review it with excitement, and make copious extracts with a flourish of penny trumpets between each paragraph. Even Magazines which once held high positions for original essays and as critical organs of literature, have abandoned these things entirely, and laying down the mirror which should be held up to the face of nature, have taken up the horse-collar instead, to show us the ridiculous and the monstrous. It will now be asked, "Are there any signs of a healthy vitality among living authors, independent of those old established reputations, the owners whereof are reposing upon their laurels ? are there any new men with whom abstract power and beauty is a passion, and who possess the requisite faculties for their de velopement? Are there, also, any signs of efforts, on their part, to revive or create a taste in the public for the higher classes of composition? and if so, with what degree and prospect of success? These are surely very interesting questions-some of them easily answered, others open to considerable difficulties and incertitude. There is, however, something else, and something better also, to be found among us; there is a secret spirit at work beneath all this load of earth and compost, this feverish expanse of stagnant water. very Whatever may be the struggles-foolishly called all-absorbing -which are now transpiring in politics, in theology, and the commercial world; and however convinced each of the different parties may be that nothing else can go right-nor that, indeed, can any thing else be properly attended to-till their particular cause is settled as they wish,-it is manifest that there is quite as great a struggle now going on in our literature, and in that department which is most neglected by the public—we mean in poetry. The public does not see this; and as poetry is at present so unpopular, the critics do not see the struggle; but let anybody look at the persevering announcements of new poems in advertisements, and read a few of the poems of some half dozen men --beginning with those at the head of this article, and then the truth of our assertion will become apparent. The energetic spirit at work in various minds, and with different kinds and degrees of power, but still at work, not only without the slightest outward encouragements, but with all manner of opposition in their path, and with certain expenditure of time and worldly means upon their "losing game," must absolutely possess something genuine in its elements, and in its hopeful and indefatigable continuity. To every reader of highly cultivated taste and feeling for poetry it cannot now be requisite that we should do more than express our admiration of the fine genius of Mr. Alfred Tenny son, and our sympathy with his efforts to elevate the tone of modern poetry by that ideal beauty, the divine presence of which we recognize in almost every poem he writes. Worthy to be mentioned with him, in respect of genius and a devotion to ideal art, is Mr. Robert Browning; yet not to be compared with Mr. Tennyson, because different-essentially different in some respects,-choosing subjects dissimilar, and dissimilar in tone of thought, in general and particular treatment, and in execution. Unlike to all these is Mr. Marston; nor does it appear that his faculties have attained an equally complete developement with those previously named. The genius of Mr. Marston has hitherto displayed a misgiving originality or a fancied originality-self-confident at its first launch upon the tide, and midway calling for help from the past, and supporting its sinking venture by all manner of old associations. He took the bull by the horns, and let him go again; the consequence has been that he has only aggravated and exalted the power he intended to tame or transfer. He intended to show that the bull was a real thing, and the provocation transforms it to a Jupiter. The principle on which the "Patrician's Daughter" was written, was to prove that reality and the present time constituted the best material and medium for modern poetry, especially dramatic poetry. Now this very play contains as many antiquated words and phrases as any modern drama written in direct imitation of the Elizabethan dramatists. As an acting tragedy it has failed to take any satisfactory hold upon the stage-for ladies with fashionable parasols, and gentlemen in grenadiers' caps, are an outrage to tragic art, which appeals to the hearts and businesses of men through universal sympathies; and inasmuch as it cannot be aided by matter-of-fact costumes, so it may be injured by ugliness in that respect, more particularly when it constantly calls back (instead of stimulating) the imagination, and reminds it that all this pretended reality is not real. When Mr. Macready passionately repeated, "This heart!-this heart!" with a modern English hat, of the last fashion, grasped in his hand, and held forth convulsively at each repetition-presenting to the eye the appearance of being displayed as the thing alluded to, or else as a recipient, intended to catch the heart if it fell out of the sufferer's breast-the effect was felt by some of the most sincere well-wishers of Mr. Marston to be fatal. This latter effect, he might say, was hardly his fault; yet he is responsible for it, as a part of the principle he wished to see illustrated. Of a similar kind, in design and structure, is "Gerald," by the same author. It is another form of the idea of a man of genius struggling with the world of the present time. The scenes are laid in such places as Hyde Park, the High Road, at Bayswater, &c., and the language having a strong smack of the olden time. The poem may be designated as a narrative dialogue and reverie, in which a series of emotions and thoughts, and a few events, are brought before us. They are all very like private experiences poetized, philosophized, and moralized upon; and that which chiefly caused us to say that we thought the author's faculties had not attained their maturity, is the love he has for displaying his good things in Italics, evidently showing that he considers the ideas as very new, which they frequently are not, though perhaps expressed in a novel form. But the gravest fault is, that the author gives us no proof that his hero is a man of genius. Gerald, contemplating to leave his village, for the purpose of achieving something great in the world, says: "Should I fail Gerald. Wake to neglect and scorn! Hence poor distrust! Too noble to delude! No common end My Part points out. Believe 'twas not in vain Up mountain heights ere dawn to cheer the Sun That made me covet an excuse for tears! While bending o'er the page of bards, to feel We answer, Gerald, p. 11. "very likely not any." If any, then most likely a reproduction of the thoughts of others, the seeds of which have inspired him. All that he says in proof of an impulse and capacity, is in itself only poetical emotion, which should not be mistaken (as it always is in youth) for poetical genius. Gerald leaves his home feeling a strong impulse to do something great in the world. Here at once we see the old sad error-a vague aspiration or ambition mistaken for an object and a power. A man of genius rushes out of his solitude, or takes some extreme step, because he is possessed with a ruling passion, a predominating idea,-a conviction that he can accomplish a particular thing, and so relieve his breast of the ever-smouldering image-his imagination of the ever-haunting thought. He does not rush forth with expanded arms to grasp at whatever presents itself to his inflamed desires, but to grasp his soul's idol. In like manner-to come down to details-a man of genius never snatches a pen, and sits down to write whatever comes uppermost; (if he do so, now and then, it is because he is in a morbid state, and will most likely burn what he has written ;) but to write down a sudden revelation of a definite kind. We think, that towards the close of his work Mr. Marston discovered this; in fact, we see signs that he did; but it was too late, and all he could do was to make his hero accuse himself of a selfish ambition as an excuse for his want of success. This was very much the case with the character of the hero of the "Patrician's Daughter,"-all manner of extravagant things are said of his genius, but he himself does nothing to prove it: So much for these heroes; but that the author of both these works is a man of genius, and one of the moving spirits of the time, no doubt can exist. Mr. Marston's writings are full of thoughtful beauty, of religious aspiration, and affectionate tenderness. In the following passage, Gerald, after his failure in ambition, alludes to his deceased father in these words : "I should have been Gerald. His chief companion, constant minister To make all round him happy. But, alas! Its vestal fires. Should they die out, albeit Loses its holiness-is desecrate! Oh! that my page had taught it to my heart, Gerald, p. 95. It is impossible to read such passages as these, and Mr. Marston's writings have many quite equal to them,-without feeling that interest in him, and that hope for his best success in literature, which his fine nature and abilities so fully merit. But now, after the somewhat depressing scenes of these feverish struggles for fame, as illustrated in the heroes of the works we have just been considering, let us turn to the mild, steady wisdom, and half-melancholy fortitude, displayed in the "Ulysses" of Tennyson-a poem which we have never seen quoted before, nor have we ever heard anybody name it. Its quietude must steal slowly upon the world. Ulysses. "It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. Life to the lees: all times I have enjoy'd Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! |