du Lys. The scene opens in France in 1793, and the plot is extremely
ingenious. The wife of Jacques Vaudes, a Lyons deputy, loses by illness
her baby girl while her husband is absent in Paris where he has gone to
see Danton. At the instigation of an old priest she adopts a child of
the same age, a little orphan of noble birth, whose parents have died in
the Reign of Terror, and passes it off as her own. Her husband, a stern
and ardent Republican, worships the child with a passion like that of
Jean Valjean for Cosette, nor is it till she has grown to perfect
womanhood that he discovers that he has given his love to the daughter of
his enemy. This is a noble story, but the workmanship, though good of
its kind, is hardly adequate to the idea. The style lacks grace,
movement and variety. It is correct but monotonous. Seriousness, like
property, has its duties as well as its rights, and the first duty of a
novel is to please. A Child of the Revolution hardly does that. Still
it has merits.
Aphrodite is a romance of ancient Hellas. The supposed date, as given in
the first line of Miss Safford's admirable translation, is 551 B.C. This,
however, is probably a misprint. At least, we cannot believe that so
careful an archaeologist as Ernst Eckstein would talk of a famous school
of sculpture existing at Athens in the sixth century, and the whole
character of the civilisation is of a much later date. The book may be
described as a new setting of the tale of Acontius and Cydippe, and
though Eckstein is a sort of literary Tadema and cares more for his
backgrounds than he does for his figures, still he can tell a story very
well, and his hero is made of flesh and blood. As regards the style, the
Germans have not the same feeling as we have about technicalities in
literature. To our ears such words as 'phoreion,' 'secos,' 'oionistes,'
'Thyrides' and the like sound harshly in a novel and give an air of
pedantry, not of picturesqueness. Yet in its tone Aphrodite reminds us
of the late Greek novels. Indeed, it might be one of the lost tales of
Miletus. It deserves to have many readers and a better binding.
(1) Astray: A Tale of a Country Town. By Charlotte M. Yonge, Mary
Bramston, Christabel Coleridge and Esme Stuart. (Hatchards.)
(2) Betty's Visions. By Rhoda Broughton. (Routledge and Sons.)
(3) That Other Person. By Mrs. Alfred Hunt. (Chatto and Windus.)
(4) A Child of the Revolution. By the Author of Mademoiselle Mori.
(Hatchards.)
(5) Aphrodite. Translated from the German of Ernst Eckstein by Mary J.
Safford. (New York: Williams and Gottsberger; London: Trubner and Co.)
A POLITICIAN'S POETRY
(Pall Mall Gazette, November 3, 1886.)
Although it is against etiquette to quote Greek in Parliament, Homer has
always been a great favourite with our statesmen and, indeed, may be said
to be almost a factor in our political life. For as the cross-benches
form a refuge for those who have no minds to make up, so those who cannot
make up their minds always take to Homeric studies. Many of our leaders
have sulked in their tents with Achilles after some violent political
crisis and, enraged at the fickleness of fortune, more than one has given
up to poetry what was obviously meant for party. It would be unjust,
however, to regard Lord Carnarvon's translation of the Odyssey as being
in any sense a political manifesto. Between Calypso and the colonies
there is no connection, and the search for Penelope has nothing to do
with the search for a policy. The love of literature alone has produced
this version of the marvellous Greek epic, and to the love of literature
alone it appeals. As Lord Carnarvon says very truly in his preface, each
generation in turn delights to tell the story of Odysseus in its own
language, for the story is one that never grows old.
Of the labours of his predecessors in translation Lord Carnarvon makes
ample recognition, though we acknowledge that we do not consider Pope's
Homer 'the work of a great poet,' and we must protest that there is more
in Chapman than 'quaint Elizabethan conceits.' The metre he has selected
is blank verse, which he regards as the best compromise between 'the
inevitable redundancy of rhyme and the stricter accuracy of prose.' This
choice is, on the whole, a sensible one. Blank verse undoubtedly gives
the possibility of a clear and simple rendering of the original. Upon
the other hand, though we may get Homer's meaning, we often miss his
music. The ten-syllabled line brings but a faint echo of the long roll
of the Homeric hexameter, its rapid movement and continuous harmony.
Besides, except in the hands of a great master of song, blank verse is
apt to be tedious, and Lord Carnarvon's use of the weak ending, his habit
of closing the line with an unimportant word, is hardly consistent with
the stateliness of an epic, however valuable it might be in dramatic
verse. Now and then, also, Lord Carnarvon exaggerates the value of the
Homeric adjective, and for one word in the Greek gives us a whole line in
the English. The simple [Greek text], for instance, is converted into
'And when the shades of evening fall around,' in the second book, and
elsewhere purely decorative epithets are expanded into elaborate
descriptions. However, there are many pleasing qualities in Lord
Carnarvon's verse, and though it may not contain much subtlety of melody,
still it has often a charm and sweetness of its own.
The description of Calypso's garden, for example, is excellent:
Around the grotto grew a goodly grove,
Alder, and poplar, and the cypress sweet;
And the deep-winged sea-birds found their haunt,
And owls and hawks, and long-tongued cormorants,
Who joy to live upon the briny flood.
And o'er the face of the deep cave a vine
Wove its wild tangles and clustering grapes.
Four fountains too, each from the other turned,
Poured their white waters, whilst the grassy meads
Bloomed with the parsley and the violet's flower.
The story of the Cyclops is not very well told. The grotesque humour of
the Giant's promise hardly appears in
Thee then, Noman, last of all
Will I devour, and this thy gift shall be,
and the bitter play on words Odysseus makes, the pun on [Greek text], in
fact, is not noticed. The idyll of Nausicaa, however, is very gracefully
translated, and there is a great deal that is delightful in the Circe
episode. For simplicity of diction this is also very good:
So to Olympus through the woody isle
Hermes departed, and I went my way
To Circe's halls, sore troubled in my mind.
But by the fair-tressed Goddess' gate I stood,
And called upon her, and she heard my voice,
And forth she came and oped the shining doors
And bade me in; and sad at heart I went.
Then did she set me on a stately chair,
Studded with silver nails of cunning work,
With footstool for my feet, and mixed a draught
Of her foul witcheries in golden cup,
For evil was her purpose. From her hand
I took the cup and drained it to the dregs,
Nor felt the magic charm; but with her rod
She smote me, and she said, 'Go, get thee hence
And herd thee with thy fellows in the stye.'
So spake she, and straightway I drew my sword
Upon the witch, and threatened her with death.
Lord Carnarvon, on the whole, has given us a very pleasing version of the
first half of the Odyssey. His translation is done in a scholarly and
careful manner and deserves much praise. It is not quite Homer, of
course, but no translation can hope to be that, for no work of art can
afford to lose its style or to give up the manner that is essential to
it. Still, those who cannot read Greek will find much beauty in it, and
those who can will often gain a charming reminiscence.
The Odyssey of Homer. Books I.-XII. Translated into English Verse by
the Earl of Carnarvon. (Macmillan and Co.)
MR. SYMONDS' HISTORY OF THE RENAISSANCE
(Pall Mall Gazette, November 10, 1886.)
Mr. Symonds has at last finished his history of the Italian Renaissance.
The two volumes just published deal with the intellectual and moral
conditions in Italy during the seventy years of the sixteenth century
which followed the coronation of Charles the Fifth at Bologna, an era to
which Mr. Symonds gives the name of the Catholic Reaction, and they
contain a most interesting and valuable account of the position of Spain
in the Italian peninsula, the conduct of the Tridentine Council, the
specific organisation of the Holy Office and the Company of Jesus, and
the state of society upon which those forces were brought to bear. In
his previous volumes Mr. Symonds had regarded the past rather as a
picture to be painted than as a problem to be solved. In these two last
volumes, however, he shows a clearer appreciation of the office of
history. The art of the picturesque chronicler is completed by something
like the science of the true historian, the critical spirit begins to
manifest itself, and life is not treated as a mere spectacle, but the
laws of its evolution and progress are investigated also. We admit that
the desire to represent life at all costs under dramatic conditions still
accompanies Mr. Symonds, and that he hardly realises that what seems
romance to us was harsh reality to those who were engaged in it. Like
most dramatists, also, he is more interested in the psychological
exceptions than in the general rule. He has something of Shakespeare's
sovereign contempt of the masses. The people stir him very little, but
he is fascinated by great personalities. Yet it is only fair to remember
that the age itself was one of exaggerated individualism and that
literature had not yet become a mouthpiece for the utterances of
humanity. Men appreciated the aristocracy of intellect, but with the
democracy of suffering they had no sympathy. The cry from the
brickfields had still to be heard. Mr. Symonds' style, too, has much
improved. Here and there, it is true, we come across traces of the old
manner, as in the apocalyptic vision of the seven devils that entered
Italy with the Spaniard, and the description of the Inquisition as a
Belial-Moloch, a 'hideous idol whose face was blackened with soot from
burning human flesh.' Such a sentence, also, as 'over the Dead Sea of
social putrefaction floated the sickening oil of Jesuitical hypocrisy,'
reminds us that rhetoric has not yet lost its charms for Mr. Symonds.
Still, on the whole, the style shows far more reserve, balance and
sobriety, than can be found in the earlier volumes where violent
antithesis forms the predominant characteristic, and accuracy is often
sacrificed to an adjective.
Amongst the most interesting chapters of the book are those on the
Inquisition, on Sarpi, the great champion of the severance of Church from
State, and on Giordano Bruno. Indeed the story of Bruno's life, from his
visit to London and Oxford, his sojourn in Paris and wanderings through
Germany, down to his betrayal at Venice and martyrdom at Rome, is most
powerfully told, and the estimate of the value of his philosophy and the
relation he holds to modern science, is at once just and appreciative.
The account also of Ignatius Loyola and the rise of the Society of Jesus
is extremely interesting, though we cannot think that Mr. Symonds is very
happy in his comparison of the Jesuits to 'fanatics laying stones upon a
railway' or 'dynamiters blowing up an emperor or a corner of Westminster
Hall.' Such a judgment is harsh and crude in expression and more
suitable to the clamour of the Protestant Union than to the dignity of
the true historian. Mr. Symonds, however, is rarely deliberately unfair,
and there is no doubt but that his work on the Catholic Reaction is a
most valuable contribution to modern history--so valuable, indeed, that
in the account he gives of the Inquisition in Venice it would be well
worth his while to bring the picturesque fiction of the text into some
harmony with the plain facts of the footnote.
On the poetry of the sixteenth century Mr. Symonds has, of course, a
great deal to say, and on such subjects he always writes with ease,
grace, and delicacy of perception. We admit that we weary sometimes of
the continual application to literature of epithets appropriate to
plastic and pictorial art. The conception of the unity of the arts is
certainly of great value, but in the present condition of criticism it
seems to us that it would be more useful to emphasise the fact that each
art has its separate method of expression. The essay on Tasso, however,
is delightful reading, and the position the poet holds towards modern
music and modern sentiment is analysed with much subtlety. The essay on
Marino also is full of interest. We have often wondered whether those
who talk so glibly of Euphuism and Marinism in literature have ever read
either Euphues or the Adone. To the latter they can have no better guide
than Mr. Symonds, whose description of the poem is most fascinating.
Marino, like many greater men, has suffered much from his disciples, but
he himself was a master of graceful fancy and of exquisite felicity of
phrase; not, of course, a great poet but certainly an artist in poetry
and one to whom language is indebted. Even those conceits that Mr.
Symonds feels bound to censure have something charming about them. The
continual use of periphrases is undoubtedly a grave fault in style, yet
who but a pedant would really quarrel with such periphrases as sirena de'
boschi for the nightingale, or il novella Edimione for Galileo?
From the poets Mr. Symonds passes to the painters: not those great
artists of Florence and Venice of whom he has already written, but the
Eclectics of Bologna, the Naturalists of Naples and Rome. This chapter
is too polemical to be pleasant. The one on music is much better, and
Mr. Symonds gives us a most interesting description of the gradual steps
by which the Italian genius passed from poetry and painting to melody and
song, till the whole of Europe thrilled with the marvel and mystery of
this new language of the soul. Some small details should perhaps be
noticed. It is hardly accurate, for instance, to say that Monteverde's
Orfeo was the first form of the recitative-Opera, as Peri's Dafne and
Euridice and Cavaliere's Rappresentazione preceded it by some years, and
it is somewhat exaggerated to say that 'under the regime of the
Commonwealth the national growth of English music received a check from
which it never afterwards recovered,' as it was with Cromwell's auspices
that the first English Opera was produced, thirteen years before any
Opera was regularly established in Paris. The fact that England did not
make such development in music as Italy and Germany did, must be ascribed
to other causes than 'the prevalence of Puritan opinion.'
These, however, are minor points. Mr. Symonds is to be warmly
congratulated on the completion of his history of the Renaissance in
Italy. It is a most wonderful monument of literary labour, and its value
to the student of Humanism cannot be doubted. We have often had occasion
to differ from Mr. Symonds on questions of detail, and we have more than
once felt it our duty to protest against the rhetoric and over-emphasis
of his style, but we fully recognise the importance of his work and the
impetus he has given to the study of one of the vital periods of the
world's history. Mr. Symonds' learning has not made him a pedant; his
culture has widened not narrowed his sympathies, and though he can hardly
be called a great historian, yet he will always occupy a place in English
literature as one of the remarkable men of letters in the nineteenth
century.
Renaissance in Italy: The Catholic Reaction. In Two Parts. By John
Addington Symonds. (Smith, Elder and Co.)
A 'JOLLY' ART CRITIC
(Pall Mall Gazette, November 18, 1886.)
There is a healthy bank-holiday atmosphere about this book which is
extremely pleasant. Mr. Quilter is entirely free from affectation of any
kind. He rollicks through art with the recklessness of the tourist and
describes its beauties with the enthusiasm of the auctioneer. To many,
no doubt, he will seem to be somewhat blatant and bumptious, but we
prefer to regard him as being simply British. Mr. Quilter is the apostle
of the middle classes, and we are glad to welcome his gospel. After
listening so long to the Don Quixote of art, to listen once to Sancho
Panza is both salutary and refreshing.
As for his Sententiae, they differ very widely in character and subject.
Some of them are ethical, such as 'Humility may be carried too far'; some
literary, as 'For one Froude there are a thousand Mrs. Markhams'; and
some scientific, as 'Objects which are near display more detail than
those which are further off.' Some, again, breathe a fine spirit of
optimism, as 'Picturesqueness is the birthright of the bargee'; others
are jubilant, as 'Paint firm and be jolly'; and many are purely
autobiographical, such as No. 97, 'Few of us understand what it is that
we mean by Art.' Nor is Mr. Quilter's manner less interesting than his
matter. He tells us that at this festive season of the year, with
Christmas and roast beef looming before us, 'Similes drawn from eating
and its results occur most readily to the mind.' So he announces that
'Subject is the diet of painting,' that 'Perspective is the bread of
art,' and that 'Beauty is in some way like jam'; drawings, he points out,
'are not made by recipe like puddings,' nor is art composed of 'suet,
raisins, and candied peel,' though Mr. Cecil Lawson's landscapes do
'smack of indigestion.' Occasionally, it is true, he makes daring
excursions into other realms of fancy, as when he says that 'in the best
Reynolds landscapes, one seems _to smell the sawdust_,' or that 'advance
in art is of a _kangaroo_ character'; but, on the whole, he is happiest
in his eating similes, and the secret of his style is evidently 'La
metaphore vient en mangeant.'
About artists and their work Mr. Quilter has, of course, a great deal to
say. Sculpture he regards as 'Painting's poor relation'; so, with the
exception of a jaunty allusion to the 'rough modelling' of Tanagra
figurines he hardly refers at all to the plastic arts; but on painters he
writes with much vigour and joviality. Holbein's wonderful Court
portraits naturally do not give him much pleasure; in fact, he compares
them as works of art to the sham series of Scottish kings at Holyrood;
but Dore, he tells us, had a wider imaginative range in all subjects
where the gloomy and the terrible played leading parts than probably any
artist who ever lived, and may be called 'the Carlyle of artists.' In
Gainsborough he sees 'a plainness almost amounting to brutality,' while
'vulgarity and snobbishness' are the chief qualities he finds in Sir
Joshua Reynolds. He has grave doubts whether Sir Frederick Leighton's
work is really 'Greek, after all,' and can discover in it but little of
'rocky Ithaca.' Mr. Poynter, however, is a cart-horse compared to the
President, and Frederick Walker was 'a dull Greek' because he had no
'sympathy with poetry.' Linnell's pictures, are 'a sort of "Up, Guards,
and at 'em" paintings,' and Mason's exquisite idylls are 'as national as
a Jingo poem'! Mr. Birket Foster's landscapes 'smile at one much in the
same way that Mr. Carker used to "flash his teeth,"' and Mr. John Collier
gives his sitter 'a cheerful slap on the back, before he says, like a
shampooer in a Turkish bath, "Next man!" Mr. Herkomer's art is, 'if not
a catch-penny art, at all events a catch-many-pounds art,' and Mr. W. B.
Richmond is a 'clever trifler,' who 'might do really good work' 'if he
would employ his time in learning to paint.' It is obviously unnecessary
for us to point out how luminous these criticisms are, how delicate in
expression. The remarks on Sir Joshua Reynolds alone exemplify the truth
of Sententia No. 19, 'From a picture we gain but little more than we
bring.' On the general principles of art Mr. Quilter writes with equal
lucidity. That there is a difference between colour and colours, that an
artist, be he portrait-painter or dramatist, always reveals himself in
his manner, are ideas that can hardly be said to occur to him; but Mr.
Quilter really does his best and bravely faces every difficulty in modern
art, with the exception of Mr. Whistler. Painting, he tells us, is 'of a
different quality to mathematics,' and finish in art is 'adding more
fact'! Portrait painting is a bad pursuit for an emotional artist as it
destroys his personality and his sympathy; however, even for the
emotional artist there is hope, as a portrait can be converted into a
picture 'by adding to the likeness of the sitter some dramatic interest
or some picturesque adjunct'! As for etchings, they are of two
kinds--British and foreign. The latter fail in 'propriety.' Yet,
'really fine etching is as free and easy as is the chat between old chums
at midnight over a smoking-room fire.' Consonant with these rollicking
views of art is Mr. Quilter's healthy admiration for 'the three primary
colours: red, blue, and yellow.' Any one, he points out, 'can paint in
good tone who paints only in black and white,' and 'the great sign of a
good decorator' is 'his capability of doing without neutral tints.'
Indeed, on decoration Mr. Quilter is almost eloquent. He laments most
bitterly the divorce that has been made between decorative art and 'what
we usually call "pictures,"' makes the customary appeal to the Last
Judgment, and reminds us that in the great days of art Michael Angelo was
the 'furnishing upholsterer.' With the present tendencies of decorative
art in England Mr. Quilter, consequently, has but little sympathy, and he
makes a gallant appeal to the British householder to stand no more
nonsense. Let the honest fellow, he says, on his return from his
counting-house tear down the Persian hangings, put a chop on the
Anatolian plate, mix some toddy in the Venetian glass, and carry his wife
off to the National Gallery to look at 'our own Mulready'! And then the
picture he draws of the ideal home, where everything, though ugly, is
hallowed by domestic memories, and where beauty appeals not to the
heartless eye but the family affections; 'baby's chair there, and the
mother's work-basket . . . near the fire, and the ornaments Fred brought
home from India on the mantel-board'! It is really impossible not to be
touched by so charming a description. How valuable, also, in connection
with house decoration is Sententia No. 351, 'There is nothing furnishes a
room like a bookcase, _and plenty of books in it_.' How cultivated the
mind that thus raises literature to the position of upholstery and puts
thought on a level with the antimacassar!