"The Loves of Giles Scroggins and Molly Brown:" an Epic Poem.
London: CATNACH.
The great essentials necessary for the true conformation of the sublimest
effort of poetic genius, the construction of an "Epic Poem," are
numerically three; viz., a beginning, a middle, and an end. The incipient
characters necessary to the beginning, ripening in the middle, and, like
the drinkers of small beer and October leaves, falling in the end.
The poem being thus divided into its several stages, the judgment of the
writer should emulate that of the experienced Jehu, who so proportions
his work, that all and several of his required teams do their own share
and no more--fifteen miles (or lengths) to a first canto, and five to a
second, is as far from right as such a distribution of mile-stones would
be to the overworked prads. The great fault of modern poetasters arises
from their extreme love of spinning out an infinite deal of nothing. Now,
as "brevity is the soul of wit," their productions can be looked upon as
little else than phantasmagorial skeletons, ridiculous from their extreme
extenuation, and in appearance more peculiarly empty, from the
circumstance of their owing their existence to false lights. This fault
does not exist with all the master spirits, and, though "many a flower is
born to blush unseen," we now proceed to rescue from obscurity the
brightest gem of unfamed literature.
Wisdom is said to be found in the mouths of babes and sucklings. So is the
epic poem of Giles Scroggins. Is wisdom Scroggins, or is Scroggins wisdom?
We can prove either position, but we are cramped for space, and therefore
leave the question open. Now for our author and his first line--
"Giles Scroggins courted Molly Brown."
Beautiful condensation! Is or is not _this_ rushing at once in _medias
res_? It is; there's no paltry subterfuge about it--no unnecessary wearing
out of "the waning moon they met by"--"the stars that gazed upon their
joy"--"the whispering gales that breathed in zephyr's softest
sighs"--their "lover's perjuries to the distracted trees they wouldn't
allow to go to sleep." In short, "there's no nonsense"--there's a broad
assertion of a thrilling fact--
"Giles Scroggins courted Molly Brown."
So might a thousand folks; therefore (the reader may say) how does this
establish the individuality of Giles Scroggins, or give an insight to the
character of the chosen hero of the poem? Mark the next line, and your
doubts must vanish. He courted her; but why? Ay, why? for the best of all
possible reasons--condensed in the smallest of all possible space, and yet
establishing his perfect taste, unequalled judgment, and peculiarly-heroic
self-esteem--he courted her because she was
"The fairest maid in all the town."
Magnificent climax! overwhelming reason! Could volumes written, printed,
or stereotyped, say more? Certainly not; the condensation of "Aurora's
blushes," "the Graces' attributes," "Venus's perfections," and "Love's
sweet votaries," all, all is more than spoken in the emphatic words--
"The fairest maid in all the town."
Nothing can go beyond this; it proves her beauty and her disinterestedness.
The _fairest_ maid might have chosen, nay, commanded, even a city
dignitary. Does the so? No; Giles Scroggins, famous only in name, loves
her, and--beautiful poetic contrivance!--we are left to imagine he does
"not love unloved." Why should she reciprocate? inquires the reader. Are
not truth and generosity the princely paragons of manly virtue, greater,
because unostentatious? and these perfect attributes are part and parcel
of great Giles. He makes no speeches--soils no satin paper--vows no
vows--no, he is above such humbug. His motto is evidently deeds, not
words. And what does he do? Send a flimsy epistle, which his fair reader
pays the vile postage for? Not he; he
"_Gave_ a ring with _posy_ true!"
Think of this. Not only does he "give a ring," but he annihilates the
suppositionary fiction in which poets are supposed to revel, and the
ring's accompaniment, though the child of a creative brain--the burning
emanation from some Apollo-stricken votary of "the lying nine," imbued
with all his stern morality, is strictly "true." This startling fact is
not left wrapped in mystery. The veriest sceptic cannot, in imagination,
grave a fancied double meaning on that richest gift. No--the motto
follows, and seems to say--Now, as the champion of Giles Scroggins, hurl I
this gauntlet down; let him that dare, uplift it! Here I am--
"If you _loves_ I, as I _loves_ you!"
Pray mark the syncretic force of the above line. Giles, in expressing his
affection, felt the singular too small, and the vast plural quick supplied
the void--_Loves_ must be more than love.
"If you loves I, as I loves you,
No knife shall cut our loves in two!"
This is really sublime! "No knife!" Can anything exceed the assertion?
Nothing but the rejoinder--a rejoinder in which the talented author not
only stands proudly forward as a poet, but patriotically proves the _amor
propriæ_, which has induced him to study the staple manufactures of his
beloved country! What but a diligent investigation of the _cut_lerian
process could have prompted the illustration of practical knowledge of the
Birmingham and Sheffield artificers contained in the following exquisitely
explanatory line. But--pray mark the _but_--
"But _scissors_ cut as well as knives!"
Sublime announcement! startling information! leading us, by degrees, to
the highest of all earthly contemplations, exalting us to fate and her
peculiar shears, and preparing us for the exquisitely poetical sequel
contained in the following line:--
"And so un_sart_ain's all our lives."
Can anything exceed this? The uncertainty of life evidently superinduced
the conviction of all other uncertainties, and the sublime poet bears out
the intenseness of his impressions by the uncertainty of his spelling!
Now, reader, mark the next line, and its context:--
"The very night they were to wed!"
Fancy this: the full blossoming of all their budding joys, anticipations,
death, and hope's accomplishment, the crowning hour of their youth's great
bliss, "_the very night they were to wed_," is, with _extra syncretic_
skill, chosen as the awful one in which
"Fate's scissors cut Giles Scroggins' thread!"
Now, reader, do you see the subtle use of practical knowledge? Are you
convinced of the impotent prescription from _knives_ only? Can you not
perceive in "_Fate's scissors_" a parallel for the unthought-of host "that
bore the mighty wood of Dunsinane against the blood-stained murderer of
the pious Duncan?" Does not the fatal truth rush, like an unseen draught
into rheumatic crannies, slick through your soul's perception? Are you not
prepared for this--_to be resumed in our next_?
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