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Reviews
It is not, however, a very remarkable production.
The Smouse, by Fannin, has the modern merit of incomprehensibility. It reads like something out of The Hunting of the Snark:
I’m a Smouse, I’m a Smouse in the wilderness wide,The veld is my home, and the wagon’s my pride:The crack of my ‘voerslag’ shall sound o’er the lea,I’m a Smouse, I’m a Smouse, and the trader is free!I heed not the Governor, I fear not his law,I care not for civilisation one straw,And ne’er to ‘Ompanda’ – ‘Umgazis’ I’ll throwWhile my arm carries fist, or my foot bears a toe!‘Trek,’ ‘trek,’ ply the whip – touch the fore oxen’s skin,I’ll warrant we’ll ‘go it’ through thick and through thin —Loop! loop ye oud skellums! ot Vikmaan trek jy;I’m a Smouse, I’m a Smouse, and the trader is free!The South African poets, as a class, are rather behind the age. They seem to think that ‘Aurora’ is a very novel and delightful epithet for the dawn. On the whole they depress us.
Chess, by Mr. Louis Tylor, is a sort of Christmas masque in which the dramatis personæ consist of some unmusical carollers, a priggish young man called Eric, and the chessmen off the board. The White Queen’s Knight begins a ballad and the Black King’s Bishop completes it. The Pawns sing in chorus and the Castles converse with each other. The silliness of the form makes it an absolutely unreadable book.
Mr. Williamson’s Poems of Nature and Life are as orthodox in spirit as they are commonplace in form. A few harmless heresies of art and thought would do this poet no harm. Nearly everything that he says has been said before and said better. The only original thing in the volume is the description of Mr. Robert Buchanan’s ‘grandeur of mind.’ This is decidedly new.
Dr. Cockle tells us that Müllner’s Guilt and The Ancestress of Grillparzer are the masterpieces of German fate-tragedy. His translation of the first of these two masterpieces does not make us long for any further acquaintance with the school. Here is a specimen from the fourth act of the fate-tragedy.
SCENE VIIIELVIRA. HUGO.ELVIRA (after long silence, leaving the harp, steps to Hugo, and seeks his gaze).HUGO (softly). Though I made sacrifice of thy sweet life. The Father has forgiven. Can the wife – Forgive?ELVIRA (on his breast). She can!HUGO (with all the warmth of love). Dear wife!ELVIRA (after a pause, in deep sorrow). Must it be so, beloved one?HUGO (sorry to have betrayed himself). What?In his preface to The Circle of Seasons, a series of hymns and verses for the seasons of the Church, the Rev. T. B. Dover expresses a hope that this well-meaning if somewhat tedious book ‘may be of value to those many earnest people to whom the subjective aspect of truth is helpful.’ The poem beginning
Lord, in the inn of my poor worthless heartGuests come and go; but there is room for Thee,has some merit and might be converted into a good sonnet. The majority of the poems, however, are quite worthless. There seems to be some curious connection between piety and poor rhymes.
Lord Henry Somerset’s verse is not so good as his music. Most of the Songs of Adieu are marred by their excessive sentimentality of feeling and by the commonplace character of their weak and lax form. There is nothing that is new and little that is true in verse of this kind:
The golden leaves are falling,Falling one by one,Their tender ‘Adieux’ callingTo the cold autumnal sun.The trees in the keen and frosty airStand out against the sky,’Twould seem they stretch their branches bareTo Heaven in agony.It can be produced in any quantity. Lord Henry Somerset has too much heart and too little art to make a good poet, and such art as he does possess is devoid of almost every intellectual quality and entirely lacking in any intellectual strength. He has nothing to say and says it.
Mrs. Cora M. Davis is eloquent about the splendours of what the authoress of The Circle of Seasons calls ‘this earthly ball.’
Let’s sing the beauties of this grand old earth,
she cries, and proceeds to tell how
Imagination paints old Egypt’s former glory,Of mighty temples reaching heavenward,Of grim, colossal statues, whose barbaric storyThe caustic pens of erudition still record,Whose ancient cities of glittering minaretsReflect the gold of Afric’s gorgeous sunsets.‘The caustic pens of erudition’ is quite delightful and will be appreciated by all Egyptologists. There is also a charming passage in the same poem on the pictures of the Old Masters:
the mellow richness of whose tints impart,By contrast, greater delicacy still to modern art.This seems to us the highest form of optimism we have ever come across in art criticism. It is American in origin, Mrs. Davis, as her biographer tells us, having been born in Alabama, Genesee co., N.Y.
(1) The Story of the Kings of Rome in Verse. By the Hon. G. Denman, Judge of the High Court of Justice. (Trübner and Co.)
(2) Tales and Legends in Verse. By E. Cooper Willis, Q.C. (Kegan Paul.)
(3) The Poetry of South Africa. Collected and arranged by A. Wilmot. (Sampson Low and Co.)
(4) Chess. A Christmas Masque. By Louis Tylor. (Fisher Unwin.)
(5) Poems of Nature and Life. By David R. Williamson. (Blackwood.)
(6) Guilt. Translated from the German by J. Cockle, M.D. (Williams and Norgate.)
(7) The Circle of Seasons. By K. E. V. (Elliot Stock.)
(8) Songs of Adieu. By Lord Henry Somerset. (Chatto and Windus.)
(9) Immortelles. By Cora M. Davis. (G. P. Putnam’s Sons.)
SOME LITERARY NOTES – IV
(Woman’s World, April 1889.)
‘In modern life,’ said Matthew Arnold once, ‘you I cannot well enter a monastery; but you can enter the Wordsworth Society.’ I fear that this will sound to many a somewhat uninviting description of this admirable and useful body, whose papers and productions have been recently published by Professor Knight, under the title of Wordsworthiana. ‘Plain living and high thinking’ are not popular ideals. Most people prefer to live in luxury, and to think with the majority. However, there is really nothing in the essays and addresses of the Wordsworth Society that need cause the public any unnecessary alarm; and it is gratifying to note that, although the society is still in the first blush of enthusiasm, it has not yet insisted upon our admiring Wordsworth’s inferior work. It praises what is worthy of praise, reverences what should be reverenced, and explains what does not require explanation. One paper is quite delightful; it is from the pen of Mr. Rawnsley, and deals with such reminiscences of Wordsworth as still linger among the peasantry of Westmoreland. Mr. Rawnsley grew up, he tells us, in the immediate vicinity of the present Poet-Laureate’s old home in Lincolnshire, and had been struck with the swiftness with which,
As year by year the labourer tillsHis wonted glebe, or lops the glades,the memories of the poet of the Somersby Wold had ‘faded from off the circle of the hills’ – had, indeed, been astonished to note how little real interest was taken in him or his fame, and how seldom his works were met with in the houses of the rich or poor in the very neighbourhood. Accordingly, when he came to reside in the Lake Country, he endeavoured to find out what of Wordsworth’s memory among the men of the Dales still lingered on – how far he was still a moving presence among them – how far his works had made their way into the cottages and farmhouses of the valleys. He also tried to discover how far the race of Westmoreland and Cumberland farm-folk – the ‘Matthews’ and the ‘Michaels’ of the poet, as described by him – were real or fancy pictures, or how far the characters of the Dalesmen had been altered in any remarkable manner by tourist influences during the thirty-two years that have passed since the Lake poet was laid to rest.
With regard to the latter point, it will be remembered that Mr. Ruskin, writing in 1876, said that ‘the Border peasantry, painted with absolute fidelity by Scott and Wordsworth,’ are, as hitherto, a scarcely injured race; that in his fields at Coniston he had men who might have fought with Henry V. at Agincourt without being distinguished from any of his knights; that he could take his tradesmen’s word for a thousand pounds, and need never latch his garden gate; and that he did not fear molestation, in wood or on moor, for his girl guests. Mr. Rawnsley, however, found that a certain beauty had vanished which the simple retirement of old valley days fifty years ago gave to the men among whom Wordsworth lived. ‘The strangers,’ he says, ‘with their gifts of gold, their vulgarity, and their requirements, have much to answer for.’ As for their impressions of Wordsworth, to understand them one must understand the vernacular of the Lake District. ‘What was Mr. Wordsworth like in personal appearance?’ said Mr. Rawnsley once to an old retainer, who still lives not far from Rydal Mount. ‘He was a ugly-faäced man, and a meän liver,’ was the answer; but all that was really meant was that he was a man of marked features, and led a very simple life in matters of food and raiment. Another old man, who believed that Wordsworth ‘got most of his poetry out of Hartley,’ spoke of the poet’s wife as ‘a very onpleasant woman, very onpleasant indeed. A close-fisted woman, that’s what she was.’ This, however, seems to have been merely a tribute to Mrs. Wordsworth’s admirable housekeeping qualities.
The first person interviewed by Mr. Rawnsley was an old lady who had been once in service at Rydal Mount, and was, in 1870, a lodging-house keeper at Grasmere. She was not a very imaginative person, as may be gathered from the following anecdote: – Mr. Rawnsley’s sister came in from a late evening walk, and said, ‘O Mrs. D-, have you seen the wonderful sunset?’ The good lady turned sharply round and, drawing herself to her full height, as if mortally offended, answered: ‘No, miss; I’m a tidy cook, I know, and “they say” a decentish body for a landlady, but I don’t knaw nothing about sunsets or them sort of things, they’ve never been in my line.’ Her reminiscence of Wordsworth was as worthy of tradition as it was explanatory, from her point of view, of the method in which Wordsworth composed, and was helped in his labours by his enthusiastic sister. ‘Well, you know,’ she said, ‘Mr. Wordsworth went humming and booing about, and she, Miss Dorothy, kept close behint him, and she picked up the bits as he let ’em fall, and tak’ ’em down, and put ’em together on paper for him. And you may be very well sure as how she didn’t understand nor make sense out of ’em, and I doubt that he didn’t know much about them either himself, but, howivver, there’s a great many folk as do, I dare say.’ Of Wordsworth’s habit of talking to himself, and composing aloud, we hear a great deal. ‘Was Mr. Wordsworth a sociable man?’ asked Mr. Rawnsley of a Rydal farmer. ‘Wudsworth, for a’ he had noa pride nor nowt,’ was the answer, ‘was a man who was quite one to hissel, ye kna. He was not a man as folks could crack wi’, nor not a man as could crack wi’ folks. But there was another thing as kep’ folk off, he had a ter’ble girt deep voice, and ye might see his faace agaan for long enuff. I’ve knoan folks, village lads and lasses, coming over by old road above, which runs from Grasmere to Rydal, flayt a’most to death there by Wishing Gaate to hear the girt voice a groanin’ and mutterin’ and thunderin’ of a still evening. And he had a way of standin’ quite still by the rock there in t’ path under Rydal, and folks could hear sounds like a wild beast coming from the rocks, and childer were scared fit to be deäd a’most.’
Wordsworth’s description of himself constantly recurs to one:
And who is he with modest looks,And clad in sober russet gown?He murmurs by the running brooks,A music sweeter than their own;He is retired as noontide dew,Or fountain in a noonday grove.But the corroboration comes in strange guise. Mr. Rawnsley asked one of the Dalesmen about Wordsworth’s dress and habits. This was the reply: ‘Wudsworth wore a Jem Crow, never seed him in a boxer in my life, – a Jem Crow and an old blue cloak was his rig, and as for his habits, he had noan; niver knew him with a pot i’ his hand, or a pipe i’ his mouth. But he was a greät skater, for a’ that – noan better in these parts – why, he could cut his own naäme upo’ the ice, could Mr. Wudsworth.’ Skating seems to have been Wordsworth’s one form of amusement. He was ‘over feckless i’ his hands’ – could not drive or ride – ‘not a bit of fish in him,’ and ‘nowt of a mountaineer.’ But he could skate. The rapture of the time when, as a boy, on Esthwaite’s frozen lake, he had
wheeled about,Proud and exulting like an untired horseThat cares not for his home, and, shod with steel,Had hissed along the polished ice,was continued, Mr. Rawnsley tells us, into manhood’s later day; and Mr. Rawnsley found many proofs that the skill the poet had gained, when
Not seldom from the uproar he retired,Into a silent bay, or sportivelyGlanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throngTo cut across the reflex of a star,was of such a kind as to astonish the natives among whom he dwelt. The recollection of a fall he once had, when his skate caught on a stone, still lingers in the district. A boy had been sent to sweep the snow from the White Moss Tarn for him. ‘Did Mr. Wudsworth gie ye owt?’ he was asked, when he returned from his labour. ‘Na, but I seed him tumlle, though!’ was the answer. ‘He was a ter’ble girt skater, was Wudsworth now,’ says one of Mr. Rawnsley’s informants; ‘he would put one hand i’ his breast (he wore a frill shirt i’ them days), and t’other hand i’ his waistband, same as shepherds does to keep their hands warm, and he would stand up straight and sway and swing away grandly.’
Of his poetry they did not think much, and whatever was good in it they ascribed to his wife, his sister, and Hartley Coleridge. He wrote poetry, they said, ‘because he couldn’t help it – because it was his hobby’ – for sheer love, and not for money. They could not understand his doing work ‘for nowt,’ and held his occupation in somewhat light esteem because it did not bring in ‘a deal o’ brass to the pocket.’ ‘Did you ever read his poetry, or see any books about in the farmhouses?’ asked Mr. Rawnsley. The answer was curious: ‘Ay, ay, time or two. But ya’re weel aware there’s potry and potry. There’s potry wi’ a li’le bit pleasant in it, and potry sic as a man can laugh at or the childer understand, and some as takes a deal of mastery to make out what’s said, and a deal of Wudsworth’s was this sort, ye kna. You could tell fra the man’s faace his potry would niver have no laugh in it. His potry was quite different work from li’le Hartley. Hartley ’ud goa running along beside o’ the brooks and mak his, and goa in the first oppen door and write what he had got upo’ paper. But Wudsworth’s potry was real hard stuff, and bided a deal of makking, and he’d keep it in his head for long enough. Eh, but it’s queer, mon, different ways folks hes of making potry now.. Not but what Mr. Wudsworth didn’t stand very high, and was a well-spoken man enough.’ The best criticism on Wordsworth that Mr. Rawnsley heard was this: ‘He was an open-air man, and a great critic of trees.’
There are many useful and well-written essays in Professor Knight’s volume, but Mr. Rawnsley’s is far the most interesting of all. It gives us a graphic picture of the poet as he appeared in outward semblance and manner to those about whom he wrote.
* * * * *Mary Myles is Mrs. Edmonds’s first attempt at writing fiction. Mrs. Edmonds is well known as an authority on modern Greek literature, and her style has often a very pleasant literary flavour, though in her dialogues she has not as yet quite grasped the difference between la langue parleé and la langue écrite. Her heroine is a sort of Nausicaa from Girton, who develops into the Pallas Athena of a provincial school. She has her love-romance, like her Homeric prototype, and her Odysseus returns to her at the close of the book. It is a nice story.
* * * * *Lady Dilke’s Art in the Modern State is a book that cannot fail to interest deeply every one who cares either for art or for history. The ‘modern State’ which gives its title to the book is that political and social organisation of our day that comes to us from the France of Richelieu and Colbert, and is the direct outcome of the ‘Grand Siècle,’ the true greatness of which century, as Lady Dilke points out, consists not in its vain wars, and formal stage and stilted eloquence, and pompous palaces, but in the formation and working out of the political and social system of which these things were the first-fruits. To the question that naturally rises on one’s lips, ‘How can one dwell on the art of the seventeenth century? – it has no charm,’ Lady Dilke answers that this art presents in its organisation, from the point of view of social polity, problems of the highest intellectual interest. Throughout all its phases – to quote her own words – ‘the life of France wears, during the seventeenth century, a political aspect. The explanation of all changes in the social system, in letters, in the arts, in fashions even, has to be sought in the necessities of the political position; and the seeming caprices of taste take their rise from the same causes which went to determine the making of a treaty or the promulgation of an edict. This seems all the stranger because, in times preceding, letters and the arts, at least, appeared to flourish in conditions as far removed from the action of statecraft as if they had been a growth of fairyland. In the Middle Ages they were devoted to a virgin image of Virtue; they framed, in the shade of the sanctuary, an ideal shining with the beauty born of self-renunciation, of resignation to self-enforced conditions of moral and physical suffering. By the queenly Venus of the Renaissance they were consecrated to the joys of life, and the world saw that through their perfect use men might renew their strength, and behold virtue and beauty with clear eyes. It was, however, reserved for the rulers of France in the seventeenth century fully to realise the political function of letters and the arts in the modern State, and their immense importance in connection with the prosperity of a commercial nation.’
The whole subject is certainly extremely fascinating. The Renaissance had for its object the development of great personalities. The perfect freedom of the temperament in matters of art, the perfect freedom of the intellect in intellectual matters, the full development of the individual, were the things it aimed at. As we study its history we find it full of great anarchies. It solved no political or social problems; it did not seek to solve them. The ideal of the ‘Grand Siècle,’ and of Richelieu, in whom the forces of that great age were incarnate, was different. The ideas of citizenship, of the building up of a great nation, of the centralisation of forces, of collective action, of ethnic unity of purpose, came before the world. It was inevitable that they should have done so, and Lady Dilke, with her keen historic sense and her wonderful power of grouping facts, has told us the story of their struggle and their victory. Her book is, from every point of view, a most remarkable work. Her style is almost French in its clearness, its sobriety, its fine and, at times, ascetic simplicity. The whole ground-plan and intellectual-conception is admirable.
It is, of course, easy to see how much Art lost by having a new mission forced upon her. The creation of a formal tradition upon classical lines is never without its danger, and it is sad to find the provincial towns of France, once so varied and individual in artistic expression, writing to Paris for designs and advice. And yet, through Colbert’s great centralising scheme of State supervision and State aid, France was the one country in Europe, and has remained the one country in Europe, where the arts are not divorced from industry. The Academy of Painting and Sculpture and the School of Architecture were not, to quote Lady Dilke’s words, called into being in order that royal palaces should be raised surpassing all others in magnificence:
Bièvrebache and the Savonnerie were not established only that such palaces should be furnished more sumptuously than those of an Eastern fairy-tale. Colbert did not care chiefly to inquire, when organising art administration, what were the institutions best fitted to foster the proper interests of art; he asked, in the first place, what would most contribute to swell the national importance. Even so, in surrounding the King with the treasures of luxury, his object was twofold – their possession should, indeed, illustrate the Crown, but should also be a unique source of advantage to the people. Glass-workers were brought from Venice, and lace-makers from Flanders, that they might yield to France the secrets of their skill. Palaces and public buildings were to afford commissions for French artists, and a means of technical and artistic education for all those employed upon them. The royal collections were but a further instrument in educating the taste and increasing the knowledge of the working classes. The costly factories of the Savonnerie and the Gobelins were practical schools, in which every detail of every branch of all those industries which contribute to the furnishing and decoration of houses were brought to perfection; whilst a band of chosen apprentices were trained in the adjoining schools. To Colbert is due the honour of having foreseen, not only that the interests of the modern State were inseparably bound up with those of industry, but also that the interests of industry could not, without prejudice, be divorced from art.
Mr. Bret Harte has never written anything finer than Cressy. It is one of his most brilliant and masterly productions, and will take rank with the best of his Californian stories. Hawthorne re-created for us the America of the past with the incomparable grace of a very perfect artist, but Mr. Bret Harte’s emphasised modernity has, in its own sphere, won equal, or almost equal, triumphs. Wit, pathos, humour, realism, exaggeration, and romance are in this marvellous story all blended together, and out of the very clash and chaos of these things comes life itself. And what a curious life it is, half civilised and half barbarous, naïve and corrupt, chivalrous and commonplace, real and improbable! Cressy herself is the most tantalising of heroines. She is always eluding one’s grasp. It is difficult to say whether she sacrifices herself on the altar of romance, or is merely a girl with an extraordinary sense of humour. She is intangible, and the more we know of her, the more incomprehensible she becomes. It is pleasant to come across a heroine who is not identified with any great cause, and represents no important principle, but is simply a wonderful nymph from American backwoods, who has in her something of Artemis, and not a little of Aphrodite.
* * * * *It is always a pleasure to come across an American poet who is not national, and who tries to give expression to the literature that he loves rather than to the land in which he lives. The Muses care so little for geography! Mr. Richard Day’s Poems have nothing distinctively American about them. Here and there in his verse one comes across a flower that does not bloom in our meadows, a bird to which our woodlands have never listened. But the spirit that animates the verse is simple and human, and there is hardly a poem in the volume that English lips might not have uttered. Sounds of the Temple has much in it that is interesting in metre as well as in matter: —
Then sighed a poet from his soul:‘The clouds are blown across the stars,And chill have grown my lattice bars;I cannot keep my vigil wholeBy the lone candle of my soul.‘This reed had once devoutest tongue,And sang as if to its small throatGod listened for a perfect note;As charily this lyre was strung:God’s praise is slow and has no tongue.’But the best poem is undoubtedly the Hymn to the Mountain: —
