cover of any book that we have come across for some time past. It is
possibly intended to symbolise the sorrow of the world, but it merely
suggests the decorative tendencies of an undertaker and is as depressing
as it is detestable. However, as the cowl does not make the monk, so the
binding, in the case of the Savile Club school, does not make the poet,
and we open the volume without prejudice. The first poem that we come to
is a vigorous attack on those wicked and misguided people who believe
that Beauty is its own reason for existing, and that Art should have no
other aim but her own perfection. Here are some of the Professor's
gravest accusations:
Why do they patch, in their fatal choice,
When at secrets such the angels quake,
But a play of the Vision and the Voice?--
Oh, it's all for Art's sake.
Why do they gather what should be left,
And leave behind what they ought to take,
And exult in the basest blank or theft?--
Oh, it's all for Art's sake.
It certainly must be admitted that to 'patch' or to 'exult in the basest
blank' is a form of conduct quite unbefitting an artist, the very
obscurity and incomprehensible character of such a crime adding something
to its horror. However, while fully recognising the wickedness of
'patching' we cannot but think that Professor Harald Williams is happier
in his criticism of life than he is in his art criticism. His poem
Between the Banks, for instance, has a touch of sincerity and fine
feeling that almost atones for its over-emphasis.
Mr. Buchan's blank verse drama Joseph and His Brethren bears no
resemblance to that strange play on the same subject which Mr. Swinburne
so much admires. Indeed, it may be said to possess all the fatal
originality of inexperience. However, Mr. Buchan does not leave us in
any doubt about his particular method of writing. 'As to the dialogue,'
he says, 'I have put the language of real life into the mouths of the
speakers, except when they may be supposed to be under strong emotion;
then their utterances become more rapid--broken--figurative--in short
more poetical.' Well, here is the speech of Potiphar's wife under strong
emotion:
ZULEEKHA (seizing him). Love me! or death!
Ha! dost thou think thou wilt not, and yet live?
By Isis, no. And thou wilt turn away,
Iron, marble mockman! Ah! I hold thy life!
Love feeds on death. It swallows up all life,
Hugging, or killing. I to woo, and thou--
Unhappy me! Oh!
The language here is certainly rapid and broken, and the expression
'marble mockman' is, we suppose, figurative, but the passage can scarcely
be described as poetical, though it fulfils all Mr. Buchan's conditions.
Still, tedious as Zuleekha and Joseph are, the Chorus of Ancients is much
worse. These 'ideal spectators' seem to spend their lives in uttering
those solemn platitudes that with the aged pass for wisdom. The chief
offenders are the members of what Mr. Buchan calls 'The
2nd.--Semi-chorus,' who have absolutely no hesitation in interrupting the
progress of the play with observations of this kind:
2ND.--semi-chorus
Ah! but favour extreme shown to one
Among equals who yet stand apart,
Awakeneth, say ye, if naturally,
The demons--jealousy, envy, hate,--
In the breast of those passed by.
It is a curious thing that when minor poets write choruses to a play they
should always consider it necessary to adopt the style and language of a
bad translator. We fear that Mr. Bohn has much to answer for.
God's Garden is a well-meaning attempt to use Nature for theological and
educational purposes. It belongs to that antiquated school of thought
that, in spite of the discoveries of modern science, invites the sluggard
to look at the ant, and the idle to imitate the bee. It is full of false
analogies and dull eighteenth-century didactics. It tells us that the
flowering cactus should remind us that a dwarf may possess mental and
moral qualities, that the mountain ash should teach us the precious
fruits of affliction, and that a fond father should learn from the
example of the chestnut that the most beautiful children often turn out
badly! We must admit that we have no sympathy with this point of view,
and we strongly protest against the idea that
The flaming poppy, with its black core, tells
Of anger's flushing face, and heart of sin.
The worst use that man can make of Nature is to turn her into a mirror
for his own vices, nor are Nature's secrets ever disclosed to those who
approach her in this spirit. However, the author of this irritating
little volume is not always botanising and moralising in this reckless
and improper fashion. He has better moments, and those who sympathise
with the Duke of Westminster's efforts to provide open spaces for the
people, will no doubt join in the aspiration--
God bless wise Grosvenors whose hearts incline,
Workmen to fete, and grateful souls refine;
though they may regret that so noble a sentiment is expressed in so
inadequate a form.
It is difficult to understand why Mr. Cyrus Thornton should have called
his volume Voices of the Street. However, poets have a perfect right to
christen their own children, and if the wine is good no one should
quarrel with the bush. Mr. Thornton's verse is often graceful and
melodious, and some of his lines, such as--
And the wise old Roman bondsman saw no terror in the dead--
Children when the play was over, going softly home to bed,
have a pleasant Tennysonian ring. The Ballad of the Old Year is rather
depressing. 'Bury the Old Year Solemnly' has been said far too often,
and the sentiment is suitable only for Christmas crackers. The best
thing in the book is The Poet's Vision of Death, which is quite above the
average.
Mrs. Dobell informs us that she has already published sixteen volumes of
poetry and that she intends to publish two more. The volume that now
lies before us is entitled In the Watches of the Night, most of the poems
that it contains having been composed 'in the neighbourhood of the sea,
between the hours of ten and two o'clock.' Judging from the following
extract we cannot say that we consider this a very favourable time for
inspiration, at any rate in the case of Mrs. Dobell:
Were Anthony Trollope and George Eliot
Alive--which unfortunately they are not--
As regards the subject of 'quack-snubbing,' you know,
To support me I am sure they hadn't been slow--
For they, too, hated the wretched parasite
That fattens on the freshest, the most bright
Of the blossoms springing from the--Public Press!--
And that oft are flowers that even our quacks should bless!
(1) Poor Folks' Lives. By the Rev. Frederick Langbridge. (Simpkin,
Marshall and Co.)
(2) Pictures in the Fire. By George Dalziel. (Privately Printed.)
(3) Women Must Weep. By Professor F. Harald Williams. (Swan
Sonnenschein and Co.)
(4) Joseph and His Brethren: a Trilogy. By Alexander Buchan. (Digby and
Long.)
(5) God's Garden. By Heartsease. (James Nisbet and Co.)
(6) Voices of the Street. By Cyrus Thornton. (Elliot Stock.)
(7) In the Watches of the Night. By Mrs. Horace Dobell. (Remington and
Co.)
LITERARY AND OTHER NOTES--IV
(Woman's World, February 1888.)
Canute The Great, by Michael Field, is in many respects a really
remarkable work of art. Its tragic element is to be found in life, not
in death; in the hero's psychological development, not in his moral
declension or in any physical calamity; and the author has borrowed from
modern science the idea that in the evolutionary struggle for existence
the true tragedy may be that of the survivor. Canute, the rough generous
Viking, finds himself alienated from his gods, his forefathers, his very
dreams. With centuries of Pagan blood in his veins, he sets himself to
the task of becoming a great Christian governor and lawgiver to men; and
yet he is fully conscious that, while he has abandoned the noble impulses
of his race, he still retains that which in his nature is most fierce or
fearful. It is not by faith that he reaches the new creed, nor through
gentleness that he seeks after the new culture. The beautiful Christian
woman whom he has made queen of his life and lands teaches him no mercy,
and knows nothing of forgiveness. It is sin and not suffering that
purifies him--mere sin itself. 'Be not afraid,' he says in the last
great scene of the play:
'Be not afraid;
I have learnt this, sin is a mighty bond
'Twixt God and man. Love that has ne'er forgiven
Is virgin and untender; spousal passion
Becomes acquainted with life's vilest things,
Transmutes them, and exalts. Oh, wonderful,
This touch of pardon,--all the shame cast out;
The heart a-ripple with the gaiety,
The leaping consciousness that Heaven knows all,
And yet esteems us royal. Think of it--
The joy, the hope!'
This strange and powerful conception is worked out in a manner as strong
as it is subtle; and, indeed, almost every character in the play seems to
suggest some new psychological problem. The mere handling of the verse
is essentially characteristic of our modern introspective method, as it
presents to us, not thought in its perfected form, but the involutions of
thought seeking for expression. We seem to witness the very workings of
the mind, and to watch the passion struggling for utterance. In plays of
this kind (plays that are meant to be read, not to be acted) it must be
admitted that we often miss that narrative and descriptive element which
in the epic is so great a charm, and, indeed, may be said to be almost
essential to the perfect literary presentation of any story. This
element the Greek managed to retain by the introduction of chorus and
messenger; but we seem to have been unable to invent any substitute for
it. That there is here a distinct loss cannot, I think, be denied. There
is something harsh, abrupt, and inartistic in such a stage-direction as
'Canute strangles Edric, flings his body into the stream, and gazes out.'
It strikes no dramatic note, it conveys no picture, it is meagre and
inadequate. If acted it might be fine; but as read, it is unimpressive.
However, there is no form of art that has not got its limitations, and
though it is sad to see the action of a play relegated to a formal
footnote, still there is undoubtedly a certain gain in psychological
analysis and psychological concentration.
It is a far cry from the Knutlinga Saga to Rossetti's note-book, but
Michael Field passes from one to the other without any loss of power.
Indeed, most readers will probably prefer The Cup of Water, which is the
second play in this volume, to the earlier historical drama. It is more
purely poetical; and if it has less power, it has certainly more beauty.
Rossetti conceived the idea of a story in which a young king falls
passionately in love with a little peasant girl who gives him a cup of
water, and is by her beloved in turn, but being betrothed to a noble
lady, he yields her in marriage to his friend, on condition that once a
year--on the anniversary of their meeting--she brings him a cup of water.
The girl dies in childbirth, leaving a daughter who grows into her
mother's perfect likeness, and comes to meet the king when he is hunting.
Just, however, as he is about to take the cup from her hand, a second
figure, in her exact likeness, but dressed in peasant's clothes, steps to
her side, looks in the king's face, and kisses him on the mouth. He
falls forward on his horse's neck, and is lifted up dead. Michael Field
has struck out the supernatural element so characteristic of Rossetti's
genius, and in some other respects modified for dramatic purposes
material Rossetti left unused. The result is a poem of exquisite and
pathetic grace. Cara, the peasant girl, is a creation as delicate as it
is delightful, and it deserves to rank beside the Faun of Callirhoe. As
for the young king who loses all the happiness of his life through one
noble moment of unselfishness, and who recognised as he stands over
Cara's dead body that
women are not chattels,
To deal with as one's generosity
May prompt or straiten, . . .
and that
we must learn
To drink life's pleasures if we would be pure,
he is one of the most romantic figures in all modern dramatic work.
Looked at from a purely technical point of view, Michael Field's verse is
sometimes lacking in music, and has no sustained grandeur of movement;
but it is extremely dramatic, and its method is admirably suited to
express those swift touches of nature and sudden flashes of thought which
are Michael Field's distinguishing qualities. As for the moral contained
in these plays, work that has the rich vitality of life has always
something of life's mystery also; it cannot be narrowed down to a formal
creed, nor summed up in a platitude; it has many answers, and more than
one secret.
* * * * *
Miss Frances Martin's Life of Elizabeth Gilbert is an extremely
interesting book. Elizabeth Gilbert was born at a time when, as her
biographer reminds us, kindly and intelligent men and women could gravely
implore the Almighty to 'take away' a child merely because it was blind;
when they could argue that to teach the blind to read, or to attempt to
teach them to work, was to fly in the face of Providence; and her whole
life was given to the endeavour to overcome this prejudice and
superstition; to show that blindness, though a great privation, is not
necessarily a disqualification; and that blind men and women can learn,
labour, and fulfil all the duties of life. Before her day all that the
blind were taught was to commit texts from the Bible to memory. She saw
that they could learn handicrafts, and be made industrious and
self-supporting. She began with a small cellar in Holborn, at the rent
of eighteenpence a week, but before her death she could point to large
and well-appointed workshops in almost every city of England where blind
men and women are employed, where tools have been invented by or modified
for them, and where agencies have been established for the sale of their
work. The whole story of her life is full of pathos and of beauty. She
was not born blind, but lost her sight through an attack of scarlet fever
when she was three years old. For a long time she could not realise her
position, and we hear of the little child making earnest appeals to be
taken 'out of the dark room,' or to have a candle lighted; and once she
whispered to her father, 'If I am a very good little girl, may I see my
doll to-morrow?' However, all memory of vision seems to have faded from
her before she left the sick-room, though, taught by those around her,
she soon began to take an imaginary interest in colour, and a very real
one in form and texture. An old nurse is still alive who remembers
making a pink frock for her when she was a child, her delight at its
being pink and her pleasure in stroking down the folds; and when in 1835
the young Princess Victoria visited Oxford with her mother, Bessie, as
she was always called, came running home, exclaiming, 'Oh, mamma, I have
seen the Duchess of Kent, and she had on a brown silk dress.' Her
youthful admiration of Wordsworth was based chiefly upon his love of
flowers, but also on personal knowledge. When she was about ten years
old, Wordsworth went to Oxford to receive the honorary degree of D.C.L.
from the University. He stayed with Dr. Gilbert, then Principal of
Brasenose, and won Bessie's heart the first day by telling at the dinner
table how he had almost leapt off the coach in Bagley Wood to gather the
blue veronica. But she had a better reason for remembering that visit.
One day she was in the drawing-room alone, and Wordsworth entered. For a
moment he stood silent before the blind child, the little sensitive face,
with its wondering, inquiring look, turned towards him. Then he gravely
said, 'Madam, I hope I do not disturb you.' She never forgot that
'Madam'--grave, solemn, almost reverential.
As for the great practical work of her life, the amelioration of the
condition of the blind, Miss Martin gives a wonderful account of her
noble efforts and her noble success; and the volume contains a great many
interesting letters from eminent people, of which the following
characteristic note from Mr. Ruskin is not the least interesting:
DENMARK HILL, 2nd September 1871.
MADAM,--I am obliged by your letter, and I deeply sympathise with the
objects of the institution over which you preside. But one of my main
principles of work is that every one must do their best, and spend
their all in their own work, and mine is with a much lower race of
sufferers than you plead for--with those who 'have eyes and see
not.'--I am, Madam, your faithful servant, J. Ruskin.
Miss Martin is a most sympathetic biographer, and her book should be read
by all who care to know the history of one of the remarkable women of our
century.
* * * * *
Ourselves and Our Neighbours is a pleasant volume of social essays from
the pen of one of the most graceful and attractive of all American
poetesses, Mrs. Louise Chandler Moulton. Mrs. Moulton, who has a very
light literary touch, discusses every important modern problem--from
Society rosebuds and old bachelors, down to the latest fashions in
bonnets and in sonnets. The best chapter in the book is that entitled
'The Gospel of Good Gowns,' which contains some very excellent remarks on
the ethics of dress. Mrs. Moulton sums up her position in the following
passage:--
The desire to please is a natural characteristic of unspoiled
womanhood. 'If I lived in the woods, I should dress for the trees,'
said a woman widely known for taste and for culture. Every woman's
dress should be, and if she has any ideality will be, an expression of
herself. . . . The true gospel of dress is that of fitness and taste.
Pictures are painted, and music is written, and flowers are fostered,
that life may be made beautiful. Let women delight our eyes like
pictures, be harmonious as music, and fragrant as flowers, that they
also may fulfil their mission of grace and of beauty. By
companionship with beautiful thoughts shall their tastes be so formed
that their toilets will never be out of harmony with their means or
their position. They will be clothed almost as unconsciously as the
lilies of the field; but each one will be herself, and there will be
no more uniformity in their attire than in their faces.
The modern Dryad who is ready to 'dress for the trees' seems to me a
charming type; but I hardly think that Mrs. Moulton is right when she
says that the woman of the future will be clothed 'almost as
unconsciously as the lilies of the field.' Possibly, however, she means
merely to emphasise the distinction between dressing and dressing-up, a
distinction which is often forgotten.
* * * * *
Warring' Angels is a very sad and suggestive story. It contains no
impossible heroine and no improbable hero, but is simply a faithful
transcript from life, a truthful picture of men and women as they are.
Darwin could not have enjoyed it, as it does not end happily. There is,
at least, no distribution of cakes and ale in the last chapter. But,
then, scientific people are not always the best judges of literature.
They seem to think that the sole aim of art should be to amuse, and had
they been consulted on the subject would have banished Melpomene from
Parnassus. It may be admitted, however, that not a little of our modern
art is somewhat harsh and painful. Our Castaly is very salt with tears,
and we have bound the brows of the Muses with cypress and with yew. We
are often told that we are a shallow age, yet we have certainly the
saddest literature of all the ages, for we have made Truth and not Beauty
the aim of art, and seem to value imitation more than imagination. This
tendency is, of course, more marked in fiction than it is in poetry.
Beauty of form is always in itself a source of joy; the mere _technique_
of verse has an imaginative and spiritual element; and life must, to a
certain degree, be transfigured before it can find its expression in
music. But ordinary fiction, rejecting the beauty of form in order to
realise the facts of life, seems often to lack the vital element of
delight, to miss that pleasure-giving power in virtue of which the arts
exist. It would not, however, be fair to regard Warring Angels simply as
a specimen of literary photography. It has a marked distinction of
style, a definite grace and simplicity of manner. There is nothing crude
in it, though it is to a certain degree inexperienced; nothing violent,
though it is often strong. The story it has to tell has frequently been
told before, but the treatment makes it new; and Lady Flower, for whose
white soul the angels of good and evil are at war, is admirably
conceived, and admirably drawn.
* * * * *
A Song of Jubilee and Other Poems contains some pretty, picturesque
verses. Its author is Mrs. De Courcy Laffan, who, under the name of Mrs.
Leith Adams, is well known as a novelist and story writer. The Jubilee
Ode is quite as good as most of the Jubilee Odes have been, and some of
the short poems are graceful. This from The First Butterfly is pretty:
O little bird without a song! I love
Thy silent presence, floating in the light--
A living, perfect thing, when scarcely yet
The snow-white blossom crawls along the wall,
And not a daisy shows its star-like head
Amid the grass.
Miss Bella Duffy's Life of Madame de Stael forms part of that admirable
'Eminent Women' Series, which is so well edited by Mr. John H. Ingram.
There is nothing absolutely new in Miss Duffy's book, but this was not to
be expected. Unpublished correspondence, that delight of the eager
biographer, is not to be had in the case of Madame de Stael, the De
Broglie family having either destroyed or successfully concealed all the
papers which might have revealed any facts not already in the possession
of the world. Upon the other hand, the book has the excellent quality of
condensation, and gives us in less than two hundred pages a very good
picture of Madame de Stael and her day. Miss Duffy's criticism of
Corinne is worth quoting:
Corinne is a classic of which everybody is bound to speak with
respect. The enormous admiration which it exacted at the time of its
appearance may seem somewhat strange in this year of grace; but then
it must be remembered that Italy was not the over-written country it
has since become. Besides this, Madame de Stael was the most
conspicuous personage of her day. Except Chateaubriand, she had
nobody to dispute with her the palm of literary glory in France. Her
exile, her literary circle, her courageous opinions, had kept the eyes
of Europe fixed on her for years, so that any work from her pen was
sure to excite the liveliest curiosity.
Corinne is a kind of glorified guide-book, with some of the qualities
of a good novel. It is very long winded, but the appetite of the age
was robust in that respect, and the highly-strung emotions of the hero
and heroine could not shock a taste which had been formed by the
Sorrows of Werther. It is extremely moral, deeply sentimental, and of
a deadly earnestness--three characteristics which could not fail to
recommend it to a dreary and ponderous generation, the most deficient
in taste that ever trod the earth.
But it is artistic in the sense that the interest is concentrated from
first to last on the central figure, and the drama, such as it is,
unfolds itself naturally from its starting point, which is the
contrast between the characters of Oswald and Corinne.
The 'dreary and ponderous generation, the most deficient in taste that
ever trod the earth,' seems to me a somewhat exaggerated mode of
expression, but 'glorified guide-book' is a not unfelicitous description
of the novel that once thrilled Europe. Miss Duffy sums up her opinion
of Madame de Stael as a writer in the following passage: