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subsiding of light and sound, take upon him up of various pieces inlaid'-'Stubborn to give any opinion at all.

NORTH. My boy, Talboys. TALBOYS. "And leave the world to darkness and to me." Ay-into his hut goes the ploughman, and leaves the world and me to darkness which is coming-but not yet come-the Poet knows it is coming-near at hand its coming glooms; and Darkness shows her divinity as she is preparing to mount her throne.

NORTH. Nothing can be better.

TALBOYS. "Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight.' Here the incident, instead of being progressive, falls back, and makes the picture confused and inharmonious." Confused and inharmonious! By no manner of means. Nothing of the sort. There is no retrogression-the day has been unwilling to die-cannot believe she is dying --and cannot think 'tis for her the curfew is tolling; but the Poet feels it is even so; the glimmering and the fading, beautiful as they are, are sure symptoms-she is dying into Evening, and Evening will soon be the dying into Night; but to the Poet's eye how beautiful the transmutations! Nor knows he that the Moon has arisen, till, at the voice of the night-bird, he looks up the ivied church-tower, and there she is, whether full, waning, or crescent, there are not data for the Astronomer to declare.

NORTH. My friend, Mr. Mitford says of the line, "No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed"-That "here the epithet lowly, as applied to bed, occasions an ambiguity, as to whether the Poet means the bed on which they sleep, or the grave in which they are laid" and he adds, "there can be no greater fault in composition than a doubtful meaning."

TALBOYS. There cannot be a more touching beauty. Lowly applies to both. From their lowly bed in their lowly dwellings among the quick, those joyous sounds used to awaken them; from their lowly bed in their lowly dwellings among the dead, those joyous sounds will awaken them never more: but a sound will awaken them when He comes to judge both the quick and the dead; and for them there is Christian hope-from

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glebe' is from Gay; drive afield' from Milton; sturdy stroke' from Spenser. Such is too much the system of Gray's composition, and therefore such the cause of his imperfections. Purity of language, accuracy of thought, and even similarity of rhyme, all give way to the introduction of certain poetical expressions; in fact, the beautiful jewel, when brought, does not fit into the new setting or socket. Such is the difference between the flower stuck into the ground and those that grow from it." Talboys?

BULLER. Why not-Buller?

TALBOYS. I give way to the gentleman. BULLER. Not for worlds would I take the word out of any man's mouth.

TALBOYS. Gray took "stubborn glebe" from Gay. Why from Gay? It has been familiar in men's mouths from the introduction of agriculture into this İsland. May not a Saxon gentleman say "drive their teams a-field" without charge of theft from Milton, who said "drove a-field?" Who first said "Gee-ho, Dobbin ?" Was Spenser the first-the only man before Miltonwho used "sturdy stroke?" and has nobody used it since Gray?

BULLER. You could give a "sturdy stroke" yourself, Talboys. What's your weight?

TALBOYS. Gray's style is sometimes too composite-you, yourself, sir, would not deny it is so-but Mr. Mitford's instances here are absurd, and the charge founded on them false. Gray seldom, if ever-say never, "sacrifices purity of language, and accuracy of thought," for the sake of introducing certain poetical expressions. "All give way" is a gross exaggeration. The beautiful words of the brethren, with which his loving memory was stored, came up in the hour of imagination, and took their place among the words as beautiful of his own congenial inspirations; the flowers he transplanted from poetry "languished not, grew dim, nor died;" for he had taken them up gently by the roots, and with some of the old mould adhering to their tendrils, and, true florist as he was, had prepared for them a richest soil in his own garden, which he held from nature, and which the sun and the dew of nature nourished, and will nourish forever.

BULLER. That face is not pleasant, sir. Nothing so disfigures a face as envy. Old Poets at last grow ugly all-but you, sir, are a Philosopher and on your benign countenance 'twas but a passing cloud. There-you are as beautiful as ever-how

comely in critical old age! Any farther fault to find with our friend Mitford?

NORTH.

"On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires, Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries, Even in our ashes live their wonted fires."

"Pious drops' is from Ovid-piæ lachrymæ; closing eye' is from Pope-voice of nature' from the Anthologia, and the last line from Chaucer-Yet on our ashes cold

is fire yreken. From so many quarries are the stones brought to form this elaborate Mosaic pavement." I say, for "piæ lachrymæ❞ all honor to Ovid-for " pious drops" all honor to Gray. "Closing eye" is not from Pope's Elegy; "voice of nature" is not from the Anthologia, but from Nature herself; Chaucer's line may have suggested Gray's, but the reader of Chaucer knows that Gray's has a tender and profound meaning which is not in Chaucer's at all-and he knows, too, that Mr. Mitford is not a reader of Chaucer-for were he, he could not have written "ashes" for "ashen." There were

no quarries—there is no Mosaic. Mosaic pavement! Worse, if possible-more ostentatiously pedantic-even than stuck in flowers, jewels, settings, and sockets.

TALBOYS. The stanza is sacred to sorrow.

NORTH. "From this Stanza," quoth Mitford, "the style of the composition drops into a lower key; the language is plainer, and is not in harmony with the splendid and elaborate diction of the former part." This objection is disposed of by what I said some minutes ago

BULLER. Half an hour ago-on Grayish

ness.

the joyous sunshine for an hour privileged to be happy in a world of grief.

BULLER. Let's change the subject, sir. May I ask what author you have in your

other hand?

NORTH. Alison on Taste. BULLER. You don't say so! you quoted from memory.

I thought

NORTH. So I did; but I have dog-eared a page or two.

Pavilion-only Newspapers-and Magazines BULLER. I see no books lying about in the and Reviews-and trash of that kind— NORTH. Without which, you, my good fellow, could not live a week.

Age should be ashamed of herself for living BULLER. The Spirit of the Age! The from hand to mouth on Periodical Literature. The old Lady should indeed, sir. If the Pensive Public conceits herself to be the Thinking World

NORTH. Let us help to make her so. I have a decent little Library of some three hundred select volumes in the Van-my Plate-chest-and a few dozens of choice wines for my friends-of Champagne, which you, Buller, call small beer

BULLER. I retracted and apologized. Is that the key of the Van at your watch

chain?

NORTH. It is. So many hundred people about the Encampment-sometimes among search of the picturesque, and perhaps the them suspicious strangers in paletots in pecuniary-that it is well to intrust the key to my own body-guard. It does not weigh an ounce. And that lock is not to be picked by the ghost of Huffey White.

SEWARD. But of the volume in hand, sir? NORTH. "In that fine passage in the Second Book of the Georgics," says Mr. Alison, native country, after these fine lines— "in which Virgil celebrates the praises of his

NORTH. And I have only this farther to say, gentlemen, that though the language is plainer-yet it is solemn; nor is it unpoeticalHic ver assiduum, atque alienis mensibus æstas;

-for the hoary-headed swain was moved as he spake; the style, if it drop into a lower key, is accordant with that higher key on which the music was pitched that has not yet left our hearing. An Elegy is not an Ode-the close should be mournful as the opening-with loftier strain between-and it is so; and whatever we might have to say of the Epitaph-its final lines are "awful" as every man must have felt them to be-whether thought on in our own lonely night-room -in the Churchyard of Granchester, where it is said Gray mused the Elegy-or by that Burial-ground in Inishail-or here afloat in

Bis gravidæ pecudes, his pomis utilis arbos.
At rabidæ tigres absunt, et sæva leonum
Semina nec miseros fallunt aconita legentes:
Nec rapit immensos orbes per humum, neque tanto
Squameus in spiram tractu se colligit anguis.'

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with the Poet, and reduces him, in our opin- | is very beautiful-brings the whole under ion, to the level of a mere describer."

SEWARD. Cold and prosaic line! Tameness and vulgarity! I am struck mute.

NORTH. I have no doubt that Mr. Alison distressed himself with " Adde." It is a word from a merchant's counting-house, reckoning up his gains. And so much the better. Virgil is making out the balance-sheet of Italy he is inventorying her wealth. Mr. Alison would have every word away from reality. Not so the Poet. Every now and then, they the Poets-amuse themselves with dipping their pencils into the real, the common, the everyday, the homely. By so doing they arrest belief, which above everything they desire to hold fast. I should not wonder if you might catch Spenser at it, even. Shakspeare is full of it. There is nothing else prosaic in the passage; and if Virgil had had the bad taste to say "Ecce," instead of "Adde," I suppose no fault would have been found.

SEWARD. But what can Mr. Alison mean by the charge of tameness and vulgarity? NORTH. I have told you, sir. SEWARD. You have not, sir. NORTH. I have, sir.

SEWARD. Yes-yes-yes. vulgar! I cannot think so.

"Adde" is

NORTH. The Cities of Italy, and the "operum labor," always have been and are an admiration. The words "Egregias urbes" suggest the general stateliness and wealth

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operumque laborem," the particular buildings-Temples, Basilicas, Theatres, and Great Works of the lower Utility. A summary and most vivid expression of a land possessed by intelligent, civilized, active, spirited, vigorous, tasteful inhabitants-also an eminent adorning of the land.

SEWARD. Lucretius says, that in spring the Cities are in flower-or on flower-or a flower-with children. And Lucan, at the beginning of the Pharsalia, describes the Ancient or Greek Cities desolate. They were fond and proud of their "tot egregia urbes" as the Modern Italians are-and with good reason.

NORTH. How judiciously the Critics stop short of the lines that would overthrow their criterion always! The present case is an extraordinary example. Had Mr. Alison looked to the lines immediately following, he would not have objected to that One. For

"Tot congesta manu præruptis oppida saxis, Fluminaque antiquos subter labentia muros"

the domain of Poetry, by singular Picturesqueness, and by gathering the whole past history of Italy up-fetching it in with a word-antiquos.

SEWARD. I can form no conjecture as to the meaning of Mr. Alison's objections. He quotes a few lines from the "Praise of Italy," and then one line which he calls prosaic, and would have us to hold up our hands in wonder at the lame and impotent conclusion—at the sudden transformation of Virgil the poet into Virgil the most prosaic of Prosers. You have said enough already, sir, to prove that he is in error even on his own showing;-but how can this fragmentary-this piecemeal mode of quotation-so common among critics of the lower school, and so unworthy of those of the higher-have found favor with Mr. Alison, one of the most candid and most enlightened of men? Some accidental prejudice from mere carelessness-but, once formed, retained in spite of the fine and true Taste which, unfettered, would have felt the fallacy, and vindicated his admired Virgil.

Vir

NORTH. The " Laudes"-to which the Poet is brought by the preceding bold, sweeping, winged, and poetical strain about the indigenous vines of Italy-have two-fold root-TREES and the glory of LANDS. gil kindles on the double suggestion-the trees of Italy compared to the trees-of other regions. They are the trees of primary human service and gladness-Oil and Wine. For see at once the deep, sound natural ground in human wants-the bounty of Nature-of Mother Earth-"whatever Earth, all-bearing Mother, yields"-to her human children. That is the gate of entrance; but not prosaically-but two gate-posts of a most poetical mythus-fed husbandman. For we have Jason's fire-mouthed Bulls ploughing, and Cadmus-sown teeth of the dragon springing up in armed men. Then comes, instead, mild, benign, Man-loving_ Italy" gravidæ fruges"-the heavy-eared corn-or rather big-teeming the juice of Bacchus - the Olives, and the "broad herds of Cattle." Note-ye Virgilians-the Corn of Book First-the Oil and Wine of Book Secondand the Cattle of Book Third-for the sustaining Thought-the organic life of his Work moves in his heart.

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BULLER. And the Fourth-Bees-honey -and honey-makers are like Milkers-in a way small Milch-cows.

NORTH. They are. Once a-foot-or a-wing -he hurries and rushes along, all through the "Laudes." The majestic victim-Bull of

CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS.

the Clitumnus-the incipient Spring-the double Summer-the absence of all envenomed and deadly broods-tigers-lionsaconite-serpents. This is NATURE'S FAVOR. Then Man's Works-cities and forts-(rockfortresses) the great lakes of Northern Italy-showing Man again in their vast edifications. Then Nature in veins of metals precious or useful-then Nature in her duction of Man-the Marsi-the Sabellian youth the Ligurian inured to labor-and the Volscian darters-then single mighty shapes and powers of Man-ROMANS-the Decii, the Marii, the Camilli,

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pro

Scipiadas duros bello, et te, maxime Cæsar,"

The King of Men-the Lord of the Earththe pacificator of the distracted Empire which, to a Roman, is as much as to say the World. Then-hail Saturnian Land! Mother of Corn! Saturnian, because golden Saturn had reigned there-Mother, I suppose the rather because in his time corn sprung unsown--sine semine-She gave it from out of her own loving and cherishing bosom. To Thee, Italy, sing I my Ascræan or Hesiodic song. The Works and Daysthe Greek Georgics are his avowed prototype -rude prototype to magnificence-like the Arab of the Desert transplanted to rear his empire of dazzling and picturesque civilization in the Pyrenean Peninsula.

BULLER. Take breath, sir. Virgil said well

"Adde tot egregias urbes operumque laborem.”"

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BULLER. "Adde" then is right, Seward. On that North and you are at one.

word would be wrong. ADDE! Note the NORTH. Yes, it is right, and any other sharpness, Buller, of the significance—the vivacity of the short open sound. Fling it out--ring it out-sing it out. Look at the very repetition of the powerful "Tor" ing by one of the first and commonest rules tot egregias"—" tot congesta"-witnessin the grammar of rhetoric—whether Virgil speaks in prose or in fire.

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BULLER. In fire.

NORTH. Mr. Alison then goes on to say, "that the effect of the following nervous and beautiful lines, in the conclusion of the same Book, is nearly destroyed by a similar defect. After these lines,

"Hanc olim veteres vitam coluêre Sabini,

Hanc Remus et Frater; sic fortis Etruria crevit, Scilicet et rerum facta est pulcherrima Roma;" We little expect the following spiritless conclusion:

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Septemque una sibi muro circumdedit arces."

line spiritless?
SEWARD. Oh! why does Mr. Alison call that

NORTH. He gives no reason-assured by quote it, and leave it in its own naked imhis own dissatisfaction, that he has but to potence.

SEWARD. Allow me one other word. Virgil —in the vivid lines quoted with admiration by Mr. Alison-lauds his beloved Italy for the absence of wild beasts and serpents—and he magnifies the whole race of serpents by his picture of One-the Serpent King-yet with subjects all equal in size to himself in our imagination. The Serpent is in the Poetry, but he is not in Italy. Is this a false artifice of composition-a vain ornament? Oh, no! He describes the Saturnian Land-less, sir. the mother of corn and of men-bounteous, benign, golden, maternal Italy. The negation has the plenitude of life, which the fabulous absence of noxious reptiles has for the sacred Island of Ierne.

BULLER. Erin-go-bragh!

SEWARD. Suddenly he sees another vision -not of what is absent but present; and then comes the line arraigned and condemned-followed by lines as great—

SEWARD. I hope you do not think it spirit

trated essence of spirit and of power. Let NORTH. I think it contains the concenany one think of Rome, piled up in greatness, and grandeur, and glory-and a Wall round about-and in a moment his imaginagarden wall to keep out orchard thieves-or tion is filled. What sort of a Wall? A a modern wall of a French or Italian town to keep out wine and meat, that they may come in at the gate and pay toll; I trow

1849.1

CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS.

not. But a Wall against the World armed |
and assailing! Remember that Virgil saw
Rome-and that his hearers did-and that
in his eyes and theirs she was Empress of the
inhabited Earth. She held and called her-
self such-it was written in her face and on
her forehead. The visible, tangible splendor
and magnificence meant this, or they meant
nothing. The stone and lime said this-and
Virgil's line says it, sedately and in plain,
simple phrase, which yet is a Climax.

SEWARD. As the dreaded Semiramis was flesh and blood-corporeal-made of the four elements-yet her soul and her empiry spoke out of her-so spake they from the Face of Rome.

NORTH. Ay, Seward-put these two things together-the Aspect that speaks Domination of the World, and the Wall that girds her with strength impregnable-and what more could you possibly demand from her Great Poet?

SEWARD. Arx is a Citadel-we may say an Acropolis. Athens had one Arx-so had Corinth. One Arx is enough to one Queenly City. But this Queen, within her one Wall, has enclosed Seven Arces-as if she were Seven Queens.

NORTH. Well said, Seward. The Seven Hills appeared-and to this day do-to characterize the Supremacy of Rome. The Seven-Hilled City! You seem to have said everything the Seven Hills are as a sevenpillared Throne-and all that is in one line given by Virgil. Delete it--no, not for a thousand gold crowns.

BULLER. Not for the Pigot Diamond—not for the Sea of Light.

NORTH. Imagine Romulus tracing the circuit on which the walls were to rise of his little Rome-the walls ominously lustrated with a brother's blood. War after war humbles neighboring town after town, till the seas that bathe, and the mountains that guard Italy, enclose the confederated Republic. It is a step-a beginning. East and West, North and South, flies the Eagle, dipping its beak in the blood of battle-fields. Where it swoops, there fanning away the pride, and fame, and freedom of nations, with the wafture of its wings. Kingdoms and Empires that were, are no more than Provinces; till the haughty Roman, stretching out the fact to the limits of his ambitious desires, can with some plausibility deceive himself, and call the edges of the Earth the boundaries of his unmeasured Dominion.

SEWARD. "O Italy! Italy! would Thou wert stronger or less beautiful!"-was the

mournful apostrophe of an Italian Poet, who
saw, in the latter ages, his refined but ener-
vated countrymen trampled under the foot
of a more martial people from far beyond
the Alps.

NORTH. Good Manners giving a vital energy and efficacy to good Laws-in these few words, gentlemen, may be comprised the needful constituents of National Happiness and Prosperity-the foremost conditions.

TALBOYS. Ay-ay-sir. For good Laws without good Manners are an empty breathwhilst good Manners ask the protecting and preserving succor of good Laws. But the good Manners are of the first necessity, for they naturally produce the good Laws.

NORTH. What does history show, Talboys, but nations risen up to flourish in wealth, power, and greatness, that with corrupted and luxurious manners have again sunk from their pre-eminence; whilst another purer and simpler people has in turn grown mighty, and taken their room in the world's eye-some hardy, simple, frugal race, perhaps, whom the seeming disfavor of nature constrains to assiduous labor, and who maintain in the lap of their mountains their independence and their pure and happy homes.

TALBOYS. The Luxury-the invading
Goth and Hun--the dismembering-and
new States uprisen upon the ruins of the
There is one line in
World's fallen Empire.
Collins' Ode to Freedom-Mr. North-
which I doubt if I understand.
NORTH. Which?
TALBOYS.

"No, Freedom, no-I will not tell
How Rome before thy weeping face
Pushed by a wild and artless race
From off its wide, ambitious base,
With heaviest sound a giant-statue fell-
What time the northern Sons of Spoil awoke,
And all the blended work of strength and grace,
With many a rude repeated stroke,
And many a barbarous yell, to thousand fragments
broke."

NORTH. Which?

TALBOYS. "How Rome before thy weeping face."

NORTH. Freedom wept at Rome's overthrow-though she had long been Freedom's enemy-and though her destroyers were Freedom's children—and "Spoil's Sons"for how could Freedom look unmoved at the wreck "of all that blended work of strength and grace"-though raised by slaves at the beck of Tyrants? It was not always so.

BULLER. Let me, Apollo-like, my dear sir,

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