No More Learning

Nevertheless,
while the form which he adopted was Chaucerian, the spirit of his
story was different. Just as the couplet-form which he used,
although derived from Chaucer, had passed since Chaucer's day
under the influence of Dryden and Keats and had been moulded


## p. 123 (#139) ############################################

v] The Earthly Paradise
123
by them into the shape in which Morris received it, so no modern
writer, however closely in sympathy with a past age, could wholly
reproduce an attitude towards love and chivalry which the con-
ditions of modern life have changed profoundly. The love of
Palamon and Arcite for Emelye, devouring in its passion and
tragic in its consequences, was the unavoidable duty of a medieval
knight, a necessary part of the science of his profession. Morris's
Jason and Medea submit to the dominion of a natural instinct
apart from any code of manners, their delight in the present being
tempered by foreboding of the future. Medea is not the queen
of a court of love, who takes Jason's devotion as a conventional
homage : she is a modern woman, surrendering all to her love and
putting her fortunes in her lover's hands, with her eyes fully open
to the risks which she willingly runs. In this respect, Morris comes
nearer to classical antiquity than to his medieval model. His
love-story is free from those constant touches of humour which
link Chaucer to the modern world : on the other hand, his sense
of the pathos of life is deeper than Chaucer's. The tale of Jason
and Medea is informed by the spirit which fills Vergil's tale of
Dido and Aeneas.
With their love they fill the earth alone,
Careless of shame, and not remembering death.
While that love is a temporary forgetfulness of the 'fury and
distress' of life, its future is darkened by the haunting sense of
satiety and decay, the Vergilian consciousness of lacrymae rerum,
'sorrow that bides and joy that fleets away. '
The same contrast between the setting of the poem and its
inner spirit is obvious in The Earthly Paradise, a series of
twenty-four tales in verse, two for each month of the year, pub-
lished in three volumes between 1868 and 1870. They are bound
together, in imitation of Chaucer, by a connecting link which
forms the subject of the prologue. A company of wanderers,
driven from their Scandinavian home by the great pestilence
which overspread Europe in the middle of the fourteenth century,
after long journeyings in search of the fabled earthly paradise,
come, ‘shrivelled, bent, and grey,' to'a nameless city in a distant
sea,' where Hellenic civilisation and culture have been preserved.
Here, they find rest and hospitality, and twice a month they and
their hosts meet at a solemn feast, at which a story is related.
An ingenious medley of romance is thus provided. Twelve of the
stories, told by elders of the city, come from classical sources ;
the other twelve, told by the wanderers, are derived chiefly from


## p. 124 (#140) ############################################

124
[CH.
William Morris
medieval Latin, French and Icelandic originals, with gleanings from
Mandeville and The Arabian Nights. The metrical forms employed
throughout are Chaucerian, with those inevitable modifications
which the progress of literary form had brought to pass. The
prologue, the narrative links between tale and tale and eight of
the stories themselves are written in the ten-syllabled couplet.
Seven stories, six of which are told by the wanderers, are in the
short couplet of The Book of the Duchesse and The Hous of
Fame. The rest, with the short lyrics in which each month is
introduced, are in the seven-lined stanza of Troilus and Criseyde.
That all the stories should be equal in interest is not to be
expected, and a few are written in a somewhat perfunctory spirit.
Where, however, a tale, familiar and often told though it might be,
really arrested Morris, he used all his power to adorn it with novel
detail, and the success of The Life and Death of Jason is well
maintained in The Doom of King Acrisius and The Story of
Cupid and Psyche. The wanderers' narratives, to the tellers of
which the noble prologue gives a more dramatic interest than to
the placid elders of the undisturbed city, are naturally less familiar
and have less to fear from competition than the classical stories.
In one of these, The Land East of the Sun and West of the Moon,
Morris taxed his narrative power to its utmost capacity by giving
his romance the shape of a dream told within a dream at broken
intervals. In all the stories alike, his command over his metre and
rhythm is unfailing. He achieves no striking effects such as were
promised by the irregular and faulty measures of The Defence of
Guenevere. In The Life and Death of Jason he had settled down
to a smooth and steady pace of reserved energy. To a sensitive
ear his prosody lacks variety: in his disregard of the elision of
vowels and his fondness for riming weak syllables there is a want
of robustness, which, however, is thoroughly in keeping with the
character of the old and worn narrators and their autumnal view
of life. The interest which his stories excite, however, precludes
monotony, while their consistent tunefulness, if it provides few
individual passages which can be remembered for their own sake
and involves a considerable amount of repetition of the same
minor air, creates a harmonious atmosphere entirely appropriate
to the waking dream in which they are set. From the purely
poetic point of view, the most memorable passages of the poem
are the interpolated lyrics in which, at the beginning of each
month, Morris records his own delight in the changing English
landscape, the verses in which he bids adieu to his accomplished


## p. 125 (#141) ############################################

v]
Translations
125
task, and the occasional snatches of song introduced into the
stories. To these last, as to the Christmas carol of The Land
East of the Sun and West of the Moon, he gave a freshness and
charm already heralded by the shorter lyrics in The Defence of
Guenevere and 'I know a little garden close' in The Life and
Death of Jason.
In the later portion of The Earthly Paradise, the pure
romance of his earlier stories began to give place to a higher
and stronger form of poetry. The transition to epic, with its
prevailing theme of strife and suffering, is marked by Bellerophon
at Argos and Bellerophon in Lycia, and still more strikingly, in
view of later developments, by The Lovers of Gudrun. His feeling
for the classical epic led to his translations of The Aeneids of
Virgil, in 1875, and the Odyssey in 1887, the first of which, at any
rate, showed an appreciation of the spirit and influence of the
poem superior to its actual rendering of Vergil's individuality of
style. His imagination, however, found its true home in the less
trodden fields of the northern saga. The Lovers of Gudrun, a
version of the Icelandic Laxdaela saga in heroic couplet, is the
masterpiece of The Earthly Paradise. The habitual melancholy,
with its emphasis upon the shortness of life and the bitterness of
love, is apparent here, but without the romantic listlessness which
besets it elsewhere. Kiartan, Bodli, Ospak, Gudrun are active
living figures engaged in dramatic conflict befitting the stern and
barren scene of northern legend. In 1869 and 1870, Morris had
collaborated with Eiríkr Magnússon, in the translation of Grettis
saga and Volsunga saga, and, in 1871, he reached an epoch
in his life with his first visit to Iceland and the actual scenes of
the events of the stories of Grettir, Gudrun and Burnt Njal, where
“every place and name marks the death of' the 'short-lived eager-
ness and glory of this home of epic poetry. His literary work
during the next few years included the morality Love is Enough,
the structure of which, a play presented within a play, resembles
the intricate method employed in The Land East of the Sun
and West of the Moon. For this, he adopted a somewhat
monotonous form of unrimed verse, more definitely archaic in
form and spirit than any of his other work; but its unattractive-
ness is redeemed by occasional passages of description in which
his love and knowledge of medieval art overcome all obstacles,
while the long rimed measures of 'the Music,' the series of inter-
ludes by which the drama of Pharamond and Azalais is broken
into parts and the amoebaean lyric of the emperor and empress


## p. 126 (#142) ############################################

126
[ch.
William Morris
with its answering refrains are, perhaps, his highest lyric achieve-
ments. Love is Enough was, however, merely a divergence from
the channel which his verse had now marked out for itself.
In 1875, he published his translation of the Aeneid and a small
volume of translations of Icelandic stories which preluded his
most ambitious poem, The Story of Sigurd the Volsung and the
Fall of the Niblungs.
This epic in four books, founded upon the prose Volsunga saga,
was published in 1876. Its story, in loftiness of theme and the
completeness with which it is controlled by an overmastering fate,
is at least the equal of the great Greek legends ; and, to tell it,
Morris employed an anapaestic couplet of his own invention, with
six beats to each line. This metre, which he afterwards used in
his translation of the Odyssey, suited the natural ease and rapidity
of his writing. The swinging cadences might easily become mono-
tonous or slovenly; but the nobility of his story had so thoroughly
taken hold of him that he never sacrificed dignity to swiftness
of execution. With plentiful variety of movement, a stateliness
appropriate to the theme is maintained throughout the whole of
the poem. It has been questioned whether Volsunga saga, as
a whole, is suitable for epic treatment. Morris himself closed his
story with the death of Gudrun, the true consummation of all the
death of kings and kindreds, and the sorrow of Odin the Goth,'
without proceeding to the final incidents of the saga, but he intro-
duced, in his first book, the whole grim episode of Sigmund and
Signy and the monstrous Sinfiotli, which is purely preliminary to,
and, in fact, a separate story from, the epic of Sigurd, son of
Sigmund and Hiordis. That the book thus falls into two epics,
a short and a long one, cannot be gainsaid, and there is a signal
contrast between the inhumanity of the opening story, whose
personages excite terror and repulsion but little sympathy, and
the gentler aspect of its sequel, in which, superhuman though the
actors are in stature and in spirit, their errors and woes are those
of mortality. Morris, however, so managed the transition from the
overture to the actual drama that the interest is not suspended or
noticeably broken, and, before our concentration upon the fate of
Sigmund is wholly diverted, we are carried away upon the tide of
Sigurd’s heroic youth. The episodes follow one another with unfail-
ing vigour and freshness, and, in the climax of the story, the slaying
of the Niblung kings, the slayers of Sigurd, in the hall of Atli, the
death-song of Gunnar among the serpents and the vengeance and
death of Gudrun, Morris pursued his theme triumphantly to the


## p. 127 (#143) ############################################

v]
Prose Narratives
127
end. If the chosen form of Sigurd the Volsung did not wholly
fulfil its promise when it came to cope with the Homeric hexa-
meter, it was at least thoroughly adequate to an occasion when
Morris was free to deal with his story untrammelled by the
exigencies of translation.
After Sigurd, Morris practically abandoned poetry, save for the
Odyssey, and his last original book of verse was the collection of
lyrics and ballads, Poems by the Way, issued from the Kelmscott
press in 1891. His activities outside his artistic life during the
early eighties were devoted to the spread of socialism and to
enthusiasms closely connected with his love of beauty and his
attempt to realise the past in the present. His socialist propa-
ganda was marked by two romances, A Dream of John Ball,
remarkable for its vivid and beautiful medieval setting amid
English village scenery, and the Utopian News from Nowhere,
whose doctrinal aspect has earned it a fame out of proportion to
its actual merits. In 1889, when his political energy, though
not abated, had been somewhat disappointed by the intracta-
bility of those with whom he had associated himself, he returned
to pure romance with the prose story, interspersed with lyrics,
The House of the Wolfings. This was followed, in 1890, by
The Roots of the Mountains and, in 1891, by The Story of
the Glittering Plain. Morris succeeded in communicating his
own pleasure in these narratives to the reader; and the in-
definiteness of place and time in which they are set, contrasted
with the extreme definiteness of their imaginary topography,
gives them the vivid charm of fairy-tale. His mind still
ran upon the northern epic, and the scenes and personages of the
first three of these romances, so far as they belong to any
country at all, belong to the remote north of Europe. In The
Roots of the Mountains, the longest of the three, the self-con-
tained life of a pastoral community threatened by the mysterious
barbarians of the neighbouring forest tracts, and its victory over
them with the aid of a warrior race from a distant valley, are
pictured with extraordinary completeness and sustained interest.
In 1892, Morris produced a translation of Beowulf in collaboration
with A. J. Wyatt, and, in 1891, he began, with Eiríkr Magnússon,
to produce a Saga library which included a version of the
Heimskringla. Amid the crowded interests of the closing years
of his life the production of magnificently printed volumes from
the Kelmscott press took the chief place, while his love of
medieval architecture prompted him to protest with increasing


## p. 128 (#144) ############################################

1-28
[CH.
William Morris
vehemence on behalf of the Society for the Protection of Ancient
Buildings, which he had founded in 1877, against destructive
works of so-called restoration. Meanwhile, his leisure hours were
occupied with prose romance of which the atmosphere was chiefly
medieval. The brief The Wood beyond the World (1895) was
followed, in 1896, by The Well at the World's End, a somewhat
prolix tale, the interest of which, however, is continually revived
by scenes and episodes of memorable clearness and beauty. Two
more romances
romances were published posthumously, The Water of
the Wondrous Isles, the most fairylike of the series, and The
Sundering Flood, which he finished less than a month before his
death. In these later books, the attraction which he felt for the
England of Chaucer's day is as powerful as it was in The Earthly
Paradise ; if their passages of adventure amid black mountains
and 'perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn' belong to a world
common to all lovers of the marvellous and romantic, the lowland
country in which his heroes have their home, with its meadow-
lands, its cities of merchants and its abbeys and priories, is the
English country to which his imagination restored its fourteenth-
century aspect, peopling it with feudal lords and their households,
prosperous middle-class traders and the labourers who listened
to the preaching of John Ball. Malory, equally beloved with
Chaucer, had his influence on Morris's prose style, but the peculiar
archaisms in which it abounds were natural to Morris's thought
and were used with a vigour free from affectation. On 3 October
1896, the greatest master of romantic story-telling among modern
Englishmen died at his London residence, Kelmscott house, Ham-
mersmith, worn out by a life of unceasing work, in which he had
endeavoured, with remarkable consistence and success, to realise
and translate into practice for his countrymen the beauty of the
visionary world of his prose and poetry. His love of the beautiful
work of the past, material and imaginative, stood for him in the
place of religious fervour, and his whole strength of purpose was
dedicated to the reconstitution of modern life upon conditions
similar to those under which such work, impossible in an age of
mere competition for money, was produced. Read in this light, his
writings are no mere pictures of an irrecoverable past painted
with a dilettante regretfulness: they are a coherent revelation of
his sources of inspiration in his combat with the torpor from
which, like Ruskin and Carlyle, he, not the least of the three,
strove to deliver the life of his day.


## p. 129 (#145) ############################################

v]
Algernon Charles Swinburne
129
The dedication of The Defence of Guenevere to Rossetti testified
to the quickening power exercised over Morris by his association
with that less prolific and more fastidious genius. To Rossetti, also,
was dedicated, in 1860, the first work of Algernon Charles Swinburne,
The Queen Mother and Rosamond, two poetical dramas written
in elaborate and intricate blank verse and containing incidental
lyrics in English and French. For the time being, the book
passed almost unnoticed. Swinburne, born in 1837, belonged to
a younger branch of the Northumbrian family of that name.
His youth, spent between the isle of Wight and the house of his
grandfather, Sir John Swinburne, at Capheaton in the country
between Morpeth and Bellingham, fired him with a passionate
enthusiasm for the sea and open country, which supplied his verse
with an inexhaustible theme. At Eton and Balliol college, Oxford,
he developed his inborn love of poetry, and, although he came into
close connection and friendship with Rossetti and his circle and
shared their love for medieval romance, it was with a taste already
formed for other types of verse that exercised little, if any, direct
influence upon them. To more than an ordinary Englishman's
pride in his country and her past achievements, his reading of the
Athenian drama revealed the meaning and value of the liberty
for which Athens and the England of Shakespeare had alike con-
tended. His sympathy with republican freedom was learned from
Landor and Shelley and, last but not least, from Victor Hugo, who
shared with Shakespeare the shrine of his life-long idolatry. To
Victor Hugo's mastery over the forms of lyric and dramatic verse
he owed his most direct impulse: it is not too much to say that,
after a certain period, under the conviction that no man could
do more than Hugo had done, Swinburne's poetry became domi-
nated by the ambition of following in his footsteps and ringing
changes on the themes already chosen by Hugo's manifold genius.
Of other French poets, Gautier and Baudelaire affected him with
their command of form and melody, and it was on this side of
his appreciations, open to sensuous impression, that Rossetti's
peculiar vividness of phrase and harmony of music appealed
to him. Daringly irreverent in his rejection of all conventions
that seemed to repress the freedom of the human spirit, he paid
humble and, at times, uncritical homage to works of human genius,
even when they were least in sympathy with his fervently held
and freely uttered creed of liberty. In the childlike frankness
of his denunciation of kings and priests he rivalled the outspoken-
ness of Shelley, whose lyric copiousness and variety he even
E. L. XIII.
CH, V.
9


## p. 130 (#146) ############################################

130
[CH.
Swinburne
surpassed. But, while Shelley, of the masters of English song,
came nearest to him in point of time and the spirit of his verse,
the cadences of his music were also founded upon the Eliza-
bethans and Milton, and no influences moulded his phraseology
so completely as the sacred literature, biblical and liturgical, of the
religion whose professors were the objects of his tireless invective.
Atalanta in Calydon and Chastelard in 1865 and Poems and
Ballads in 1866 won Swinburne celebrity and notoriety. Chaste-
lard, the first of his three plays upon the life of Mary queen of
Scots, is a romantic drama in the style of his two earlier works.
Atalanta, classical in subject, was an attempt to reproduce the
characteristic forms of Greek drama in a corresponding English
dress. The dialogue, closely following the conventional order of
Greek tragedy, is in the involved blank verse, copious and
pregnant in its content and artfully varied in its music, for
which he had already shown his capacity. In his choruses, he
adopted rimed stanzaic forms, in which he gave proof of an un-
paralleled range of musical compass.
While his subsequent
poetry showed that his metrical agility was incapable of ex-
haustion, he never excelled the ringing melody of the famous
hymn to Artemis, afire with the new-born passion of spring, the
firm and rapid tread with which 'Before the beginning of years
proceeds to the melancholy assurance of its climax and the wave-
like measures of the coupós, weighted with the certainty of tragic
doom, near the end of the poem. Atalanta is no mere archaic
experiment: its structure is superficially Greek, and the old
classical themes of controlling fate and divine intervention
pervade its story; but the spirit in which it is written is the
modern spirit of revolt against the religious acquiescence in the
will of Heaven accepted by Greek tragedy. The cause which it
pleads is that of 'the holy spirit of man’ against the tyranny of
the gods who divide and devour. ' Its sympathy is with the
beauty and strength of life and nature, and its burden is a
complaint against the supreme evil' whose weapons are decay
and death. It needs no reading between the lines to see that
Swinburne's eloquence, in rhythms and periods which taxed all
the resources of modern romantic poetry, arraigned the sub-
servience of man, not only to the gods of ancient Greece, but
to the religious ideals of his own day. Following Shelley's
audacious reversal of the principles of good and evil, typified
in The Revolt of Islam by the conflict between the eagle of
tyranny and the serpent of freedom, he denounced the binding
6


## p. 131 (#147) ############################################

v]
Poems and Ballads
131
spell of creeds with a free appropriation of the august language
of the charms with which that spell had been woven round the
heart of the nations.
The atheism of Atalanta might pass unchallenged, so long as it
was partly veiled by its antique setting; but Poems and Ballads not
unnaturally shocked austere critics by its negation of conventional
reticence. Not all the beauty of its verse can palliate Swinburne's
waywardness in his choice of themes, and his attempt to accli-
matise his fleurs du mal to English soil in defiance of prudery
and philistinism created a prejudice against him in a society
which had responded heartily to Tennyson's noble celebration of
duty and virtue and welcomed the bracing quality of Browning's
optimism. The subjects of Laus Veneris, Anactoria, Faustine
and The Leper were sensual obsessions, marring and wasting life :
their end, satiety and hopeless weariness of spirit, was the burden
of Dolores, licet and The Triumph of Time. No one could
have felt more amusement than Swinburne himself at the plea
occasionally made by his defenders that Dolores is a moral
sermon, because it is full of the pain and bitterness of sensual
indulgence. The spirit of Poems and Ballads is frankly pagan :
the goddess, hominum divumque voluptas, to whose cult it is
dedicated, is, also, our Lady of Pain : the inevitable escape from
the barren pleasures of her worship and the revulsions of feeling
which they entail is the end of all, the poppied sleep. ' There are,
naturally, two opinions upon the desirability of asserting such
views publicly without suggesting a tonic remedy; but there can
be no question as to the beauty of form in which the assertion
was clothed.
Swinburne's work, as a whole, suffers from the
paucity of its contents ; his rapid genius was too easily satisfied
with returning to the same themes over and over again and re-
affirming them with increased emphasis but little variety. But, in
metrical skill and in the volume of his highly decorated language,
he had no rival among English poets. The first of these qualities
he preserved to the end ; the second was somewhat affected, as
time went on, by the monotony, already noticed, of his favourite
subjects, which became unequal to the strain put upon them by
their constant changes of elaborate dress. In Poems and Ballads,
however, as in Atalanta, his verse had lost none of its freshness,
and his metre and rhythm adapted themselves freely to change of
subject. The 'profuse strains of unpremeditated art' of the earlier
romantic poets were not his ; but the constraint of form was a
positive pleasure to him, under which he moved with unequalled
6
3
9-2


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132
[CH.
Swinburne
freedom. The slow movement of Laus Veneris, and the sorrow-
laden spondees of Ilicet, the impetuous haste with which the lover in
The Triumph of Time flings away regretfully but unhesitatingly his
past happiness with both hands, the forced lightness of Faustine,
the swift anapaests of Dolores, full of reckless glorying in forbidden
pleasure, the solemn affirmations and cowed responses of A Litany,
the bird-notes of Itylus, mingling with magic skill the sweet-
ness and sorrow of the nightingale's song, the careless innocence
of A Match, are striking instances of his power of adapting
sound to meaning. Characteristic features of all these poems
are the use of alliteration and of words which, by community of
sound and form, echo and are complementary to one another.
The accusation of sound without sense has been brought by
unsympathetic critics against poetry in which the charm of
sound is remarkable. If Swinburne's wealth of language some-
times obscured his meaning with allusiveness and periphrases,
his rhythm is an unfailing guide to the spirit of his words.
Poems and Ballads contained tributes of admiration to
Landor and Victor Hugo, while A Christmas Carol and The
Masque of Queen Bersabe, to say nothing of the constant use
of imagery and phrase in Laus Veneris and other poems, were
evidence of close kinship with the medieval romance beloved of
Rossetti and his circle. There were signs, also, in this volume
of the special enthusiasm which filled Swinburne’s next books of
verse. The spirit of liberty was abroad upon the winds. In 1867,
,
the poet whose hymns of lust and satiety had dazzled the lovers
of poetry with their youthful vigour sang the praise of Mazzini
and Garibaldi in A Song of Italy. Songs before Sunrise in
1871 was a collection of poems written during the final struggle
for Italian freedom. To analyse its characteristics would be to
repeat what has been said already of Poems and Ballads. It
includes much of Swinburne's best work, the majestic Hertha, the
lament for captive Italy in Super Flumina Babylonis and the
apostrophe to France in Quia Multum Amavit, whose strains
sway and fluctuate at will between fierce scorn for the oppressor
and tenderness for his victims, hope and comfort for Italy in her
slavery, compassion for prostituted France. Where Victor Hugo's
war music had led the way, Swinburne's clarion was bound to
follow. It was difficult to enter a field so fully occupied by the
author of Les Châtiments, and it must be owned that, when the
clarion sounded a charge against Napoleon III, it made up for
want of originality by an excess of shrillness. Nevertheless, the


## p. 133 (#149) ############################################

v]
Bothwell and Erechtheus
133
sonnets written at intervals during this period and collected
under the title Dirae sound an individual note of abuse and add
their quota to the imagery even of such poems as L'Égout de Rome.
After the achievement of Italian hope in 1870 and the fall
of Napoleon III, which he hailed with savage delight in 1871,
Swinburne had leisure to return to more purely artistic work.
In the length and rhetoric of Bothwell, sequel to Chastelard
and precursor of Mary Stuart, he followed the example of
Hugo's Cromwell. This play, published in 1874, is a dramatic
poem in which he pursued with close attention to historical fact
his conception of Mary's character, defending her against the
sympathisers who, in their anxiety to clear her of knavery, only
succeeded in convicting her of senseless folly. Unfitted by its
extreme length for the stage, Bothwell is yet a work of great
dramatic power ; its sustained speeches, chief among them the
great speech of Knox, are written in music which is susceptible to
every change of tone, and tragic terror could go no further than
in the scene at Kirk of Field where, before Darnley's murder,
Mary is heard singing snatches of Lord Love went maying, the
lyric sung by Rizzio to the queen and her ladies on the night of
his death. As Bothwell followed Chastelard, so Erechtheus, in
1876, followed Atalanta with equal eloquence and with a some-
what closer relation to the inner spirit of Greek tragic form than
its predecessor. The lyric choruses of Erechtheus, while they give
less immediate delight than the enchanting music of those in
Atalanta, have a more constant loftiness and majesty, and no
passage of Swinburne's lyric work is more spontaneous and splendid
than the apostrophe to Athens, the
fruitful immortal anointed adored
Dear city of men without master or lord,
which is an episode of the opening chorus. Athens is the true
heroine of the drama ; love of country and hatred of slavery are
its inspiring passions.
A second series of Poems and Ballads showed no falling off in
melody, with a more chastened tone than that of the first volume.
There is equal ease in Swinburne's handling of the music of
enchantment in A Forsaken Garden and of the dignified choral
harmonies of Ave atque Vale, his beautiful tribute to the memory
of Baudelaire. In his translations of some of Villon's ballades, he
acknowledged, with his usual generosity, his inferiority to Rossetti
in this field : if, in choice of material, he was too often guided by
the example of others in whose wake it was dangerous to follow,
.


## p. 134 (#150) ############################################

134
Swinburne
[ch.
it was, at any rate, with an admiration totally distinct from
a desire to rival them. Studies in Song and Songs of the
Springtides, in 1880, were full of love of the sea, the prevailing
passion of his later verse. By the North Sea, a lyric symphony
in seven movements echoing the rushing of the east wind and
the chiming of sun-lit breakers beating upon a crumbling coast,
was his highest tribute to the resistless power and eternity of
ocean, the sense of which plays an animate part in the later
Tristram of Lyonesse and Marino Faliero. A rather excessive
ingenuity obscures the Song for the Centenary of Walter Savage
Landor and the Birthday Ode to Victor Hugo: allusions to the
works of these authors are woven into the substance of both
poems with a skill that suggests an acrostic, and the short explana-
tory key which Swinburne found it necessary to add to them is an
indication of his own uneasiness on this head. His own humour
was quick to detect possible weaknesses in the fiery enthusiasm
of his verse, and in the same year he parodied himself mercilessly
and perfectly in the last piece of the anonymous Heptalogia.
Most lovers of Swinburne will agree that the Tristram of
Lyonesse volume, published in 1882, is the crown of his mature
work. The long romance in couplets which is the title-piece
challenges comparison with the romantic narratives of William
Morris. In the art of story-telling, Swinburne was Morris's in-
ferior; but in the structure of his verse and the value which he
gave to musical effects and the technique of vowel-sounds, elisions
and alliteration, Swinburne was as careful an artist as Morris
was negligent. The theme of Tristram is the glorification of lovers'
passion. With Morris, such passion is apt to be a pining sickness
which clouds mortal joy with an anticipation of its end : the love
of Medea and Jason brings very little present enjoyment to the
lovers. Swinburne's lovers are conscious of the disadvantages
their passion involves and the pain inevitably mixed with it; but
their apprehensions are drowned in the buoyancy of the moment,
and they rush upon their doom with a resolution born of the
conviction that the strife and suffering inherent in their abandon-
ment to passion are no cause for wavering or regret. If disloyal
in their human relations, they are the loyal votaries of a love in
which they have found delight without weariness. The coming of
fate finds them united :
from love and strife
The stroke of lore's own hand felt last and best
Gave them deliverance to perpetual rest.


## p. 135 (#151) ############################################

v]
Later Poems and Dramas
135
Tristram of Lyonesse, the highest achievement of English couplet
verse since Lamia, is the English epic of passionate love, which,
recognising nothing in the world but itself, goes through fire and
water for its own sake: it realises in dramatic narrative the
theme of the Music' which forms the chorus to Morris's Love is
Enough. But Tristram was not all that the book contained. In
Athens, an ode, Swinburne worked out the comparison between
the victors of Salamis and those who conquered the Armada, and
poured forth his gratitude to the dramatists of the Athenian stage.
His love of the great English dramatists was expressed in a series
of sonnets, many of whose phrases remain in the memory side by
side with those of Lamb's no less lyric prose criticisms. The
sequence of lyrics A Dark Month, with which the volume con-
cluded, was prompted by a child's death, and belongs to the class
of exquisite and tender poems in which Swinburne, turning from
his habitual tone of exalted and exhausting passion, followed the
example of the author of L'Art d'être Grand père. Such poems, in
the year after the appearance of Tristram, stood in company with
the Guernsey sequence and other spontaneous variations of an
artificial form in A Century of Roundels.
In 1881, Swinburne had concluded with Mary Stuart the trilogy
which Chastelard had begun. His devotion to this subject was
expressed in the lyric Adieux à Marie Stuart, which, in one of
its stanzas, sums up with sane precision the estimate of the queen
expressed at length in his dramas. After this period the hues
of autumn begin to tinge his verse. Ready as ever to assume
graceful or majestic forms at will, his genius, though impelled to
speak, had little left to say that was new. After A Midsummer
Holiday, in 1884, he returned to drama in Marino Faliero, a
subject which he felt had been handled unworthily by Byron.
This drama followed the lines of the early plays in combining
historic with, poetic treatment without regard to suitability for
the stage; but, as in Bothwell, powerful dramatic situations
are achieved. Swinburne put into the part of the doge who
conspired against the oligarchy of Venice his own passion for
freedom and love of the sea and wind, the symbols of unchained
liberty; and the contrast between his hero's monologue and the
Latin hymn of the penitents, whose verses form intervals in it,
is the contrast most congenial to him—that between the freed will
of man and the will in bondage to custom and tradition. Locrine,
his next drama, in 1887, was an original experiment in which each
scene was presented in rimes of a recurring stanza-form: the


## p. 136 (#152) ############################################

136
[CH.
Swinburne
design, beautiful from a lyric point of view, was, however, unfavour-
able to the presentation of character and retarded dramatic action.
Two years later came the third series of Poems and Ballads. In
its lighter pieces and especially in such ballads as The Jacobite's
Lament, in which the calm melancholy of an exile like him who
'pined by Arno for his lovelier Tees' is touched with the passion
of romantic sorrow, there is much of the accustomed freshness of
spirit; but the chief effort of the volume, the poem written to com-
memorate the tercentenary of the Armada, shows fatigue, and the
force which drives its galloping and thundering rhythms is more
mechanical than that which, at a touch, set in motion the ardent
measures of the choruses of Erechtheus and the ode to Athens.
At the same time, the falling off noticeable in the later volumes,
Astrophel and A Channel Passage, and his two last plays, The
Sisters, a drama of modern life more ingenious in design than satis-
factory in execution, and Rosamund Queen of the Lombards, is only
the decline incidental to growing age. Loyal to his old enthusiasms,
he was lover of freedom and patriot to the end; and the last poems
of his life, though their insular tone may have astonished some
of his old friends, gave utterance to his conviction that England,
like Athens of old, was the safeguard of the world's liberty.
In addition to his poetry, Swinburne published from 1868
onwards several volumes of literary criticism. His Essays and
Studies and Miscellanies bear the most striking testimony to his
comprehensive knowledge and love of poetry and to his scholarly
insight. Of his monographs upon individual writers, A Study of
Shakespeare takes the first place, not merely as a panegyric in
eloquent prose, but as the most stimulating and original contribution
made by an English poet to the understanding of the greatest master
of English song. His various essays upon the dramatists of Shake-
speare's age, a subject always congenial to him, have the aspect
of final pronouncements. His criticism, however, was too much
charged with the white heat of enthusiasm to be always judicious:
his praise, always lavish, was, at times, extravagant, and his con-
demnation of his bêtes noires knew no measure. His admirable
estimate of Wordsworth in one of the most elaborate of his essays
was the fruit of calm and measured judgment: no greater contrast
to this could be found than the scorn poured, in the same essay, upon
Byron, whose negligent trifling with the gift of verse and occasional
vulgarity of execution were, to Swinburne, inexcusable faults with-
out compensation. Thinking and writing in superlatives of praise
and blame were natural to him. In the genius of Shakespeare,


## p. 137 (#153) ############################################

v] Prose Criticism : General Characteristics 137
Shelley and Victor Hugo, 'God stood plain for adoration': to write
of their work was to express the most cherished tenets of a creed
of which they were the deities. For those who failed when judged
by his standard, who touched the shrine of song with unworthy
hands, who misused or paltered with their talent, Swinburne had
no mercy: they were the enemies of his creed, to be denounced
with the energy of a fanatic. Thus, while his praise constantly
glows with the rapture of lyric devotion and his blame draws
freely upon the resources of irony and epigram, the unvaryingly
rhapsodical tone of his prose, its over-copious periods and unre-
strained vocabulary are not a little exhausting to his readers.
The 'fury in the words' is not seldom out of proportion to the
value of the words themselves, and the insight of the poet is
dulled by the excessive protestations of the enthusiast.
When Swinburne died in 1909, England lost the most fertile
lyric poet of the Victorian era, whose unequalled versatility in the
use of lyric form was amazing in its brilliance. Receptive of mani-
fold influences, classical, English and foreign, he reproduced them
in a style which was wholly individual. With all his fiercely
cherished prejudices and his unsparing condemnation of the
dogmas and opinions held most sacred by his countrymen, few
poets have been more catholic in their tastes or more ready to
recognise and applaud sincerity of purpose in other men's work.
An implacable enemy, he was the most devoted of friends; his
cordial admiration for the work of his brother poets was as
generous as the selflessness with which Scott praised his contem-
poraries. His earliest volume was inscribed to Rossetti; Christina
Rossetti received the dedication of A Century of Roundels, William
Morris that of Astrophel, Theodore Watts-Dunton, the constant
companion of his later years, that of Tristram of Lyonesse and of
later poems. The first series of Poems and Ballads was dedicated
to Edward Burne-Jones, and the last volume of Swinburne's life
bore an inscription to the joint memory of Burne-Jones and
Morris, the painter and poet of old-world romance, united in life-
long brotherhood. In return, his simplicity of character and the
unswerving idealism to which he devoted his genius won the
admiration and affection of all who knew him. All, indeed, who
are aware that truth takes many and diverse forms and value the
sincere expression of conviction more than a tame acquiescence
in convention pay unconstrained honour to Swinburne's celebra-
tion of his ideals of liberty and justice, clothed in music which
is borne upon the wings of the wind and wails and rejoices, now


## p. 138 (#154) ############################################

138
[CH.
Christina Rossetti
loud with delight in its beauty and strength and now threatening
or plaintive in its anger or sadness, like the voice of the sea.
The first number of The Germ contained, as well as Rossetti's
My Sister's Sleep, a sonnet by his brother William Michael and
two lyrics by his sister Christina Georgina Rossetti. Christina,
born in 1830, produced her earlier work under the pseudonym
Ellen Alleyn. The two lyrics in question, Dream Land and
An End, are the natural outcome of a mind that instinctively
translates its passing dreams into music as faint and clear as the
horns of elf-land, such music as is heard at its perfection in the
lyrics of Shelley. A song, Oh roses for the flush of youth, in
the second number of The Germ, has the same unsought
grace. Together with this appeared the more elaborate A
Pause of Thought and A Testimony, the second of these founded
on the recurrent theme of Ecclesiastes and employing scriptural
language with the skill and ease manifested by Rossetti in
The Burden of Nineveh and by Swinburne in countless poems.
Unlike her brother, whose sympathy with religion was purely
artistic, and still more unlike Swinburne, whose attitude to
the orthodox conceptions of Christianity was openly hostile,
Christina Rossetti was, to the end of her life, a devout Christian,
finding the highest inspiration for her song in her faith and
investing Anglican ideals of worship with a mystical beauty.
Her volumes of collected verse, beginning with Goblin Market
and other poems in 1862 and ending with New Poems, collected
in 1896, two years after her death, by her brother William,
are permeated, even when they deal with subjects not primarily
religious, with this devotional feeling. Goblin Market and The
Prince's Progress, her two chief narrative poems, are both, in
effect, allegories, the first obvious in its application, the second
capable of more than one interpretation, of the soul in its struggle
with earthly allurements. Her sequences of sonnets, Monna
Innominata and Later Life, are filled with her sense of the
claims of divine love over human passion. While her brother,
in The Blessed Damozel, drew the picture of an immortal spirit
yearning for the love it has left behind and translating the joys
of heaven into concrete imagery, Christina Rossetti embodies the
desire of the soul on earth to climb
the stairs that mount above,
Stair after golden skyward stair
To city and to sea of glass,


## p. 139 (#155) ############################################

a
6
v]
Her Lyric Verse
139
and the heaven which she sees is the mystical city of The
Revelation of S. John. In her Martyrs' Song, the blessed ones
who ‘lean over the golden bar' have no regret for earth : amid
the welcoming angels, painted in verse that translates into words
the visions wrought in tapestry and stained glass by Burne-Jones
and Morris, they find 'the rest which fulfils desire' in the light
of the divine presence. Such verse has a natural kinship with the
religious poetry of the seventeenth century, and especially with
George Herbert and Henry Vaughan, where their excessive
ingenuity in metaphor gives place to spontaneous lyric fervour.
The clear notes of Herbert's Easter Song and the calm rapture
of Vaughan's 'My soul, there is a country'find their closest echo
in Christina Rossetti's' devout songs, and she adopted instinctively
the free metrical forms of rimed stanza in which they clothed
their thought.
While all her thoughts were drawn together towards one
central ideal and her verse was ruled by the supreme convic-
tion that
in la sua volontade è nostra pace,
she expressed herself with a variety of metre and rhythm and
a musical power unequalled by any other English poetess. If she
had less intellectual force and a more confined range of subject than
Elizabeth Barrett Browning, who certainly, by virtue of her more
liberal sympathies, makes an appeal to a wider audience, Christina
Rossetti unquestionably had the advantage in melodiousness.
Goblin Market, written in paragraphs of varying length with short
lines and rimes binding them together at irregular intervals, is an
example of a form which, adapted by a careless writer even with
considerable imagination, might easily become mere rhythmical
prose. While the language is of the most simple kind and the
lines run freely into one another, the music of the rimes, half
unheard, is, nevertheless, strongly felt. Whether moving in these
lightly fettered cadences or in the stricter confinement of the
stanza, her lyric verse is always remarkable for its combination
of strength and seriousness of sentiment with simplicity of
expression. Mystic though she was, her thought never found
refuge in complicated or obscure language, but translated itself
into words with the clearness and definiteness which were among
the aims of the pre-Raphaelite associates of her girlhood. In
such short bursts of song as A Birthday, simile and coloured
phrase came to her aid, without effort on her part, to adorn a
crescendo which rises to a climax of innocent happiness. Her


## p. 140 (#156) ############################################

140
Christina Rossetti
[CH.
A Christmas Carol cannot be matched among Christmas songs
for its union of childlike devotion and pathos with pictorial
directness : Morris's 'Outlanders, whence come ye last ? ' and
Swinburne's "Three damsels in the queen's chamber' are not
less beautiful and are more elaborately pictorial, but they are
designedly archaic in style and are without her earnestness and
concentration of feeling. It is true that there are poems by
Christina Rossetti in which her sense of the necessity of sim-
plicity is too apparent, either in the intrusion of too homely
words or in occasional metrical weakness. Her ballads of every-
day life, such as Maude Clare and Brandons Both, inevitably
recall, to their own disadvantage, the successes of Tennyson in the
same field. On the other hand, where her imagination pursued
a higher path, as in the allegorical visions of A Ballad of Boding,
the note which she sounded was clear and unfaltering. In the
third of her Old and New Year Ditties, the famous 'Passing
away,' she showed herself no less capable than Swinburne of
wedding appropriately majestic music to her theme, varying the
cadence of her verse upon the groundwork of a single sound,
the passing bell which is heard at the end of each line, and
gradually relieving the melancholy of her opening passage, until,
in the last notes, new hope is heard. The range of her verse was,
naturally, somewhat limited by her preoccupation with religious
subjects. Contemporary movements touched her lightly, and it
was seldom that, as in the two poems entitled The German-French
Campaign, she referred to them. If this aloofness from the
world precludes her from an uncontested claim to the position
sometimes given to her as the greatest of English poetesses, no
religious poet of the nineteenth century, even if we take into
account the brilliant but more turbid genius of Francis Thompson,
can be said to challenge comparison with her whose ‘shrine
of holiest-hearted song' Swinburne approached with reverent
admiration of her single-heartedness and purity of purpose.
To the group of poets treated in this chapter may be added
Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy, who was born in 1844
and died in 1881. His working life, from 1861 to his death, was
spent as an assistant in the British museum, chiefly amid sur-
roundings far removed from the themes of his verse.
friend of Rossetti and of Ford Madox Brown and married the
sister of another poet, Philip Bourke Marston. French poetry,
however, was the prevailing influence which guided his sensitive
He was a


## p. 141 (#157) ############################################

v]
Arthur O'Shaughnessy
141
and highly uncertain talent, and the English verse to which his
own is most nearly related, though at a considerable distance, is
that of Swinburne. In the three volumes which contain his best,
as well as his weakest, work, An Epic of Women, Lays of France,
founded on the lays of Marie de France, and Music and Moon-
light, he frequently adopted lyric forms which Swinburne had
used in Poems and Ballads. Sometimes, as in the were-wolf
story, Bisclavaret, which is in the stanza of The Leper, this
justifies itself, but The Fair Maid and the Sun, in the stanza
of Laus Veneris, is merely pretty, and the obvious following of
Dolores in The Disease of the Soul is a signal failure. O'Shaugh-
nessy, with a temperament which induced him to overload with
sensuous imagery the verse of An Epic of Women, a series of
lyric episodes with a too ambitious title, had little of the gift of
self-criticism. The easy and graceful stanzas, 'We are the music-
makers' and the echoing melodies, with their reminiscence of
Edgar Allan Poe, of The Fountain of Tears are worthy of their
place in most of the modern anthologies. Occasional pieces, too,
have the sudden magic effect of which Beddoes's lyrics hold the
secret. The story of Chaitivel in Lays of France contains a song
in the pleasant and effortless stanza of which Samuel Daniel's
Ulisses and the Syren is the best English model. All these pieces,
if they do not belong to the highest class of poetry, have their
own charm and furnish abundant proof of their author's keen
appreciation of musical sound. On the other hand, his ear in
the poem called Love's Eternity was hopelessly at fault and the
versification is positively slovenly. A lover of verse, with a
somewhat restricted range of theme and without strikingly original
methods of treatment, O'Shaughnessy's 'heaven-sent moments'
were few. His higher flights, as in An Epic of Women, were
restricted by excess of heavy ornament; on lower planes, he
moved more easily, but his tripping measures were hampered
by faults of harmony and little affectations of phrase. The
substance of his best pieces is immaterial, and their value is
their mellifluous sweetness of sound. As such, they are casual
triumphs in a field of which he never obtained perfect command.
1


## p. 142 (#158) ############################################

142
[ch.
Edward FitzGerald
II
EDWARD FITZGERALD
As one who found the freest current for his delicate and
impressionable genius in the translation and adaptation of the
works of others, Edward FitzGerald stands as far aloof from the
ordinary activities of the literature of his day as his life was
remote from that of the world in general. He was the third son
of John Purcell, of Bredfield hall, Suffolk, where he was born on
31 March 1809. When, in 1818, Mrs Purcell's father died, the
family assumed his name and arms. At king Edward VI's school
at Bury St Edmunds, which he entered in 1821, Edward FitzGerald
was a contemporary of James Spedding, John Mitchell Kemble
and William Bodham Donne. The friendships thus begun were
continued at Cambridge, and afterwards. For Spedding's scholar-
ship, FitzGerald cherished an affectionate admiration, with some
regret at its devotion to a purpose with which he had no sympathy,
and the series of letters to Fanny Kemble, the last of which was
written less than three weeks before his death, recalls his friend-
ship with her brother. He entered Trinity college, Cambridge, in
February 1826. Tennyson did not come up till 1828, and does not
appear to have met the ‘Old Fitz,' addressed, many years later, in
the proem to Tiresias, until they both had left Cambridge; but, of
Tennyson's immediate contemporaries, Thackeray, W. H. Thomp-
son and John Allen, afterwards archdeacon of Salop, were among
FitzGerald's intimates at Trinity. He took an ordinary degree
in 1830. After a short visit to Paris, where he had already spent
some time with his family in his early boyhood, he returned to
England and gradually settled down to a quiet life in his native
county, which, with the course of years, became practically that
of a recluse. Its uneventful story of commerce with books, varied
by an occasional visit from a friend, brief journeys to London,
becoming rarer and more distasteful as time went on, and boating
expeditions on the estuary of the Deben, is told in his letters,
a series extending over fifty-one years and remarkable for their
naturalness of style, vivacious humour and keen literary criticism,
strongly tinged with the individual prejudices of an independent
student unswayed by public opinion. He made his home, first at
Boulge near Woodbridge, and afterwards at Woodbridge itself.
Woodbridge was also the home of Bernard Barton, the friend


## p. 143 (#159) ############################################

v] Translations from Calderon 143
of Charles Lamb; after Barton's death in 1849, FitzGerald
married his daughter and aided her in the publication of a
selection from Barton's poems, writing a short biography which
forms its preface. Out of a correspondence upon the topography
of the battle-field of Naseby, where FitzGerald's father owned
property, arose a friendship with Carlyle, while among men of
letters with whom he exchanged views in later life were Lowell
and Charles Eliot Norton. He died on 14 June 1883 at Bredfield
rectory near Woodbridge, while on a visit to George Crabbe, the
grandson of a poet for whose memory FitzGerald's devotion was
expressed in his Readings from Crabbe, compiled in 1879.
Of work which was entirely original, FitzGerald left little.
The charming verses, written at Naseby in the spring of 1831
under the influence of 'the merry old writers of more manly times,'
and printed in Hone's Year-Book under the title The Meadows
in Spring, were thought, at their first appearance, to be the work
of Charles Lamb and were welcomed by their supposed author
with good-humoured envy. Diffidence of his own powers and
slowness in composition prevented FitzGerald from rapid pub-
lication. It was not until 1851 that the dialogue Euphranor
appeared, a discourse upon youth and systems of education set
in the scenery of Cambridge, amid the early summer flowering of
college gardens and the measured pulse of racing oars. ' Its
limpid transparency of style was not achieved without an effort :
in 1846, when FitzGerald was writing it, he alluded to his diffi-
culties with the task in a letter to his friend Edward Cowell,
and its ease and clearness, like those of Tennyson's poetry,
appear to have been the fruit of constant polish and revision.
This was followed in 1852 by Polonius, a collection of aphorisms,
wise saws and modern instances,' with a humorously apologetic
preface. Meanwhile, probably some years before the publication
of Euphranor, he had been attracted to Spanish literature, in
which Cowell, a master of many languages, gave him some
assistance. In 1853, he published Six Dramas of Calderon, free
translations in blank verse and prose in which he endeavoured,
by methods fully explained in his preface, to reproduce the sub-
stance of the selected plays, while suppressing such details as
seemed otiose or foreign to English thought. Following the
general course of Calderon's plots and selecting the essential
points in his dialogue with much skill, he had no hesitation in
diverging, especially where he was tempted by soliloquies, from
the text and in altering portions of the action to suit his own


## p. 144 (#160) ############################################

144
Edward FitzGerald
[ch.
>
taste. One has only to compare the soliloquy of Don Juan Roca
in The Painter of his own Dishonour at the sight of the sleeping
Serafina with the original passage to see how the mental argument
in Calderon, with its direct summary of the facts of the situation,
is transmuted by FitzGerald, with added imagery, into language
of indirect reflection and allusion, in which such facts are taken
for granted without reference. Although he had little taste for
the elder English dramatists, apart from Shakespeare, his verse,
always lucid and free from the turbidity in which their style
was frequently involved, has much of the flow, the tendency to
hendecasyllabic lines and the fondness for radiant and brightly
coloured simile and metaphor characteristic of Beaumont, Fletcher
and Massinger. Such qualities made FitzGerald's translations
eminently readable for their own sake. In spite of their cold re-
ception by critics who preferred something more literal, he was able
to write in 1857, 'I find people like that Calderon book'; and, about
1858, he began translations of the two most famous of Calderon's
dramas. Such Stuff as Dreams are Made of and The Mighty
Magician bear only a general resemblance to their original.
FitzGerald regarded Calderon as too closely tied to the conven-
tional requirements of the Spanish stage; the machinery which
bound the main and secondary plots together, provided theatrical
situations and introduced the inevitable gracioso with his antics
and proverbial or anecdotal philosophy, creaked too audibly to
please him. Therefore, he confined himself to the main story of
both plays, heightening or tempering the situations as suited his
taste, reducing the part of the gracioso in one case and practically
eliminating it in the other. He justly considered that there was
'really very great Skill in the Adaptation, and Remodelling of'
The Mighty Magician: the part of Lucifer, Calderon's Demonio,
is, on the whole, more effective than in the original, where, at any
rate to an English reader, it is somewhat lacking in imaginative
power, and for the frigid, if forcible, dialectic of the scene in which
Cipriano uses the tempter's art against him and extorts his admis-
sion of the superior power of the Dios de los cristianos, FitzGerald
substituted a more impassioned dialogue rising to a more dramatic
climax. Similarly, in Such Stuf as Dreams are Made of, the
contrast between the philosophic and brutal elements in the
character of Segismundo is softened so as to give more consistency
to his bewilderment amid his sudden changes of fortune, and to
lead up to the climax with a greater show of probability ; but
it was the extreme of licence to transfer the famous soliloquy


## p. 145 (#161) ############################################

v] Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyam 145
at the end of the second act of La Vida es Sueño from Segis-
mundo to his gaoler and to depress it to a less prominent position
in the play.
The Agamemnon of Aeschylus and the two Oedipus tragedies
of Sophocles were also adapted for English readers by FitzGerald
with considerable freedom. Oedipus at Thebes and Oedipus at
Athens were works of the last years of his life, and he was content
to supply the choruses from Potter's translation. But the work which
has given his name its most enduring celebrity was the Rubáiyát
of Omar Khayyám, of which the first edition appeared in 1859.
The stimulating influence of Cowell led him to take an interest
in Persian poetry. In 1855, he began his version of the Salámán
and Absál of Jámí, the first poem which he read in the original,
and, in 1862, he completed A Bird's-eye View of Farid-Uddin
Attar's Bird-Parliament. These, however, were mere experi-
ments. With the detached quatrains of Omar Khayyam, each
a poem in itself linked to the rest by community of thought and
subject, he felt a closer sympathy. During a visit to Bedfordshire
in May 1857, he read over Omar 'in a Paddock covered with
Butterflies and brushed by a delicious Breeze, while a dainty
racing Filly of W. Browne's came startling up to wonder and
snuff' about him, as he turned quatrains into medieval Latin rimes
and found his author, one of the lighter Shadows among the
Shades, perhaps, over which Lucretius presides so grimly,' breathe
'a sort of Consolation to him. The result of these ruminations
was an English poem of seventy-five quatrains founded upon the
selection and combination of rubáiyát; reproducing the form of
the original but weaving its isolated pieces into a continuous train
of thought. A new edition, in 1868, in which the stanzas were
increased to 110, completely remodelled the poem of 1859, to the
disadvantage of the bold imagery of the opening quatrain, but,
in other respects, with great felicity; and this, after further but
less drastic alterations, which rearranged and reduced the stanzas
to 101, formed the basis of the later editions of 1872 and 1879.
A comparison of FitzGerald's poem with earlier and later trans-
lations of Omar into more literal prose and verse proves the
extreme freedom with which he handled his original, transferring
thoughts and images from their actual context to clothe them in
a dress which is entirely his own. At the same time, his main
object, as in the case of Calderon, was to present, in a connected
form intelligible to English minds, the characteristics of Omar's
thought, his pondering upon life and death, the eternal mysteries
10
E. L. XIII,
CH. V.


## p. 146 (#162) ############################################

146
[CH. V
Edward FitzGerald
of the whence, why and whither of man and the influence of
external and irresponsible power upon him, and his resort to the
pleasures of the moment as a refuge from the problem. He did
not shirk the freer speculations of his author: 'I do not wish
to show Hamlet at his maddest : but mad he must be shown,
or he is no Hamlet at all. ' Characteristically avoiding audacious
expressions which have been regarded by some students of Omar
as the esoteric utterances of an ultra-refined mysticism, he gave
a turn to the culminating stanza preceding the coda of the piece,
the appeal to heaven to take, as well as give, man's forgiveness,
For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
Is blacken'd,
which suggests an impiety undiscovered by other translators, but
not out of keeping with the tone of some of the numerous rubái-
yát omitted by him. FitzGerald habitually concealed his own
thoughts on the mysteries which perplexed Omar; and the
warmth of religious enthusiasm which he infused into the some-
what formal atmosphere of El Magico Prodigioso might, con-
sidering its gratuitous copiousness, quite as reasonably as a single
stanza of his Rubáiyát, be taken to express his convictions.
Apart from the question of its contents, the singular beauty
and perfection of phrase in the Rubáiyát and the dignity and
melodiousness of its rhythm have earned it a permanent place
among the masterpieces of English lyric poetry. Its stanza was
a novelty which others, like Swinburne in his Laus Veneris, were
not slow to borrow. It is not FitzGerald's only claim to eminence,
for Euphranor and the translations from Calderon, to say nothing
of his letters, must always appeal to those who love polished sim-
plicity of style. But, in this one instance, his genius, which needed
external literary stimulus for complete expression, responded so
naturally to the call as to clothe its original in a form attractive
not merely to the connoisseur in style but to all who recognise the
true relation of poetry to human life.


## p. 147 (#163) ############################################

CHAPTER VI
LESSER POETS OF THE MIDDLE AND LATER
NINETEENTH CENTURY
In taking up, and endeavouring to complete, the chapters on
poets? who, though not in general opinion attaining to the first
rank, have, at one time or another, enjoyed some considerable
amount of esteem or who, in that calculus of criticism which
disregards popularity, have deserved such esteem, the method
pursued will be, as it has been on former occasions, systematised,
to some extent, though avoiding arbitrary classification. The
number of verse-writers who fall to be mentioned, as representing
the middle and later generations of the last century, is very great:
and, even after careful sifting and the relegation of some to the
bibliography and others to silence altogether, will amount to a
round hundred. But it is not necessary to present them in
a mere throng or in simple catalogue, alphabetical or chrono-
logical, though, after some grouping, the last named method may
become necessary.
We may take, first, three very remarkable, though, in them-
selves, most dissimilar, representatives of the curious class which,
attaining, for a time, and not always losing, popularity of the
widest kind, is demurred to by critics and sometimes succumbs
totally, sometimes partially, to the demurrers. These are Macaulay,
Martin Farquhar Tupper and Philip James Bailey. The last named
will lead us, naturally enough, to a fairly definite group of which,
in a way, he was the leader: the so-called 'spasmodics' of the mid-
nineteenth century. That name or nickname, invented by Aytoun,
will, in the same fashion, introduce a numerous, and, in some cases,
excellent, class of satiric and humorous writers, in whom the
century, until quite its close, was specially rich. As a contrast,
the equally remarkable section of 'sacred' poets, headed by Keble
1 The poets excluded by the specification of this chapter are Tennyson, the
Brownings, Matthew Arnold, Kingsley, the Rossettis, William Morris, Swinburne,
James Thomson and O'Shaughnessy. For these, see ante and post.
2
>
1042


## p. 148 (#164) ############################################

148
[ch.
Lesser Poets
and Newman, may succeed these; and then we may take up the great
body of verse-writers of the other sex, though their ‘prioresses,
Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Christina Rossetti, are denied us'.
One or two smaller groups may present themselves for treatment
together; but the bulk of our subjects, though sometimes admitting
what may be called linked criticism, will have to follow mainly in
chronological order
The case of Macaulay's poetical work is a very peculiar and
a very instructive one in the history both of poetry and of criticism;
in fact, in the history, properly so-called, of literature generally.
The poems included in The Lays of Ancient Rome, though partly
printed at earlier dates, were collected and issued at a time when
poetry had, for years, sunk out of the popular esteem which it had
enjoyed during the first quarter of the century; and was only, for
the younger generation, rising again at the call of Tennyson.
Criticism was in a very similar position—the almost simultaneous
deaths of Coleridge, Hazlitt and Lamb having left no prominent
representatives of it except the scattered utterances of Coleridge's
son and the senescence of Leigh Hunt, the rather untrustworthy
and eccentric survivals of 'Christopher North' and De Quincey
and a numerus of very inferior and haphazard reviewers who had
not yet felt the influence of the new examples of criticism to be
set in the fifties by George Brimley and Matthew Arnold.
This combination of long disuse of appetite with an almost
entire want of guidance in taste goes far to explain, though, except
in Macaulay's case, it is required to excuse, in very different degrees,
the immense, and by no means ephemeral, popularity of The Lays
of Ancient Rome, Festus and Proverbial Philosophy, far asunder as
are the positive poetic merits of these books. In the case of The
Lays, the public was fortunate in what it received and, whatever
may have been said by later criticism, was justified in its reception
thereof. That, in his singularly constituted, and, perhaps, never
yet quite adequately mapped-out, mind, Macaulay had secret places,
where lay concealed springs of poetry of purer kinds than that
which he allowed to flow freely in The Lays, is proven, as finally as
fortunately, by the exquisite classicism of Epitaph on a Jacobite,
which Landor could not have bettered, and the romantic strangeness
of The Last Buccaneer, which suggests an uncanny collaboration
1 See ante.
· The strictly prosodic aspects of the more important of these will be found in
some cases dealt with in the next chapter; but it may be difficult entirely to exclude
glances at them here, where, indeed, place has been expressly reserved for them.


## p. 149 (#165) ############################################

VI]
Macaulay's Lays
149
of Macaulay's two contemporaries Praed and Beddoes. But his
Lays themselves are far finer poetry than Matthew Arnold and some
other critics have been willing to allow. They belong, indeed, to a
wide-ranging class of verse which includes masterpieces like Gray's
Elegy and things certainly not masterpieces like The Minstrel
and the poems of Mrs Hemans, not to mention, for the present,
more modern examples—a class which seems deliberately to set
itself to give the public just the sort of poetry which it can well
understand and nothing more. In the better examples of this
poetry-to which The Lays, though they may not attain to the
height of Gray, most certainly belong—there is no sacrifice of
poetry itself. Anybody who denies that name to the larger part
of The Battle of the Lake Regillus and the best part of The
Prophecy of Capys, with not a little elsewhere, had best be met
by the silence, the smile and the not too obvious shrug, which
are suitable to Ephraim when he has irrevocably announced his
junction with idols. And they have the special merit (belonging
to the best of their class) that liking for them, acquired, as it is
probably most often acquired, early, will mature into liking for
greater poetry still. The Lays, in a certain, and only a certain,
sense, may be milk for babes; but good milk is a great deal
better than tainted meat and unsound wine. The babes can go on
to relish such meat and wine as the author also showed that he
knew how to produce when he wrote how the broken heart by
the Arno thought of the lovelier Tees' and how
the crew with eyes of flame, brought the ship without a name
Alongside the last Buccaneer.
Therefore, in this case, the unshepherded, and for long almost
ungrassed, public went not wrong ; but it is impossible to say the
same of its somewhat earlier divagation in favour of Martin
Farquhar Tupper. Proverbial Philosophy, to this day, is and will
probably always remain, one of the chief curiosities of literature,
perhaps the supremest of all such things in its own special class.
The author, from the combined and direct testimony of persons
who knew him at different times of his life, was by no means
a fool, when he had not a pen in his hand. In his other books of
verse, which are numerous, it is possible, as, for instance, in The
Crock of Gold, to discover passages, or even poems, of passable or
possible poetry of a not very high kind. These volumes were not
much bought; and, no doubt, were, as wholes, not very much worth
buying. But Proverbial Philosophy, which made his reputation,
which sold in unbelievable numbers and which has sometimes earned


## p. 150 (#166) ############################################

150
[CH.
Lesser Poets
for him the title ‘The People's Poet Laureate,' is such incredible
rubbish that it would almost justify the obloquy which has come
upon ‘early Victorian' taste if it were not that even the loose and
unregimented criticism of that period itself would have none of it.
It furnished the subject of one of the most brilliant of the Bon
Gaultier parodies and skits (see post) a few years after its appear-
ançe; the very schoolboys (not to mention the undergraduates)
of its date seem, from not untrustworthy testimony, to have
been taught by their still uncorrupted classical education to revolt
against it; and the present writer can give personal evidence that,
by the middle of the fifties or thereabouts, it was a hissing and
a scorn to all who had any sense of literature, or were ever going
to have it. But the great middle, or lower middle, class here, and,
still more, in America, steadily bought it till much later; and
nobody can refuse it rank as a 'document' of what myriads of
people thought might be poetry in the beginning of the second
third of the nineteenth century.
As such, it can never wholly lose its position; and it would be
rash (considering the extraordinary changes of superficial and
ephemeral taste which are familiar to the historical student) to
say that it can never recover something, at least, of what it has
lost. But it would certainly be surprising if it did, especially as,
since its time, other examples of popular rubbish have secured,
and yet others are, at intervals, likely to secure, equal vogue with
the same class of readers. In it 'there be truths,' unfortunately
always presented as truisms. There is—if not, as lord Foppington
sarcastically observed of his lost bride and actual sister-in-law,
‘a nice marality'--a sound one enough. There is an unflinching
adoption of the proverbial form with its strange popular effect.
But, over the whole, platitude broods with wings that drop the
deadliest tedium: one waits in vain for any phrase that shall give
light to the gloom or life to the stagnation; at times, the dullness
ferments itself into sheer silliness after a fashion which exasperates
instead of relieving. A faint amusement at such an impossible
thing ever having been thought possible may support the reader
for awhile; but sleep or the relinquishment of his task can be the
only ‘happy ending' of such an adventure.
But, even thus, not quite enough has been said for present
purposes about Proverbial Philosophy. An ‘interlunar cave' of
poetical matter for people to fix their eyes on will do much ; and
an almost entire want of authority in criticism (though, as has been
said, even the usually feeble critics of the day would not stand this),
a
9


## p. 151 (#167) ############################################

VI] Tupper's Proverbial Philosophy 151
will, perhaps, do more. But the inexorable ‘historic estimate' has
something to add. Tupper (no doubt in the most unconscious way
in the world) had hit on the fact, corroborated by that poetical
history of which he had probably not much notion (his attempts at
transversing Old English poetry prove it), that, in poetic interlunia,
irregular rhythms acquire a certain phosphoric light. Proverbial
Philosophy is written in a sort of doggerel which, sometimes coming
very close to what some call the 'accentual' English hexameter,
more often strays into a vaguely rhythmical, but quite unmetrical,
stave reminiscent of Ossian and Blake, perhaps, and pretty certainly
not without influence on Whitman. The intolerable imbecility of
the statement of the matter,
pay quickly that thou owest;
The needy tradesman is made glad by such considerate haste;
the infantine egotism of such things as this,
I never forced Minerva's will, nor stole my thoughts from others,
(where one feels instinctively that Tupper never came within
finger-tip reach of Pallas, and that, if he never stole his thoughts
from others, it was, at least, partly because he never knew what
was worth stealing)—these things are, or ought to be, balanced, if
not compensated, by the reflection that the form, chiefly through
Whitman's transformation, has been largely used since; that the
principle of it—the revolt of rhythm against metre—is very much
alive at the present day; and that Martin Farquhar Tupper-
impossible as he is to read, except as a sandwich of somnolence
and laughter; probable as it is that the reading may be inter-
rupted for ever by a paroxysm of utter repudiation of the book to
the second-hand stall or the dustbin-is, in literary history, not
a mere cypher. He teaches lessons amazingly different from those
which he thought he was teaching; and he utters warnings which
never, in the slightest degree, entered his own head. These lessons
and warnings have been partially disclosed in the remarks just
made; there is no room for more of them. Let it only be added that,
if an adventure of the kind of this History be again undertaken
'a hundred years hence,' though it is possible that Tupper may
be omitted or merely glanced at, the popularity of certain verse-
writers of present or recent days will probably form the subject
1 In the very first paragraph there are two examples—one of the spondaic, one of
the regular dactylic, form of this :
Corn from the / sheaves of science with | stubble from | mine own | garner,
These I commend to I thee, o docile | scholar of Wisdom.
The Alexandrine and the fourteener occur, also, and practically the whole wanders round
these centres.


## p. 152 (#168) ############################################

152
Lesser Poets
[CH.
a
6
of remarks not very different from those which have appeared here.
And it is not quite so probable that, in these new essays of dullness,
there will be found any formal originality or impulse from the
historical point of view to supply such a solace or set-off as has been
pleaded here for the heavy and silly sin of Proverbial Philosophy.
The third member of this trio, though somewhat closer, in some
ways, to Tupper than either he or Tupper is to Macaulay, and
almost, though not quite, sharing the oblivion which has engulfed
Proverbial Philosophy and has not engulfed The Lays of Ancient
Rome, is, perhaps, the most difficult of the three to estimate aright.
Philip James Bailey, when, at the age of twenty-three, he wrote
Festus, in its original form, had the full benefit of that com-
paratively dead season, in poetry and criticism, which has been
spoken of above. Editions by the dozen in England and by
the score in America (where men, at that time, were desperately
busy 'getting culture') came at his call as they came at Tupper's;
but the nature of the call was itself essentially different, and (as it
is almost safe to say never happened in the case of Proverbial
Philosophy) contemporaries of undoubted poetical competence,
from Tennyson himself to Westland Marston, were ready to
welcome Bailey as a brother. He had, in fact, as Macaulay had
not attempted to do in his principal work, and as Tupper, if he
had ever attempted to do it, had obviously and ludicrously failed
to do, in an old-new way-effective if not perfect-struck that
vein of 'strangeness' which, from Aristotle downwards, all the
greatest writers have recognised as more or less necessary to
poetry. As being so, it had been a main source of the earlier
romantic triumphs; but the great poets of that time had not
found it necessary to labour this vein extravagantly or exclusively,
though some signs of doing this were obvious in the group who, in
a former chapter", have been called the intermediates. ' Bailey
drove what pickaxe he had straight at this vein and never thought
of limiting his extraction from it. He was almost immediately
followed by some notable persons who will be dealt with next
under their nickname 'spasmodics '—and it is by no means un-
arguable that both Tennyson and Browning showed signs of slight
infection—while the creed of 'strangeness for strangeness' sake'
has never wanted adherents up to the present day, and it now has
quite a company of them. Every now and then some generous
member of this community makes a plea—with due stridency and
gesticulation--for Festus: and it is doubtful whether any critic
i See vol. xii, chap. V.
.