorious as
perpetual exaggeration of thought. There must be nothing moderate,
natural, or easy, about their sentiments. There must be a "qu'il
mourut," and a "let there be light," in every line; and all their
characters must be in agonies and ecstasies, from their entrance to
their exit. To those who are acquainted with their productions, it is
needless to speak of the fatigue that is produced by this unceasing
summons to admiration, or of the compassion which is excited by the
spectacle of these eternal strainings and distortions. Those authors
appear to forget, that a whole poem cannot be made up of striking
passages; and that the sensations produced by sublimity, are never so
powerful and entire, as when they are allowed to subside and revive, in
a slow and spontaneous succession. It is delightful, now and then, to
meet with a rugged mountain, or a roaring stream; but where there is no
funny slope, nor shaded plain, to relieve them--where all is beetling
cliff and yawning abyss, and the landscape presents nothing on every
side but prodigies and terrors--the head is apt to gow giddy, and the
heart to languish for the repose and security of a less elevated region.
The effect even of genuine sublimity, therefore, is impaired by the
injudicious frequency of its exhibition, and the omission of those
intervals and breathing-places, at which the mind should be permitted to
recover from its perturbation or astonishment: but, where it has been
summoned upon a false alarm, and disturbed in the orderly course of its
attention, by an impotent attempt at elevation, the consequences are
still more disastrous. There is nothing so ridiculous (at least for a
poet) as to fail in great attempts. If the reader foresaw the failure,
he may receive some degree of mischievous satisfaction from its punctual
occurrence; if he did not, he will be vexed and disappointed; and, in
both cases, he will very speedily be disgusted and fatigued. It would be
going too far, certainly, to maintain, that our modern poets have never
succeeded in their persevering endeavours at elevation and emphasis; but
it is a melancholy fact, that their successes bear but a small
proportion to their miscarriages; and that the reader who has been
promised an energetic sentiment, or sublime allusion, must often be
contented with a very miserable substitute. Of the many contrivances
they employ to give the appearance of uncommon force and animation to a
very ordinary conception, the most usual is, to wrap it up in a veil of
mysterious and unintelligible language, which flows past with so much
solemnity, that it is difficult to believe it conveys nothing of any
value. Another device for improving the effect of a cold idea, is, to
embody it in a verse of unusual harshness and asperity. Compound words,
too, of a portentous sound and conformation, are very useful in giving
an air of energy and originality; and a few lines of scripture, written
out into verse from the original prose, have been found to have a very
happy effect upon those readers to whom they have the recommendation of
novelty.
The qualities of style and imagery, however, form but a small part of
the characteristics by which a literary faction is to be distinguished.
The subject and object of their compositions, and the principles and
opinions they are calculated to support, constitute a far more important
criterion, and one to which it is usually altogether as easy to refer.
Some poets are sufficiently described as the flatterers of greatness and
power, and others as the champions of independence. One set of writers
is known by its antipathy to decency and religion; another, by its
methodistical cant and intolerance. Our new school of poetry has a moral
character also; though it may not be possible, perhaps, to delineate it
quite so concisely.
A splenetic and idle discontent with the existing institutions of
society, seems to be at the bottom of all their serious and peculiar
sentiments. Instead of contemplating the wonders and the pleasures which
civilization has created for mankind, they are perpetually brooding over
the disorders by which its progress has been attended. They are filled
with horror and compassion at the sight of poor men spending their blood
in the quarrels of princes, and brutifying their sublime capabilities in
the drudgery of unremitting labour. For all sorts of vice and profligacy
in the lower orders of society, they have the same virtuous horror, and
the same tender compassion. While the existence of these offences
overpowers them with grief and confusion, they never permit themselves
to feel the smallest indignation or dislike towards the offenders. The
present vicious constitution of society alone is responsible for all
these enormities: the poor sinners are but the helpless victims or
instruments of its disorders, and could not possibly have avoided the
errors into which they have been betrayed. Though they can bear with
crimes, therefore, they cannot reconcile themselves to punishments; and
have an unconquerable antipathy to prisons, gibbets, and houses of
correction, as engines of oppression, and instruments of atrocious
injustice. While the plea of moral necessity is thus artfully brought
forward to convert all the excesses of the poor into innocent
misfortunes, no sort of indulgence is shown to the offences of the
powerful and rich. Their oppressions, and seductions, and debaucheries,
are the theme of many an angry verse; and the indignation and abhorrence
of the reader is relentlessly conjured up against those perturbators of
society, and scourges of mankind.
It is not easy to say, whether the fundamental absurdity of this
doctrine, or the partiality of its application, be entitled to the
severest reprehension. If men are driven to commit crimes, through a
certain moral necessity; other men are compelled, by a similar
necessity, to hate and despise them for their commission. The
indignation of the sufferer is at least as natural as the guilt of him
who makes him suffer; and the good order of society would probably be as
well preserved, if our sympathies were sometimes called forth in behalf
of the former. At all events, the same apology ought certainly to be
admitted for the wealthy, as for the needy offender. They are subject
alike to the overruling influence of necessity, and equally affected by
the miserable condition of society. If it be natural for a poor man to
murder and rob, in order to make himself comfortable, it is no less
natural for a rich man to gormandise and domineer, in order to have the
full use of his riches. Wealth is just as valid an excuse for the one
class of vices, as indigence is for the other. There are many other
peculiarities of false sentiment in the productions of this class of
writers, that are sufficiently deserving of commemoration; but we have
already exceeded our limits in giving these general indications of their
character, and must now hasten back to the consideration of the singular
performance which has given occasion to all this discussion.
The first thing that strikes the reader of Thalaba, is the singular
structure of the versification, which is a jumble of all the measures
that are known in English poetry (and a few more), without rhyme, and
without any sort of regularity in their arrangement. Blank odes have
been known in this country about as long as English sapphics and
dactylics; and both have been considered, we believe, as a species of
monsters, or exotics, that were not very likely to propagate, or thrive,
in so unpropitious a climate. Mr. Southey, however, has made a vigorous
effort for their naturalisation, and generously endangered his own
reputation in their behalf. The melancholy fate of his English sapphics,
we believe, is but too generally known; and we can scarcely predict a
more favourable issue to the present experiment. Every combination of
different measures is apt to perplex and disturb the reader who is not
familiar with it; and we are never reconciled to a stanza of a new
structure, till we have accustomed our ear to it by two or three
repetitions. This is the case, even where we have the assistance of
rhyme to direct us in our search after regularity, and where the
definite form and appearance of a stanza assures us that regularity is
to be found. Where both of these are wanting, it may be imagined that
our condition will be still more deplorable; and a compassionate author
might even excuse us, if we were unable to distinguish this kind of
verse from prose. In reading verse, in general, we are guided to the
discovery of its melody, by a sort of preconception of its cadence and
compass; without which, it might often fail to be suggested by the mere
articulation of the syllables. If there be any one, whose recollection
does not furnish him with evidence of this fact, he may put it to the
test of experiment, by desiring any of his illiterate acquaintances to
read off some of Mr. Southey's dactylics, or Sir Philip Sidney's
hexameters. It is the same thing with the more unusual measures of the
ancient authors. We have never known any one who fell in, at the first
trial, with the proper rhyme and cadence of the _pervigilium Veneris_,
or the choral lyrics of the Greek dramatists. The difficulty, however,
is virtually the same, as to every new combination; and it is an
unsurmountable difficulty, where such new combinations are not repeated
with any degree of uniformity, but are multiplied, through the whole
composition, with an unbounded licence of variation. Such, however, is
confessedly the case with the work before us; and it really seems
unnecessary to make any other remark on its versification.
The author, however, entertains a different opinion of it. So far from
apprehending that it may cost his readers some trouble to convince
themselves that the greater part of the book is not mere prose, written
out into the form of verse, he is persuaded that its melody is more
obvious and perceptible than that of our vulgar measures. "One
advantage," says Mr. Southey, "this metre _assuredly_ possesses; the
dullest reader cannot distort it into discord: he may read it with a
_prose mouth_, but its flow and fall will still be perceptible." We are
afraid, there are duller readers in the world than Mr. Southey is aware
of.
* * * * *
The subject of this poem is almost as ill chosen as the diction; and the
conduct of the fable as disorderly as the versification. The corporation
of magicians, that inhabit "the Domdaniel caverns, under the roots of
the ocean," had discovered, that a terrible _destroyer_ was likely to
rise up against them from the seed of Hodeirah, a worthy Arab, with
eight fine children. Immediately the murder of all those innocents is
resolved on; and a sturdy assassin sent with instructions to destroy the
whole family (as Mr. Southey has it) "root and branch." The good man,
accordingly, and seven of his children, are dispatched; but a cloud
comes over the mother and the remaining child; and the poem opens with
the picture of the widow and her orphan wandering, by night, over the
desarts of Arabia. The old lady, indeed, might as well have fallen under
the dagger of the Domdanielite; for she dies, without doing anything for
her child, in the end of the first book; and little Thalaba is left
crying in the wilderness. Here he is picked up by a good old Arab, who
takes him home, and educates him like a pious mussulman; and he and the
old man's daughter fall in love with each other, according to the
invariable custom in all such cases. The magicians, in the meantime, are
hunting him over the face of the whole earth; and one of them gets near
enough to draw his dagger to stab him, when a providential _simoom_ lays
him dead on the sand. From the dead sorcerer's finger, Thalaba takes a
ring, inscribed with some unintelligible characters, which he is enabled
to interpret by the help of some other unintelligible characters that he
finds on the forehead of a locust; and soon after takes advantage of an
eclipse of the sun, to set out on his expedition against his father's
murderers, whom he understands (we do not very well know how) he has
been commissioned to exterminate. Though they are thus seeking him, and
he seeking them, it is amazing what difficulty they find in meeting:
they do meet, however, every now and then, and many sore evils does the
Destroyer suffer at their hands. By faith and fortitude, however, and
the occasional assistance of the magic implements he strips them of, he
is enabled to baffle and elude their malice, till he is conducted, at
last, to the Domdaniel cavern, where he finds them assembled, and pulls
down the roof of it upon their heads and his own; perishing, like
Samson, in the final destruction of his enemies.
From this little sketch of the story, our readers will easily perceive,
that it consists altogether of the most wild and extravagant fictions,
and openly sets nature and probability at defiance. In its action, it is
not an imitation of anything; and excludes all rational criticism, as to
the choice and succession of its incidents. Tales of this sort may amuse
children, and interest, for a moment, by the prodigies they exhibit, and
the multitude of events they bring together: but the interest expires
with the novelty; and attention is frequently exhausted, even before
curiosity has been gratified. The pleasure afforded by performances of
this sort, is very much akin to that which may be derived from the
exhibition of a harlequin farce; where, instead of just imitations of
nature and human character, we are entertained with the transformation
of cauliflowers and beer-barrels, the apparition of ghosts and devils,
and all the other magic of the wooden sword. Those who can prefer this
eternal sorcery, to the just and modest representation of human actions
and passions, will probably take more delight in walking among the holly
griffins, and yew sphinxes of the city gardener, than in ranging among
the groves and lawns which have been laid out by a hand that feared to
violate nature, as much as it aspired to embellish her; and disdained
the easy art of startling by novelties, and surprising by impropriety.
Supernatural beings, though easily enough raised, are known to be very
troublesome in the management, and have frequently occasioned much
perplexity to poets and other persons who have been rash enough to call
for their assistance. It is no very easy matter to preserve consistency
in the disposal of powers, with the limits of which we are so far from
being familiar; and when it is necessary to represent our spiritual
persons as ignorant, or suffering, we are very apt to forget the
knowledge and the powers with which we had formerly invested them. The
ancient poets had several unlucky rencounters of this sort with Destiny
and the other deities; and Milton himself is not a little hampered with
the material and immaterial qualities of his angels. Enchanters and
witches may, at first sight, appear more manageable; but Mr. Southey has
had difficulty enough with them; and cannot be said, after all, to have
kept his fable quite clear and intelligible. The stars had said, that
the Destroyer might be cut off in that hour when his father and brethren
were assassinated; yet he is saved by a special interposition of heaven.
Heaven itself, however, had destined him to extirpate the votaries of
Eblis; and yet, long before this work is done, a special message is sent
to him, declaring, that, if he chooses, the death-angel is ready to take
him away instead of the sorcerer's daughter. In the beginning of the
story, too, the magicians are quite at a loss where to look for him; and
Abdaldar only discovers him by accident, after a long search; yet, no
sooner does he leave the old Arab's tent, than Lobaba comes up to him,
disguised and prepared for his destruction. The witches have also a
decoy ready for him in the desart; yet he sups with Okba's daughter,
without any of the sorcerers being aware of it; and afterwards proceeds
to consult the simorg, without meeting with any obstacle or molestation.
The simoom kills Abdaldar, too, in spite of that ring which afterwards
protects Thalaba from lightning, and violence, and magic. The
Destroyer's arrow then falls blunted from Lobaba's breast, who is
knocked down, however, by a shower of sand of his own raising; and this
same arrow, which could make no impression on the sorcerer, kills the
magic bird of Aloadin, and pierces the rebellious _spirit_ that guarded
the Domdaniel door. The whole infernal band, indeed, is very feebly and
heavily pourtrayed. They are a set of stupid, undignified, miserable
wretches, quarrelling with each other, and trembling in the prospect of
inevitable destruction. None of them even appears to have obtained the
price of their self-sacrifice in worldly honours and advancement, except
Mohareb; and he, though assured by destiny that there was one death-blow
appointed for him and Thalaba, is yet represented, in the concluding
scene, as engaged with him in furious combat, and aiming many a deadly
blow at that life on which his own was dependent. If the innocent
characters in this poem were not delineated with more truth and feeling,
the notoriety of the author would scarcely have induced us to bestow so
much time on its examination.
Though the tissue of adventures through which Thalaba is conducted in
the course of this production, be sufficiently various and
extraordinary, we must not set down any part of the incidents to the
credit of the author's invention. He has taken great pains, indeed, to
guard against such a supposition; and has been as scrupulously correct
in the citation of his authorities, as if he were the compiler of a true
history, and thought his reputation would be ruined by the imputation of
a single fiction. There is not a prodigy, accordingly, or a description,
for which he does not fairly produce his vouchers, and generally lays
before his readers the whole original passage from which his imitation
has been taken. In this way, it turns out, that the book is entirely
composed of scraps, borrowed from the oriental tale books, and travels
into the Mahometan countries, seasoned up for the English reader with
some fragments of our own ballads, and shreds of our older sermons. The
composition and harmony of the work, accordingly, is much like the
pattern of that patch-work drapery that is sometimes to be met with in
the mansions of the industrious, where a blue tree overshadows a
shell-fish, and a gigantic butterfly seems ready to swallow up Palemon
and Lavinia. The author has the merit merely of cutting out each of his
figures from the piece where its inventor had placed it, and stitching
them down together in these judicious combinations.
It is impossible to peruse this poem, with the notes, without feeling
that it is the fruit of much reading, undertaken for the express purpose
of fabricating some such performance. The author has set out with a
resolution to make an oriental story, and a determination to find the
materials of it in the books to which he had access. Every incident,
therefore, and description--every superstitious usage, or singular
tradition, that appeared to him susceptible of poetical embellishment,
or capable of picturesque representation, he has set down for this
purpose, and adopted such a fable and plan of composition, as might
enable him to work up all his materials, and interweave every one of his
quotations, without any _extraordinary_ violation of unity or order.
When he had filled his common-place book, he began to write; and his
poem is little else than his common-place book versified.
It may easily be imagined, that a poem constructed upon such a plan,
must be full of cumbrous and misplaced description, and overloaded with
a crowd of incidents equally unmeaning and ill assorted. The tedious
account of the palace of Shedad, in the first book--the description of
the Summer and Winter occupations of the Arabs, in the third--the
ill-told story of Haruth and Maruth--the greater part of the occurrences
in the island of Mohareb--the paradise of Aloadin, etc., etc.--are all
instances of disproportioned and injudicious ornaments, which never
could have presented themselves to an author who wrote from the
suggestions of his own fancy; and have evidently been introduced, from
the author's unwillingness to relinquish the corresponding passages in
D'Herbelot, Sale, Volney, etc., which appeared to him to have great
capabilities for poetry.
This imitation, or admiration of Oriental imagery, however, does not
bring so much suspicion on his taste, as the affection he betrays for
some of his domestic models. The former has, for the most part, the
recommendation of novelty; and there is always a certain pleasure in
contemplating the _costume_ of a distant nation, and the luxuriant
landscape of an Asiatic climate. We cannot find the same apology,
however, for Mr. Southey's partiality to the drawling vulgarity of some
of our old English ditties.
* * * * *
From the extracts and observations which we have hitherto presented to
our readers, it will be natural for them to conclude, that our opinion
of this poem is very decidedly unfavourable; and that we are not
disposed to allow it any sort of merit. This, however, is by no means
the case. We think it written, indeed, in a very vicious taste, and
liable, upon the whole, to very formidable objections: But it would not
be doing justice to the genius of the author, if we were not to add,
that, it contains passages of very singular beauty and force, and
displays a richness of poetical conception, that would do honour to more
faultless compositions. There is little of human character in the poem,
indeed; because Thalaba is a solitary wanderer from the solitary tent of
his protector: But the home group, in which his infancy was spent, is
pleasingly delineated; and there is something irresistibly interesting
in the innocent love, and misfortunes, and fate of his Oneiza. The
catastrophe of her story is given, it appears to us, with great spirit
and effect, though the beauties are of that questionable kind, that
trespass on the border of impropriety, and partake more of the character
of dramatic, than of narrative poetry. After delivering her from the
polluted paradise of Aloadin, he prevails on her to marry him before his
mission is accomplished. She consents with great reluctance; and the
marriage feast, with its processions, songs, and ceremonies, is
described in some joyous stanzas. The book ends with these verses--
And now the marriage feast is spread,
And from the finished banquet now
The wedding guests are gone.
* * * * *
Who comes from the bridal chamber?
It is Azrael, the Angel of Death.
The next book opens with Thalaba lying distracted upon her grave, in the
neighbourhood of which he had wandered, till "the sun, and the wind,
and the rain, had rusted his raven locks"; and there he is found by the
father of his bride, and visited by her ghost, and soothed and
encouraged to proceed upon his holy enterprise. He sets out on his
lonely way, and is entertained the first night by a venerable dervise:
As they are sitting at meal, a _bridal procession_ passes by, with
dance, and song, and merriment. The old dervise blessed them as they
passed; but Thalaba looked on, "and breathed a low deep groan, and hid
his face." These incidents are skilfully imagined, and are narrated in a
very impressive manner.
Though the _witchery_ scenes are in general but poorly executed, and
possess little novelty to those who have read the Arabian Nights
Entertainments, there is, occasionally, some fine description, and
striking combination. We do not remember any poem, indeed, that
presents, throughout, a greater number of lively images, or could afford
so many subjects for the pencil.
* * * * *
All the productions of this author, it appears to us, bear very
distinctly the impression of an amiable mind, a cultivated fancy, and a
perverted taste. His genius seems naturally to delight in the
representation of domestic virtues and pleasures, and the brilliant
delineation of external nature. In both these departments, he is
frequently very successful; but he seems to want vigour for the loftier
flights of poetry. He is often puerile, diffuse, and artificial, and
seems to have but little acquaintance with those chaster and severer
graces, by whom the epic muse would be most suitably attended. His
faults are always aggravated, and often created, by his partiality for
the peculiar manner of that new school of poetry, of which he is a
faithful disciple, and to the glory of which he has sacrificed greater
talents and acquisitions, than can be boasted of by any of his
associates.