THE TWO ARNOLDS.[3]

Nature, it would seem, has fortunately provided against the simultaneous development of kindred genius and intellect amongst human families. Such, at least, is the general rule, and it is a beneficent one. For if a sudden frenzy were to seize the whole clans of Brown, or Smith, or Campbell, or Thomson—were the divine afflatus breathed at once upon the host, more numerous than that of Sennacherib, of the inheritors of the above names, undoubtedly such a confusion would ensue as has not been witnessed since the day of the downfall of Babel. Passing over three of these great divisions of the human race, as located in the British Islands, let us confine our illustration simply to the sons of Diarmid. Without estimating the number of Campbells who are scattered over the face of the earth, we have reason to believe that in Argyllshire alone there are fifty thousand of that name. Out of each fifty, at least twenty are Colins. If, then, a poetical epidemic, only half as contagious as the measles, were to visit our western county, we should behold the spectacle of a thousand Colin Campbells rushing frantically, and with a far cry towards Lochow, and simultaneously twangling on the clairshach. Fame, in the form of a Druidess, might announce, from the summit of Kilchurn Castle, the name of the one competitor who was entitled to the wreath; but twice five hundred Colins would press forward at the call, and the question of poetic superiority could only be decided by the dirk. Fortunately, as we have already observed, nature provides against such a contingency. Glancing over the cosmopolitan directory, she usually takes care that no two living bards shall bear precisely the same appellation; and if, sometimes, she seems to permit an unusual monopoly of some kind of talent in the same family or sept, we almost never find that the baptismal appellations correspond. Thus, in the days of James I., there were no less than three poetical Fletchers—John, the dramatist; Phineas, the author of thePurple Island; and Giles, the brother of Phineas. Also there were two Beaumonts—Francis, the ally of the greater Fletcher, and Sir John, his brother. In our own time, the poetic mantle seems to have fallen extensively on the shoulders of the Tennysons. Besides Prince Alfred, whom we all honour and admire, and to whom more than three-fourths of our young versifiers pay homage by slavishly imitating his style, there was Charles, whose volume, published about the same time as the firstling of his brother, was deemed by competent judges to exhibit remarkable promise; and within the last few months, another Tennyson—Frederick—has bounded like a grasshopper into the ring, and is now piping away as clearly as any cicala. And here, side by side, amidst the mass of minstrelsy which cumbers our table, lie two volumes, on the title-page of each of which is inscribed the creditable name of Arnold.

We have not for a considerable time held much communing with the rising race of poets, and we shall at once proceed to state the reason why. Even as thousands of astronomers are nightly sweeping the heavens with their telescopes, in the hope of discovering some new star or wandering comet, so of late years have shoals of small critics been watching for the advent of some grand poetical genius. These gentlemen, who could not, if their lives depended on it, elaborate a single stanza, have a kind of insane idea that they may win immortal fame by being the first to perceive and hail the appearance of the coming bard. Accordingly, scarce a week elapses without a shout being raised at the birth of a thin octavo. “Apollodorus, or the Seraph of Gehenna, a Dramatic Mystery, by John Tunks,” appears; and we are straightway told, on the authority of Mr Guffaw, the celebrated critic, that:—“It is a work more colossal in its mould than the undefined structures of the now mouldering Persepolis. Tunks may not, like Byron, possess the hypochondriacal brilliancy of a blasted firework, or pour forth his floods of radiant spume with the intensity of an artificial volcano. He does not pretend to the spontaneous combustion of our young friend Gander Rednag (who, by the way, has omitted to send us his last volume), though we almost think that he possesses a diviner share of the poet’s ennobling lunacy. He does not dive so sheer as the author ofFestusinto the bosom of far unintelligibility, plummet-deep beyond the range of comprehension, or the shuddering gaze of the immortals. He may not be endowed with the naked eagle-eye of Gideon Stoupie, the bard of Kirriemuir, whose works we last week noticed, and whose grand alcoholic enthusiasm shouts ha, ha, to the mutchkin, as loudly as the call of the trumpet that summons Behemoth from his lair. He may not, like the young Mactavish, to whose rising talent we have also borne testimony, be able to swathe his real meaning in the Titanic obscurity of the parti-coloured Ossianic mysticism. He may not, like Shakespeare, &c. &c.” And then, having occupied many columns in telling us whom Mr Tunks doesnotresemble, the gifted Guffaw concludes by an assurance that Tunks is Tunks, and that his genius is at this moment flaring over the universe, like the meteor-standard of the Andes!

Desirous, from the bottom of our heart, to do all proper justice to Tunks, we lay down this furious eulogium, and turn to the volume. We find, as we had anticipated, that poor Tunks is quite guiltless of having written a single line of what can, by any stretch of conscience, be denominated poetry—that the passages which Guffaw describes as being so ineffably grand, are either sheer nonsense or exaggerated conceits—and that a very excellent young man, who might have gained a competency by following his paternal trade, is in imminent peril of being rendered an idiot for life by the folly of an unscrupulous scribbler. Would it be right, under those circumstances, to tell Tunks our mind, and explain to him the vanity of his ways? If we were to do so, the poor lad would probably not believe us; for he has drunk to the dregs the poisoned chalice of Guffaw, and is ready, like another Homer, to beg for bread and make minstrelsy through innumerable cities. If we cannot hope to reclaim him, it would be useless cruelty to hurt his feelings, especially as Tunks is doing no harm to any one beyond himself. So we regard him much as one regards a butterfly towards the close of autumn, with the wish that the season of his enjoyment might be prolonged, but with the certainty that the long nights and frosty evenings are drawing nigh. Little, indeed, do the tribe of the Guffaws care for the mischief they are doing.

Or take another case. Let us suppose the appearance on the literary stage of a young man really endowed with poetic sensibility—one whose powers are yet little developed, but who certainly gives promise, conditionally on proper culture, of attaining decided eminence. Before we know anything about him, he is somehow or other committed to the grasp of the Guffaws. They do not praise—they idolise him. All the instances of youthful genius are dragged forth to be debased at his feet. He is told, in as many words, that Pope was a goose, Chatterton a charlatan, Kirke White a weakling, and Keats a driveller, compared with him,—at any rate, that the early effusions of those poets are not fit to be spoken of in the same breath with what he has written at a similar age. There are no bounds to the credulity of a poet of one-and-twenty. He accepts the laudation of those sons of Issachar as gospel, and, consequently, is rather surprised that a louder blast has not been blown through the trumpet of fame. His eulogists are so far from admitting that he has any faults, that they hold him up as a pattern, thereby exciting his vanity to such an extent that an honest exposition of his faults would appear to him a gross and malignant outrage. It is really very difficult to know what to do in such cases. On the one hand, it is a pity, without an effort, to allow a likely lad to be flyblown and spoiled by the buzzing blue-bottles of literature; on the other, it is impossible to avoid seeing that the mischief has been so far done, that any remedy likely to be effectual must cause serious pain. To tie up a Guffaw to the stake, and to inflict upon him condign punishment—a resolution which we intend to carry into effect some fine morning—would be far less painful to us than the task or duty of wounding the sensitiveness of a youth who may possibly be destined to be a poet.

Setting, for the present, the Guffaws, or literary Choctaws, aside, we have a word to say to a very different class of critics, or rather commentators; and we desire to do this in the utmost spirit of kindness. Whether Aristotle, who could no more have perpetrated a poem than have performed the leger-de-main of the Wizard of the North, was justified in writing his “Poetics,” we cannot exactly say. More than one of his treatises upon subjects with which he hardly could have been practically conversant, are still quoted in the schools; but we suspect that his authority—paramount, almost, during the middle ages, because there were then no other guides, and because he found his way into Western Europe chiefly through the medium of the Moors—is fast waning, and in matters of taste ought not now to be implicitly received. Aristotle, however, was a great man, far greater than Dr Johnson. The latter compiled a Dictionary; Aristotle, by his own efforts, aspired to make, and did make, a sort of Encyclopædia. But he composed several of his treatises, not because he conceived that he was the person best qualified to be the exponent of the subject, but because no one really qualified had attempted before him to expound it. We have seen, and perused with real sorrow, a recent treatise upon “Poetics,” which we cannot do otherwise, conscientiously, than condemn. The author is no doubt entitled to praise on account of his metaphysical ability, which we devoutly trust he may be able to turn to some useful purpose; but as to poetry, its forms, development, machinery, or application, he is really as ignorant as a horse. It is perfectly frightful to see the calmness with which one of these young students of metaphysics sits down to explain the principles of poetry, and the self-satisfied air with which he enunciates the results of his wonderful discoveries. Far be it from us, when “our young men dream dreams,” to rouse them rudely from their slumber; but we hold it good service to give them a friendly shake when we observe them writhing under the pressure of Ephialtes.

It is one thing to descant upon poetry, and another to compose it. After long meditation on the subject, we have arrived at the conclusion that very little benefit indeed is to be derived from the perusal of treatises, and that the only proper studies for a young poet are the book of nature, and the works of the greatest masters. To that opinion, we are glad to observe, one of our Arnolds seriously inclines. Matthew—whom we shall take up first, because he is an old acquaintance—has written an elaborate preface, in which he complains of the bewildering tone of the criticism of the present day. He remarks with perfect justice, that the ceaseless babbling about art has done an incalculable deal of harm, by drawing the attention of young composers from the study and contemplation of their subjects, and leading them to squander their powers upon isolated passages. There is much truth in the observations contained in the following extract, albeit it is in direct opposition to the daily practice of the Guffaws:—

“We can hardly, at the present day, understand what Menander meant when he told a man who inquired as to the progress of his comedy, that he had finished it, not having yet written a single line, because he had constructed the action of it in his mind. A modern critic would have assured him that the merit of his piece depended on the brilliant things which arose under his pen as he went along. We have poems which seem to exist merely for the sake of single lines and passages; not for the sake of producing any total impression. We have critics who seem to direct their attention merely to detached expressions,—to the language about the action, not to the action itself. I verily think that the majority of them do not in their hearts believe that there is such a thing as a total-impression to be derived from a poem at all, or to be demanded from a poet; they think the term a commonplace of metaphysical criticism. They will permit the poet to select any action he pleases, and to suffer that action to go as it will, provided he gratifies them with occasional bursts of fine writing, and with a shower of isolated thoughts and images. That is, they permit him to leave their poetical sense ungratified, provided that he gratifies their rhetorical sense and their curiosity. Of his neglecting to gratify these there is little danger; he needs rather to be warned against the danger of attempting to gratify these alone; he needs rather to be perpetually reminded to prefer his action to everything else; so to treat this, as to permit its inherent excellencies to develop themselves, without interruption from the intrusion of his personal peculiarities—most fortunate when he most entirely succeeds in effacing himself, and in enabling a noble action to subsist as it did in nature.”

It would be well for the literature of the age if sound criticism of this description were more common. Mr Arnold is undoubtedly correct in holding that the first duty of the poet, after selecting his subject, is to take pains to fashion it symmetrically, and that any kind of ornament which tends to divert the attention from the subject is positively injurious to the poem. This view, however, is a great deal too refined for the comprehension of the Guffaws. They show you a hideous misshapen image, with diamonds for eyes, rubies stuck into the nostrils, and pearls inserted in place of teeth, and ask you to admire it! Admire what? Not the image certainly, for anything more clumsy and absurd it is impossible to imagine: if it is meant that we are to admire the jewels, we are ready to do so, as soon as they are properly disposed, and made the ornaments of a stately figure. The necklace which would beseem the bosom of Juno, and send lustre even to the queen of the immortals, cannot give anything but additional hideousness to the wrinkled folds of an Erichtho. Mr Arnold, who has inherited his father’s admiration for ancient literature, makes out the best case we remember to have seen, in vindication of the Greek drama. It is as follows:—

“For what reason was the Greek tragic poet confined to so limited a range of subjects? Because there are so few actions which unite in themselves, in the highest degree, the conditions of excellence; and it was not thought that on any but an excellent subject could an excellent poem be constructed. A few actions, therefore, eminently adapted for tragedy, maintained almost exclusive possession of the Greek tragic stage; their significance appeared inexhaustible; they were as permanent problems, perpetually offered to the genius of every fresh poet. This too is the reason of what appears to us moderns a certain baldness of expression in Greek tragedy; of the triviality with which we often reproach the remarks of the chorus, where it takes place in the dialogue; that the action itself, the situation of Orestes, or Merope, or Alcmæon, was to stand the central point of interest, unforgotten, absorbing, principal; that no accessories were for a moment to distract the spectator’s attention from this; that the tone of the parts was to be perpetually kept down, in order not to impair the grandiose effect of the whole. The terrible old mythic story on which the drama was founded, stood, before he entered the theatre, traced in its bare outlines upon the spectator’s mind; it stood in his memory as a group of statuary, faintly seen, at the end of a long and dark vista: then came the Poet, embodying outlines, developing situations, not a word wasted, not a sentiment capriciously thrown in: stroke upon stroke the drama proceeded; the light deepened upon the group; more and more it revealed itself to the rivetted gaze of the spectator; until at last, when the final words were spoken, it stood before him in broad sunlight, a model of immortal beauty.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But as a troop of pedlars from Cabool

Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus,

That vast sky-neighbouring mountain of milk snow,

Winding so high, that, as they mount, they pass

Long flocks of travelling birds dead on the snow,

Choked by the air; and scarce can they themselves

Slake their parch’d throats with sugar’d mulberries—

In single file they move, and stop their breath,

For fear they should dislodge the o’erhanging snows—

So the pale Persians held their breath with fear.

And to Ferood his brother chiefs come up

To counsel: Gudurz and Zoarrah came,

And Feraburz, who rul’d the Persian host

Second, and was the uncle of the king.”

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

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

“And Gudurz entered Rustum’s tent, and found

Rustum: his morning meal was done, but still

The table stood beside him, charged with food;

A side of roasted sheep, and cakes of bread,

And dark-green melons.”

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

“Like some young cypress, tall, and dark, and straight,Which in a queen’s secluded garden throwsIts slight dark shadow on the moonlit turf,By midnight, to a bubbling fountain’s sound—So slender Sohrab seem’d, so softly rear’d.And a deep pity entered Rustum’s soulAs he beheld him coming; and he stood,And beckoned to him with his hand, and said:—‘O thou young man, the air of heaven is soft,And warm, and pleasant; but the grave is cold.Heaven’s air is better than the dead cold grave.Behold me: I am vast, and clad in iron,And tried; and I have stood on many a fieldOf blood, and I have fought with many a foe:Never was that field lost, or that foe saved.O Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on death?Be govern’d: quit the Tartar host, and comeTo Irun; and be as my son to me,And fight beneath my banner till I die.There are no youths in Irun brave as thou.’“So he spoke mildly: Sohrab heard his voice,The mighty voice of Rustum; and he sawHis giant figure planted on the sand,Sole, like some single tower, which a chiefHas builded on the waste in former yearsAgainst the robbers; and he saw that head,Streak’d with its first grey hairs: hope fill’d his soul;And he ran forwards, and embrac’d his knees,And clasp’d his hand within his own and said:—‘Oh, by thy father’s head! by thine own soul!Art thou not Rustum? speak! art thou not he?’“But Rustum eyed askance the kneeling youth,And turn’d away, and spoke to his own soul:—‘Ah me! I muse what this young fox may mean.False, wily, boastful are these Tartar boys.For if I now confess this thing he asks,And hide it not, but say—Rustum is here—He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes,But he will find some pretext not to fight,And praise my fame, and proffer courteous gifts—A belt or sword perhaps—and go his way.And on a feast-day in Afrasiab’s hall,In Samarcand, he will arise and cry—“I challenged once, when the two armies camp’dBeside the Oxus, all the Persian lordsTo cope with me in single fight: but theyShrank; only Rustum dared: then he and IChanged gifts, and went on equal terms away.”So will he speak, perhaps, while men applaud.Then were the chiefs of Irun shamed through me.’“And then he turn’d, and sternly spake aloud:—‘Rise! wherefore dost thou vainly question thusOf Rustum? I am here, whom thou hast call’dBy challenge forth: make good thy vaunt, or yield.Is it with Rustum only thou wouldst fight?Rash boy, men look on Rustum’s face and flee.’”

“Like some young cypress, tall, and dark, and straight,

Which in a queen’s secluded garden throws

Its slight dark shadow on the moonlit turf,

By midnight, to a bubbling fountain’s sound—

So slender Sohrab seem’d, so softly rear’d.

And a deep pity entered Rustum’s soul

As he beheld him coming; and he stood,

And beckoned to him with his hand, and said:—

‘O thou young man, the air of heaven is soft,

And warm, and pleasant; but the grave is cold.

Heaven’s air is better than the dead cold grave.

Behold me: I am vast, and clad in iron,

And tried; and I have stood on many a field

Of blood, and I have fought with many a foe:

Never was that field lost, or that foe saved.

O Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on death?

Be govern’d: quit the Tartar host, and come

To Irun; and be as my son to me,

And fight beneath my banner till I die.

There are no youths in Irun brave as thou.’

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

“So he spoke mildly: Sohrab heard his voice,

The mighty voice of Rustum; and he saw

His giant figure planted on the sand,

Sole, like some single tower, which a chief

Has builded on the waste in former years

Against the robbers; and he saw that head,

Streak’d with its first grey hairs: hope fill’d his soul;

And he ran forwards, and embrac’d his knees,

And clasp’d his hand within his own and said:—

‘Oh, by thy father’s head! by thine own soul!

Art thou not Rustum? speak! art thou not he?’

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

“But Rustum eyed askance the kneeling youth,

And turn’d away, and spoke to his own soul:—

‘Ah me! I muse what this young fox may mean.

False, wily, boastful are these Tartar boys.

For if I now confess this thing he asks,

And hide it not, but say—Rustum is here—

He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes,

But he will find some pretext not to fight,

And praise my fame, and proffer courteous gifts—

A belt or sword perhaps—and go his way.

And on a feast-day in Afrasiab’s hall,

In Samarcand, he will arise and cry—

“I challenged once, when the two armies camp’d

Beside the Oxus, all the Persian lords

To cope with me in single fight: but they

Shrank; only Rustum dared: then he and I

Changed gifts, and went on equal terms away.”

So will he speak, perhaps, while men applaud.

Then were the chiefs of Irun shamed through me.’

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

“And then he turn’d, and sternly spake aloud:—

‘Rise! wherefore dost thou vainly question thus

Of Rustum? I am here, whom thou hast call’d

By challenge forth: make good thy vaunt, or yield.

Is it with Rustum only thou wouldst fight?

Rash boy, men look on Rustum’s face and flee.’”

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

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

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

“And with a heavy groan, Rustum replied:—

‘Oh that its waves were flowing over me!

Oh that I saw its grains of yellow silt

Roll tumbling on the current o’er my head!’

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

“And with a grave mild voice, Sohrab replied:

‘Desire not that, my father; we must live.

For some are born to do great deeds, and live,

As some are born to be obscured, and die.

Do thou the deeds I die too young to do,

And reap a second glory in thine age.

Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine.

But come: thou seest this great host of men

Which follow me; I pray thee, slay not these:

Let me entreat for them: what have they done?

They followed me, my hope, my fame, my star.

Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace.

But me thou must bear hence, not send with them,

But carry me with thee to Seistan,

And place me on a bed, and mourn for me,

Thou, and the snow-hair’d Zal, and all thy friends.

And thou must lay me in that lovely earth,

And heap a stately mound above my bones,

And plant a far-seen pillar over all:

That so the passing horsemen on the waste

May see my tomb a great way off, and say—

Sohrab, the mighty Rustum’s son, lies there,

Whom his great father did in ignorance kill—

And I be not forgotten in my grave.’

And with a mournful voice Rustum replied:—

‘Fear not; as thou hast said, Sohrab, my son,

So shall it be: for I will burn my tents,

And quit the host, and bear thee hence with me,

And carry thee away to Seistan,

And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee,

With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends.

And I will lay thee in that lovely earth,

And heap a stately mound above thy bones,

And plant a far-seen pillar over all;

And men shall not forget thee in thy grave.

And I will spare thy host: yea, let them go:

Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace.

What should I do with slaying any more?’”

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

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

“The sun, by this, had risen, and clear’d the fog

From the broad Oxus and the glittering sands:

And from their tents the Tartar horsemen filed

Into the open plain; so Haman bade;

Haman, who next to Peran Wisa ruled

The host, and still was in his lusty prime.

From their black tents long files of horse they stream’d:

As when, some grey November morn, the files,

In marching order spread, of long-neck’d cranes,

Stream over Casbin, and the southern slopes

Of Elburz, from the Aralian estuaries,

Or some from Caspian reed-bed, southward bound

For the warm Persian sea-board: so they stream’d.

The Tartars of the Oxus, the king’s guard,

First, with black sheepskin caps, and with long spears;

Large men, large steeds; who from Bokhara come

And Khiva, and ferment the milk of mares.

Next the more temperate Toorkmans of the south,

The Tukas, and the lances of Salore,

And those from Attruck and the Caspian sands;

Light men, and on light steeds, who only drink

The acrid milk of camels and their wells.”

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

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

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

“So said he, and dropp’d Sohrab’s hand, and left

His bed, and the warm rugs whereon he lay,

And o’er his chilly limbs his woollen coat

He pass’d, and tied his sandals on his feet,

And threw a white cloak round him, and he took

In his right hand a ruler’s staff, no sword;

And on his head he placed his sheepskin cap,

Black, glossy, curl’d, the fleece of Kara-Kul;

And raised the curtain of his tent, and call’d

His herald to his side, and went abroad.”

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

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

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

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

“And night came down over the solemn waste,

And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair,

And darken’d all; and a cold fog, with night,

Crept from the Oxus. Soon a hum arose,

As of a great assembly loosed, and fires

Began to twinkle through the fog: for now

Both armies moved to camp, and took their meal:

The Persians took it on the open sands

Southward; the Tartars by the river marge,

And Rustum and his son were left alone.”

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

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

“But the majestic river floated on,

Out of the mist and hum of that low land,

Into the frosty starlight, and there moved,

Rejoicing, through the hush’d Chorasmian waste,

Under the solitary moon: he flow’d

Right for the Polar star, past Orgunjè,

Brimming, and bright, and huge: there sands begin

To hem his watery march, and dam his streams,

And split his currents; that for many a league

The shorn and parcell’d Oxus strains along

Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles—

Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had

In his high mountain cradle in Pamere,

A foil’d circuitous wanderer:—till at last

The long’d-for dash of waves is heard, and wide

His luminous home of waters opens, bright

And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bath’d stars

Emerge, and shine upon the Arab Sea.”

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

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

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

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

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