{830}
Assured by the way in which Robert had taken the first and most difficult steps in his new abode, the good priest prepared to leave. It was in warm and pressing terms that he recommended hisprotégé; and embracing him, gave him his paternal benediction. "I will see you soon," he said to him, and this promise consoled him, for he felt sure he would always be a generous defender, a tender and devoted. friend. The child flattered himself for some time that he had gained the confidence and friendship of Gustave, but he had soon to renounce that belief, for, in spite of his profound dissimulation, the latter could not always keep up appearances, and Robert suddenly discovered the truth. This made Gustave hate him bitterly, and nothing could diminish it; but Robert spoke of it to no one but the priest. Encouraged by his silence, which Gustave mistook for the silence of fear, he was always making war with him when they were alone. Before his mother, or any other person, he did not dare to do so, but changes of manner were no trouble to the young hypocrite, for he could put on a bold air, and give himself the calm serenity of innocence. This premature corruption, this innate science of' evil, he carefully hid, and was deceitful above everything to those before whom he wished to appear good. In the first days of their acquaintance he had conceived a violent hatred to Robert, but he felt the necessity of dissimulating, so as not to awaken the suspicions of his mother; so that he did not openly declare war with his rival, for he knew that would be an irreparable fault. He trusted to chance, which sometimes helps the wicked, and waited for an occasion to present itself.
Robert all this while studied with care the lessons of his different masters, which the goodness of his benefactress gave him the means of sharing with Gustave. It was no trouble to him to learn, and his progress was so rapid and so wonderful, that his masters were enchanted, and were prodigal of their praises and marks of affection. Gustave, the lazy, indolent boy, suffered all the torments of envy. For the first time he felt pride, pushing toward emulation, enter his heart, and that which neither the prayers nor the tears of his mother could obtain, the odious sentiment of jealousy brought, and he worked with ardor, Rage sustained him in his desperate resolution; his duties were no longer neglected, and his hours for work were so laboriously employed, that even his mother believed for a time in the complete reformation of her son, under the happy influence of Robert. This joy was of short duration, and the error soon dispelled, for, if his mind profited on the one hand, his heart remained the same, and in it every bad passion was kindled. Sad fruits of a neglected education, of an infancy and childhood abandoned to itself, without care and without culture.
Nearly a year had passed since Robert entered the house of Madame de Vernanges, and the time had been most profitable to him in every way. Study opened to his eyes the treasures that are concealed from the vulgar, and he was already opening for himself a career sown with the seeds of art and science, the flowers of which he longed to gather; and in spite of all the cruelty and sarcasm of Gustave, he was very happy, for he felt the love of his benefactress and the good curé, and the remembrance of his cherished mother, and under these affections he rejoiced, as one rejoices in the sunlight of heaven. From the night she appeared to him in a dream, he was filled with the desire to be good, and worked nobly for this end. Often his thoughts would fly to his mountain home, and to the grave which contained her ashes. Neither had he forgotten the venerable priest of the Baths of Mount Dore, and had often written to him, and from time to time sent him small sums of money to be employed in charities.
Among Robert's happiest hours now were those he passed with the curé here; but even these he could not long enjoy alone, for the wicked Gustave discovered that his sadness vanished{831}whenever he reached the curé's door, and he took a cruel pleasure in always going with him under various pretexts, and thus snatching these few moments of happiness from his victim. But a smile, a kind word from his benefactor, paid Robert doubly for this painful sacrifice, and Madame de Vernanges noticed the hatred her son bore him. She was not to be duped by the friendship he feigned for one he detested from his soul. More than once the feeble mother had been a witness to the odious wickedness of the one, and the admirable patience of the other. She had seen, but had not corrected the guilty, for his strength discouraged her; she was too heart-stricken to combat with the bad genius that possessed him. It was easier for her to close her eyes to it, though she had the justice to seek by delicate attentions and tender caresses to repay Robert for some of his sufferings.
We have lost the old soldier for a time, but have not forgotten him. At the time of their separation, both he and Robert shed bitter tears, and the latter tried to make him promise that he would come sometimes to see him in his new abode: "Not there," said the grenadier, "but I will come sometimes and have a talk with you at the house of the curé, for I love him, by the faith of Cyprien Hardy." And he kept his promise, and many were the talks they had there together. On the 20th of March of that year the exile of Elba made an appeal to all faithful soldiers, and it was not made in vain. Cyprien responded at once to the call of his emperor, and when he had buckled on his warlike habits, he forgot for a while the orphan and the priest.
Madame de Vernanges counted her days only by her sorrows. She had no repose—her health was failing so rapidly that the physicians said she must pass the winter in a warmer climate and under a purer sky. This was a sudden blow for Robert, for he had become much attached to his benefactress, and she said he was to go to college with Gustave, who saw with revolting indifference the sufferings of his mother at the thought of a separation; but all her friends thought it was best, hoping some change in his character might take place from the strict and severe discipline of college life. This new arrangement was submitted to the curé, who in all things pertaining to him, was guided by the interest of hisprotégé, and it met with his approbation. Madame de Vernanges' was to be absent six months or a year, and Robert felt that he should indeed be isolated from her protective affection, and left alone to the wicked designs of Gustave; who, when they were thrown together at college, used all his time and his power to turn the students against Robert, and get them to league with him against him, for he was longing for an occasion to avenge the marks of tenderness and preference which his mother had shown Robert. Never was a child's patience put to a more severe test—neither the goodness nor generosity of the orphan could soften the hatred Gustave felt for him. But though Robert was of so even and calm a temperament, he could not be injured nor oppressed without defending himself, and there was but one consideration that curbed his indignation, and that was the certainty he felt that Gustave was the author of the persecutions which each wicked boy inflicted upon him. Had he not been convinced of this, he would have used the same means to punish them which they employed to torture him; but, according to his pure sentiments, this would not have been right, and he would not have the least reproach from his benefactress for any unkindness toward her son. He did not oppose his oppressors in any way, but they saw that he felt the outrages perfectly, and disdained, and not without reason, to let them know it. In this combat of all against one, the voice of conscience was not always heard, and in spite of his efforts to keep silent, there came a time when it was insupportable. The epithets of "lazy and coward"{832}resounding in his ears, filled him with indignation, and those who spoke them did not dare repeat them a second time, for he dealt with them in a way that convinced them he could not bear everything. Two or three corrections soon put an end to this state of things, and placed Robert high in the esteem of the older collegians. In vain did Gustave try to reawaken the ardor of his partisans. Frightened by the vigorous attack of Robert, they refused to unite in any new vexations against one they respected and loved, and they all vowed they would never take up a prejudice again. Thus Gustave saw, in spite of all his odious efforts to the contrary, Robert loved by his masters, respected and esteemed by his companions, who protected him and despised his persecutor. Things had reached this point when, one morning, an uncle of Gustave's came and took him hurriedly away, leaving Robert at college. This strange conduct affected him very much, and he wondered what it could mean. Could it be that his benefactress had returned and withdrawn her affection, or was she more ill? He was lost in sad conjectures for several days, which appeared ages to him, as he waited in patience to hear. A visit from the curé, with a sad countenance, revealed to Robert the misfortune which was to oppress him. "Madame de Vernanges suffers no more," said he, with a visible effort, drawing to his bosom the weeping child, whose sorrow was certainly more profound and true than that of' Gustave. "Alas! my child, you have lost your benefactress; before she died she asked to see you, but this wish of a heart devoted to you was denied—God willed it otherwise. But she did not need any further proof of your love, your conduct has spoken it so often; and God will never abandon you. Courage then, your recompense will come sooner or later. I will assume from to-day my entire right of father, and my most tender solicitude will be for you. Redouble your ardor at work, triple your strength, and finally the end which I propose for your happiness will come. Your studies, conscientiously finished, will be the magic keys which will unlock the door to an honorable career. From this time Gustave will not torment you, for he will not return to college."
Robert was too much moved to speak—too many sorrowful remembrances pressed themselves into his heart, but he had not lost a single word that was spoken to him. Six months after this he stood before the abbot of Verneuil, to receive from his hands the crown he so justly deserved. Oh! how his heart beat with joy when he heard his name spoken in the sanctuary of science; it seemed then that the sweet voice of his mother spoke to him. Each time he was named, his eyes turned towards the curé, as if asking him: "Are you satisfied?" How light and easy to wear are the laurels won by the victors in every good work! Is it not a bright day in your lives, my dear children, when you are proclaimed conquerors? What a sweet remembrance it leaves in your hearts, that no after thoughts can ever crush out! Our young laureate passed his vacation—that time of repose so dear to students—with the curé. To Robert work was so much more a pleasure than a fatigue, that he was obliged to allow him to study a great deal; but he did not wish him to spend all his time at his books, but to take some hours of respite each day. This excellent man, of such simple habits and manners, and of such contentment, really suffered at times that he could not from his limited means give Robert as many pleasures as his heart dictated. He knew he needed air and liberty, and wished he could send him into the country, where he would be free from all restraints. "Poor child!" he would say to himself, "how he must long for his native mountain." So, before he left, to return to his studies, he thought he would give him an agreeable surprise. The weather was lovely, and all nature seemed to rejoice. The curé and his charge started in adiligencefor Versailles, the{833}wonderful and magnificent palace once used as a royal residence. Robert had never seen this place, once such a gay city, but whose gilded glory has all departed. No morefêtes, no more balls, in Louis XIV.'s beautiful city. The grand palace is still there, but where are the kings and courtiers? Oh! where?
The gardens charmed Robert, and he bounded about like a young fawn in his native wood, to the great delight of the curé, who rejoiced in his liveliness and happiness, and allowed this little bird that he had freed to follow his capricious fancies, wherever they led him; for he believed that all who loved children favored their pleasures; and it is one of the sweetest joys God has given to man, that he should try to leave no regrets to this age of life. As night was drawing on, Robert left off his sports, and they made ready for their departure. Robert's mind was filled with beautiful pictures of this visit, of which the result was so sad. As they were entering Paris, the benediction that the good curé gave the child each evening was pronounced with much fervor, and it proved the last. They slept in the same room, and Robert had gone happy and trustful to bed, little dreaming of the new and terrible misfortune that awaited him, and in the morning wakes to weep over the inanimate body of his loved benefactor, whose calm and serene face is radiant with immortal joy. The angel of death had come softly near the couch on which reposed the servant of the Lord; and took him from life, to rest on the bosom of his God, leaving a bright example of a virtuous and godly life.
"O virtue! gift of God! grace divine! it is thouthat givest the saintly and sublime inspirations ofdevotion, that trample down vice, that elevate above allfeebleness and all obstacles."ANONYMOUS.
When Robert realized that he had no longer a protector or friend he was plunged into the depths of despair, but it was not for the miserable consideration of interest, which too often possesses humanity, that he was so full of regret; it was for the wise and virtuous man that he mourned, for the loss of his sweet and persuasive language, and his tender and eloquent words, and his indescribable air of goodness, united to his pure life, which won all hearts, as a tender and delicate flower attracts and ravishes by its perfume. Stranger to all that was passing around him, shut up in his sorrows, made an orphan once more, Robert had still the happy consciousness of having fulfilled all his duties to his benefactor. He awakened from his lethargy at the sound of the first shovel of earth that fell on the coffin of his, beloved curé. The awakening was frightful. The tears and sobs he heard around him from the crowd of poor children and unfortunate ones, of every degree, whom he had benefited during his too short career, recalled with violence to his heart the sad reality. Another sincere mourner for the curé was his faithful old housekeeper, who, when she went in to take her last look of the venerable man, saw Robert standing there in silence and sorrow, and she felt that she, like him, was alone in the world, and suffered the same sorrow he did. But his grief and his loss, bitter as it was, was not as fatal for his advancement as might be supposed. His soul was too strongly fortified with the blessing of religion to allow him to be long discouraged. And when he could for a moment forget his losses, he would look to the future, and dare to hope, that although deprived one by one of his protectors, the path to success was still open to him. Madame Gaudin had most bitter thoughts. She was now getting along in years, being near fifty, and her age would be a barrier to her finding a home where the work would be light, so that she could live without spending her hard earned money. From her own personal thoughts she passed to another subject of solicitude—the future of Robert. If she had not felt any very strong interest in the fate of her master'sprotégé,{834}she was too compassionate a woman not to pity this child, who had been the object of his tender care. She thought of how the saintly man had praised the intelligence and amiable qualities of Robert, and repeated his favorite words: "This child will be something one day." Moved by these remembrances, she thought she heard him tell her to watch over the orphan. Submission and respect for all the orders she received was a habit with her, and she had been accustomed to obey with such exactitude, that she took for reality the illusion of her heart, and resolved to obey the inspired voice, and replace, if possible, the charitable man who had adopted Robert. This resolution once made, she thought of nothing but executing it. Going to Robert, she said, "I know, my young friend, you are thinking of some way of gaining a living for yourself. We can live together, and it will be better for us both, and we shall each have some one to take care of us. I will try to get lodgings and work, and you can be with me when not at your work, and God will assist us. Unfortunately you will be obliged to give up your studies for the present, which is my greatest grief; but we will not lose courage, for I feel sure that, sooner or later, God will give you another proof of his goodness. Your penmanship, which is so beautiful, you can make useful and by it earn money. I will go at once and find us a lodging, and will be entirely the gainer by the arrangement, for I shall have for company a good child, who will be like a son; won't he?" Madame Gaudin half smiled at her project, half cried when she repeated the name of the curé, then said, "Yes! yes! I am sure he inspires me to do this, he inspires me with an interest for this child, whom he loved above everything else." Some days after they were fixed in a small lodging in the rue des Fosses, St. Germain. She bought a bed for Robert, and he obtained a situation at twenty-five francs a month. A year passed in this way, without anything at all remarkable happening. Madame Gaudin worked, took care of things, and sang Robert's praises to all. After he had conscientiously finished the day to the profit of his employer, he returned to his lodgings, took his supper, and attended in the evenings a gratuitous course of drawing lessons. This art, for which he felt each day a more and more decided taste, made him forget for a time his past delightful life of study, which had opened to his dazzled eyes the book with golden leaves, which had as suddenly closed to his inexpressible regret. As time wore on, Madame Gaudin's attachment for Robert increased so much, that she almost believed he was her son; and well did he merit it all, for he respected her sincerely, and was most grateful for all she did for him. Whenever he was out at night, she would await his return with the greatest impatience, and was perfectly happy when she could be near him while he was reading, writing, or drawing; which latter employed most of his leisure hours. He imitated with great care the models given him, and would have passed the entire night working at them, but that Madame Gaudin sweetly forced him to lay them aside and go to bed.
Robert had now reached his sixteenth year, and his salary was increased to forty francs a month, which gave him great joy, as well as Madame Gaudin, though she thought that his merit was not yet remunerated enough, notwithstanding it was a good opening for him to another career. Some days after he had received this mark of the satisfaction his good conduct had given, his employer handed him a letter, with an express recommendation to a celebrated painter, and asked him to take it to his studio, and wait for an answer.
Arriving there, he introduced himself into the studio where the artist sat at his work. He laid down his palette, and when he had finished reading the letter that was handed him, he saw to his great surprise the young messenger absorbed before the picture that was on his easel. After considering{835}him far a few moments in silence, he asked him several questions, to which Robert replied with an emotion and an accent that revealed to the painter the inspiration of his soul. The most striking features of his face were his large and spiritual eyes, and his broad open forehead, on which thought sat enthroned. The artist was so charmed with his agreeable exterior, his frank and expressive language, that he inquired with interest what he was doing, who were his family, and what were his projects for the future. Robert satisfied all these questions, which were asked in a benevolent tone, by the recital of his childhood, of the loss of his mother, of his studies, interrupted by the death of his benefactors, and finished by telling his actual position, his love for drawing, and his ardent desire to come to him to study painting. "Well, you can came, my boy," said the painter; "but if you should succeed one day, can you hide from yourself the bitter deceptions which are the sad shadow of glory and renown? Yet why should I frighten you and inspire you with fear, when you trust so implicitly in the future? You can only hope. This word is all-powerful, and with your ideas and wishes you can crush under your feet every obstacle you wish to surmount. From this day consider yourself my pupil, and I doubt not you will do me credit. I will write the answer to the letter you brought me, and tell your employer at the same time that you belong to me now." Robert really thought he was dreaming, and was afraid to stir for fear his castle would fall, until the painter put the letter he was to take into his hand, and said, "Came back to-morrow."
He ran all the way, and stopped almost breathless before the door of Madame Gaudin, opened it hastily, and threw himself into her arms in an ecstacy of delight. "What is it?" she exclaimed, "what has happened you? I know it is something good" Her eyes were so eloquent with curiosity that he at once commenced to tell her, and related, without omitting a single word, the recent conversation which he had with the celebrated painter, and his promise to take him as a scholar. This unexpected event had filled him with such delight, that he entirely forgot the letter that was entrusted to him, but immediately set out to deliver it. Contentment gave him wings, and he was delirious with joy when he pressed against his breast the letter which was the bond of his liberty and his deliverance; and without regret he bade an eternal farewell to his former insipid labor, though his heart beat as he gave it to his employer, and as he stood waiting for him to read it, the minutes were like years. At last he raised his eyes, and said, "So you are to leave me, Robert; I am sorry, for I like you, much, and I shall not soon fill your place; still I cannot stand in the way of your promotion." Robert's happiness knew no bounds, and he returned and dreamed the sweetest dreams that ever came to childhood's pillow. From this time his life of struggle and of real work commenced. Until now he had lived almost alone, far from the world and its attractions, and ignorant of all wickedness. When he finds himself face to face with life's realities, he is like one shipwrecked. He was taken by his new master into the studio, and presented to the other scholars. Thrown like a timid lamb into this flock, he found they had no respect for sacred things, and his innocence and candor were cruelly railed at, his virtue rudely spoken of, and his religion turned into ridicule; and then sometimes, under the pretext of friendship, they would try to make him take part in their noisy revels. But he always refused, never forgetting that his mother had told him to seek the old and wise for advice, and to avoid the company of wicked young men. This enabled him to resist courageously the deceitful pleasures produced by licentiousness and debaucheries. To his pure mind nothing was so delightful as the home friendship, the kindness and the sweet counsels he had with Madame Gaudin.{836}Then he made excursions in the neighborhood of Paris, where he found nature in all her beautiful simplicity; he breathed the pure country air, and made sketches of the surrounding scenery. In a word, he was entirely occupied with his art, and it was his true enjoyment. The amusement and excesses of gayety, which ordinarily delight the young, had for him no charm; and he repulsed with horror the poisoned cup to which so many open eager lips. My dear young friends, if you only knew what this bitter cup contained, you would all dash it, far from you, for in drinking it to the dregs, you will sometimes find crime, always remorse, a weariness of all things, and a premature old age.
Robert was spared from falling into the snares which are set to allure youth, which blessing can only be attributed to the pious education he had received. First impressions are never effaced, they take deep root in a child's heart, and if good, become the fruitful germs of many virtues; if they are bad, they are the source from which vice and passion flow. In his tender years Robert had loved God and his works; later, when the good curé had revealed to him the sublimity of religion, the orphan was penetrated with a great love for that God who is goodness itself; and when reason and experience confirmed all which his mother and his protector had taught him, he believed more firmly still, and found in all nature visible proofs of the grandeur and power manifested by the Sovereign Ruler of the universe. When his companions were convinced that they could not make him one of their band of idlers, they let him alone, and treated him with the most contemptuous indifference, which was a great happiness to him, for he was no longer disturbed in his studies, and applied himself with such ardor and perseverance that his master was enchanted with his progress, and prodigal of his praises and encouragement, his counsels and lessons; and aided to the utmost of his ability this rare talent, which only demanded for its perfection aid and good direction. Not a day passed without his looking over Robert's studies, correcting them, and stimulating the generous emulation of the young artist. Robert proved his gratitude by his devotion to his studies, and if on the one hand the master was proud of his pupil, on the other so sincere, exalted, and just was his respect for him, that he would have considered it but a small sacrifice to have given his life for a man who was so liberal of his time and knowledge to him. This tribute which his warm heart gave so willingly, was not the only one Robert received. Madame Gaudin made a duty of continuing the charitable work of the Abbé Verneuil, who had shown so sublime and disinterested an affection for Robert. She spent without regret the sayings of twenty years, and, although an old woman, she worked like a young girl, inventing the most ingenious means for hiding the sacrifices she was obliged to make. She exhausted herself by her labor; but she loved Robert, and said, with a just pride, "He will be a great painter, and will repay me a thousand times for all I do for him now. What is a little trouble? Fatigue soon passes over. I am only an old woman, and have no need of anything, but he is so young, so good and easily contented, that if he only has air and sunshine he is happy. He never spends a cent improperly, and is economical, charitable, and polite. I could not love him more if I were his mother; and all I ask of God is, that he will spare me yet a while, that I may work for him." Robert had not the least idea of the expedients she employed for dissimulating the privations she each day imposed upon herself, but he worked with devouring energy night and day, and nothing is a trouble to him, nothing a fatigue, which brings him nearer to that glorious end, an artist! a true, soul-inspired artist! But material life and its necessities must be provided for; yet he thinks not of privations, so{837}completely is he fascinated with art and dreams of fame. It soon became difficult for Madame Gaudin to hide from Robert her almost penniless position, which was all the harder because of her excessive tenderness and love for him. She seemed to have but one thought, and that was to spare him all trouble. The courage of women has its source in the heart, and if they have love as an incentive, they can accomplish ends that place them far above men. So she kept from Robert the knowledge of the obligation he was under to her, and for three years struggled with energy and constancy to give the young painter, not only the necessaries, but also an appearance of luxuries, which deceived him to the last degree. Up to this time her heroic courage was the same, but her health failed suddenly, and religion alone sustained her, with a firm and consoling hand, when misfortunes came. Robert also needed it to keep up his spirits, for he felt a keen anguish when he saw her extended on a bed of pain; but his faith gave him supernatural strength, and he struggled victoriously with poverty, abandoning for a time his loved art to attend to the smallest details of material life, dividing his time between the sick friend whom he surrounded with delicacies, and upon whom he lavished his tenderest care, and work; monotonous, but productive work; and with his money he procured remedies which he hoped would bring back her health who had done so much for him. In this hour of trial he never despaired, and spent sixteen hours out of the twenty-four often in copying miserable and ill-drawn pictures, and all for a salary. But he would exclaim, "I will be an artist." He returned sacrifice for sacrifice, and while Madame Gaudin was in danger, he had not a moment of repose, and only found calmness and tranquillity when convalescence came. Therôleswere changed. The protector became the protected; the kind guardian of the orphan became the object of his earnest solicitude. He became a man during her sickness; rendering her the attentions of a devoted son, and providing for the expenses of the household. Brought down from his fairy land of dreams by the realities of life, he is neither less amiable nor less good, but stronger, braver, more faithful than ever. The wings of the child have been folded; he is only a man, that is all.
I am waiting on the marginOf the dark, cold, rushing tide;All I love have passed before me,And have reached the other side:Only unto me a passageThrough the waters is denied.Mist and gloom o'erhang the river,Gloom and mist the landscape veil.Straining for the shores of promise,Sight and hope and feeling fail.Not a sigh, a breath, a motion,Answers to my feeble wail.{838}Surely they have all forgot me'Mid the wonders they have foundIn the far enchanted mansions;Out of heart and sight and sound,Here I sit, like Judah's daughters,Desolate upon the ground.Strangers' feet the stream are stemming,Stranger faces pass me by,Willing some, and some reluctant,All have leave to cross but I—I, the hopeless, all bereaved,Loathing life, that long to die!Be the river ne'er so turbid,Chill and angry, deep and drear,All my loved ones are gone over,Daunted not by doubt or fear;And my spirit reaches after,While I sit lamenting here.Happy waters that embraced them,Happier regions hid from sight,Where my keen, far-stretching vision,Dazed and baffled, lost them quite.Dread, immeasurable distance'Twixt the darkness and the light!And I know that never, never,Till this weak, repining breastStill its murmurs into patience,Yonder from the region blestShall there break a streak of radiance,And upon the river rest.I shall hail the mystic tokenBright'ning all the waters o'er,Struggle through the threat'ning torrentTill I reach the further shore;Wonder then, my blind eyes opened,That I had not trusted more.
{839}
[Footnote 241:Poems, by Christina G. Rossetti. Boston: Roberts, Brothers. 1866.]
We had heard some little of Miss Rossetti, in a superficial way, before reading this her book. Various verses of hers had met our eye in print, and if they themselves left no very decided mark upon the memory, yet we had the firm impression, somehow, that she was one more of the rising school of poets. Accordingly we thought it well to take a retrospect of a few post-Tennysonians—Mrs. Browning, Owen Meredith, Robert Buchanan, Jean Ingelow, and so on—supposed fellow disciples—so as to be tolerably sure of ranking the new-comer rightly. On reading this volume, we find our labor lost through an entirely unforeseen circumstance. Unfortunately, it does not appear that Miss Rossetti is a poetess at all. That there are people who think her one, we infer from the fact that this is in some sort a third edition; why they think so, we are at a loss to see. The book will not answer a single test of poetry. The authoress's best claim to consideration is, that she sincerely, persistently, ferventlymeansto be a poetess. Only the most Demosthenian resolve could have kept her writing in face of her many inherent unfitnesses. For imagination, she offers fantasy; for sentiment, sentimentality; for aspiration, ambition; for originality and thought, little or nothing; for melody, fantastic janglings of words; and these, with all tenderness for the ill-starred intensity of purpose that could fetch them so far, are no more poetry than the industrious Virginian colonists' shiploads of mica were gold.
The first cursory impression of this book would be, we think, that its cardinal axiom was "Poetry is versified plaintiveness." The amount of melancholy is simply overwhelming. There is a forty-twilight power of sombreness everywhere. Now, criticism has taken principles, not statistics, to be its province; but we could not resist the temptation to take a little measurement of all this mournfulness. Limiting our census strictly to the utterly irretrievable and totally wrecked poems, with not a glimmering of reassurance, we found no less than forty-nine sadnesses, all the way from shadow to unutterable blackness—"nfernam Iumbram noctemque perennem." There is the sadness decadent, the sadness senescent, the sadness bereft, the sadness despondent, the sadness weary, the sadness despairing, the sadness simply sad, the grand sadness ineffable, and above and pervading all, the sadness rhapsodical. They are all there. Old Burton will rise from his grave, if there be any virtue in Pythagoreanism, to anatomize these poems. What it is all about is strictly a secret, and laudably well kept; which gives to the various sorrows that touching effect peculiar to the wailings of unseen babies from unascertained ailments. So sustained is the grief, indeed, that after protracted poring, we hang in abeyance between two conclusions. One is that Miss Rossetti, outside of print, is the merriest mortal in the United Kingdom; the other, that her health is worse than precarious. That one or the other must be right, we know. There is no other horn to the dilemma, notertiary quiddity, no choice, no middle ground between hilarity and dyspepsia.
Perhaps the reader can judge for himself from these lines, which are a not unfair sample:
{840}
"MAY.I cannot tell you how it was;But this I know: it came to passUpon a bright and breezy day,When May was young; ah, pleasant May!As yet the poppies were not born,Between the blades of tender corn;The last eggs had not hatched as yet,Nor any bird foregone its mate.I cannot tell you what it was;But this I know: it did put pass.It passed away with sunny May,With all sweet things it passed away,And left me old and cold and gray."
We may be very unappreciative, and probably are sinfully suspicious, but the above sounded at the first and sounds at the present reading, exactly like a riddle. We certainly don't know how it was nor what it was. There is a shadowy clue in its passing away with sunny May, but we are far too cautious to hazard a guess. If there be any conundrum intended, all we have to say is, we give it up.
We do but justice, however, in saying that amid much mere lugubriousness there is some real and respectable sadness. The following, in spite of' the queer English in its first lines, sounds genuine, and is moreover, for a rarity of rarities, in well-chosen and not ill-managed metre:
"I have a room whereinto no one entersSave I myself alone:There sits a blessed memory on a throne,There my life centres.While winter comes and goes-Oh! tedious comer!And while its nip-wind blows;While bloom the bloodless lily and warm roseOf lavish summer;If any should force entrance he might see thereOne buried, yet not dead,Before whose face I no more bow my headOr (sic) bend my knee there;But often in my worn life's autumn weatherI watch there with clear eyes,And think how it will be in ParadiseWhen we're together."
Here is one of a trite topic—nearly all the good things in this book are on themes as old as moonlight—but with a certain mournful richness, like autumn woods:
"Life is not sweet. One day it will be sweetTo shut our eyes and die:Nor feel the wild flowers blow, nor birds dart byWith flitting butterfly;Nor grass grow long above our head and feet,Nor hear the happy lark that soars sky high,Nor sigh that spring is fleet, and summer fleet,Nor mark the waxing wheat,Nor know who sits in our accustomed seat.Life is not good. One day it will be goodTo die, then live again;To sleep meanwhile: so not to feel the waneOf shrunk leaves dropping in the wood,Nor hear the foamy lashing of the main,Nor mark the blackened bean-fields, nor where stoodRich ranks of golden grain,Only dead refuse stubble clothe the plain:Asleep from risk, asleep from pain."
This is one of her best poems in point of style. The "waxing wheat" we are just a shade doubtful about; but the mellowness of the diction is much to our liking, and it is unmarred by any of the breaks of strange ill taste that flaw nearly all these poems. If not poetry nor novelty, at least we find it sadly agreeable verse.
Our professor of rhetoric once astonished his class by a heterodoxy, which we have since thought sound as well as neat. "Walter Scott," said he, "writes verse as well as a man can write and not be a poet." We are sorry we cannot say as much for Miss Rossetti; she has considerable faults as a writer. The chief of these has elsewhere been carped at—her laborious style of' being simple. The true simplicity of poets is not a masterly artifice, but a natural and invariable product where high poetic and expressive powers combine. The best thought is always simple, because, it deals only with the essences of things: the best expression—the machinery of thought—is simple, just as the best of any other machinery is. But the grand, obvious fact to the many is that the best poetry is admired for being simple. Writing for this market, Miss Rossetti and unnumbered others have more or less successfully attempted to achieve this crowning beauty of style by various processes that are to the inspiration of' real simplicity as patent medicines to vigorous vitality. Almost all hold the immutable conviction that Saxon words are an infallible recipe for the indispensable brevity. Accordingly the usual process is by an elaborate application of' Saxon—if rather recondite or even verging on the obsolete, so much the more efficacious—to a few random ideas. Of course, with such painful workmanship, one must not expect the best material. Original, or even well{841}defined thought seldom thrives in the same hot-house with this super-smoothness. But without pursuing the process into results at large, we have only to take Matthew Arnold's distinction as to Miss Rossetti:—she tries hard forsimplicité, and achievessimplesse. But there is no such thing as hard work without its fruits. This straining after effect crops painfully out in a peculiar baldness and childishness of phrase that is almost original. The woman who can claim The Lambs of Grasmere as her own has not lived in vain. This production, with its pathetic episode of the maternal
"Teapots for the bleating mouths,Instead of nature's nourishment,"
has already been noticed in print, and duly expanded many visages. We pause rapt in admiration of the deep intuition that could select for song the incident of feeding a sheep with a teapot. It carries us back, in spirit, to the subtle humor and delicate irony of Peter Bell, and We are Seven. What a burst of tenderness ought we to expect, if Miss Rossetti should ever chance to see stable-boys give a horse a bolus! . . . . . We shall not cite examples of thissimplesse; those who like it will find it purer and more concentrated in the bard of Rydal; or if they must have it, they are safe in opening this book almost anywhere.
Of the individual poems, the two longest, The Goblin Market and The Prince's Progress, are rivals for the distinction of being the worst. All the best poems are short, excepting one, Under the Rose. The story is of an illegitimate daughter, whose noble mother takes her to live with herself at the inevitable Hall, without acknowledging her. There are able touches of nature in the portrayal of the lonely, loving, outlawed, noble heart, that, knowing her mother's secret, resolves never to betray it, even to her. In the following passage, the girl, alone at the castle, as her mother's favorite maid, describes her inner life:
"Now sometimes in a dream,My heart goes out of meTo build and scheme,Till I sob after things that seemSo pleasant in a dream:A home such as I see,My blessed neighbors live in;With father and with mother,All proud of one another,Named by one common name;From baby in the budTo full-blown workman father;It's little short of Heaven.. . . . .Of course the servants sneerBehind my back at me;Of course the village girls,Who envy me my curlsAnd gowns and idleness,Take comfort in a jeer;Of course the ladies guessJust so much of my historyAs points the emphatic stressWith which they laud my Lady;The gentlemen who catchA casual glimpse of me,And turn again to seeTheir valets, on the watchTo speak a word with me;—All know, and sting me wild;Till I am almost readyTo wish that I were dead,—No faces more to see,No more words to be said;My mother safe at last.Disburdened of her childAnd the past past."
The Convent Threshold—the last words of a contrite novice to her lover—has touches of power. There is an unusual force about some parts, as for example here:
"You linger, yet the time is short;Flee for your life; gird up your strengthTo flee; the shadows stretched at lengthShow that day wanes, that night draws nigh;Flee to the mountain, tarry not.Is this a time for smile and sigh;For songs among the secret treesWhere sudden blue-birds nest and sport?The time is short, and yet you stay;To-day, while it is called to-day,Kneel, wrestle, knock, do violence, pray;To-day is short, to-morrow nigh:Why will you die? why will you die!. . . . .How should I rest in Paradise,Or sit on steps of Heaven alone?If saints and angels spoke of love,Should I not answer from my throne,'Have pity upon me, ye, my friends,For I have heard the sound thereof?'Should I not turn with yearning eyes,Turn earthward with a pitiful pang?Oh! save me from a pang in heaven!By all the gifts we took and gave,Repent, repent, and be forgiven!"
The lines called Sound Sleep, p. 65, we like very well for very slight cause. It says nearly nothing with a pleasant flow of cadence that has the{842}charm of an oasis for the reader. Much better is No, Thank You, John! which strikes into a strain of plain sound sense that we could wish to see much more of. The style, as well as the sense, seems to shuffle off its affectations, and the last two stanzas especially are easy, natural, and neat.
A strange compound of good and bad is the singular one called
"TWICE.I took my heart in my hand,O my love, O my love!I said, "Let me fall or stand,Let me live or die;But this once hear me speak,O my love, O my love!Yet a woman's words are weak;You should speak, not I."You took my heart in your hand,With a friendly smile,With a critical eye you scanned,Then set it downAnd said: "It is still unripe—Better wait a while;Wait while the skylarks pipe,Till the corn grows brown."As you set it down it broke—Broke, but I did not wince;I smiled at the speech you spoke,At your judgment that I heard:But I have not often smiledSince then, nor questioned since,Nor cared for corn-flowers wild,Nor sung with the singing-bird.I take my heart in hand,O my God, O my God!My broken heart in my hand:Thou hast seen, judge thou.My hope was written on sand,O my God, O my God!Now let thy judgment stand—Yea, judge me now.This, contemned of a man,This, marred one heedless day,This heart take thou to scanBoth within and without:Refine with fire its gold,Purge thou its dross away;Yea, hold it in thy hold,Whence none can pluck it out.I take my heart in my hand—I shall not die, but live—Before thy face I stand,I, for thou callest such;All that I have I bring,All that I am I give,Smile thou, and I shall sing,But shall not question much."
This poem, we confess, puzzles us a little to decide upon it. The imitation is palpable at a glance, but it is a very clever one: the first three stanzas above all catch the mannerism of their model to admiration. But the whole, is a copy, at best, of one of the archetype's inferior styles; and yet we fancy we can see, under all the false bedizening, something of poetry in the conception, though it is ill said, and only dimly translucent. There is art, too, in the parallelism of the first and last three verses. But we do not like the refrain in the fourth verse—somehow it jars. Perhaps the best we can say of it is, that Browning, in his mistier moments of convulsiveness, could write worse.
There is another imitation of Browning in this book, that is the most supremely absurd string of rugged platitudes imaginable—Wife to Husband, p. 61. The last verse is sample enough: