Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 66 No.406, August 1849

NORTH.

Then the – Grayishness.

BULLER.

The what, sir?

NORTH.

The Grayishness. The exquisite scholarship, and the high artifice of the words and music – yet all in perfect adaptation to the scene and its essential character. Is there not in that union and communion of the solemn-profound, and the delicate-exquisite, something Cathedral-like? Which has the awe and infinitude of Deity and Eternity, and the prostrations and aspirations of adoration for its basis – expressed in the general structure and forms; and all this meeting and blent into the minute and fine elaboration of the ornaments? Like the odours that steal and creep on the soft, moist, evening air, whilst the dim hush of the Universal Temple dilates and elates. The least and the greatest in one. Why not? Is not that spiritual – angelical – divine! The least is not too exiguous for apprehension – the amplest exceeds not comprehension – and their united power is felt when not understood. I speak, Seward, of that which might be suggested for a primary fault in the Elegy – the contrast of the most artful, scholarly style, and the simple, rude, lowly, homely matter. But you shall see that every fancy seizes, and every memory holds especially those verses and wordings which bring out this contrast – that richest line —

"The breezy call of incense-breathing morn!"

is felt to be soon followed well by that simplest —

"No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed" —

where – I take "lowly" to imply low in earth – humbly turfed or flowered – and of the lowly.

SEWARD.

And so, sir, the pomp of a Cathedral is described, though a village Church alone is in presence. So Milton, Cromwell, and other great powers are set in array – that which these were not, against that which those were.

NORTH.

Yet hear Dr Thomas Brown – an acute metaphysician – but an obtuse critic – and no Poet at all. "The two images in this stanza ('Full many a gem,' &c.,) certainly produce very different degrees of poetical delight. That which is borrowed from the rose blooming in solitude pleases in a very high degree, both as it contains a just and beautiful similitude, and still more as the similitude is one of the most likely to have arisen in such a situation. But the simile in the two first lines of the stanza, though it may perhaps philosophically be as just, has no other charm, and strikes us immediately as not the natural suggestion of such a moment and such a scene. To a person moralising amid a simple Churchyard, there is perhaps no object that would not sooner have occurred than this piece of minute jewellery – 'a gem of purest ray serene, in the unfathomed caves of ocean.'"

SEWARD.

A person moralising! He forgot that person was Thomas Gray. And he never knew what you have told us now.

NORTH.

Why, my dear Seward, the Gem is the recognised most intense expression, from the natural world, of worth – inestimable priceless price – dependent on rarity and beauty. The Flower is a like intense expression, from the same world, of the power to call forth love. The first image is felt by every reader to be high, and exalting its object; the second to be tender, and openly pathetic. Of course it moves more, and of course it comes last. The Poet has just before spoken of Milton and Cromwell – of bards and kings – and history with all her wealth. Is the transition violent from these objects to Gems? He is moved by, but he is not bound to, the scene and time. His own thoughts emancipate. Brown seems utterly to have forgotten that the Poet himself is the Dramatic person of the Monologue. Shall he be restricted from using the richness and splendour of his own thoughts? That one stanza sums up the two or three preceding – and is perfectly attuned to the reigning mood, temper, or pathos.

BULLER.

Thank you, gentlemen. The Doctor is done brown.

NORTH.

"The paths of glory lead but to the grave!"

Methinks I could read you a homily on that Text.

BULLER.

To-morrow, sir, if you please. To-morrow is Sunday – and you may read it to us as we glide to Divine Service at Dalmally – two of us to the Established, and two of us to the Free Kirk.

NORTH.

Be it so. But you will not be displeased with me for quoting now, from heart-memory, a single sentence on the great line, from Beattie, and from Adam Fergusson. "It presents to the imagination a wide plain, where several roads appear, crowded with glittering multitudes, and issuing from different quarters, but drawing nearer and nearer as they advance, till they terminate in the dark and narrow house, where all their glories enter in succession, and disappear for ever."

SEWARD.

Thank you, sir. That is Beattie?

NORTH.

It is. Fergusson's memorable words are – "If from this we are disposed to collect any inference adverse to the pursuits of glory, it may be asked whither do the paths of ignominy lead? If to the grave also, then our choice of a life remains to be made on the grounds of its intrinsic value, without regard to an end which is common to every station of life we can lead, whether illustrious or obscure."

SEWARD.

Very fine. Who says it? Fergusson – who was he?

NORTH.

The best of you Englishers are intolerably ignorant about Scotland. Do you know the Reverend John Mitford?

SEWARD.

I do – and have for him the greatest respect.

NORTH.

So have I. He is one of our best Editors – as Pickering is one of our best Publishers of the Poets. But I am somewhat doubtful of the truthfulness of his remarks on the opening of the Elegy, in the Appendix to his excellent Life of Gray. "The Curfew 'toll' is not the appropriate word – it was not a slow bell tolling for the dead."

SEWARD.

True enough, not for the dead – but Gray then felt as if it were for the dying – and chose to say so – the parting day. Was it quick and "merry as a marriage-bell?" I can't think it – nor did Milton, "swinging slow with sullen roar." Gray was Il Penseroso. Prospero calls it the "solemn curfew." Toll is right.

NORTH.

But, says my friend Mitford, "there is another error, a confusion of time. The curfew tolls, and the ploughman returns from work. Now the ploughman returns two or three hours before the curfew rings; and 'the glimmering landscape' has 'long ceased to fade' before the curfew. The 'parting day' is also incorrect; the day had long finished. But if the word Curfew is taken simply for 'the Evening Bell,' then also is the time incorrect – and a knell is not tolled for the parting, but for the parted – 'and leaves the world to darkness and to me.' 'Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight.' Here the incidents, instead of being progressive, fall back, and make the picture confused and inharmonious; especially as it appears soon after that it was not dark. For 'the moping owl does to the moon complain.'"

SEWARD.

Pardon me, sir, I cannot venture to answer all that – but if Mitford be right, Gray must be very wrong indeed. Let me see – give us it over again – sentence by sentence —

BULLER.

No – no – no. Once is enough – and enough is as good as a feast.

NORTH.

Talboys?

TALBOYS.

Since you have a great respect for Mr Mitford, sir, so have I. But hitherto I have been a stranger to his merits.

SEWARD.

The best of you Scottishers are intolerably ignorant about England.

TALBOYS.

In the first place, Mr North, when does the Curfew toll, or ring? – for hang me if I remember – or rather ever knew. And in the second place, when does the Evening Bell give tongue? – for hang me if I am much better informed as to his motions. Yet I should know something of the family of the Bells. Say —eight o'clock. Well. It is summer-time, I suppose; for you cannot believe that so dainty a person in health and habits, as the Poet Gray, would write an Elegy in a Country churchyard in winter, and well on towards night. True, that is a way of speaking; he did not write it with his crow-quill, in his neat hand, on his neat vellum, on the only horizontal tomb-stone. But in the Churchyard he assumes to sit – probably under a Plane-tree, for sake of the congenial Gloom. Season of the year ascertained – Summer – time of Curfew – eight – then I can find no fault with the Ploughman. He comes in well – either as an image or a man. He must have been an honest, hard-working fellow, and worth the highest wages going between the years 1745 and 1750. At what hour do ploughmen leave the stilts in Cambridgeshire? We must not say at six. Different hours in different counties, Buller.

BULLER.

Go on – all's right, Talboys.

TALBOYS.

It is not too much to believe that Hodge did not grudge, occasionally, a half-hour over, to a good master. Then he had to stable his horses – Star and Smiler – rub them down – bed them – fill rack and manger – water them – make sure their noses were in the oats – lock the stable before the nags were stolen – and then, and not till then,

"The Ploughman homewards plods his weary way."

For he does not sleep on the Farm – he has a wife and small family – that is, a large family of smallish children – in the Hamlet, at least two miles off – and he does not walk for a wager of a flitch of bacon and barrel of beer – but for his accustomed rasher and a jug – and such endearments as will restore his weariness up to the proper pitch for a sound night's sleep. God bless him!

BULLER.

Shorn of your beams, Mr North, eclipsed.

TALBOYS.

The ploughman, then, does not return "two or three hours before the curfew rings." Nor has "the glimmering landscape long ceased to fade before the curfew." Nor is "the parting day incorrect." Nor "has the day long finished." Nor, when it may have finished, or may finish, can any man in the hamlet, during all that gradual subsiding of light and sound, take upon him to give any opinion at all.

NORTH.

My boy, Talboys.

TALBOYS.

"And leave the world to darkness and to me." Ay – into his hut goes the ploughman, and leaves the world and me to darkness – which is coming – but not yet come – the Poet knows it is coming – near at hand its coming glooms; and Darkness shows her divinity as she is preparing to mount her throne.

NORTH.

Nothing can be better.

TALBOYS.

"'Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight.' Here the incident, instead of being progressive, falls back, and makes the picture confused and inharmonious." Confused and inharmonious! By no manner of means. Nothing of the sort. There is no retrogression – the day has been unwilling to die – cannot believe she is dying – and cannot think 'tis for her the curfew is tolling; but the Poet feels it is even so; the glimmering and the fading, beautiful as they are, are sure symptoms – she is dying into Evening, and Evening will soon be the dying into Night; but to the Poet's eye how beautiful the transmutations! Nor knows he that the Moon has arisen, till, at the voice of the nightbird, he looks up the ivied church-tower, and there she is, whether full, waning, or crescent, there are not data for the Astronomer to declare.

NORTH.

My friend Mr Mitford says of the line, "No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed" – That "here the epithet lowly, as applied to bed, occasions an ambiguity, as to whether the Poet means the bed on which they sleep, or the grave in which they are laid;" and he adds, "there can be no greater fault in composition than a doubtful meaning."

TALBOYS.

There cannot be a more touching beauty. Lowly applies to both. From their lowly bed in their lowly dwellings among the quick, those joyous sounds used to awaken them; from their lowly bed in their lowly dwellings among the dead, those joyous sounds will awaken them never more: but a sound will awaken them when He comes to judge both the quick and the dead; and for them there is Christian hope – from

"Many a holy text around them strewedThat teach the rustic moralist to die."

NORTH.

"Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe hath broke;How jocund did they drive their team afield!How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!"

This stanza – says Mr Mitford – "is made up of various pieces inlaid. 'Stubborn glebe' is from Gay; 'drive afield' from Milton; 'sturdy stroke' from Spenser. Such is too much the system of Gray's composition, and therefore such the cause of his imperfections. Purity of language, accuracy of thought, and even similarity of rhyme, all give way to the introduction of certain poetical expressions; in fact, the beautiful jewel, when brought, does not fit into the new setting, or socket. Such is the difference between the flower stuck into the ground and those that grow from it." Talboys?

BULLER.

Why not – Buller?

TALBOYS.

I give way to the gentleman.

BULLER.

Not for worlds would I take the word out of any man's mouth.

TALBOYS.

Gray took "stubborn glebe" from Gay. Why from Gay? It has been familiar in men's mouths from the introduction of agriculture into this Island. May not a Saxon gentleman say "drive their teams afield" without charge of theft from Milton, who said "drove afield." Who first said "Gee-ho, Dobbin?" Was Spenser the first – the only man before Milton – who used "sturdy stroke?" and has nobody used it since Gray?

BULLER.

You could give a "sturdy stroke" yourself, Talboys. What's your weight?

TALBOYS.

Gray's style is sometimes too composite – you yourself, sir, would not deny it is so – but Mr Mitford's instances here are absurd, and the charge founded on them false. Gray seldom, if ever – say never, "sacrifices purity of language, and accuracy of thought," for the sake of introducing certain poetical expressions. "All give way" is a gross exaggeration. The beautiful words of the brethren, with which his loving memory was stored, came up in the hour of imagination, and took their place among the words as beautiful of his own congenial inspirations; the flowers he transplanted from poetry "languished not, grew dim, nor died;" for he had taken them up gently by the roots, and with some of the old mould adhering to their tendrils, and, true florist as he was, had prepared for them a richest soil in his own garden, which he held from nature, and which the sun and the dew of nature nourished, and will nourish for ever.

BULLER.

That face is not pleasant, sir. Nothing so disfigures a face as envy. Old Poets at last grow ugly all – but you, sir, are a Philosopher – and on your benign countenance 'twas but a passing cloud. There – you are as beautiful as ever – how comely in critical old age! Any farther fault to find with our friend Mitford?

NORTH.

"On some fond breast the parting soul relies,Some pious drops the closing eye requires,Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries,Even in our ashes live their wonted fires."

"'Pious drops' is from Ovid – piæ lachrymæ; 'closing eye' is from Pope – 'voice of nature' from the Anthologia, and the last line from Chaucer – 'Yet on our ashes cold is fire yreken.' From so many quarries are the stones brought to form this elaborate Mosaic pavement." I say, for "piæ lachrymæ" all honour to Ovid – for "pious drops" all honour to Gray. "Closing eye" is not from Pope's Elegy; "voice of nature" is not from the Anthologia, but from Nature herself; Chaucer's line may have suggested Gray's, but the reader of Chaucer knows that Gray's has a tender and profound meaning which is not in Chaucer's at all – and he knows, too, that Mr Mitford is not a reader of Chaucer – for were he, he could not have written "ashes" for "ashen." There were no quarries – there is no Mosaic. Mosaic pavement! Worse, if possible – more ostentatiously pedantic – even than stuck in flowers, jewels, settings, and sockets.

TALBOYS.

The Stanza is sacred to sorrow.

NORTH.

"From this Stanza," quoth Mitford, "the style of the composition drops into a lower key; the language is plainer, and is not in harmony with the splendid and elaborate diction of the former part." This objection is disposed of by what I said some minutes ago —

BULLER.

Half an hour ago – on Grayishness.

NORTH.

And I have only this farther to say, gentlemen, that though the language is plainer – yet it is solemn; nor is it unpoetical – for the hoary-headed swain was moved as he spake; the style, if it drop into a lower key, is accordant with that higher key on which the music was pitched that has not yet left our hearing. An Elegy is not an Ode – the close should be mournful as the opening – with loftier strain between – and it is so; and whatever we might have to say of the Epitaph – its final lines are "awful" – as every man must have felt them to be – whether thought on in our own lonely night-room – in the Churchyard of Grantchester, where it is said Gray mused the Elegy – or by that Burial-ground in Inishail – or here afloat in the joyous sunshine for an hour privileged to be happy in a world of grief.

BULLER.

Let's change the subject, sir. May I ask what author you have in your other hand?

NORTH.

Alison on Taste.

BULLER.

You don't say so! I thought you quoted from memory.

NORTH.

So I did; but I have dog-eared a page or two.

BULLER.

I see no books lying about in the Pavilion – only Newspapers – and Magazines – and Reviews – and trash of that kind —

NORTH.

Without which, you, my good fellow, could not live a week.

BULLER.

The Spirit of the Age! The Age should be ashamed of herself for living from hand to mouth on Periodical Literature. The old Lady should indeed, sir. If the Pensive Public conceits herself to be the Thinking World —

NORTH.

Let us help to make her so. I have a decent little Library of some three hundred select volumes in the Van – my Plate-chest – and a few dozens of choice wines for my friends – of Champagne, which you, Buller, call small beer —

BULLER.

I retracted and apologised. Is that the key of the Van at your watch-chain?

NORTH.

It is. So many hundred people about the Encampment – sometimes among them suspicious strangers in paletots in search of the picturesque, and perhaps the pecuniary – that it is well to intrust the key to my own body-guard. It does not weigh an ounce. And that lock is not to be picked by the ghost of Huffey White.

SEWARD.

But of the volume in hand, sir?

NORTH.

"In that fine passage in the Second Book of the Georgics," says Mr Alison, "in which Virgil celebrates the praises of his native country, after these fine lines —

'Hic ver assiduum, atque alienis mensibus æstas;Bis gravidæ pecudes, bis pomis utilis arbos.At rabidæ tigres absunt, et sæva leonumSemina: nec miseros fallunt aconita legentes:Nec rapit immensos orbes per humum, neque tantoSquameus in spiram tractu se colligit anguis.'

There is no reader whose enthusiasm is not checked by the cold and prosaic line which follows, —

'Adde tot egregias urbes, operumque laborem.'

The tameness and vulgarity of the transition dissipates at once the emotion we had shared with the Poet, and reduces him, in our opinion, to the level of a mere describer."

SEWARD.

Cold and prosaic line! Tameness and vulgarity! I am struck mute.

NORTH.

I have no doubt that Mr Alison distressed himself with "Adde." It is a word from a merchant's counting-house, reckoning up his gains. And so much the better. Virgil is making out the balance-sheet of Italy – he is inventorying her wealth. Mr Alison would have every word away from reality. Not so the Poet. Every now and then, they – the Poets – amuse themselves with dipping their pencils into the real, the common, the everyday, the homely. By so doing they arrest belief, which above everything they desire to hold fast. I should not wonder if you might catch Spenser at it, even. Shakspeare is full of it. There is nothing else prosaic in the passage; and if Virgil had had the bad taste to say "Ecce" instead of "Adde," I suppose no fault would have been found.

SEWARD.

But what can Mr Alison mean by the charge of tameness and vulgarity?

NORTH.

I have told you, sir.

SEWARD.

You have not, sir.

NORTH.

I have, sir.

SEWARD.

Yes – yes – yes. "Adde" is vulgar! I cannot think so.

NORTH.

The Cities of Italy, and the "operum labor," always have been and are an admiration. The words "Egregias urbes" suggest the general stateliness and wealth – "operumque laborem," the particular buildings – Temples, Basilicas, Theatres, and Great Works of the lower Utility. A summary and most vivid expression of a land possessed by intelligent, civilised, active, spirited, vigorous, tasteful inhabitants – also an eminent adorning of the land.

SEWARD.

Lucretius says, that in spring the Cities are in flower – or on flower – or a flower – with children. And Lucan, at the beginning of the Pharsalia, describes the Ancient or Greek Cities desolate. They were fond and proud of their "tot egregiæ urbes" as the Modern Italians are – and with good reason.

NORTH.

How judiciously the Critics stop short of the lines that would overthrow their criterion always! The present case is an extraordinary example. Had Mr Alison looked to the lines immediately following, he would not have objected to that One. For is very beautiful – brings the whole under the domain of Poetry, by singular Picturesqueness, and by gathering the whole past history of Italy up – fetching it in with a word —antiquos.

"Tot congesta manu præruptis oppida saxis,Fluminaque antiquos subter labentia muros"

SEWARD.

I can form no conjecture as to the meaning of Mr Alison's objections. He quotes a few fine lines from the "Praise of Italy," and then one line which he calls prosaic, and would have us to hold up our hands in wonder at the lame and impotent conclusion – at the sudden transformation of Virgil the poet into Virgil the most prosaic of Prosers. You have said enough already, sir, to prove that he is in error even on his own showing; – but how can this fragmentary – this piecemeal mode of quotation – so common among critics of the lower school, and so unworthy of those of the higher – have found favour with Mr Alison, one of the most candid and most enlightened of men? Some accidental prejudice from mere carelessness – but, once formed, retained in spite of the fine and true Taste which, unfettered, would have felt the fallacy, and vindicated his admired Virgil.

NORTH.

The "Laudes" – to which the Poet is brought by the preceding bold, sweeping, winged, and poetical strain about the indigenous vines of Italy – have two-fold root – Trees and the glory of Lands. Virgil kindles on the double suggestion – the trees of Italy compared to the trees of other regions. They are the trees of primary human service and gladness – Oil and Wine. For see at once the deep, sound natural ground in human wants – the bounty of Nature – of Mother Earth – "whatever Earth, all-bearing Mother, yields" – to her human children. That is the gate of entrance; but not prosaically – but two gate-posts of a most poetical mythus-fed husbandman. For we have Jason's fire-mouthed Bulls ploughing, and Cadmus-sown teeth of the dragon springing up in armed men. Then comes, instead, mild, benign, Man-loving Italy – "gravidæ fruges" – the heavy-eared corn – or rather big-teeming – the juice of Bacchus – the Olives, and the "broad herds of Cattle." Note – ye Virgilians – the Corn of Book First – the Oil and Wine of Book Second – and the Cattle of Book Third – for the sustaining Thought – the organic life of his Work moves in his heart.

BULLER.

And the Fourth – Bees – honey – and honey-makers are like Milkers – in a way small Milch-cows.

NORTH.

They are. Once a-foot – or a-wing – he hurries and rushes along, all through the "Laudes." The majestic victim-Bull of the Clitumnus – the incipient Spring – the double Summer —the absence of all envenomed and deadly broods – tigers – lions – aconite – serpents. This is Nature's Favour. Then Man's Works– cities and forts – (rock-fortresses) – the great lakes of Northern Italy – showing Man again in their vast edifications. Then Nature in veins of metals precious or useful – then Nature in her production of Man – the Marsi – the Sabellian youth – the Ligurian inured to labour – and the Volscian darters – then single mighty shapes and powers of Man – Romans – the Decii, the Marii, the Camilli,