Life Without and Life Within; or, Reviews, Narratives, Essays, and Poems.
fervid hope in their ultimate virtue and happiness--the same scorn of
baseness and hatred of oppression--which beam forth in all his writings
with a pure and constant light. The theory which he wrote was the
practice which his whole life exemplified. Noble, kind, generous,
passionate, tender, with a courage greater than the courage of the chief
of warriors, for it could _endure_--these were the qualities in which
his life was embalmed."
FESTUS.[19]
We are right glad to see this beloved stranger domesticated among us.
Yet there are queer little circumstances that herald the introduction.
The poet is a barrister at law!--well! it is always worthy of note when
a man is not hindered by study of human law from knowledge of divine;
which last is all that concerns the poet. Then the preface to the
American edition closes with this discreet remark: "It is perfectly SAFE
to pronounce it (the poem) one of the most powerful and splendid
productions of the age." Dear New England! how purely that was worthy
thee, region where the tyranny of public opinion is carried to a
perfection of minute scrutiny beyond what it ever was before in any age
or place, though the ostracism be administered with the mildness and
refinement fit for this age. Dear New England! yes! it is _safe_ to say
that the poem is good; whatever Mrs. Grundy may think, she will not have
it burned by the hangman if it is not. But it may not be _discreet_,
because she can, if she sees fit, exile its presence from bookstores,
libraries, centre tables, and all mention of its existence from lips
polite, and of thine also, who hast dared to praise it, on peril of
turning all surrounding eyes to lead by its utterance. This kind of
gentle excommunication thou mayst not be prepared to endure, O
preface-writer! And we should greatly fear that thou wert deceived in
thy fond security, for "Festus" is a bold book--in respect of freedom of
words, a boldest book--also it reveals the solitudes of hearts with
unexampled sincerity, and remorselessly lays bare human nature in its
naked truth--but for the theology of the book. That may save it, and
none the less for all it shows of the depravity of human nature. It is
through many pages and leaves what is technically praised as "a serious
book." A friend went into a bookstore to select presents for persons
with whom she was about to part, and among other things requested the
shopman to "show her some serious books in handsome binding." He looked
into several, and then, struck by passages here and there, offered her
the "Letters of Lady M. W. Montague." She assuring him that it would not
be safe to make use of this work, he offered her a miniature edition of
Shakspeare, as "a book containing many excellent things, though you had
to wade through a great deal of rubbish to get at them."
We fear the reader will have to wade through a great deal of "rubbish"
in "Festus" before he gets at the theology. However, there it is, in
sufficient quantities to give dignity to any book. In seriousness, it
may compete with Pollok's "Course of Time." In "splendor and power," we
feel ourselves safe in saying that, as sure as the sun shines, it cannot
be outdone in the English tongue, thus far, short of Milton. So there is
something for all classes of readers, and we hope it will get to their
eyes, albeit Boston books are not likely to be detected by all eyes to
which they belong.
To ourselves the theology of this writer, and the conscious design of
the poem, have little interest. They seem to us, like the color of his
skin and hair, the result of the circumstances under which he was born.
Certain opinions came in his way early, and became part of the body of
his thought. But what interests us is not these, but what is deepest,
universal--the soul of that body. To us the poem is
"... full of great dark meanings like the sea:"
and it is these, the deep experiences and inspirations of the immortal
man, that engage us.
Even the poem shows how large is his nature--its most careless utterance
full of grandeur, its tamest of bold nobleness. This, that truly engages
us, he spoke of more forcibly when the book first went forth to the
world:--
"Read this, world. He who writes is dead to thee,
But still lives in these leaves. He spake inspired;
Night and day, thought came unhelped, undesired,
Like blood to his heart. The course of study he
Went through was of the soul-rack. The degree
He took was high; it was wise wretchedness.
He suffered perfectly, and gained no less
A prize than, in his own torn heart, to see
A few bright seeds; he sowed them, hoped them truth.
The autumn of that seed is in these pages."
Such is, in our belief, the true theologian, the learner of God, who
does not presumptuously expect at this period of growth to bind down all
that is to be known of divine things in a system, a set of words, but
considers that he is only spelling the first lines of a work, whose
perusal shall last him through eternity. Such a one is not in a hurry to
declare that the riddles of Fate and of Time are solved, for he knows it
is not calling them so that will make them so. His soul does not decline
the great and persevering labors that are to develop its energies. He
has faith to study day by day. Such is the practice of the author of
Festus, whenever he is truly great. When he shows to us the end and plan
of all things, we feel that he only hides them from us. He speaks only
his wishes. But when he tells us of what he does really know, the moods
and aspirations of fiery youth to which all things are made present in
foresight and foretaste,--when he shows us the temptations of the lonely
soul pining for knowledge, but unable to feel the love that alone can
bestow it,--then he is truly great, and the strings of life thrill
oftentimes to their sublimest, sweetest music.
We admire in this author the unsurpassed force and distinctness with
which he casts out single thoughts and images. Each is thrown before us
fresh, deep in its impress as if just snatched from the forge. We admire
not less his vast flow, his sustained flight. His is a rich and spacious
genius; it gives us room; it is a palace home; we need not economize our
joys; blessed be the royalty that welcomes us so freely.
In simple transposition of the thought from the mind to the paper, that
wonder, even rarer than perfect,--that is, simple expression, through
the motions of the body, of the motions of the soul,--we dare to say
_no_ writer excels him. Words are no veil between us and him, but a
luminous cloud that upbears us both together.
So in touches of nature, in the tones of passion; he is absolute. There
is nothing better, where it is good; we have the very thing itself.
We are told by the critics that he has no ear, and, indeed, when we
listen for such, we perceive blemishes enough in the movement of his
line. But we did not perceive it before, more than, when the AEolian was
telling the secrets of that most spirit-like minister of Nature that
bloweth where it listeth, and no man can trace it, we should attempt to
divide the tones and pauses into regular bars, and be disturbed when we
could not make a tune.
England has only two poets now that can be named near him: these two are
Tennyson and the author of "Philip Van Artevelde." Tennyson is all that
Bailey is not in melody and voluntary finish, having no less than a
Greek moderation in declining all undertakings he is not sure of
completing. Taylor, noble, an earnest seer, a faithful narrator of what
he sees, firm and sure, sometimes deep and exquisite, but in energy and
grandeur no more than Tennyson to be named beside the author of Festus.
In inspiration, in prophecy, in those flashes of the sacred fire which
reveal the secret places where Time is elaborating the marvels of
Nature, he stands alone. It is just true what Ebenezer Elliott says,
that "Festus contains poetry enough to set up fifty poets,"--ay! even
such poets, so far as richness of thought and imagery are concerned, as
the two noble bards we have named.
But we need call none less to make him greater, whose liberal soul is
alive to every shade of beauty, every token of greatness, and whose main
stress is to seek a soul of goodness in things evil. The book is a
precious, even a sacred book, and we could say more of it, had we not
years ago vented our enthusiasm when it was in first full flow.
FRENCH NOVELISTS OF THE DAY.[20]
WE hear much lamentation among good people at the introduction of so
many French novels among us, corrupting, they say, our youth by pictures
of decrepit vice and prurient crime, such as would never, otherwise, be
dreamed of here, and corrupting it the more that such knowledge is so
precocious--for the same reason that a boy may be more deeply injured by
initiation into wickedness than a man, for he is not only robbed of his
virtue, but prevented from developing the strength that might restore
it. But it is useless to bewail what is the inevitable result of the
movement of our time. Europe must pour her corruptions, no less than her
riches, on our shores, both in the form of books and of living men. She
cannot, if she would, check the tide which bears them hitherward; no
defences are possible, on our vast extent of shore, that can preclude
their ingress. We have exulted in premature and hasty growth; we must
brace ourselves to bear the evils that ensue. Our only hope lies in
rousing, in our own community, a soul of goodness, a wise aspiration,
that shall give us strength to assimilate this unwholesome food to
better substance, or cast off its contaminations. A mighty sea of life
swells within our nation, and, if there be salt enough, foreign bodies
shall not have power to breed infection there.
We have had some opportunity to observe that the worst works offered are
rejected. On the steamboats we have seen translations of vile books,
bought by those who did not know from the names of their authors what
to expect, torn, after a cursory glance at their contents, and scattered
to the winds. Not even the all but all-powerful desire to get one's
money's worth, since it had once been paid, could contend against the
blush of shame that rose on the cheek of the reader.
It would be desirable for our people to know something of these writers,
and of the position they occupy abroad; for the nature of their
circulation, rather than its extent, might be the guide both to
translator and buyer. The object of the first is generally money; of the
last, amusement. But the merest mercenary might prefer to pass his time
in translating a good book, and our imitation of Europe does not yet go
so far that the American milliner can be depended on to copy any thing
from the Parisian grisette, except her cap.
We have just been reading "Le Pere Goriot," Balzac's most celebrated
work; a remarkable production, to which Paris alone, at the present day,
could have given birth.
In other of his works, I have admired his skill in giving the minute
traits of passion, and his intrepidity, not inferior to that of Le Sage
and Cervantes, in facing the dark side of human nature. He reminds one
of the Spanish romancers in the fearlessness with which he takes mud
into his hands, and dips his foot in slime. We cannot endure this when
done, as by most Frenchmen, with an air of recklessness and gayety; but
Balzac does it with the stern manliness of a Spaniard.
But the conception of this work is so sublime, that, though the details
are even more revolting than in his others, you can bear it, and would
not have missed your walk through the Catacombs, though the light of day
seems stained afterwards with the mould of horror and dismay.