Kitabı oku: «The Germ: Thoughts towards Nature in Poetry, Literature and Art», sayfa 14
No. III. Mental Scales
I make out my case thus—
There is an exact balance in the distribution of causes of pleasure and pain: this has been satisfactorily proved in my next paper, upon “Cause and Effect,” therefore I shall take it for granted. What, then, is there but the mind to determine its own state of happiness, or misery: just as the motion of the scales depends upon themselves, when two equal weights are put into them. The balance ought to be truly hung; but if the unpleasant scale is heavier, then the motion is in favor of the pleasant scale, and vice versa. Whether the beam stands horizontally, or otherwise, does not matter (that only determines the key): draw a line at right angles to it, then put in your equal weights; if the angle becomes larger on the unpleasant scale's side of the line, happiness is the result, if on the other, misery.
It requires but a slight acquaintance with mechanics to see that he who would be happy should have the unpleasant side heavier. I hate corollaries or we might have a group of them equally applicable to Art and Models.
June, 1848.
Reviews
Some Account of the Life and Adventures of Sir Reginald Mohun, Bart. Done in Verse by George John Cayley. Canto 1st. Pickering. 1849.
Inconsistency, whether in matters of importance or in trifles, whether in substance or in detail, is never pleasant. We do not here impute to this poem any inconsistency between one portion and another; but certainly its form is at variance with its subject and treatment. In the wording of the title, and the character of typography, there is a studious archaism: more modern the poem itself could scarcely be.
“Sir Reginald Mohun” aims, to judge from the present sample, at depicting the easy intercourse of high life; and the author enters on his theme with a due amount of sympathy. It is in this respect, if in any, that the mediæval tone of the work lasts beyond the title page. In Mr. Cayley's eyes, the proof of the comparative prosperity of England is that
“Still Queen Victoria sits upon her throne;
Our aristocracy still keep alive,
And, on the whole, may still be said to thrive,—
Tho' now and then with ducal acres groan
The honored tables of the auctioneer.
Nathless, our aristocracy is dear,
Tho' their estates go cheap; and all must own
That they still give society its tone.”—p. 16.
He proceeds in these terms:
“Our baronets of late appear to be
Unjustly snubbed and talked and written down;
Partly from follies of Sir Something Brown,
Stickling for badges due to their degree,
And partly that their honor's late editions
Have been much swelled with surgeons and physicians;
For ‘honor hath small skill in surgery,’
And skill in surgery small honor.”—p. 17.
What “honor” is here meant? and against whom is the taunt implied?—against the “surgeons and physicians,” or against the depreciation of them. Surely the former can hardly have been intended. The sentence will bear to be cleared of some ambiguity, or else to be cleared off altogether.
Our introduction to Sir Reginald Mohun, Lord of Nornyth Place, and of “an income clear of 20,000 pounds,” and to his friends Raymond St. Oun, De Lacy, Wilton, Tancarville, and Vivian—(for the author's names are aristocratic, like his predilections)—is effected through the medium of a stanza, new, we believe, in arrangement, though differing but slightly from the established octave, and of verses so easy and flowing as to make us wonder less at the promise of
“provision plenty
For cantos twelve, or may be, four and twenty,”
than at Mr. Cayley's assertion that he “Can never get along at all in prose.”
The incidents, as might be expected of a first canto, are neither many nor important, and will admit of compression into a very small compass.
Sir Reginald, whose five friends had arrived at Nornyth Place late on the preceding night, is going over the grounds with them in a shooting party after a late breakfast. St. Oun expresses a wish to “prowl about the place” in preference, not feeling in the mood for the required exertion.
“‘Of lazy dogs the laziest ever fate
Set on two useless legs you surely are,
And born beneath some wayward sauntering star
To sit for ever swinging on a gate,
And laugh at wiser people passing through.’
So spake the bard De Lacy: for they two
In frequent skirmishes of fierce debate
Would bicker, tho' their mutual love was great.”—p. 35.
Mohun, however, sides with St. Oun, and agrees to escort him in his rambles after the first few shots. He accordingly soon resigns his gun to the keeper Oswald, whose position as one who
“came into possession
Of the head-keepership by due succession
Thro' sire and grandsire, who, when one was dead,
Left his right heir-male keeper in his stead,”
Mr. Cayley evidently regards with some complacence. The friends enter a boat: here, while sailing along a rivulet that winds through the estate, St. Oun falls to talking of wealth, its value and insufficiency, of death, and life, and fame; and coming at length to ask after the history of Sir Reginald's past life, he suggests “this true epic opening for relation:”
“‘The sun, from his meridian heights declining
Mirrored his richest tints upon the shining
Bosom of a lake. In a light shallop, two
Young men, whose dress, etcaetera, proclaims,
Etcætera,—so would write G.P.R. James—
Glided in silence o'er the waters blue,
Skirting the wooded slopes. Upward they gazed
On Nornyth's ancient pile, whose windows blazed
“‘In sunset rays, whose crimson fulgence streamed
Across the flood: wrapped in deep thought they seemed.
‘You are pensive, Reginald,’ at length thus spake
The helmsman: ‘ha! it is the mystic power
Fraught by the sacred stillness of the hour:
Forgive me if your reverie I break,
Craving, with friendship's sympathy, to share
Your spirit's burden, be it joy or care.’”—pp. 48, 49.
Sir Reginald Mohun's story is soon told.—Born in Italy, and losing his mother at the moment of his birth, and his father and only sister dying also soon after, he is left alone in the world.
“‘My father was a melancholy man,
Having a touch of genius, and a heart,
But not much of that worldly better part
Called force of character, which finds some plan
For getting over anguish that will crush
Weak hearts of stronger feeling. He began
To pine; was pale; and had a hectic flush
At times; and from his eyelids tears would gush.
“‘Some law of hearts afflicted seems to bind
A spell by which the scenes of grief grew dear;
He never could leave Italy, tho' here
And there he wandered with unquiet mind,—
Rome, Florence, Mantua, Milan; once as far
As Venice; but still Naples had a blind
Attraction which still drew him thither. There
He died. Heaven rest his ashes from their care.
“‘He wrote, a month or so before he died,
To Wilton's father; (he is Earl of Eure,
My mother's brother); saying he was sure
That he should soon be gone, and would confide
Us to his guardian care. My uncle came
Before his death. We stood by his bedside.
He blessed us. We, who scarcely knew the name
Of death, yet read in the expiring flame
“‘Of his sunk eyes some awful mystery,
And wept we knew not why. There was a grace
Of radiant joyful hope upon his face,
Most unaccustomed, and which seemed to be
All foreign to his wasted frame; and yet
So heavenly in its consolation we
Smiled through the tears with which our lids were wet.
His lips were cold, as, whispering, ‘Do not fret
“‘When I am gone,’ he kissed us: and he took
Our uncle's hands, which on our heads he laid,
And said: ‘My children, do not be afraid
Of Death, but be prepared to meet him. Look;
Here is your mother's brother; he to her
As Reginald to Eve.’ His thin voice shook.—
‘Eve was your Mother's name.’ His words did err,
As dreaming; and his wan lips ceased to stir.’”—pp. 55-57.
(We have quoted this passage, not insensible to its defects,—some common-place in sentiment and diction; but independently of the good it does really contain, as being the only one of such a character sustained in quality to a moderate length.)
Reginald and his cousin Wilton grew up together friends, though not bound by common sympathies. The latter has known life early, and “earned experience piecemeal:” with the former, thought has already become a custom.
Thus far only does Reginald bring his retrospect; his other friends come up, and they all return homeward. Here, too, ends the story of this canto; but not without warranting some surmise of what will furnish out the next. There is evidence of observation adroitly applied in the talk of the two under-keepers who take charge of the boat.
“They said: ‘Oh! what a gentleman to talk
Is that there Lacy! What a tongue he've got!
But Mr. Vivian is a pretty shot.
And what a pace his lordship wish to walk!
Which Mr. Tancarville, he seemed quite beat:
But he's a pleasant gentleman. Good lawk!
How he do make me laugh! Dang! this 'ere seat
Have wet my smalls slap thro'. Dang! what a treat!
“‘There's company coming to the Place to morn:
Bess housemaid told me. Lord and Lady–: dash
My wigs! I can't think on. But there's a mash
O' comp'ny and fine ladies; fit to torn
The heads of these young chaps. Why now I'd lay
This here gun to an empty powder-horn
Sir Reginald be in love, or that-a-way.
He looks a little downcast-loikish,—eh?’”—pp.62, 63.
It will be observed that there is no vulgarity in this vulgarism: indeed, the gentlemanly good humour of the poem is uninterrupted. This, combined with neatness of handling, and the habit of not over-doing, produces that general facility of appearance which it is no disparagement, in speaking of a first canto, to term the chief result of so much of these life and adventures as is here “done into verse.” It may be fairly anticipated, however, that no want of variety in the conception, or of success in the pourtrayal, of character will need to be complained of: meanwhile, a few passages may be quoted to confirm our assertions. The two first extracts are examples of mere cleverness; and all that is aimed at is attained. The former follows out a previous comparison of the world with a “huge churn.”
“Yet some, despising life's legitimate aim,
Instead of butter, would become “the cheese;”
A low term for distinction. Whence the name
I know not: gents invented it; and these
Gave not an etymology. I see no
Likelier than this, which with their taste agrees;
The caseine element I conceive to mean no
Less than the beau ideal of the Casino.”—p. 12.
“Wise were the Augurers of old, nor erred
In substance, deeming that the life of man—
(This is a new reflection, spick and span)—
May be much influenced by the flight of birds.
Our senate can no longer hold their house
When culminates the evil star of grouse;
And stoutest patriots will their shot-belts gird
When first o'er stubble-field hath partridge whirred.”—p.25.
In these others there is more purpose, with a no less definite conciseness:
“Comes forth the first great poet. Then a number
Of followers leave much literary lumber.
He cuts his phrases in the sapling grain
Of language; and so weaves them at his will.
They from his wickerwork extract with pain
The wands now warped and stiffened, which but ill
Bend to their second-hand employment.”—pp. 4, 5.
“What's life? A riddle;
Or sieve which sifts you thro' it in the middle.”—p.45.
The misadventures of the five friends on their road to Nornyth are very sufficiently described:
“The night was cold and cloudy as they topped
A moorland slope, and met the bitter blast,
So cutting that their ears it almost cropped;
And rain began to fall extremely fast.
A broken sign-post left them in great doubt
About two roads; and, when an hour was passed,
They learned their error from a lucid lout;
Soon after, one by one, their lamps went out.”—p.29.
There remains to point out one fault,—and that the last fault the occurrence of which could be looked for, after so clearly expressed an intention as this:
“But, if an Author takes to writing fine,
(Which means, I think, an artificial tone),
The public sicken and won't read a line.
I hope there's nothing of this sort in mine.”—p. 6.
A quotation or two will fully explain our meaning: and we would seriously ask Mr. Cayley to reflect whether he has always borne his principle in mind, and avoided “writing fine;” whether he has not sometimes fallen into high-flown common-place of the most undisguised stamp, rendered, moreover, doubly inexcusable and out of place by being put into the mouth of one of the personages of the poem; It is Sir Reginald Mohun that speaks; and truly, though not thrust forward as a “wondrous paragon of praise,” he must be confessed to be,
“Judging by specimens the author quotes,
An utterer of most ordinary phrases,”
not words only and sentences, but real phrases, in the more distinct and specific sense of the term.
“‘There, while yet a new born thing,
Death o'er my cradle waved his darksome wing;
My mother died to give me birth: forlorn
I came into the world, a babe of woe,
Ill-omened from my childhood's early morn;
Yet heir to what the idolators of show
Deem life's good things, which earthly bliss bestow.
“‘The riches of the heart they call a dream;
Love, hope, faith, friendship, hollow phantasies:
Living but for their pockets and their eyes,
They stifle in their breasts the purer beam
Of sunshine glanced from heaven upon their clay,
To be its light and warmth. This is a theme
For homilies: and I will only say,
The heart feeds not on fortune's baubles gay.’”—p. 51.
Sir Reginald's narrative concludes after this fashion:
“‘But what is this? A dubious compromise;
Twilight of cloudy zones, whereon the blaze
Of sunshine breaks but seldom with its rays
Of heavenly hope, towards which the spirit sighs
Its aspirations, and is lost again
'Mid doubts: to grasp the wisdom of the skies
Too feeble, tho' convinced earth's bonds are vain,
Cowering faint-hearted in the festering chain.’”—p. 60.
A similar instance of conventionality constantly repeated is the sin of inversion, which is no less prevalent, throughout the poem, in the conversational than in the narrative portions. In some cases the exigencies of rhyme may be pleaded in palliation, as for “Cam's marge along” and “breezy willows cool,” which occur in two consecutive lines of a speech; but there are many for which no such excuse can be urged. Does any one talk of “sloth obscure,” or of “hearts afflicted?” Or what reason is there for preferring “verses easy” to easy verses? Ought not the principle laid down in the following passage of the introduction to be followed out, not only into the intention, but into the manner and quality also, of the whole work?
“‘I mean to be sincere in this my lay:
That which I think I shall write down without
A drop of pain or varnish. Therefore, pray,
Whatever I may chance to rhyme about,
Read it without the shadow of a doubt.’”—p. 12.
Again, the Author appears to us to have acted unwisely in occasionally departing from the usual construction of his stanzas, as in this instance:
“‘But, as I said, you know my history;
And your's—not that you made a mystery
Of it, nor used reserve, yet, being not
By nature an Autophonophilete,
(A word De Lacy fashioned and called me it)—
Your's you have never told me yet. And what
Can be a more appropriate occasion
Than this true epic opening for relation?’”—p. 48.
Here the lines do not cohere so happily as in the more varied distribution of the rhymes; and, moreover, as a question of principle, we think it not advisable to allow of minor deviations from the uniformity of a prescribed metre.
It may be well to take leave of Mr. Cayley with a last quotation of his own words,—words which no critic ought to disregard:
“I shall be deeply grateful to reviews,
Whether they deign approval, or rebuke,
For any hints they think may disabuse
Delusions of my inexperienced muse.”– p.8.
If our remarks have been such as to justify the Author's wish for sincere criticism, our object is attained; and we look forward for the second canto with confidence in his powers.
Published Monthly.—Price One S.
Art and Poetry, Being Thoughts towards Nature
Conducted principally by Artists
Of the little worthy the name of writing that has ever been written upon the principles of Art, (of course excepting that on the mere mechanism), a very small portion is by Artists themselves; and that is so scattered, that one scarcely knows where to find the ideas of an Artist except in his pictures.
With a view to obtain the thoughts of Artists, upon Nature as evolved in Art, in another language besides their own proper one, this Periodical has been established. Thus, then, it is not open to the conflicting opinions of all who handle the brush and palette, nor is it restricted to actual practitioners; but is intended to enunciate the principles of those who, in the true spirit of Art, enforce a rigid adherence to the simplicity of Nature either in Art or Poetry, and consequently regardless whether emanating from practical Artists, or from those who have studied nature in the Artist's School.
Hence this work will contain such original Tales (in prose or verse), Poems, Essays, and the like, as may seem conceived in the spirit, or with the intent, of exhibiting a pure and unaffected style, to which purpose analytical Reviews of current Literature—especially Poetry—will be introduced; as also illustrative Etchings, one of which latter, executed with the utmost care and completeness, will appear in each number.
Art and Poetry: Being Thoughts towards Nature Conducted principally by Artists.
No. 4. May, 1850
With an Etching by W.H. Deverell
When whoso merely hath a little thought
Will plainly think the thought which is in him,—
Not imaging another's bright or dim,
Not mangling with new words what others taught;
When whoso speaks, from having either sought
Or only found,—will speak, not just to skim
A shallow surface with words made and trim,
But in that very speech the matter brought:
Be not too keen to cry—“So this is all!—
A thing I might myself have thought as well,
But would not say it, for it was not worth!”
Ask: “Is this truth?” For is it still to tell
That, be the theme a point or the whole earth,
Truth is a circle, perfect, great or small?
Viola and Olivia
When Viola, a servant of the Duke,
Of him she loved the page, went, sent by him,
To tell Olivia that great love which shook
His breast and stopt his tongue; was it a whim,
Or jealousy or fear that she must look
Upon the face of that Olivia?
'Tis hard to say if it were whim or fear
Or jealousy, but it was natural,
As natural as what came next, the near
Intelligence of hearts: Olivia
Loveth, her eye abused by a thin wall
Of custom, but her spirit's eyes were clear.
Clear? we have oft been curious to know
The after-fortunes of those lovers dear;
Having a steady faith some deed must show
That they were married souls—unmarried here—
Having an inward faith that love, called so
In verity, is of the spirit, clear
Of earth and dress and sex—it may be near
What Viola returned Olivia?
A Dialogue on Art
[The following paper had been sent as a contribution to this publication scarcely more than a week before its author, Mr. John Orchard, died. It was written to commence a series of “Dialogues on Art,” which death has rendered for ever incomplete: nevertheless, the merits of this commencement are such that they seemed to warrant its publication as a fragment; and in order that the chain of argument might be preserved, so far as it goes, uninterrupted, the dialogue is printed entire in the present number, despite its length. Of the writer, but little can be said. He was an artist; but ill health, almost amounting to infirmity—his portion from childhood—rendered him unequal to the bodily labour inseparable from his profession: and in the course of his short life, whose youth was scarcely consummated, he exhibited, from time to time, only a very few small pictures, and these, as regards public recognition, in no way successfully. In art, however, he gave to the “seeing eye,” token of that ability and earnestness which the “hearing ear” will not fail to recognize in the dialogue now published; where the vehicle of expression, being more purely intellectual, was more within his grasp than was the physical and toilsome embodiment of art.
It is possible that a search among the papers he has left, may bring to light a few other fugitive pieces, which will, in such event, as the Poem succeeding this Dialogue, be published in these pages.
To the end that the Author's scheme may be, as far as is now possible, understood and appreciated, we subjoin, in his own words, some explanation of his further intent, and of the views and feelings which guided him in the composition of the dialogue:
“I have adopted the form of dialogue for several, to me, cogent reasons; 1st, because it gives the writer the power of exhibiting the question, Art, on all its sides; 2nd, because the great phases of Art could be represented idiosyncratically; and, to make this clear, I have named the several speakers accordingly; 3rd, because dialogue secures the attention; and, that secured, deeper things strike, and go deeper than otherwise they could be made to; and, 4th and last, because all my earliest and most delightful pleasures associate themselves with dialogue,—(the old dramatists, Lucian, Walter Savage Landor, &c.)
“You will find that I have not made one speaker say a thing on purpose for another to condemn it; but that I make each one utter his wisest in the very wisest manner he can, or rather, that I can for him.
“The further continuation of this 1st dialogue embraces the question Nature, and its processes, invention and imitation,—imitation chiefly. Kosmon begins by showing, in illustration of the truth of Christian's concluding sentences, how imperfectly all the Ancients, excepting the Hebrews, loved, understood, or felt Nature, &c. This is not an unimportant portion of Art knowledge.
“I must not forget to say that the last speech of Kosmon will be answered by Christian when they discourse of imitation. It properly belongs to imitation; and, under that head, it can be most effectively and perfectly confuted. Somewhat after this idea, the “verticalism” and “involution” will be shown to be direct from Nature; the gilding, &c., disposed of on the ground of the old piety using the most precious materials as the most religious and worthy of them; and hence, by a very easy and probable transition, they concluded that that which was most soul-worthy, was also most natural.”]
