That Barnaby is the son of the murderer may not appear evident to our readers—but we will explain. The person murdered is Mr. Reuben Haredale. He was found assassinated in his bed-chamber. His steward (Mr. Rudge, senior,) and his gardener (name not mentioned) are missing. At first both are suspected. ‘Some months afterward,’ here we use the words of the story—‘the steward’s body, scarcely to be recognised but by his clothes, and the watch and ring he wore—was found at the bottom of a piece of water in the grounds, with a deep gash in the breast where he had been stabbed by a knife. He was only partly dressed; and all people agreed that he had been sitting up reading in his own room, where there were many traces of blood, and was suddenly fallen upon and killed, before his master.’Now, be it observed, it is not the author himself who asserts thatthe steward’s body was found; he has put the words in the mouth of one of his characters. His design is to make it appear, in thedénouement, that the steward, Rudge, first murdered the gardener, then went to his master’s chamber, murderedhim, was interrupted by his (Rudge’s) wife, whom he seized and heldby the wrist, to prevent her giving the alarm—that he then, after possessing himself of the booty desired, returned to the gardener’s room, exchanged clothes with him, put upon the corpse his own watch and ring, and secreted it where it was afterwards discovered at so late a period that the features could not be identified.
That Barnaby is the son of the murderer may not appear evident to our readers—but we will explain. The person murdered is Mr. Reuben Haredale. He was found assassinated in his bed-chamber. His steward (Mr. Rudge, senior,) and his gardener (name not mentioned) are missing. At first both are suspected. ‘Some months afterward,’ here we use the words of the story—‘the steward’s body, scarcely to be recognised but by his clothes, and the watch and ring he wore—was found at the bottom of a piece of water in the grounds, with a deep gash in the breast where he had been stabbed by a knife. He was only partly dressed; and all people agreed that he had been sitting up reading in his own room, where there were many traces of blood, and was suddenly fallen upon and killed, before his master.’
Now, be it observed, it is not the author himself who asserts thatthe steward’s body was found; he has put the words in the mouth of one of his characters. His design is to make it appear, in thedénouement, that the steward, Rudge, first murdered the gardener, then went to his master’s chamber, murderedhim, was interrupted by his (Rudge’s) wife, whom he seized and heldby the wrist, to prevent her giving the alarm—that he then, after possessing himself of the booty desired, returned to the gardener’s room, exchanged clothes with him, put upon the corpse his own watch and ring, and secreted it where it was afterwards discovered at so late a period that the features could not be identified.
The differences between our pre-conceived ideas, as here stated, and the actual facts of the story, will be found immaterial. The gardener was murdered not before but after his master; and that Rudge’s wife seizedhimby the wrist, instead of his seizingher, has so much the air of a mistake on the part of Mr. Dickens, that we can scarcely speak of our own version as erroneous. The grasp of a murderer’s bloody hand on the wrist of a womanenceinte, would have been more likely to produce the effect described (and this every one will allow) than the grasp of the hand of the woman upon the wrist of the assassin. We may therefore say of our supposition as Talleyrand said of some cockney’s bad French—que s’il ne soit pas Français, assurément donc il le doit être—that if we did not rightly prophesy, yet, at least, our prophecyshould have beenright.
We are informed in the Preface to “Barnaby Rudge†that “no account of the Gordon Riots having been introduced into any work of fiction, and the subject presenting very extraordinary and remarkable features,†our author “was led to project this tale.†But for this distinct announcement (for Mr. Dickens can scarcely have deceived himself) we should have looked upon the Riots as altogether an afterthought. It is evident that they have no necessary connection with the story. In our digest, which carefully includes allessentialsof the plot, we have dismissed the doings of the mob in a paragraph. The whole event of the drama would have proceeded as well without as with them. They have even the appearance of beingforciblyintroduced. In our compendium above, it will be seen that we emphasised several allusions to an interval offive years. The action is brought up to a certain point. The train of events is, so far, uninterrupted—nor is there any apparent need of interruption—yet all the characters are now thrown forward for a period offive years. And why? We ask in vain. It is not to bestow upon the lovers a more decorous maturity of age—for this is the only possible idea which suggests itself—Edward Chester is already eight-and-twenty, and Emma Haredale would, in America at least, be upon the list of old maids. No—there is no such reason; nor does there appear to be any one more plausible than that, as it is now the year of our Lord 1775, an advance of five years will bring thedramatis personaeup to a very remarkable period, affording an admirable opportunity for their display—the period, in short, of the “No Popery†riots. This was the idea with which we were forcibly impressed in perusal, and which nothing less than Mr. Dickens’ positive assurance to the contrary would have been sufficient to eradicate.
It is, perhaps, but one of a thousand instances of the disadvantages, both to the author and the public, of the present absurd fashion of periodical novel-writing, that our author had not sufficiently considered or determined uponanyparticular plot when he began the story now under review. In fact, we see, or fancy that we see, numerous traces of indecision—traces which a dexterous supervision of the complete work might have enabled him to erase. We have already spoken of the intermission of a lustrum. The opening speeches of old Chester are by far tootrulygentlemanly for his subsequent character. The wife of Varden, also, is too wholesale a shrew to be converted into the quiet wife—the original design was to punish her. At page 16, we read thus—Solomon Daisy is telling his story:
“I put as good a face upon it as I could, and, muffling myself up, started out with a lighted lantern in one hand and the key of the church in the otherâ€â€”at this point of the narrative, the dress of the strange man rustled as if he had turned to hear more distinctly.
“I put as good a face upon it as I could, and, muffling myself up, started out with a lighted lantern in one hand and the key of the church in the otherâ€â€”at this point of the narrative, the dress of the strange man rustled as if he had turned to hear more distinctly.
Here the design is to call the reader’s attention to apointin the tale; but no subsequent explanation is made. Again, a few lines belowâ —
“The houses were all shut up, and the folks in doors, and perhaps there is only one man in the world who knows how dark it really was.â€
“The houses were all shut up, and the folks in doors, and perhaps there is only one man in the world who knows how dark it really was.â€
Here the intention is still more evident, but there is no result. Again, at page 54, the idiot draws Mr. Chester to the window, and directs his attention to the clothes hanging upon the lines in the yardâ —
“Look down,†he said softly; “do you mark how they whisper in each other’s ears, then dance and leap to make believe they are in sport? Do you see how they stop for a moment, when they think there is no one looking, and mutter among themselves again; and then how they roll and gambol, delighted with the mischief they’ve been plotting? Look at ’em now! See how they whirl and plunge. And now they stop again, and whisper cautiously together—little thinking, mind, how often I have lain upon the ground and watched them. I say—what is it that they plot and hatch? Do you know?â€
“Look down,†he said softly; “do you mark how they whisper in each other’s ears, then dance and leap to make believe they are in sport? Do you see how they stop for a moment, when they think there is no one looking, and mutter among themselves again; and then how they roll and gambol, delighted with the mischief they’ve been plotting? Look at ’em now! See how they whirl and plunge. And now they stop again, and whisper cautiously together—little thinking, mind, how often I have lain upon the ground and watched them. I say—what is it that they plot and hatch? Do you know?â€
Upon perusal of these ravings we, at once, supposed them to have allusion to somerealplotting; and even now we cannot force ourselves to believe them not so intended. They suggested the opinion that Haredale himself would be implicated in the murder, and that the counsellings alluded to might be those of that gentleman with Rudge. It is by no means impossible that some such conception wavered in the mind of the author. At page 32 we have a confirmation of our idea, when Varden endeavors to arrest the murderer in the house of his wifeâ —
“Come back—come back!†exclaimed the woman, wrestling with and clasping him. “Do not touch him on your life.He carries other lives beside his own.â€
“Come back—come back!†exclaimed the woman, wrestling with and clasping him. “Do not touch him on your life.He carries other lives beside his own.â€
Thedénouementfails to account for this exclamation.
In the beginning of the story much emphasis is placed upon thetwofemale servants of Haredale, and upon his journey to and from London, as well as upon his wife. We have merely said, in our digest, that he was a widower, italicizing the remark. All these other points are, in fact, singularly irrelevant, in the supposition that the original design has not undergone modification.
Again, at page 57, when Haredale talks of “his dismantled and beggared hearth,†we cannot help fancying that the author had in view some different wrong, or series of wrongs, perpetrated by Chester, than any which appear in the end. This gentleman, too, takes extreme and frequent pains to acquire dominion over the rough Hugh—this matter is particularly insisted upon by the novelist—we look, of course, for some important result—but the filching of a letter is nearly all that is accomplished. That Barnaby’s delight in the desperate scenes of the rebellion, is inconsistent with his horror of blood, will strike every reader; and this inconsistency seems to be the consequence of theafterthoughtupon which we have already commented. In fact the title of the work, the elaborate and pointed manner of the commencement, the impressive description of The Warren, and especially of Mrs. Rudge, go far to show that Mr. Dickens has really deceived himself—that the soul of the plot, as originally conceived, was the murder of Haredale with the subsequent discovery of the murderer in Rudge—but that this idea was afterwards abandoned, or rather suffered to be merged in that of the Popish Riots. The result has been most unfavorable. That which, of itself would have proved highly effective, has been rendered nearly null by its situation. In the multitudinous outrage and horror of the Rebellion, theoneatrocity is utterly whelmed and extinguished.
The reasons of this deflection from the first purpose appear to us self-evident. One of them we have already mentioned. The other is that our author discovered, when too late, thathe had anticipated, and thus rendered valueless, his chief effect. This will be readily understood. The particulars of the assassination being withheld, the strength of the narrator is put forth, in the beginning of the story, towhet curiosityin respect to these particulars; and, so far, he is but in proper pursuance of his main design. But from this intention he unwittingly passes into the error ofexaggerating anticipation. And error though it be, it is an error wrought with consummate skill. What, for example, could more vividly enhance our impression of the unknown horror enacted, than the deep and enduring gloom of Haredale—than the idiot’s inborn awe of blood—or, especially, than the expression of countenance so imaginatively attributed to Mrs. Rudge—“the capacity for expressing terror—something only dimly seen, but never absent for a moment—the shadow of some look to which an instant of intense and most unutterable horror only could have given rise?†But it is a condition of the human fancy that the promises of such words are irredeemable. In the notice before mentioned we thus spoke upon this topicâ —
This is a conception admirably adapted to whet curiosity in respect to the character of that event which is hinted at as forming the basis of the story. But this observation should not fail to be made—that the anticipation must surpass the reality; that no matter how terrific be the circumstances which, in thedénouement, shall appear to have occasioned the expression of countenance worn habitually by Mrs. Rudge, still they will not be able to satisfy the mind of the reader. He will surely be disappointed. The skilful intimation of horror held out by the artist, produces an effect which will deprive his conclusion of all. These intimations—these dark hints of some uncertain evil—are often rhetorically praised as effective—but are only justly so praised where there isno dénouementwhatever—where the reader’s imagination is left to clear up the mystery for itself—and this is not the design of Mr. Dickens.
This is a conception admirably adapted to whet curiosity in respect to the character of that event which is hinted at as forming the basis of the story. But this observation should not fail to be made—that the anticipation must surpass the reality; that no matter how terrific be the circumstances which, in thedénouement, shall appear to have occasioned the expression of countenance worn habitually by Mrs. Rudge, still they will not be able to satisfy the mind of the reader. He will surely be disappointed. The skilful intimation of horror held out by the artist, produces an effect which will deprive his conclusion of all. These intimations—these dark hints of some uncertain evil—are often rhetorically praised as effective—but are only justly so praised where there isno dénouementwhatever—where the reader’s imagination is left to clear up the mystery for itself—and this is not the design of Mr. Dickens.
And, in fact, our author was not long in seeing his precipitancy. He had placed himself in a dilemma from which even his high genius could not extricate him. He at once shifts the main interest—and in truth we do not see what better he could have done. The reader’s attention becomes absorbed in the riots, and he fails to observe that what should have been the true catastrophe of the novel, is exceedingly feeble and ineffective.
A few cursory remarks:—Mr. Dickens fails peculiarly inpurenarration. See, for example, page 296, where the connection of Hugh and Chester is detailed by Varden. See also in “The Curiosity-Shop,†where, when the result is fully known, so many words are occupied in explaining the relationship of the brothers.
The effect of the present narrative might have been materially increased by confining the action within the limits of London. The “Notre Dame†of Hugo affords a fine example of the force which can be gained by concentration, or unity of place. The unity of time is also sadly neglected, to no purpose, in “Barnaby Rudge.â€
That Rudge should so long and so deeply feel the sting of conscience is inconsistent with his brutality.
On page 15 the interval elapsing between the murder and Rudge’s return, is variously stated at twenty-two and twenty-four years.
It may be asked why the inmates of The Warren failed to hear the alarm-bell which was heard by Solomon Daisy.
The idea of persecution by being tracked, as by bloodhounds, from one spot of quietude to another is a favorite one with Mr. Dickens. Its effect cannot be denied.
The stain upon Barnaby’s wrist, caused by fright in the mother at so late a period of gestation as one day before mature parturition, is shockingly at war with all medical experience.
When Rudge, escaped from prison, unshackled, with money at command, is in agony at his wife’s refusal to perjure herself for his salvation—is it notqueerthat he should demand any other salvation than lay in his heels?
Some of the conclusions of chapters—see pages 40 and 100—seem to have been written for the mere purpose of illustrating tail-pieces.
The leading idiosyncrasy of Mr. Dickens’ remarkable humor, is to be found in histranslating the language of gesture, or action, or tone. For exampleâ —
“The cronies nodded to each other, and Mr. Parkes remarked in an under tone, shaking his head meanwhile,as who should say ‘let no man contradict me, for I won’t believe him,’that Willet was in amazing force to-night.â€
“The cronies nodded to each other, and Mr. Parkes remarked in an under tone, shaking his head meanwhile,as who should say ‘let no man contradict me, for I won’t believe him,’that Willet was in amazing force to-night.â€
The riots form a series of vivid pictures never surpassed.
At page 17, the road between London and the Maypole is described as a horribly rough and dangerous, and at page 97, as an uncommonly smooth and convenient one.
At page 116, how comes Chester in possession of the key of Mrs. Rudge’s vacated house?
Mr. Dickens’ English is usually pure. His most remarkable error is that of employing the adverb “directly†in the sense of “as soon as.†For example—“Directly he arrived, Rudge said, &c.†Bulwer is uniformly guilty of the same blunder.
It is observable that so original a stylist as our author should occasionally lapse into a gross imitation of what, itself, is a gross imitation. We mean the manner of Lamb—a manner based in the Latin construction. For exampleâ —
In summer time its pumps suggest to thirsty idlers springs cooler and more sparkling and deeper than other wells; and as they trace the spillings of full pitchers on the heated ground, they snuff the freshness, and, sighing, cast sad looks towards the Thames, and think of baths and boats, and saunter on, despondent.
In summer time its pumps suggest to thirsty idlers springs cooler and more sparkling and deeper than other wells; and as they trace the spillings of full pitchers on the heated ground, they snuff the freshness, and, sighing, cast sad looks towards the Thames, and think of baths and boats, and saunter on, despondent.
The wood-cutdesignswhich accompany the edition before us are occasionally good. The copper engravings are pitiably ill-conceived and ill-drawn; and not only this, but are in broad contradiction of the wood-designs and text.
There are manycoincidenceswrought into the narrative—those, for example, which relate to the nineteenth of March; the dream of Barnaby, respecting his father, at the very period when his father is actually in the house; and the dream of Haredale previous to his final meeting with Chester. These things are meant toinsinuatea fatality which, very properly, is not expressed in plain terms—but it is questionable whether the story derives more, in ideality, from their introduction, than it might have gained of verisimilitude from their omission.
Thedramatis personaesustain the high fame of Mr. Dickens as a delineator of character. Miggs, the disconsolate handmaiden of Varden; Tappertit, his chivalrous apprentice; Mrs. Varden, herself; and Dennis, a hangman—may be regarded as original caricatures, of the highest merit as such. Their traits are founded in acute observation of nature, but are exaggerated to the utmost admissible extent. Miss Haredale and Edward Chester are common-places—no effort has been made in their behalf. Joe Willet is a naturally drawn country youth. Stagg is a mere make-weight. Gashford and Gordon are truthfully copied. Dolly Varden is truth itself. Haredale, Rudge and Mrs. Rudge are impressive only through the circumstances which surround them. Sir John Chester is, of course, not original, but is a vast improvement upon all his predecessors—his heartlessness is rendered somewhat too amusing, and his end too much that of a man of honor. Hugh is a noble conception. His fierce exultation in his animal powers; his subserviency to the smooth Chester; his mirthful contempt and patronage of Tappertit, and hisbrutalyet firm courage in the hour of death—form a picture to be set in diamonds. Old Willet is not surpassed by any character even among those of Dickens. He is nature itself—yet a step farther would have placed him in the class of caricatures. His combined conceit and obtusity are indescribably droll, and his peculiar misdirected energy when aroused, is one of the most exquisite touches in all humorous painting. We shall never forget how heartily we laughed at his shaking Solomon Daisy and threatening to put him behind the fire, because the unfortunate little man was too much frightened to articulate. Varden is one of those free, jovial, honest fellows at charity with all mankind, whom our author is so fond of depicting. And lastly, Barnaby, the hero of the tale—in him we have been somewhat disappointed. We have already said that his delight in the atrocities of the Rebellion is at variance with his horror of blood. But this horror of blood isinconsequential; and of this we complain. Strongly insisted upon in the beginning of the narrative, it produces no adequate result. And here how fine an opportunity has Mr. Dickens missed! The conviction of the assassin, after the lapse of twenty-two years, might easily have been brought about through his son’s mysterious awe of blood—an awe created in the unborn by the assassination itself—and this would have been one of the finest possible embodiments of the idea which we are accustomed to attach to “poetical justice.†The raven, too, intensely amusing as it is, might have been made, more than we now see it, a portion of the conception of the fantastic Barnaby. Its croakings might have beenpropheticallyheard in the course of the drama. Its character might have performed, in regard to that of the idiot, much the same part as does, in music, the accompaniment in respect to the air. Each might have been distinct. Each might have differed remarkably from the other. Yet between them there might have been wrought an analogical resemblance, and, although each might have existed apart, they might have formed together a whole which would have been imperfect in the absence of either.
From what we have here said—and, perhaps, said without due deliberation—(for alas! the hurried duties of the journalist preclude it) there will not be wanting those who will accuse us of a mad design to detract from the pure fame of the novelist. But to such we merely say in the language of heraldry “ye should wear a plain point sanguine in your arms.†If this be understood, well; if not, well again. There lives no man feeling a deeper reverence for genius than ourself. If we have not dwelt so especially upon the high merits as upon the trivial defects of “Barnaby Rudge†we have already given our reasons for the omission, and these reasons will be sufficiently understood by all whom we care to understand them. The work before us is not, we think, equal to the tale which immediately preceded it; but there are few—very few others to which we consider it inferior. Our chief objection has not, perhaps, been so distinctly stated as we could wish. That this fiction, or indeed that any fiction written by Mr. Dickens, should be based in the excitement and maintenance of curiosity we look upon as a misconception, on the part of the writer, of his own very great yet very peculiar powers. He has done this thing well, to be sure—he would do anything well in comparison with the herd of his contemporaries—but he has not done it so thoroughly well as his high and just reputation would demand. We think that the whole book has been an effort to him—solely through the nature of its design. He has been smitten with an untimely desire for a novel path. The idiosyncrasy of his intellect would lead him, naturally, into the most fluent and simple style of narration. In tales of ordinary sequence he may and will long reign triumphant. He has atalentfor all things, but no positivegeniusforadaptation, and still less for that metaphysical art in which the souls of allmysterieslie. “Caleb Williams†is a far less noble work than “The Old Curiosity-Shop;†but Mr. Dickens could no more have constructed the one than Mr. Godwin could have dreamed of the other.
Wakondah; The Master of Life. A Poem. George L. Curry and Co.: New York.
Wakondah; The Master of Life. A Poem. George L. Curry and Co.: New York.
“Wakondah†is the composition of Mr. Cornelius Mathews, one of the editors of the Monthly Magazine, “Arcturus.†In the December number of the journal, the poem was originally set forth by its author, very much “avec l’air d’un homme qui sauve sa patrie.†To be sure, it was not what is usually termed theleadingarticle of the month. It did not occupy that post of honor which, hitherto, has been so modestly filled by “Puffer Hopkins.†But it took precedence of some exceedingly beautiful stanzas by Professor Longfellow, and stood second only to a very serious account of a supper which, however well it might have suited the taste of an Ariel, would scarcely have feasted the Anakim, or satisfied the appetite of a Grandgousier. The supper was, or might have been, a good thing. The poem which succeeded itis not; nor can we imagine what has induced Messrs. Curry & Co. to be at the trouble of its republication. We are vexed with these gentlemen for having thrust this affair the second time before us. They have placed us in a predicament we dislike. In the pages of “Arcturus†the poem did not come necessarily under the eye of the Magazine critic. There is a tacitly-understood courtesy about these matters—a courtesy upon which we need not comment. The contributed papers in any one journal of the class of “Arcturus†are not considered asdebateableby any one other. General propositions, under the editorial head, are rightly made the subject of discussion; but in speaking of “Wakondah,†for example, in the pages of our own Magazine, we should have felt as ifmaking an occasion. Now, upon our first perusal of the poem in question, we were both astonished and grieved that we could say, honestly, very little in its praise:—astonished, for by some means, not just now altogether intelligible to ourselves, we had become imbued with the idea of high poetical talent in Mr. Mathews:—grieved, because, under the circumstances of his position as editor of one of theverybest journals in the country, we had been sincerely anxious to think well of his abilities. Moreover, we felt that tospeak illof them, under any circumstances whatever, would be to subject ourselves to the charge of envy or jealousy, on the part of those who do not personally know us. We, therefore, rejoiced that “Wakondah†was not a topic we were called upon to discuss. But the poem is republished, and placed upon our table, and these very “circumstances of position,†which restrained us in the first place, render it a positive duty that we speak distinctly in the second.
And very distinctly shall we speak. In fact this effusion is a dilemma whose hornsgoadus into frankness and candor—“c’est un malheur,†to use the words of Victor Hugo, “d’où on ne pourrait se tirer par des periphrases, par des quemadmodums et des verumenimveros.†If we mention it at all, we areforcedto employ the language of that region where, as Addison has it, “they sell the best fish and speak the plainest English.†“Wakondah,†then, from beginning to end, is trash. With the trivial exceptions which we shall designate, it hasnomerit whatever; while its faults, more numerous than the leaves of Valombrosa, are of that rampant class which, if any schoolboycouldbe found so uninformed as to commit them, any schoolboy should be remorselessly flogged for committing.
The story, or as the epics have it, the argument, although brief, is by no means particularly easy of comprehension. The design seems to be based upon a passage in Mr. Irving’s “Astoria.†He tells us that the Indians who inhabit the Chippewyan range of mountains, call it the “Crest of the World,†and “think that Wakondah, or the Master of Life, as they designate the Supreme Being, has his residence among these aerial heights.†Upon this hint Mr. Mathews has proceeded. He introduces us to Wakondah standing in person upon a mountain-top. He describes his appearance, and thinks that a Chinook would be frightened to behold it. He causes the “Master of Life†to make a speech, which is addressed, generally, to things at large, and particularly to the neighboring Woods, Cataracts, Rivers, Pinnacles, Steeps, and Lakes—not to mention an Earthquake. But all these (and we think, judiciously) turn a deaf ear to the oration, which, to be plain, is scarcely equal to a second-rate Piankitank stump speech. In fact, it is a bare-faced attempt at animal magnetism, and the mountains, &c., do no more than show its potency in resigning themselves to sleep, as they do.
Then shone Wakondah’s dreadful eyes
Then shone Wakondah’s dreadful eyes
Then shone Wakondah’s dreadful eyes
Then shone Wakondah’s dreadful eyes
—then he becomesveryindignant, and accordingly launches forth into speech the second—with which the delinquents are afflicted, with occasional brief interruptions from the poet, in proper person, until the conclusion of the poem.
Thesubjectof the two orations we shall be permitted to sum up compendiously in the one term “rigmarole.†But we do not mean to say that our compendium is not an improvement, and a very considerable one, upon the speeches themselves,—which, taken altogether, are the queerest, and the most rhetorical, not to say the most miscellaneous orations we ever remember to have listened to outside of an Arkansas House of Delegates.
In saying this we mean what we say. We intend no joke. Were it possible, we would quote the whole poem in support of our opinion. But as this isnotpossible, and moreover, as we presume Mr. Mathews has not been so negligent as to omit securing his valuable property by a copyright, we must be contented with a few extracts here and there at random, with a few comments equally so. But we have already hinted that there were really one or two words to be said of this effusion in the way of commendation, and these one or two words might as well be said now as hereafter.
The poem thus commences—
The moon ascends the vaulted sky to-night;With a slow motion full of pomp ascends,But, mightier than the Moon that o’er it bends,A form is dwelling on the mountain heightThat boldly intercepts the struggling lightWith darkness nobler than the planet’s fire,â —A gloom and dreadful grandeur that aspireTo match the cheerful Heaven’s far-shining might.
The moon ascends the vaulted sky to-night;With a slow motion full of pomp ascends,But, mightier than the Moon that o’er it bends,A form is dwelling on the mountain heightThat boldly intercepts the struggling lightWith darkness nobler than the planet’s fire,â —A gloom and dreadful grandeur that aspireTo match the cheerful Heaven’s far-shining might.
The moon ascends the vaulted sky to-night;With a slow motion full of pomp ascends,But, mightier than the Moon that o’er it bends,A form is dwelling on the mountain heightThat boldly intercepts the struggling lightWith darkness nobler than the planet’s fire,â —A gloom and dreadful grandeur that aspireTo match the cheerful Heaven’s far-shining might.
The moon ascends the vaulted sky to-night;
With a slow motion full of pomp ascends,
But, mightier than the Moon that o’er it bends,
A form is dwelling on the mountain height
That boldly intercepts the struggling light
With darkness nobler than the planet’s fire,â —
A gloom and dreadful grandeur that aspire
To match the cheerful Heaven’s far-shining might.
If we were to shut our eyes to the repetition of “might,†(which, in its various inflections, is a pet word with our author, and lugged in upon all occasions) and to the obvious imitation of Longfellow’s Hymn to the Night in the second line of this stanza, we should be justified in calling itgood. The “darkness nobler than the planet’s fire†iscertainlygood. The general conception of the colossal figure on the mountain summit, relieved against the full moon, would be unquestionablygrandwere it not for thebullishphraseology by which the conception is rendered, in a great measure, abortive. The moon is described as “ascending,†and its “motion†is referred to, while we have the standing figure continuously intercepting its light. That the orb would soon pass from behind the figure, is a physical fact which the purpose of the poet required to be left out of sight, and which scarcely any other language than that which he has actually employed would have succeeded in forcing upon the reader’s attention. With all these defects, however, the passage, especially as an opening passage, is one of high merit.
Looking carefully for something else to be commended we find at length the linesâ —
Lo! where our foe up through these vales ascends,Fresh from the embraces of the swelling sea,A glorious, white and shining Deity.Upon our strength his deep blue eye he bends,With threatenings full of thought and steadfast ends;While desolation from his nostril breathesHis glittering rage he scornfully unsheathesAnd to the startled air its splendor lends.
Lo! where our foe up through these vales ascends,Fresh from the embraces of the swelling sea,A glorious, white and shining Deity.Upon our strength his deep blue eye he bends,With threatenings full of thought and steadfast ends;While desolation from his nostril breathesHis glittering rage he scornfully unsheathesAnd to the startled air its splendor lends.
Lo! where our foe up through these vales ascends,Fresh from the embraces of the swelling sea,A glorious, white and shining Deity.Upon our strength his deep blue eye he bends,With threatenings full of thought and steadfast ends;While desolation from his nostril breathesHis glittering rage he scornfully unsheathesAnd to the startled air its splendor lends.
Lo! where our foe up through these vales ascends,
Fresh from the embraces of the swelling sea,
A glorious, white and shining Deity.
Upon our strength his deep blue eye he bends,
With threatenings full of thought and steadfast ends;
While desolation from his nostril breathes
His glittering rage he scornfully unsheathes
And to the startled air its splendor lends.
This again, however, is worth only qualified commendation. The first six lines preserve the personification (that of a ship) sufficiently well; but, in the seventh and eighth, the author suffers the image to slide into that of a warrior unsheathing his sword. Still there isforcein these concluding verses, and we begin to fancy that this is saying a very great deal for the author of “Puffer Hopkins.â€
The best stanza in the poem (there are thirty-four in all) is the thirty-third.
No cloud was on the moon, yet on His browA deepening shadow fell, and on his kneesThat shook like tempest-stricken mountain treesHis heavy head descended sad and lowLike a high city smitten by the blowWhich secret earthquakes strike and topling fallsWith all its arches, towers, and cathedralsIn swift and unconjectured overthrow.
No cloud was on the moon, yet on His browA deepening shadow fell, and on his kneesThat shook like tempest-stricken mountain treesHis heavy head descended sad and lowLike a high city smitten by the blowWhich secret earthquakes strike and topling fallsWith all its arches, towers, and cathedralsIn swift and unconjectured overthrow.
No cloud was on the moon, yet on His browA deepening shadow fell, and on his kneesThat shook like tempest-stricken mountain treesHis heavy head descended sad and lowLike a high city smitten by the blowWhich secret earthquakes strike and topling fallsWith all its arches, towers, and cathedralsIn swift and unconjectured overthrow.
No cloud was on the moon, yet on His brow
A deepening shadow fell, and on his knees
That shook like tempest-stricken mountain trees
His heavy head descended sad and low
Like a high city smitten by the blow
Which secret earthquakes strike and topling falls
With all its arches, towers, and cathedrals
In swift and unconjectured overthrow.
This is, positively, not bad. The first line italicized is bold and vigorous, both in thought and expression; and the four last (although by no means original) convey a striking picture. But then the whole idea, in its general want of keeping, is preposterous. What is more absurd than the conception of a man’s head descendingto his knees, as here described—the thing could not be done by an Indian juggler or a man of gum-caoutchouc—and what is more inappropriate than the resemblance attempted to be drawn between asinglehead descending, and theinnumerablepinnacles of a falling city? It is difficult to understand,en passant, why Mr. Mathews has thought proper to give “cathedrals†a quantity which does not belong to it, or to write “unconjectured†when the rhythm might have been fulfilled by “unexpected†and when “unexpected†would have fully conveyed the meaning which “unconjectured†does not.
By dint of farther microscopic survey, we are enabled to point out one, and alas,onlyone more good line in the poem.
Green dells that into silence stretch away
Green dells that into silence stretch away
Green dells that into silence stretch away
Green dells that into silence stretch away
contains a richly poetical thought, melodiously embodied. We only refrain, however, from declaring, flatly, that the line is not the property of Mr. Mathews, because we have not at hand the volume from which we believe it to be stolen.
We quote the sixth, seventh, eighth, and ninth stanzas in full. They will serve to convey some faint idea of the general poem. The Italics are our own.
VI.The spirit lowers and speaks: “Tremble ye wild Woods!Ye Cataracts! yourorgan-voicessound!Deep Crags, in earth by massy tenures bound,Oh, Earthquake,level flat! The peace that broodsAbove this world, and steadfastly eludesYour power, howl Winds and break; the peace that mocksDismay ’mid silent streams and voiceless rocksâ —Through wildernesses, cliffs, and solitudes.
VI.The spirit lowers and speaks: “Tremble ye wild Woods!Ye Cataracts! yourorgan-voicessound!Deep Crags, in earth by massy tenures bound,Oh, Earthquake,level flat! The peace that broodsAbove this world, and steadfastly eludesYour power, howl Winds and break; the peace that mocksDismay ’mid silent streams and voiceless rocksâ —Through wildernesses, cliffs, and solitudes.
VI.
VI.
The spirit lowers and speaks: “Tremble ye wild Woods!Ye Cataracts! yourorgan-voicessound!Deep Crags, in earth by massy tenures bound,Oh, Earthquake,level flat! The peace that broodsAbove this world, and steadfastly eludesYour power, howl Winds and break; the peace that mocksDismay ’mid silent streams and voiceless rocksâ —Through wildernesses, cliffs, and solitudes.
The spirit lowers and speaks: “Tremble ye wild Woods!
Ye Cataracts! yourorgan-voicessound!
Deep Crags, in earth by massy tenures bound,
Oh, Earthquake,level flat! The peace that broods
Above this world, and steadfastly eludes
Your power, howl Winds and break; the peace that mocks
Dismay ’mid silent streams and voiceless rocksâ —
Through wildernesses, cliffs, and solitudes.
VII.“Night-shadowed Rivers—lift your dusky handsAnd clap them harshlywith a sullen roar!Ye thousand Pinnacles and Steeps deploreThe glory that departs; aboveyoustands,YeLakes with azure waves and snowy strands,A Power that utters forth his loud behestTill mountain, lake and river shall attest,The puissance of a Master’slarge commands.â€
VII.“Night-shadowed Rivers—lift your dusky handsAnd clap them harshlywith a sullen roar!Ye thousand Pinnacles and Steeps deploreThe glory that departs; aboveyoustands,YeLakes with azure waves and snowy strands,A Power that utters forth his loud behestTill mountain, lake and river shall attest,The puissance of a Master’slarge commands.â€
VII.
VII.
“Night-shadowed Rivers—lift your dusky handsAnd clap them harshlywith a sullen roar!Ye thousand Pinnacles and Steeps deploreThe glory that departs; aboveyoustands,YeLakes with azure waves and snowy strands,A Power that utters forth his loud behestTill mountain, lake and river shall attest,The puissance of a Master’slarge commands.â€
“Night-shadowed Rivers—lift your dusky hands
And clap them harshlywith a sullen roar!
Ye thousand Pinnacles and Steeps deplore
The glory that departs; aboveyoustands,
YeLakes with azure waves and snowy strands,
A Power that utters forth his loud behest
Till mountain, lake and river shall attest,
The puissance of a Master’slarge commands.â€
VIII.So spake the Spirit with a wide-cast lookOf bounteous power andcheerfulmajesty;As if he caught a sight of either seaAnd all the subject realm between: then shookHis brandished arms; his stature scarce could brookIts confine;swelling wide, it seemed to growAs grows a cedar on a mountain’s browBy the mad air in ruffling breezestook!
VIII.So spake the Spirit with a wide-cast lookOf bounteous power andcheerfulmajesty;As if he caught a sight of either seaAnd all the subject realm between: then shookHis brandished arms; his stature scarce could brookIts confine;swelling wide, it seemed to growAs grows a cedar on a mountain’s browBy the mad air in ruffling breezestook!
VIII.
VIII.
So spake the Spirit with a wide-cast lookOf bounteous power andcheerfulmajesty;As if he caught a sight of either seaAnd all the subject realm between: then shookHis brandished arms; his stature scarce could brookIts confine;swelling wide, it seemed to growAs grows a cedar on a mountain’s browBy the mad air in ruffling breezestook!
So spake the Spirit with a wide-cast look
Of bounteous power andcheerfulmajesty;
As if he caught a sight of either sea
And all the subject realm between: then shook
His brandished arms; his stature scarce could brook
Its confine;swelling wide, it seemed to grow
As grows a cedar on a mountain’s brow
By the mad air in ruffling breezestook!
IX.The woods are deaf and will not be arousedâ —The mountains are asleep, they hear him not,Nor from deep-founded silence can be wrought,Tho’ herded bison on their steeps have browsed:Beneath their hanks indarksome stillnesshousedThe rivers loiter like a calm-bound sea;In anchored nuptials to dumb apathyCliff, wilderness and solitude are spoused.
IX.The woods are deaf and will not be arousedâ —The mountains are asleep, they hear him not,Nor from deep-founded silence can be wrought,Tho’ herded bison on their steeps have browsed:Beneath their hanks indarksome stillnesshousedThe rivers loiter like a calm-bound sea;In anchored nuptials to dumb apathyCliff, wilderness and solitude are spoused.
IX.
IX.
The woods are deaf and will not be arousedâ —The mountains are asleep, they hear him not,Nor from deep-founded silence can be wrought,Tho’ herded bison on their steeps have browsed:Beneath their hanks indarksome stillnesshousedThe rivers loiter like a calm-bound sea;In anchored nuptials to dumb apathyCliff, wilderness and solitude are spoused.
The woods are deaf and will not be arousedâ —
The mountains are asleep, they hear him not,
Nor from deep-founded silence can be wrought,
Tho’ herded bison on their steeps have browsed:
Beneath their hanks indarksome stillnesshoused
The rivers loiter like a calm-bound sea;
In anchored nuptials to dumb apathy
Cliff, wilderness and solitude are spoused.
Let us endeavor to translate this gibberish, by way of ascertaining its import, if possible. Or, rather, let us state the stanzas, in substance. The spiritlowers, that is to saygrows angry, and speaks. He calls upon the Wild Woods to tremble, and upon the Cataracts to sound their voices which have the tone of an organ. He addresses, then,anEarthquake, or perhaps Earthquake in general, and requests it tolevel flatall the Deep Crags which are bound by massy tenures in earth—a request, by the way, which any sensible Earthquake must have regarded as tautological, since it is difficult to level anything otherwise thanflat:—Mr. Mathews, however, is no doubt the best judge of flatness in the abstract, and may have peculiar ideas respecting it. But to proceed with the Spirit. Turning to the Winds, he enjoins them to howl and break the peace that broods above this world and steadfastly eludes their power—the same peace that mocks a Dismay ’mid streams, rocks, et cetera. He now speaks to the night-shadowed Rivers, and commands them to lift their dusky hands, and clap them harshlywith a sullen roar—and asroaringwith one’shandsis not the easiest matter in the world, we can only conclude that the Rivers here reluctantly disobeyed the injunction. Nothing daunted, however, the Spirit, addressing a thousand Pinnacles and Steeps, desires them to deplore the glory that departs, or is departing—and we can almost fancy that we see the Pinnacles deploring it upon the spot. The Lakes—at least such of them as possess azure waves and snowy strands—then come in for their share of the oration. They are called upon to observe—to take notice—that above them stands no ordinary character—no Piankitank stump orator, or anything of that sort—but a Power;—a power, in short, to use the exact words of Mr. Mathews, “thatutters forthhis loud behest, till mountain, lake and river shall attest the puissance of a Master’slarge commands.â€Utters forthis no doubt somewhat supererogatory, since “to utter†is of itself to emit, or send forth; but as “the Power†appears to be somewhat excited he should be forgiven such mere errors of speech. We cannot, however, pass over his boast about uttering forth his loud behesttillmountain, lake and rivers shall obey him—for the fact is that his threat isvox et preterea nihil, like the countryman’s nightingale in Catullus; the issue showing that the mountains, lakes and rivers—all very sensible creatures—go fast asleep upon the spot, and pay no attention to his rigmarole whatever. Upon the “large commands†it is not our intention to dwell. The phrase is a singularly mercantile one to be in the mouth of “a Power.†It is not impossible, however, that Mr. Mathews himself is
—busy in the cotton tradeAnd sugar line.
—busy in the cotton tradeAnd sugar line.
—busy in the cotton tradeAnd sugar line.
—busy in the cotton trade
And sugar line.
But to resume. We were originally told that the Spirit “lowered†and spoke, and in truth his entire speech is a scold at Creation; yet stanza the eighth is so forgetful as to say that he spoke “with a wide-cast look of bounteous power andcheerfulmajesty.†Be this point as it may, he now shakes his brandished arms, and, swelling out, seems to growâ —
As grows a cedar on a mountain’s topBy the mad air in ruffling breezestook
As grows a cedar on a mountain’s topBy the mad air in ruffling breezestook
As grows a cedar on a mountain’s topBy the mad air in ruffling breezestook
As grows a cedar on a mountain’s top
By the mad air in ruffling breezestook
—or as swells a turkey-gobbler; whose image the poet unquestionably had in his mind’s eye when he penned the words about the ruffled cedar. As fortookinstead oftaken—why not saytukat once? We have heard of chaps vot vas tuk up for sheep-stealing, and we know of one or two that ought to be tuk up for murder of the Queen’s English.
We shall never get on. Stanza the ninth assures us that the woods are deaf and will not be aroused, that the mountains are asleep and so forth—all which Mr. Mathews might have anticipated. But the rest he could not have foreseen. He could not have foreknown that “the rivers, housed beneath their banks indarksome stillness,†would “loiter like a calm-bound sea,†and still less could he have been aware, unless informed of the fact, that “cliff, wilderness and solitude would be spoused in anchored nuptials to dumb apathy!†Good Heavens—no!—nobody could have anticipatedthat! Now, Mr. Mathews, we put it to you as to a man of veracity—whatdoesit all mean?
As when in times to startle and revere.
As when in times to startle and revere.
As when in times to startle and revere.
As when in times to startle and revere.
This line, of course, is an accident on the part of our author. At the time of writing it he could not have remembered
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
Here is another accident of imitation; for seriously, we do not mean toassertthat it is anything moreâ —
I urged the dark red hunter in his questOf pard or panther with a gloomy zest;And while through darkling woods they swiftly fareTwo seeming creatures of the oak-shadowed air,I sped the game and fired the follower’s breast.
I urged the dark red hunter in his questOf pard or panther with a gloomy zest;And while through darkling woods they swiftly fareTwo seeming creatures of the oak-shadowed air,I sped the game and fired the follower’s breast.
I urged the dark red hunter in his questOf pard or panther with a gloomy zest;And while through darkling woods they swiftly fareTwo seeming creatures of the oak-shadowed air,I sped the game and fired the follower’s breast.
I urged the dark red hunter in his quest
Of pard or panther with a gloomy zest;
And while through darkling woods they swiftly fare
Two seeming creatures of the oak-shadowed air,
I sped the game and fired the follower’s breast.
The line italicized we have seen quoted by some of our daily critics as beautiful; and so, barring the “oak-shadowed air,†it is. In the meantime Campbell, in “Gertrude of Wyoming,†has thewords
—the hunter and the deer a shade.
—the hunter and the deer a shade.
—the hunter and the deer a shade.
—the hunter and the deer a shade.
Campbell stole the idea from our own Freneau, who has theline
The hunter and the deer a shade.
The hunter and the deer a shade.
The hunter and the deer a shade.
The hunter and the deer a shade.
Between the two, Mr. Mathews’ claim to originality, at this point, will, very possibly, fall to the ground.
It appears to us that the author of “Wakondah†is either very innocent or very original about matters of versification. His stanza is an ordinary one. If we are not mistaken, it is that employed by Campbell in his “Gertrude of Wyomingâ€â€”a favorite poem of our author’s. At all events it is composed of pentameters whose rhymes alternate by a simple and fixed rule. But our poet’s deviations from this rule are so many and so unusually picturesque, that we scarcely know what to think of them. Sometimes he introduces an Alexandrine at the close of a stanza; and here we have no right to quarrel with him. It is notusualin this metre; but still hemaydo it if he pleases. To put an Alexandrine in the middle, or at the beginning, of one of these stanzas is droll, to say no more. See stanza third, which commences with the verse
Upon his brow a garland of the woods he wears,
Upon his brow a garland of the woods he wears,
Upon his brow a garland of the woods he wears,
Upon his brow a garland of the woods he wears,
and stanza twenty-eight, where the last line but one is