No. 1862, July 4^th, '63

(1.) The Guardian Angel.
By Joseph Verey. (Clarke.)

'The Guardian Angel' is a dramatic poem, after the manner of the spasmodists, but in the very mildest form of that latter-day poetic eruption.  It is not so much spasmodic in expression as in its shadowy talk about invisible characters, who are pretty sure to be either epic poets or desperate criminals.  There is no lack of pleasant lines, yet they make no more lasting impression than the breeze that ripples over the water.  The author has no dramatic faculty; but if he would seize some real facts of life with a good grip of earnestness, we think he might so tell a story in verse as to win a hearing for it.  We pass that verdict after reading

(2.) Eiler and Helvig.
By Mrs. George Lenox-Conyngham. (Chapman & Hall.)

A Danish legend, which contains a capital illustration of Norse magnanimity, showing what a spring of tenderness there was in the stern rock of the rude Norse nature if it could only make its way to daylight.  But the story has not here found immortal setting.  This is only a poetic exercise, in the style of Pope or Byron, as was that of the Yankee who, when the floods swept his mill down the stream, sat down to do something in the above-named style, and wrote—

—It must be admitted, however, that the present writer comes somewhat nearer to her model, as the following lines, containing the "tag" of the poem, will ensample:—

No. 1869, August 22^nd '63

Oscar; and Autumnal Gleanings.
By J. H. R. Bayley. (Pitman.)

FOOLS, says Goëthe, are the worst kind of thieves; they rob us of time and temper.  But why should we permit the fool to rob us of our good temper?  Why not turn him to account in the literary theatre, as well as in the amphitheatre, and let him make a little amusement for us?  It is ever an incentive to mirth when the humour is unpremeditated.  We shall not hurt the sale of 'Oscar,' with such a formidable list of patrons as it has; and as for the author, he must be the last person in the world who will accept our opinion.  Nature is very pitiful and kind in all such cases, and generally makes up for the lack of one quality with a plenitude of others.

    The book opens on a portrait of the author.  He is, no doubt, acquainted with Addison's gossip concerning the curiosity of readers respecting the writer of a book.  Our author has considerately determined to gratify the weakness, and flatter this infirmity of human nature.  And a very striking portrait it is.  Of course, it was placed here to be looked at; let us look at it.  Any one would know those were the eyes of a poet, just as we might recognize a sailor, by the roll; nay, they positively bulge with impressiveness.  But when eyes roll, in photography the effect is anything but fine.  The book and portrait are dedicated to a Duke, and a long list of patrons, which includes Dukes, Duchesses, Bishops, Marquises, and Earls in abundance.  Talk of poetry not being patronized in England!  That is no longer a true bill:—it is a libel.  Talk of the decline, of poetry!  Why the fact is it must be in a rapid consumption if this sort of stuff sells.  Let us no longer hear of a dearth of poets, or of poetry being in a bad way.  Still, just for curiosity's sake, we should like to know how far a man like Mr. Dickens is a conscious and consenting patron of such trash.  Here are four pages of letters from patrons.  Amongst others there is one from the French Cabinet.  The Emperor, we learn, is not in the habit of buying his books in response to begging letters, but as Mr. Bayley is an "Illustrious Stranger" his Majesty waives his usual custom, and does not stand upon ceremony, but takes two copies—one for the Empress and one for himself.  "Bless thee, Bottom," how "thou art translated" —illustrious stranger!  A stranger, indeed, at home, and not illustrious.  At first we thought it might have been the name of Mr. Bright amongst the patrons that pleaded with the French Cabinet.  But, on second thought, we see it was the portrait that did it.  "Illustrious Stranger!" that is its natural foot-note of exclamation.  When Mason subscribed 5s. for Ann Yearsley, the Milkmaid and "Heaven-born" poet, he put down 4s. 6d. for the Milkmaid and 6d. for the "Heaven-born" genius.  So we have no doubt but that his Imperial Majesty subscribed 3s. for the portrait, and 1s. for the poetry.  Still, we shudder at what will be thought of the state of literature in England, should the Emperor's patronage tempt any other Frenchman to look into the book.

    Here is one letter from "James Harmer," dated eleven years back; it is thus introduced by Mr. Bayley: "This is the celebrated James Harmer of Weekly Dispatch notoriety, Lord Mayor popularity, and 'Old Bailey' eloquence"!  Mr. Scholefield, M.P., in his note, hopes for a speedy sale of the whole edition.  We have no such hope.  In this world interests will come into collision, and we speak in the interest of the public.

    Having cracked the shell we get at the kernel of the book, and here is rich food for fun.  The first poem is in "four cantos"; twice is it so stated in print.  But here are only two cantos; the author, like that clever youth who, at the India House Examination, wrote "time up" on nine unfinished papers in succession, could get no further than the second canto, at the end of which we are left, hot with excitement, and coolly told that the other two cantos will appear in the second edition.   The patrons will thus be let in for two copies by this little bit of double dealing.  Our author knows how to take advantage of that Machiavellian maxim, which tells us it is best to woo Fortune impetuously, because she is a woman and more easily won by a happy audacity.

    This poem, 'Oscar,' shows us that the writer's chief humour is for a tyrant.  He can "play Ercles rarely, or a part to tear a cat in."  His choice, in this case, is the late Emperor of Russia and his doings in Circassia.  The poem opens grandly; the writer, in Norval attitude, wishing to be inspired by the Powers!—

—What for?—

    The whole of the verses form a singular compound of unmeaning blasphemy, bagman smartness, and "Brummagem" sublimity.  The touches intended to be humorous and Byronic are ghastly indeed.  Here is one:—

His oath I don't remember, but it closed with h—l.

This, again, is meant to be lively:—

    What terror to the critic may be shadowed in the line we have italicized we know not, or what may be the views of a horse; but we can inform the author that he has been about as near to Pegasus as Burns's 'Poet Willie.'

    Mr. Bayley appears to be rather fond of "h—l," as he delicately puts it.  In some lines on Tombstones we find this choice morsel:—

—Perhaps the demons might.  Still, the poet's prospect in eternity, according to his own showing, is but a poor look-out.  Not but what he has a perfect right to speak for himself in such a matter; he should know best.  But we must protest against this sweeping assertion:—

    That is the positive philosophy with a vengeance.  The holder of such a creed may very fairly put forth the "Devil's Advertisement," as one of the pieces is called.  The Devil is here supposed to keep a pawn-shop, or, as the author elegantly phrases it, a "two-to-one."  This is the ghastly conclusion, meant to be witty.  The italics are not ours.—

    This again, is printed and italicized as an 'Epigram on my old friend John Steele':—

—That is the sort of thing which our author can do with premeditation.  This is an "Impromptu," on being asked what he thought of the world:—

    Some of the statements are as wonderful as the above is silly.  We are told that Shakspeare caught the "Promethean flame" at a "Stratford shrine" while "whistling by his team o'er turf and fallow," and that Demosthenes used the pebbles to "clear and strengthen Nature's bane.”

    In conclusion, our author, with the utmost satisfaction over his italicized senselessness, tells us—

—He has no misgiving with respect to that last word.

    He says if the young and inexperienced will only benefit from his writings, his "end is answered."  We have done what we could to benefit the "young and inexperienced" in the matter; but the author's end will certainly not be answered until, like Falstaff, he gets his "catastrophe tickled."  We should not have permitted Mr. Bayley to share our readers' leisure, were it not for the advantage, not to be despised by us, of seeing what kind of poetry is patronized by the French Cabinet, an English Bishop, four Dukes, a large number of Earls and Lords, and which Sir R. Peel thinks "very spirited" in execution.

No. 1878, October 24^th '63

The Poems of George Minimus.

An advertisement tells us that Mr. George Minimus was a rather voluminous poet, who has left a good-sized box of MSS., and this pamphlet contains a printed sample of his verse.  Thus we suppose the writer, "S. S.," buries his dead past!  We find sufficient merit in the verses to make us wish the writer would set fire to the box, and go to work next time in downright earnest.  If he will do this, we shall not be surprised to find that a genuine phoenix comes forth from the conflagration.  This pamphlet contains 'Love's Folly,' which is pretty, but the writer must now have done with that, and wisely determine to play no more with the most fantastic shadows of things, or drop tears upon cobwebs to see how they will glisten in the light.  Above all, he must no longer affect quaintness, which is about the most fatal kind of sham in poetry.  Things which look natural enough in the early Italian poets may not bear imitation with us.  But for the length, we would have quoted 'A Dream.'  The following three imperfect Sonnets will serve to illustrate our remarks:

(2) The Poetic Magazine.

If all the poets were to cease singing, poetry would still live on in the human heart; and if all other classes were to take no interest in poetry, we believe it would find a home and live on with the working classes.   The love of poetry has a base as broad amongst them as the reach is lofty when the passion culminates in a poet like Robert Bums.  They may only produce the weeds of poetry, but these weeds are flowers to them, and a genuine natural growth.  Here, for example, is a working man who writes and prints his own poetry, and edits the Poetic Magazine—being the Role English representative of what Schiller was at one time in Germany.  We fear there is not the slightest chance of his being remunerated for his labour—at least, not in a direct way; but the old feeling is strong, and will manifest itself, even though pent in a dingy printing-office in dirty Drury Lane.  The idea of a Poetic Magazine is a good one; and here it is not badly carried out, although the adverse circumstances and inadequate means must hinder its success.  The 'Essays on Old English Poets' by Mr. Matson, and those 'On Dante,' by Mr. Thornton Hunt, are likely to be the most attractive.  Amongst other contributors, we find the Bideford Postman, Capern, Mr. J. A. Langford, the Chevalier de Chatelain and David Wingate.  There is a notice of Robert Ripley, a working gardener, young and poor, who, living in the little hamlet of Escrick, Yorkshire, uncheered by a word of commendation, and having but small acquaintanceship with books, has written poetry of promise which makes us desire to hear more of him.  The editor's contributions are not the least noticeable' amongst the poetic contents.  Mr. Matson also furnishes various pleasant little lyrics.  Here is one:—

(3) Thoughts in Verse.

This book may be pronounced "remarkable" with the genuine Yankee nasal twang.  Most remarkable to think how any American can sit in Paris and fiddle so foolishly whilst his country is in flames.  This is one of the 'Thoughts in Verse'; and it has a whole page devoted to it:—"1846.  Never judge, a man's learning by the size of his library."  That is "prose and worse" indeed. Should the author cross the Channel, we would commend him to the notice of "Jack of Dover."  The reader of our old pamphlet literature will understand the hint.  To give Mr. Hornor's extra-hornorary book its full due, however, it has served to remind us that American versifiers have the advantage over ours in finding a rhyme for "blossom," as—

No. 1887, December 26^th, 1863

Praeterita.
By William Lancaster. (Macmillan & Co.)

IF the lion could have modelled the statues instead of man, the old fable says the victory might have been reversed.  So, when the youthful lover strives to inform all the world that he has been jilted by some worthless girl, whose beauty was only the mirage of a desert nature,—her modesty only demurest hypocrisy,—her purity as the milk-white juice of certain poison flowers,—and her smile the subtlest and surest way of lying, we apt to think that if the young lady had the telling of the tale it would all appear very different.  In fact, these public renunciations and measureless maledictions make us take part at once with the weaker vessel.  However "silvern" may be the speech of the lover who proclaims his trouble and his heroic resolve to stand it no longer, we have no doubt that there may be something "golden" in the silence of the ladye-love, if we could only get at it.  Our sense, of common fair-play demands to hear the other side before we are cheated of our sympathy.   We hold that something, might be made of a reply to the sound-winded if broken-hearted lover in 'Locksley Hall,' who is one of the greatest types of this unchivalry with which the fair sex are treated by the unfair sex.  What proof is there that he did not make a fool of himself as much as ever his nice little cousin made of him?  How do we know that she loved him with any such passion as he painted to himself?  Of course she was fond of him in her cousinly Amy-able way, but this is an affection apt to be mistaken.  Then, with regard to his own feeling, we think he is condemned out of his own mouth; he tells us that "love is love for evermore!"  According to that dictum he could never have truly loved Amy,—for if he had, and loved for ever, surely he would have spared the poor girl those bitter taunts and useless ravings which sound so grandiose in verse.  And perhaps, after all, he was not the man of all the world to make the best of husbands for Amy, although he seems to have thought he was.  If he ever showed to the mother that spasmodic rashness of character which broke out afterwards in all sorts of terrible threats, absurd aspirations, and absolute intentions of marrying a black woman or any other woman, on any or without any colourable pretext whatever, we cannot wonder that the mother should have feared for her daughter's safety with such a frantic fellow.  There is some grandeur, however, in this lover's weakness as he rushes forth on the world like a wounded wild beast with the arrow quivering in its side.  We know that he is hit; we see him bleed, and some sympathy for him is forced from us.

    The author of 'Praeterita' is one of the latest and worst offenders in this line of sentimental business.  He is on tiff with some young lady, we know not wherefore, but he must needs call her ill names, and is satisfied with nothing less than a public repudiation.  He tells her in the most emphatic manner that he has "done with her."  We reply, very well, but you might have said it somewhat more delicately!

What are we to infer from a "virgin zone" not being free from venom?  Does the writer mean that the young lady had a wasp-waist?  Richard Swiveller might have written the following lines:—

    Sir John Falstaff says, "Give me a cup of sack, to make mine eyes look red, that it may be thought I have wept; for I must speak in passion, and I will do it in King Cambyses' vein."  Our author, at page 30, flies to ale to keep up the liquid flow.   He talks of being in a "soaking mood," and of growing mellow with stiff strong beer.  "Will Waterproof's Monologue" is running in his brain.  He is neither waterproof nor beer-proof himself: a little of the latter would set him reeling; it would not have far to mount.  Still, we have less dislike to the moralizing over the clear "October" than to the poetic bullying of the young lady.

    Many of these pieces are faint Tennysonian reverberations.   The appeals to external nature are meant to be after the manner of 'In Memoriam.'  But it is of no use for a writer to call our attention continually to the aspects of external nature to prove by outer signs the force of an inner passion which he does not really feel.

    In 'A Wisp of Epic,' which might fully and fairly have been called a "will-o'-the-wisp," we find this new attitude and mode of speech,—

—and this, which looks like a novelty in tooth-cleaning:—

We find the nearest approach to sense, music and poetry in

But if the author of 'Praeterita' does possess any genius for poetry, it is at present working so darkly and in such a mist of words that we may be excused for not being able to see it.

No. 1915, July 9^th, 1864

Pictures of the Past.

We regret that Mr. Bradfield's love of "out-of-the-way places, out-of-the-way books, out-of-the-way lore of every kind," has not led to the production of an out-of-the-way good book in his "Pictures of the Past" (Longman & Co).  If he has really found anything worth communication to the world, he would probably tell it best in prose; but the affection for his historic books does not necessarily imply the power to paint the pictures or people them once more with life.

No. 1919, August 6^th,1864

Voices from the Hearth: a collection of verses.
By Isidore G. Ascher. (Montreal, Lovell).

THE Canadas have not yet enriched the realms of poetry. One true poet they have within their borders,—Mr. D'Arcy M'Gee,—who should not altogether give up to politics that which was meant for poetry.  The principle of rebellion with him was fertile in fine, and stately verse, when he was in "ould Ireland," and we trust the strong feeling of his conservatism in his new home will yet inspire many a song.

    These "Voices" are from the hearth of a Canadian home.  The writer having won some local fame, wishes for an English verdict on his verses.  We have read his book, and conclude, as the Yankees say, to give one in his favour.  He will not startle the world for some time to come: he has not that to say which will arrest it on its busy way, nor the absolute power to compel it to lend an ear.  But he has something of a genuine lyrical vein; and, we think, a true song-faculty.  There is not much to criticize.  We must protest, however, against such Cockney rhymes as "charm" and "calm," "awe" and "for," which certainly will not bear transplanting.  He is also too careless in using such words as "vacuous" and "imbued"; these make us expect to find "fadeless" following them.  For the rest, the lyrics will speak for themselves better than we can speak for them; and we shall quote two or three with but little comment.  Here is a lively verse, in quoting which we desire our English compliments to be paid to Canadian Katie:—

    The following 'Madrigal' has music in it—a touch of the quality which makes a song sing of itself:—

    The writer's muse is essentially of the household; and he cannot do better than continue to worship its gods, for there he is emphatically at home, as this pleasant little interior, seen by firelight, will witness:—

    The writer is fond of certain English lyrists, whose poetry he has read quite enough.  We can read them for ourselves, and do not appreciate Transatlantic echoes, which are apt to be so faint.  Let him close such books, and tell us how life goes with them over there, and give us the real setting of it after nature.  More life, and fuller, it is that we want, and that is just what the writer needs to make a poet of him.

No. 1933, November 12^th,1864

(1) Eclogues and Monodramas
by William Lancaster.* (Macmillan & Co.)

The author of this book is one of those for whose especial behoof Mr. Tennyson has written the little allegory which tells us how the poet sowed his seed and reared what he fancied was a flower, but the critics called it a weed, and by the time the world in general had recognized that it was a flower of the true immortal tint, the thieves had stolen seed from it and grown flowers in its likeness, until it has become so common that many lookers-on regard the Tennysonian flower once more as only a weed.  Some of these imitations, says the poet, are very pretty; one of them, 'Tanhauver,' was proclaimed, though not by the Athenaeum, as worthy of the original, and some, he adds, are poor indeed.  These latter are very numerous; and, however pretty the imitation, the result is certain to be poor.  Once more we warn young rhymesters that they had better steal seed from anywhere and almost anything in literature than the Tennysonian flower.  They had better leave this "voluptuous garden-rose" and try a few thistles, to be found in the wild places of the past, and see if they can rear a flower of their own from the less-cultivated seed.  Twelve months' hard labour on the 'Heimskryngla' would do them a world of good, to be followed by six months' robust fare from our national ballads.  If they have any poetic thews, such a course would help to bring them out.  We are heartily sick of this continual feasting of our juveniles on dainties too rich for their stomachs, and then asking us to call their pukings poetry.  Mr. Lancaster is one of the worst offenders amongst recent verse-writers. His painful mimicry of the noble music; his "damnable iteration" of the well-known manner; his repetitions of tricks that we see through, in place of the old miracles that we did not see through; his flashy gilt instead of the fine gold, are almost sufficient to weary the reader into forswearing the original poetry altogether until he can get this lacquer-ware out of sight, and the monotonous drone of the sham music out of his ears.  If Mr. Lancaster have any of the true metal out of which poetry makes its current coin or singer's crown, he had better pour it into any other mould than the Tennysonian, until he can get a mould and make a manner of his own.  At present it is impossible to say which he possesses in his own right.  The pseudo-classical poems count for nothing; they are as the sheerest and most vacant echoes from an empty house raised by an outside voice.  The nearest approach to a personality in the writer may be found, perhaps, in such pieces as 'Country Philosophy,' ' The Sale at the Farm,' and, chiefly, 'James and Mary.'  In this latter poem there are signs of the observing eye with humorous twinkle in it.

[* A pen name of John Byrne Leicester Warren, 3rd Baron De Tabley (1835-95)]

(2) Tammas Bodkin; or, the Humours of a Scottish Tailor.
(Edinburgh, Menzies.)

We agree with the author of this book in thinking it would be a pity if the Scottish language should die out of all future literature. At least we would have many of its expressive words gathered up into English for current use. But the writer of 'Tammas Bodkin' is not calculated to extend a love of "braid Scotch" amongst the Southrons. His humours are not interesting. There is only one Scottish tailor whom the reading world is likely to care about; he came from Dalkeith, "Mansie Wauch"* by name.

(3) The Return of the Swallow; and other Poems
by Goodwin Barmby.*  (Simpkin, Marshall & Co.)

It is not pleasant, on putting forth one volume of poems and promising another, to be told that the first was not called for, and the second is not likely to be.  Yet some such verdict must be given in the present case. Years ago Mr. Barmby was one of those who chimed in with the Progress cant, then so popular in verse.  Those were his most lusty strains.  The politico-social preacher has not mellowed into the poet.  The voice has become still more husky, the feeling more misty, the thoughts more prosy. We are glad to note any exception, however, and we quote this one:—

But Mr. Barmby is mistaken in thinking himself a pathetic man.  We fancy he must be naturally a very funny man,—none the less so because he may not be aware of it. He possesses a large fund of unconscious humour, and that is ever the most provocative of merriment.  He is funny with a serious face, which is just what Hood and Liston were.  And here the fun has an added charm through its being unintentional.  Take this view of Crinoline, for example:—

Now that, we think, is one of the funniest things we ever found in verse.  We had no previous conception, of course, that the "banner woman has unfurled" so widely, was one with the skirt of an angel.  The "stress of incidence" we may pass, because in that garment there is no such angle to lay hold of. But how on earth are we to fight the world with a Crinoline?  George Herwegh sang long ago that to "cold steel it must come at length,"—still we never thought it must came in this shape; also, blessed indeed are they to whom it has not been the hem, and vesture too, of improvidence.  Some of the descriptive epithets are apposite as Mr. Punch's "warbling duck."  Here is one of the

The eyes are fine, but can there be anything in nature more stupidly stolid than the face of a grazing cow?  The Scotchman was nearer the mark who considered there was some "fine confused feeding" in a sheep's head.  Mr. Barmby, we imagine, is the first man who his ever had the courage to celebrate a bonnet trimmed with "cherry-coloured ribbons" as charming, and we hope he may be the last.  His taste in dress is peculiar, but it is not poetic.  In a piece entitled the 'Music that shall be,' we are told that in the Millennium the "crow shall sing like the thrush."  We trust not.  Surely the most distraught, long-haired, visionary follower of Herr Wagner never contemplated so absurd a possibility in the music of the future.  Again, amongst the spoils of the sea our author singles out for notice "Valour's shoulder-blade, and Beauty's hip."  Hip, hip, hooray!

[* Possibly John Goodwyn Barmby, to whom the word "communism" is attributed.]

No. 2047, January 19^th,1867

Ecce Homines; or, Life's Quest
Anon. (Adams & Francis.)

This little anonymous volume calls for no remark save that it is too good to ban, too commonplace to bless.  As usual, the longest poem is the poorest.  The most striking lines are three entitled 'Judas and the Dear Christ'.  Did the writer find his "life's quest" in the Church of Rome?