Chapter XXIV (3)

This is indeed criticism worth listening to, and the style of it is not less admirable than the matter. We do not, however, entirely go along with Mr Arnold in his decided preference for the antique drama. We never arise from the study of Greek tragedy without the impression that it is deficient in richness and flexibility. This, we think, is to be attributed in a great measure to its form, which is not natural; the members of the chorus being neither altogether actors, nor altogether disinterested spectators. They are interlopers between the audience and the actors, and detract from the interest of the latter by requiring and receiving explanation. That at least is our feeling after the perusal of Greek tragedy, but it by no means follows that the same impression was produced on the minds of a Greek audience. We agree with Professor Blackie that the grand works of the Attic three are to be regarded rather as operas than as tragedies, according to our modern acceptance of the term—that they were framed purposely for musical accompaniment and effect—and that, failing these, it is impossible for us to form an adequate estimate of their power in exciting sympathy or awakening emotion. “The man,” says the translator of Æschylus, “must certainly be strangely blinded by early classical prepossessions, if he fails to feel that, as a whole, a Greek tragedy, when set against the English composition of the same name, is exceedingly narrow in its conception, meagre in its furniture, monotonous in its character, unskilful in its execution, and not seldom feeble in its effect.” Most true—and for this reason, that the writer of English tragedy seeks no other vehicle of thought or idea than language; so that, except for scenic display, his play will give as much pleasure to, and produce nearly the same effect upon the mind, if read silently in the closet, as if brought upon the stage. It is not necessary, in order to appreciate Shakespeare, that we should have seen his dramas represented in the pomp and magnificence of the theatre. Whereas the Greek artist had to deal with the more complex material of words and music. Take away the latter, and you frustrate half his design; because he did not mean the words of the chorus to be studied as poems—he meant them to be heard with the full accompaniment of music. Those who are in the habit of frequenting the modern opera will readily understand our position. What can be finer than _Norma_, as represented on the stage, when Grisi or Caradori assumes the part of the prophetess, imprecates vengeance on the perfidious Pollio, and implores the forgiveness of the father? Higher tragedy than that can hardly be conceived—the effect upon the audience of the combined music and action is as powerful as though they had been listening to the greatest masterpiece of Shakespeare. But take the libretto of _Norma_—divest yourself of the musical association—study it in the closet—and we answer for it that no exercise of imagination on your part will enable you to endure it. And why is this? Simply because it was constructed as an opera, and because, by withdrawing the music, you destroy more than half the charm.

In dramatic compositions, where language alone can be employed as the vehicle of thought or sentiment, it is absolutely necessary that the expression should be bolder, the style more vivid, and the range of illustration larger than is requisite in the other kind where music is brought in aid of language, or rather where language is employed to assist the force of music. It seems therefore preposterous and contrary to reason, to expect that we should take as much delight or derive as high intellectual gratification from the bare perusal of a Greek skeleton play, as must have been felt by an Attic audience who witnessed its representation as a gorgeous national opera. It is even a greater artistical mistake to suppose that we should copy it implicitly. Alfieri indeed did so; but it is impossible to read one of his plays without experiencing a most chilly sensation. We entirely concur with what Mr Arnold has said regarding the importance of subject, symmetry, and design; but we differ from him as to the propriety of adhering to the nakedness of the Greeks. Let him compare—so far as that can be done with due allowance for the difference being narrative and dramatic poetry—the style of his early favourite Homer with that of Sophocles, and we think he will understand our meaning.

We confess to have been so much pleased with Mr Matthew Arnold’s preface, that we turned to his poetical performances with no slight degree of expectation. As we have already hinted, he is an old acquaintance, for we reviewed him in the Magazine some four or five years ago, when he appeared in the suspicious character of a _Strayed Reveller_. We then pointed out what we thought to be his faults, warned him as strongly as we could against his imitative tendencies, and, we hope, did justice to the genius which he evidently possessed and occasionally exhibited. Certainly we did not indulge in ecstasies; but we believed him capable of producing, through culture and study, something greatly superior to his early attempts, and we did not hesitate to say so. Since then, we are given to understand that he has published another volume of poems, which it was not our fortune to see; and the present is, with some additions, a collection of those poems which he considers to be his best, and which were contained in his earlier volumes. It is a hopeful sign of Mr M. Arnold that he is amenable to criticism. More than one of the poems which we noticed as absolutely bad, are omitted from the present collection; and therefore we are entitled to believe that, on mature consideration, he has assented to the propriety of our judgment. This is a good feature; for poets generally seem possessed with a tenfold share of stubbornness, and, like mothers, who always lavish their affections upon the most rickety of their offspring, are prompt to defend their worst effusions with almost superhuman pertinacity. It is because we feel a decided interest in Mr Arnold’s ultimate success that we again approach his poetry. We cannot conscientiously congratulate him on a present triumph—we cannot even say that he has improved upon his earliest effort; for the “Forsaken Merman,” which we noticed years ago, in terms of high commendation, is still the one gem of his collection; but we think that he may improve, and must improve, if he will only abandon all imitation, whether ancient or modern—identify himself with his situation—trust to natural impulse—and give art-theories to the winds. What he has to do is to follow the example of Menander, as quoted by himself. Let him, by all manner of means, be deliberate in the formation of his plan—let him fix what he is going to do, before he does anything—but let him not forget (what we fear he now forgets or does not know), that, in execution, the artist must beat on his own anvil, sweat at his own fire, and ply at his own forge. The poem of a master should bear as distinct and unmistakable marks of the hand that produced it, as a picture of Titian or Velasquez, a statue of Phidias, an altar-rail of Quentin Matsys, or a goblet of Benvenuto Cellini. Heaven only knows how many thousands of imitators have followed in the wake of these and other great original artists; but who cares for the imitations? No one, unless they are so good that they can be palmed off on purchasers under cover of the mighty names. Admit them to be imitations, and the merest tyro will hesitate to bid for them. It does seem to us that men of letters are slower than any other description of artists in perceiving the baneful effects of imitation. They do not appear to see this obvious truth, that, unless they can transcend their model, they are deliberately courting an inferior place. If they can transcend it, then of course they have won the day, but it must be by departing from, not by adhering to, the peculiarities of the model.

In so far as Mr Matthew Arnold is concerned, we do not intend these remarks to be applicable to his Greek choric imitations. We spoke of these before, and are willing to take them as classical experiments. Goethe, in his old age, was rather fond of this kind of amusement; and it came gracefully from the octogenarian, who, having won his fame as a Teuton, might in his latter days be allowed to indulge in any Hellenic exercitations. And as old age is privileged, so is extreme youth. The young student, with his head and imagination full of Sophocles and classical theories, even though he may push the latter beyond the verge of extravagance, is always an interesting object to the more experienced man of letters. Enthusiasm is never to be despised. It is the sign of a high and ardent spirit, and ought not to be met with the drenching operation of the bucket. But Mr M. Arnold is now considerably past his teens. He is before the public for the third time, and he still parades these Greek imitations, as if he were confident of their worth and power as English poems. So be it. We have nothing in regard to them to add to what we said before, except that a much higher artist than Mr M. Arnold must appear, before the British public will be convinced that such hobbling and unrhymed versification ought to supersede our own beautifully intoned and indigenous system of prosody.

Of the new poems contained in this collection, the most ambitious is entitled “Sohrab and Rustum, an Episode.” We like episodes, because they have the advantage of being short, and, moreover, if well constructed, are as symmetrical as poems of greater pretension. The story is a simple one, and yet contains in itself the elements of power. Sohrab, the son of the great Persian hero Rustum, by a princess of Koordistan, has never seen his father, but, like Telemachus, is in search of him. Being with the Tartar army during a campaign against the Persians, he conceives the idea of challenging the bravest champion of that host to single combat, in the hope that, if he is victor, Rustum may hear of and acknowledge him. If slain—

“Old man, the dead need no one, claim no kin.”

The challenge is given; but Sohrab was already known far and wide as a handy lad with the scimitar, and a powerful hurler of the spear; therefore the Persians, with their usual want of pluck, were exceedingly unwilling to encounter him. We subjoin Mr Arnold’s account of the panic:—

“But as a troop of pedlars from Cabool
Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus,
That vast sky-neighbouring mountain of milk snow,
Winding so high, that, as they mount, they pass
Long flocks of travelling birds dead on the snow,
Choked by the air; and scarce can they themselves
Slake their parch’d throats with sugar’d mulberries—
In single file they move, and stop their breath,
For fear they should dislodge the o’erhanging snows—
So the pale Persians held their breath with fear.
And to Ferood his brother chiefs come up
To counsel: Gudurz and Zoarrah came,
And Feraburz, who rul’d the Persian host
Second, and was the uncle of the king.”

Not one of these fellows with the jaw-breaking names could muster courage to come forth, like Goliath, against the dauntless David of the Tartars. Gudurz, however, bethinks him that Rustum had arrived in the camp the evening before, and of course he was the very man for the occasion; so he visits him immediately after breakfast. All heroes feed, or ought to feed, voraciously; and judging from appearances, Rustum was qualified to compete at a game of knife and fork with Achilles.

“And Gudurz entered Rustum’s tent, and found
Rustum: his morning meal was done, but still
The table stood beside him, charged with food;
A side of roasted sheep, and cakes of bread,
And dark-green melons.”

Possibly from the effects of repletion, Rustum for some time refuses to accept the championship, but is at last taunted into action and takes the field, but determines to fight unknown. We ought to mention here that Rustum, so far from suspecting his relationship with Sohrab, is unaware that he has any son at all. We must draw on Mr Arnold’s verse for the exordium to the combat.

“Like some young cypress, tall, and dark, and straight,
Which in a queen’s secluded garden throws
Its slight dark shadow on the moonlit turf,
By midnight, to a bubbling fountain’s sound—
So slender Sohrab seem’d, so softly rear’d.
And a deep pity entered Rustum’s soul
As he beheld him coming; and he stood,
And beckoned to him with his hand, and said:—
‘O thou young man, the air of heaven is soft,
And warm, and pleasant; but the grave is cold.
Heaven’s air is better than the dead cold grave.
Behold me: I am vast, and clad in iron,
And tried; and I have stood on many a field
Of blood, and I have fought with many a foe:
Never was that field lost, or that foe saved.
O Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on death?
Be govern’d: quit the Tartar host, and come
To Irun; and be as my son to me,
And fight beneath my banner till I die.
There are no youths in Irun brave as thou.’

“So he spoke mildly: Sohrab heard his voice,
The mighty voice of Rustum; and he saw
His giant figure planted on the sand,
Sole, like some single tower, which a chief
Has builded on the waste in former years
Against the robbers; and he saw that head,
Streak’d with its first grey hairs: hope fill’d his soul;
And he ran forwards, and embrac’d his knees,
And clasp’d his hand within his own and said:—
‘Oh, by thy father’s head! by thine own soul!
Art thou not Rustum? speak! art thou not he?’

“But Rustum eyed askance the kneeling youth,
And turn’d away, and spoke to his own soul:—
‘Ah me! I muse what this young fox may mean.
False, wily, boastful are these Tartar boys.
For if I now confess this thing he asks,
And hide it not, but say—_Rustum is here_—
He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes,
But he will find some pretext not to fight,
And praise my fame, and proffer courteous gifts—
A belt or sword perhaps—and go his way.
And on a feast-day in Afrasiab’s hall,
In Samarcand, he will arise and cry—
“I challenged once, when the two armies camp’d
Beside the Oxus, all the Persian lords
To cope with me in single fight: but they
Shrank; only Rustum dared: then he and I
Changed gifts, and went on equal terms away.”
So will he speak, perhaps, while men applaud.
Then were the chiefs of Irun shamed through me.’

“And then he turn’d, and sternly spake aloud:—
‘Rise! wherefore dost thou vainly question thus
Of Rustum? I am here, whom thou hast call’d
By challenge forth: make good thy vaunt, or yield.
Is it with Rustum only thou wouldst fight?
Rash boy, men look on Rustum’s face and flee.’”

Then follows the combat, Homerically intermingled with a great deal of talk between the champions, until Sohrab falls mortally wounded by his father’s spear. Then come the explanations, and Rustum knows that he has slain his son.

“And with a heavy groan, Rustum replied:—
‘Oh that its waves were flowing over me!
Oh that I saw its grains of yellow silt
Roll tumbling on the current o’er my head!’

“And with a grave mild voice, Sohrab replied:
‘Desire not that, my father; we must live.
For some are born to do great deeds, and live,
As some are born to be obscured, and die.
Do thou the deeds I die too young to do,
And reap a second glory in thine age.
Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine.
But come: thou seest this great host of men
Which follow me; I pray thee, slay not these:
Let me entreat for them: what have they done?
They followed me, my hope, my fame, my star.
Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace.
But me thou must bear hence, not send with them,
But carry me with thee to Seistan,
And place me on a bed, and mourn for me,
Thou, and the snow-hair’d Zal, and all thy friends.
And thou must lay me in that lovely earth,
And heap a stately mound above my bones,
And plant a far-seen pillar over all:
That so the passing horsemen on the waste
May see my tomb a great way off, and say—
_Sohrab, the mighty Rustum’s son, lies there,
Whom his great father did in ignorance kill_—
And I be not forgotten in my grave.’
And with a mournful voice Rustum replied:—
‘Fear not; as thou hast said, Sohrab, my son,
So shall it be: for I will burn my tents,
And quit the host, and bear thee hence with me,
And carry thee away to Seistan,
And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee,
With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends.
And I will lay thee in that lovely earth,
And heap a stately mound above thy bones,
And plant a far-seen pillar over all;
And men shall not forget thee in thy grave.
And I will spare thy host: yea, let them go:
Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace.
What should I do with slaying any more?’”

Real poetry, we are sorry to say, is now so scarce among us, that we cannot afford to dismiss any promising aspirant with a sneer. From the foregoing extracts it will be seen that Mr M. Arnold, in opposition to the tenets of that school of bardlings so copiously beslavered by Guffaw, has adopted, in this poem, a simple and even severe method of expression. He is now writing after Homer—not, indeed, slavishly, but on the Homeric principle; and the question now arises, whether or not he has succeeded. Our opinion is that this poem is highly creditable as an attempt in the right direction—that it is infinitely superior to the turgid trash with which we have been, of late years, inundated—but that it has not merit enough to confer lasting distinction on the author. Mr Arnold, we are aware, has been told the reverse; and as the sugared cup is always more palatable than that which contains an ingredient of bitter, he may possibly be inclined to prefer sweet panegyric to sincere though wholesome criticism. But we are not writing for him alone; we are attending to the poetical reputation of the age. In this composition, as it appears to us, Mr Arnold again suffers through imitation. He is writing, with deliberate intention, Homerically—that is, he has been keeping Homer in his eye, instead of rivetting it on his subject. Now this is a great mistake. The peculiar manner of a poet depends upon the age in which he lives. There is an enormous gap in world-history between “the blind old man of Scio’s rocky isle,” and Mr Matthew Arnold, who dates from “Fox How, Ambleside,” A.D. 1853; and it is a sheer impossibility that the two can naturally express themselves alike. What was nature in the one, is affectation in the other. Homer expressed himself simply, because he was addressing a simple audience; and also because his hearty, noble, and grand organisation made him superior to rhetorical conceits or affectation. Arnold also expresses himself simply; but he does so, not from native impulse or inspiration, but because he is aware of Homer’s charm. But he frustrates his own intention by deliberately copying Homer, and making his readers painfully aware of it. A true, or at all events a very accomplished poet, would not have committed this error. Let any man, of really cultivated taste in poetry, read the “Hyperion” of Keats, and the “Morte D’Arthur” of Tennyson—both of them splendid poems, and distinguished by severe simplicity of language—and then compare them with this effusion of Mr Arnold. We cannot for one moment doubt the verdict. Keats and Tennyson saw the principle, but they kept themselves away from imitation, gave their genius full play, and achieved magnificent results. Mr Arnold, recognising the principle, cannot divert his eye from the model, adopts the peculiarities of that, and fails. In fact, imitation is his curse. We said so more than four years ago, and we now repeat it. So strong is his tendency that way, that he cannot, within the limits of a composition of moderate length, confine himself to the imitation of a single renowned poet, but makes patchwork by copying the peculiarities, even though they are acknowledged blemishes, of another. Thus we find, nearly at the commencement of the poem which we are now discussing, the following passage:—

“The sun, by this, had risen, and clear’d the fog
From the broad Oxus and the glittering sands:
And from their tents the Tartar horsemen filed
Into the open plain; so Haman bade;
Haman, who next to Peran Wisa ruled
The host, and still was in his lusty prime.
From their black tents long files of horse they stream’d:
As when, some grey November morn, the files,
In marching order spread, of long-neck’d cranes,
Stream over Casbin, and the southern slopes
Of Elburz, from the Aralian estuaries,
Or some from Caspian reed-bed, southward bound
For the warm Persian sea-board: so they stream’d.
The Tartars of the Oxus, the king’s guard,
First, with black sheepskin caps, and with long spears;
Large men, large steeds; who from Bokhara come
And Khiva, and ferment the milk of mares.
Next the more temperate Toorkmans of the south,
The Tukas, and the lances of Salore,
And those from Attruck and the Caspian sands;
Light men, and on light steeds, who only drink
The acrid milk of camels and their wells.”

The description—or catalogue—is twice as long as the foregoing extract, but we cannot afford to multiply quotations. The student of Milton will readily recognise the source of this inspiration, and will regret that those very passages, which every sound judge (if he be not an arrant pedant or a schoolmaster) would wish to be excised from the pages of the “Paradise Lost,” should have been selected for imitation by a young modern poet.

Further, Mr Arnold errs in being unnecessarily minute. Here again he may plead the Homeric example; but we reply, as before, that Arnold is not Homer. That style of description, which Delille happily characterises as “peindre les ongles,” is not only tedious but puerile, and sometimes has a ludicrous effect. Take, for example, the following detailed account of the toilet of an old Tartar gentleman:—

“So said he, and dropp’d Sohrab’s hand, and left
His bed, and the warm rugs whereon he lay,
And o’er his chilly limbs his woollen coat
He pass’d, and tied his sandals on his feet,
And threw a white cloak round him, and he took
In his right hand a ruler’s staff, no sword;
And on his head he placed his sheepskin cap,
Black, glossy, curl’d, the fleece of Kara-Kul;
And raised the curtain of his tent, and call’d
His herald to his side, and went abroad.”

Now, supposing that Mr Arnold had to describe the uprising of a modern, would he consider it necessary to favour us with a description of the emergence from the blankets, the deposition of the nightcap, the wrestle into the nether integuments, the shaving-jug, the razor, and all the rest of it? We beg to assure him that this passage, so far from being vigorous, is pure slip-slop; and we are convinced that, on reflection, he will admit the justice of the stricture. For example; how infinitely more terse and satisfactory is the one line which Shakespeare puts into the mouth of poor Ophelia—

“Then up he rose, and donn’d his clothes!”

What the mischief do we care for the texture of the stockings, or the peculiar method of investiture? Is it necessary to enter into details regarding the boots, and to specify whether they were Wellingtons or Bluchers? That there are, in this episode, some fine, and one or two noble passages, we are very glad to acknowledge, but it is by no means perfect as a whole. Indeed, even if the bulk of it had been faultless, the termination would have spoiled it as a poem; for Mr Arnold has been induced, through some extraordinary hallucination, to destroy the effect of the catastrophe, by superadding a needless piece of description. We sincerely regret this; because the catastrophe, when it does come (and it ought to have arrived sooner) is very fine; and no artist could have desired a better termination than the picture of Rustum watching by his dead son—

“And night came down over the solemn waste,
And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair,
And darken’d all; and a cold fog, with night,
Crept from the Oxus. Soon a hum arose,
As of a great assembly loosed, and fires
Began to twinkle through the fog: for now
Both armies moved to camp, and took their meal:
The Persians took it on the open sands
Southward; the Tartars by the river marge,
And Rustum and his son were left alone.”

Here the poem ought to have ended; but Mr Arnold wishes to try his hand at that very ancient and hackneyed subject, the description of the course of a river; and, the Oxus being conveniently near, he embarks on a voyage for the Arab Sea.

“But the majestic river floated on,
Out of the mist and hum of that low land,
Into the frosty starlight, and there moved,
Rejoicing, through the hush’d Chorasmian waste,
Under the solitary moon: he flow’d
Right for the Polar star, past Orgunjè,
Brimming, and bright, and huge: there sands begin
To hem his watery march, and dam his streams,
And split his currents; that for many a league
The shorn and parcell’d Oxus strains along
Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles—
Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had
In his high mountain cradle in Pamere,
A foil’d circuitous wanderer:—till at last
The long’d-for dash of waves is heard, and wide
His luminous home of waters opens, bright
And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bath’d stars
Emerge, and shine upon the Arab Sea.”

Not at all bad as a piece of versification, but utterly to be condemned in the place where it is introduced.

In spite of one or two beautiful passages—the best being the description of the children at play in the third part—we cannot enthusiastically admire the poem of “Tristram and Iseult.” It is sickly, feverish, and withal terribly disjointed—affording no trace of that symmetry of design, the lack of which in modern poetry Mr Arnold has very justly deplored. Neither can we say much for the “Church of Brou,” in which, by the way, Mr Arnold has attempted an elaborate description of a painted window, very dull of tint, indeed, when we compare it with the gorgeous masterpiece in “The Eve of St Agnes.” On the whole, we are disappointed with this volume, because we really think that Mr M. Arnold might have done much better. That he has the power is quite evident; that many of the poetical views he enunciates are sound, we have already acknowledged; but, somehow or other, he neither exerts the power continuously, nor adheres in practice to his views. We have a strong impression that he composes too coldly and phlegmatically, and without allowing the proper scope to his imagination. That is always a bad method. The inspiration of the poet is not by any means a mere figure of speech; it must be realised, if great effects are to be produced. Verses—ay, and good verses too—may be written to almost any extent, without the composer experiencing anything like a thrill of emotion; but verses so produced are not of the nature of true poetry. Grand harmonies suggest and develop themselves only when the mind is in an exalted state; and at such times the poet cares nothing for the rules of art. If he stops to consider these, he instantaneously loses the inspiration.

We cannot, as yet, congratulate Mr M. Arnold on high success; but we augur well of him for the future, and shall be delighted to pay him a more decided and satisfactory tribute whenever he will allow us to do so. Come we now to the second Arnold—Edwin, of University College, Oxford.

Judging from external evidence, we should say that Edwin is some years younger than Matthew, and he is fortunately, as yet, altogether free from poetical theories. Song comes to him as naturally as it does to the bird on the bough. He cannot help expressing his thick-thronging and always graceful fancies in verse; and he frequently does so with the true minstrel spirit. That he should be occasionally a little extravagant is to be expected. All very young poets are so, and we like them the better for it; for why should they affect the solemn airs and sententious pomposity of their seniors? Edwin Arnold is just now in the very parterre of poesy—culling flowers with a liberal hand, and binding them into a nosegay fit for the acceptance of his lady-love. Our pen would prove faithless to our fingers should we attempt to disentangle that pretty posy, which early genius lays at the feet of beauty. Why should we review his poems, after the manner of the cold critics, carping at what is enthusiastic, and triumphing over errors, from which older brethren of the lyre are by no means exempt? If he chooses, in imitation of “Burleigh Hall,” to renew the story of the Falcon-Feast, long since told by Boccaccio, and from him dramatised by Barry Cornwall, why should we point to faults which, in a year or so, he will discover of his own accord? Never again, we are certain, will he, in a love story, libel his hero and his heroine as he has done in four lines of that ballad—

“So for one who loved him never
Slew he what had loved him well:
Giannetta, silent ever,
Feasted till the sunlight fell;”

—thereby implying that the owner of the falcon was a brute, and his mistress a deliberate _gourmande_, gloating over the trail! The story, even as told by the Florentine, has always seemed to us hideously unnatural. The man who could sacrifice, in cold blood, a dumb creature that loved him, would not hesitate, under temptation, to lay a sacrilegious hand on the weazand of his father; and we pray Mr Edwin Arnold to consider what kind of sympathy we should feel for Ulysses, if his first act, on his return to Ithaca, had been to drive his falchion into the heart of old Argus, who, for so many years, had been lying neglected at the gate, pining for his master’s return. Let us rather give a specimen or so of the better style of our youthful poet. We begin with the first poem.

“Oh! was there ever tale of human love
Which was not also tale of human tears?
Died not sweet Desdemona? Sorrowed not
Fair, patient Imogene? and she whose name
Lives among lovers, Sappho silver-voiced,
Was not the wailing of her passionate lyre
Ended for ever in the dull, deaf sea?
Must it be thus? Oh! must the cup that holds
The sweetest vintage of the vine of life
Taste bitter at the dregs? Is there no story,
No legend, no love-passage, which shall veil
Even as the bow which God hath bent in heaven
O’er the sad waste of mortal histories,
Promising respite to the rain of tears?”

A very pretty commencement to a pretty poem; the subject of which, however, must be considered as rather ticklish. It is curious that Edwin, as well as Matthew, has tried his hand at the painted window, which we wish he had not done, as the plagiary from Keats is evident:—

“They sleep: the spangled night is melting off,
And still they sleep: the holy moon looks in,
In at the painted window-panes, and flings
Ruby, blue, purple, emerald, amethyst,
Crystal and orange colours on their limbs;
_And round her face a glory of white light,
As one that sins not_; on the tapestries
Gold lights are flashing like the wings of angels,
Bringing these two hearts to be single-hearted.”

O Edwin! what could tempt you to charge your pallet with so many colours? Don’t you see how ill they assort together, giving the impression of a mashed rainbow?—and how dreadfully out of place are the flashing gold lights! They should be “lying,” Edwin, not “flashing;” for the holy moon is looking in, and all within the chamber should be repose. Pray you observe the exquisite toning of Keats in that passage with which you are already familiar, but the extreme beauty of which you do not yet thoroughly comprehend.

“Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
And threw warm gules on Madeline’s fair breast,
As down she knelt for Heaven’s grace and boon;
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,
And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
And on her hair a glory, like a saint:
She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest,
Save wings, for heaven.—”

Keats gives the colours in which an angel should be painted—yours, Mr Edwin, are too tawdry even for the coat of Harlequin.

So many of these poems come under the general title of “Occasional,” that we have some difficulty in finding a proper one for extract. Our favourite, on the whole, is “Quentin Matsys,” and from it we select a specimen.

“She was a painter’s daughter,—bold for love
He told his earnest suit, and prayed her hand
In words that his full heart made eloquence.
Silent the father heard; there as he sate
In jewelled silks, and velvets furbelow’d,
With works of mighty masters on the wall,
And all his art’s appliances about him,
A stern smile curled his pale patrician lip,
And cold and slow the cruel sentence came:
‘A painter’s daughter may not wed a smith;
Paint me like this and these, and thou shalt have her.’
Died then his love? Listen! The maiden wept
Such pearly tears, that in his bursting heart
Grew up strange hopes. Alas! to few is given
The magic skill that burns in life-like hues,
A speaking lip, an eye that beams and loves,
A moving majesty like nature’s own,
Save that this may not die: it is a gift
Higher and holier than a common man
May dare to reach at; oh! by what right, then,
Dared he to dream of it? by what right! Love’s!—
The love that lifts a peasant to a king,
The love that knows no doubting! Well he knew—
Too well for his fond hopes—that brawny arms
Guide not the pencil, and that smithy strokes
Fix not the fancies of a painter’s mind;
But still for that. To gaze into the eyes
That sparkled all for him was inspiration
Better than painter’s best: long days and nights
He strove as only lovers strive; at last
The passport to the haven of his hopes
Came in a touch, as if some angel hand
Had dipt his brush in life; and as the form
His fancy pictured, slowly—slowly grew,
And woke into broad being, then at last
He knew that he had won his golden prize—
That she was his for ever.
Antwerp’s bells
Rung out right merrily one sunny day;
Blue kirtles, and bright hose, and brighter faces,
Rhenish and sack, dancing and songs were there,
Feasting and music, and mad revelry,
And all to keep the wedding:—cavaliers
And highborn ladies stood to see them pass,
He, Quentin Matsys, and his blooming bride!”

Well then, after having given these extracts, we may be asked whether we think that Mr Edwin Arnold is really and truly a poet? Look, our dear sir, we beseech you, at that splendid gamecock—how glossy in his plumage, how quick in his eye, how massive in his neck, and how powerful in his limbs! There he walks, proud as the sultan at the head of his seraglio, the pride of his master’s heart, the terror of every recreant dunghill within a circle of a couple of miles. Some few months ago he was a mere chicken, whom you might have devoured with parsley-sauce without experiencing a pang of remorse. Before that he lay in an egg-shell. Now, had you looked either on the egg or on the chicken, you could not have stated with propriety that either was a gamecock—and yet there undeniably goes the finest ginger-pile in the parish. So is it with Mr Edwin Arnold. He may not be entitled yet to the high and sacred name of a poet—for he is still exercising himself in verse, and has not attained the possession of a distinguishing style of his own; but he shows excellent symptoms of breeding, and we doubt not will, in due time, advance a valid claim to the laurels. This, moreover, is to be said in his favour, that he is not treading in the footsteps of the “intense” school, and that he always writes intelligibly—a virtue which we observe a good many modern poets hold utterly in derision. Let him go on in his vocation, cultivating his taste, improving his judgment, observing nature, and eschewing gaudy ornament—and he may hope to win a name which shall be reverenced, when those of the utterers of fustian and balderdash, dear to the heart of Guffaw, are either wholly forgotten, or remembered only with ridicule.

COUNT SIGISMUND’S WILL.

The theatrical season in Paris, now at its height, has not yet been marked by the production of any particularly successful pieces. At about this time last year, the clever comedy of _Lady Tartuffe_ afforded agreeable occupation to the critics, and abundant amusement to the town. At the Gymnase, the _Fils de Famille_, of which two versions have since been produced upon the London stage, and _Philiberte_, a sparkling three-act comedy in verse, full of wit, but rather _Régence_ in its tone and style, nightly filled the house with select and gratified audiences. _L’Honneur et l’Argent_, M. Ponsard’s respectable and proper, but, in our opinion, wearisome play, had a triumphant run at the Odeon; whilst, at the Vaudeville, the _Lady with the Camelias_, who, objectionable though she was in some respects, was certainly, as far as talent went, immeasurably superior to her various imitators and successors, drew all Paris to her seductive boudoir. This winter no play of decided merit and importance has been produced at any theatre. In more than one instance, attempts have been made to proclaim the success of a piece immense, when in reality it was most moderate; and, at the Gymnase, _Diane de Lys_ has really had a considerable run; but this has been owing to extraneous circumstances, and to the excellence of the acting, much more than to any intrinsic merits of the play, which derived a sort of scandalous interest from a generally-credited report that the author, Alexander Dumas the younger, had merely dramatised an adventure of his own—altering, however, the catastrophe; for the play closes with the death of the lover, shot by the offended husband. Rumour went so far as to point to a foreign lady of rank as the original of the _Duchess Diana_, and the playwright was blamed for his indiscretion. Whether there were grounds for such censure, or whether the tale was a mere ingenious invention, industriously circulated by the author’s friends to give a spurious popularity to a rather amusing but very worthless piece, it is hard to decide—the one case being quite as probable as the other. The Gymnase, however, boasts of its _Diana_ as a signal triumph—which she may be to its treasury, although in other respects she does the theatre no great credit, beyond displaying an excellent cast and admirable acting. That agreeable theatre needs something to console it for the loss of its most valuable and accomplished comedian, Bressant, summoned by the higher powers from the scene of his numerous triumphs to the classic boards of the _Française_. There he had the good taste to make his first appearance in a play of Molière’s in preference to the less sterling class of comedy with which he is more familiar; and, both by his acting, and by the enthusiastic greeting he met from a crowded house, he at once proved himself a valuable accession to the talent and popularity of the first French theatre. That establishment just now has greater need of good new plays than of good new actors. It is unfortunate in its authors, and the drama droops under the imperial régime. Alexander Dumas—whose outrageous vanity and fanfaronades, daily displayed in the columns of the new journal, the _Mousquetaire_, which he owns and edits, have lately made him the laughingstock of Paris,—after writing two five-act historical plays in about as many days each, and having them both accepted by the committee, but prohibited before performance—probably because the authorities did not think the most important theatre in France a fit stage for such mountebank feats of rapid writing—has been fain to console himself (supposing his egregious self-conceit not to have set him above all need of consolation) by the cordial reception of a one-act comedy called _Romulus_, which has both humour and character. He has boasted of this little success almost as much as of the merits of his two great failures, the interdicted plays; has published the piece (the idea of which is derived from a passage in one of Auguste La Fontaine’s tales) in the _feuilleton_ of his paper, where he also printed monstrous stories about his having written it in some wonderfully short space of time. But this clever silly man has made himself such a reputation as a Munchausen that none now believe him; and, moreover, it is very well known in Paris that the piece in question was planned, and in great part written, by an accomplished French actor, much esteemed in England, to whose cultivated taste and extensive reading some of the best dramatists of the day have on various occasions been indebted for advice and assistance, which they have not all been so slow as Mr Dumas to acknowledge.

The expectations of many persons, conversant with the relative merits of the principal living writers for the French stage, were lately raised high by the announcement of a five-act comedy from the united pens of two of the most successful of these, Messrs Emile Augier and Jules Sandeau. Both of these gentlemen have distinguished themselves as dramatists, although M. Sandeau is perhaps best known as the author of some very clever and agreeable novels. Indeed, since the regretted decease of Charles de Bernard, few have been more successful in that branch of literature. His style is that in which modern French writers have best succeeded—the _roman de mœurs_, or novel of society, whose attraction and interest depend rather upon accurate delineation and delicate satire of the habits, follies, and foibles of the time, than in startling situations and complicated intrigues. The late Charles de Bernard, to whose charming talent we some years ago devoted an article, and whose collected works have just received the well-deserved honour of posthumous republication, was an adept in the style, and was also one of the most inventive writers of his day. Most of his novels and tales display, in addition to a refined and extensive knowledge of French society and character, much ingenuity of plot and originality of incident. Of the same school, Jules Sandeau has more pathos and sentiment, less originality and wit. Like that of most novelists who are also dramatists, his dialogue is terse, spirited, and life-like, although less pointed and sparkling than that of the author of _Gerfaut_. Occasionally he reminds us of that clever whimsical writer, Alphonse Karr, but of Karr in his happiest moods, when he abjures triviality, and produces such novels as _Genevieve_ and _La Famille Alain_. One of the favourite stock-pieces at the _Comédie Française_, _Mademoiselle de la Seiglière_, is by Sandeau, founded on his own novel of the same name. Another of his tales, _La Chasse au Roman_, he dramatised conjointly with Augier, and the piece brought out the other day, _La Pierre de Touche_—The Touchstone—is also founded on a novel by Sandeau, entitled _Un Héritage_. How is it, many have asked, that, with an excellent subject—that of a highly popular romance—to work upon, M. Sandeau and the witty and experienced author of _Gabrielle_, _Philiberte_, and other justly successful plays, have produced a comedy which has been more or less hissed every night of its performance, and which, instead of awakening the sympathies or exciting the admiration of the public, has produced an impression so manifestly unfavourable, that the authors deemed it necessary to publish a letter in explanation and vindication—a letter the publishers of the play have reproduced in the form of a preface? Before replying to this question, or sketching the plot of the play, we will give a slight outline of the novel on which it is founded. Our readers will hardly have forgotten another of M. Sandeau’s novels, _Sacs et Parchemins_, of which we some time ago gave an account.[4] Those who have read, with the amused interest it could hardly fail to excite, M. Sandeau’s account of the vaulting ambition of the retired draper Levrault, and of the desperate and ludicrous expedients of the ruined Viscount de Montflanquin, in his French Wolf’s Crag, will not be unwilling to follow the same writer upon German ground, to the ancient castle of Hildesheim, and into the humble abode of Franz Müller, the musician of Munich. We will briefly glance at the spirited and characteristic opening chapters of _Un Héritage_.

It was a great day for Master Gottlieb Kaufmann, notary in the little German town of Mühlstadt. Count Sigismund Hildesheim was just dead, and his will was to be opened in presence of his assembled relatives. Gottlieb, attired in suitable sables, the silver buckles of his shoes replaced by others of burnished steel, fidgetted to and fro between his study and his office, his office and his drawing-room, scolding his clerks, sending away clients, and watching the clock, whose lazy hands, he thought, crept more slowly than usual round the dial. Noon was the hour fixed for the reading of the will, and as yet it was but nine. It was an anxious morning for the worthy notary. The very pig-tail that dangled from his nape quivered with impatience. The cause of his excitement was his doubt whether the heir to the castle and fine estate of Hildesheim would continue to employ him. There were other notaries at Mühlstadt, and all were eager to secure so rich a client. Master Gottlieb had spared no pains to retain the lucrative employment. His drawing-room chairs, stripped of the cases that usually protected them from the pranks of the flies, were drawn round a table spread with an old scarlet velvet cover; near this table, another chair, elevated upon a temporary platform, seemed to preside over the absent assembly. From time to time, Master Gottlieb seated himself in it, studied his gestures and attitude, and contemplated his reflection in a glass, endeavouring to combine regret and obsequiousness in the expression of his habitually jovial physiognomy. His face was to do double duty—to deplore the departed and offer his services to the survivors. Further to propitiate the clients he desired to secure, Master Gottlieb—himself of a convivial turn, fond of a cool bottle and a merry catch—had prepared, in an adjoining room, an elegant collation. On a cloth of dazzling whiteness were temptingly displayed cold meats, fragrant fruits, and antique flasks, dim with venerable dust. The notary had spared nothing worthily to honour the memory and regale the heirs of the departed Count.

Count Sigismund Hildesheim had passed, almost from his youth upwards, for an oddity, an original, slightly crazed, and only just sane enough to be intrusted with the guidance of himself and his affairs. In reality he was none of those things, but a misfortune in early life, acting upon a singularly sensitive and impressionable nature, had decided his whole destiny. As a youth, at the university of Heidelberg, he shunned the society of the students, and, of an evening, instead of devoting himself to beer, tobacco, roaring songs and political theories, he loved to walk out and watch the sunset from the summit of the beautiful hills that enclose the valley of the Neckar. Returning home, on a May night, from one of these solitary rambles, his attention was arrested, as he passed through the outskirts of the town, by a fresh and melodious voice, proceeding from a window decked and entwined with flowers. The song was one of those wild and plaintive ditties, often of great antiquity, heard in remote mountain districts, seldom written, but orally transmitted from generation to generation. Surprised and charmed, Sigismund paused and listened; then he cast a curious glance into the room. A young girl was seated at a piano, and by the light of a lamp he distinguished her to be of great beauty. Thenceforward, every evening, on his return from his walks, the pensive student lingered at that window. He was seldom disappointed; most evenings the young girl was at her piano; and the song that at first had fascinated him was evidently her favourite. At last—how this came about it is immaterial to inquire—instead of pausing at the window, Sigismund went in at the door, and became a constant visitor to Michaële and her mother.

The dwelling of the widow and her child was humble, but elegant in its poverty. War, which had robbed them of a husband and father, had left them but a scanty pension for their support. Sigismund was as much attracted by the mother’s kind and graceful manners as he had been enchanted by the daughter’s bright eyes and sweet voice. He had lost his own mother when an infant; his father’s harsh and haughty character had repelled his affection. He found a home, congenial to his tastes and sympathies, in the secluded cottage in Heidelberg’s suburbs, and there he and Michaële formed plans of future happiness undisturbed by fear of obstacles to their union. But Michaële’s mother, who at first partook their hopes, could not repress forebodings of evil when she remembered that Sigismund was the heir of an ancient and wealthy family. Her fears proved too well founded. When Sigismund, on quitting the university, spoke to his father of his projects, he encountered an insurmountable opposition, and was compelled to postpone them. As often as he could escape from Hildesheim he hurried to Heidelberg, to pass a few days of mingled grief and joy. Michaële never complained; she had always smiles and loving words to welcome Sigismund, but in his absence and in secret she pined away. At last his father died. A week after his funeral the young count was at Heidelberg. It was too late. Michaële was given up by the physicians; three days afterwards she breathed her last. More than once, during those three days of cruel anguish, the dying girl made Sigismund play the melody that had been the origin of their acquaintance, and which they both passionately loved. Often, in happier times, they had sung it together, with joy and gratitude in their hearts. It was an air that Michaële had learned when a child, in the mountains of the Tyrol. It had fixed itself indelibly in her memory, and when she died, in Sigismund’s arms, the sweet melody was hovering on her lips.

There is something rather German than French in the strain of the early chapters of _Un Héritage_, but they are a mere prologue to the book, and are unheeded by the dramatist. After the death of his betrothed, Count Sigismund abandoned himself to the most passionate and despairing grief. He remained at Heidelberg with Michaële’s mother, who would not quit the spot where she had dwelt with her daughter. She did not long survive her bereavement. Sigismund followed her to the grave, and returned to Hildesheim, where he lived in complete retirement, avoiding intercourse with his neighbours. He would not be consoled, and lived alone with his sorrow. When this became calmer, he opened his piano and would have played the Tyrolese air he and his departed love had so often repeated. But in vain did he rack his memory and try every note of the instrument. The melody had fled, and would not return. It had departed with the soul of her from whom he had learned it. His long paroxysm of grief had utterly driven it from his recollection.

What does M. Sandeau now, but send his melancholy hero forth, a pilgrim over hill and dale, in quest of the lost melody so inextricably intertwined with the memory of her he had so tenderly and deeply loved. After innumerable efforts to seize the fugitive sounds, after bursts of impatience, anger, almost of frenzy, the enthusiastic Sigismund departed, wandering in search of an old song. The idea is fantastical; it may be deemed far-fetched; but it certainly is not unpoetical.