Chapter XXX: Part 30

It is impossible to exaggerate the rich materials of these volumes. They lack the aristocratic gossip of the memoirs of St. Simon; they have not the melodramatic excitement or literary brilliancy of the historical romances of Lamartine; they are destitute of the doctrinaire philosophising which characterizes Guizot; but they are most interesting and sober recitals of what may be called the social history of the Revolution, in many of its byways, as well as at its centre. Almost every page is a romance, revealing--sometimes pitiably and ignominiously--the secret springs of great transactions, the littleness of great men, the selfishness of patriots, the intrigues of politics, the little wisdom with which the world is governed. Count Beugnot, moreover, possesses the rare qualities of truthfulness and fairness. He manifestly tries to tell us the truth, and with great shrewdness and justice he endeavours to present both the defects and excellencies of the monarchs under whom he served. He has generous words for Napoleon, does full justice to his superb genius, while he exhibits his hard coarseness and selfish, unscrupulousness, and clearly discerns the fatal defects which led to his fall. He respects Louis XVIII., his refinement and his wit, while in a very quiet way he exhibits his intense heartlessness and selfishness. He penetrates the unprincipled, intriguing character of the Orleans Princes, and prepares his readers for their fall, which he did not live to see. He appreciates, too, with much of the judicial power of an Englishman, the character of the French nation, and the fatal defects which keep it in almost a chronic state of eruption. It is impossible to cull from the rich repertory of these pages. We can only indicate a few of the points of interest. A native of Bar-sur-Aube, Count Beugnot became acquainted with the notorious Madame de Lamotte, the heroine of the 'Diamond Necklace,' who in 1762 (a misprint, surely, for 1782) took refuge in Bar-sur-Aube, on escaping with her sister from the Convent at Longchamps. The two young ladies were descendants of the Baron de Rémi, a natural son of Henry II., and claimed the estates of their family, the only thing which it had preserved being its pedigree. The king had granted to their father a pension of £40, and to the girls £24 each, besides placing them gratuitously in the Abbey of Longchamps, near Paris, with a view to the honourable extinction of a family which had troublesome claims. Madame de Surmont took compassion upon them, and Mademoiselle de St. Rémi fascinated M. de Surmont, and married his nephew, M. de Lamotte. The part of Madame de Lamotte in the amazing story of the 'Diamond Necklace' is told at great length, as also are many details of her history, M. de Beugnot being on terms of intimacy with her, and more than once coming into perilous contact with this strange tragedy. To her and Cagliostro three chapters are devoted; both are admirably sketched, and many illustrative anecdotes of them are told. The Cardinal de Rohan had faith in Cagliostro and 'the Duke de Chartres (Egalité), at whose court it had been decided no longer to believe in a God, but who was quite inclined to believe in Cagliostro.' Beugnot helped Madame de Lamotte to destroy her letters on the night of her arrest. 'Here it was that, casting cursory glances over some of the thousands of the letters of Cardinal de Rohan, I was sorry to see what a wreck the delirium of love, exaggerated by the madness of ambition, had made of this wretched man. It is fortunate for the Cardinal's memory that these letters have been suppressed, but it is a loss to the history of human passion. What an age was that when a prince of the Church did not hesitate to write, to sign with his name, and to address to a woman, letters that a man of our day, who had the least self-respect, might begin to read, but would never finish!' This story, in the light which it throws upon the condition of France, forms a kind of prelude to the personal history of Beugnot, who is first elected a Deputy to the States General. Curious things are told of Marat, who 'was then only a professor of physic, and made a crusade against the sun, declaring that it was not the fountain of light, and found persons senseless enough to listen to, and even to commend him.'

A characteristic story of the _hauteur_ of the old French aristocracy is told of Madame de Brionne, who, at the time of the first insurrection of Paris, was advised by the Bishop of Autun to go and spend some time in a little provincial town, where she would not be known. 'A little provincial town!' she replied, 'Oh, M. de Perigord, I can be a peasant if you please, but never a bourgeoise!'

Louis XV. blamed the Archbishop of Narbonne for his inordinate love of hunting. 'My Lord Archbishop, you are a great hunter; I know something about it. How can you forbid your priests from hunting if you spend your life in setting them an example of it?' 'Sire,' he replied, 'for my priests, hunting is their own vice; in my case, it is the vice of my ancestors.' 'My Lord Archbishop,' said the King on another occasion, 'they say that you are in debt, and, very deeply.' 'Sire,' was the reply, 'I will ask my steward about it, and have the honour of informing your Majesty.'

In October, 1793, M. de Beugnot was imprisoned in the Conciergerie, where, and at La Force, he remained until the fall of Robespierre, in daily danger of death, but, strangely, escaping it. Of the interior of prison life during this period he gives vivid sketches; describes his fellow-prisoners--many of them illustrious for rank, talents, or virtues--and the incidents connected with the daily death delivery of one or more of them. It is a vivid and powerful sketch of a notable interior. This section of the work is a series of carefully executed sketches of notable persons, especially of the leading Girondists, including a full-length portrait of Madame Roland. He says, 'I more than once made this reflection, that death on the scaffold only causes horror to the generality of men, because they compare it with a state of peace, of enjoyment, and perhaps of happiness they are experiencing; but death considered from the depths of a dungeon, or what is more, death when the whole existence is changed into torture, is no longer the height of evils, but their remedy.'

Here we must leave M. de Beugnot. The subsequent portions of his book are even more important and interesting, as the author himself rose to eminence, and came into closer contact with the great movements of history. Every page teems with interest, not only to the historical student, but to the general reader. Miss Yonge has done good service in translating this important work, especially at this juncture, when the spiral cycle of French destiny has again brought its revolutionary tragedy. It is needless to say that she has executed her task well, although she might, in one or two places, have still further exercised her power of excision.

_The Coolie: His Rights and Wrongs._ Notes of a Journey to British Guiana, with a review of the System and of the recent Commission of Inquiry. By the Author of 'Ginx's Baby.' Strahan and Co.

The conditions of coolie emigration from the East Indies to the West, although attracting but little attention from the general public, have been regarded anxiously by politicians and philanthropists, who know how easily enormous oppression and cruel wrong may shelter themselves under legal forms of emigration, and what a peculiar field for unscrupulous cupidity is constituted by the transmigration of helpless Hindoos and Chinese to British plantations in British Guiana. That great abuses have been perpetrated admits of no doubt, but happily facilities of knowledge and of redress are much greater than in the old days of slavery; and experience has made the British public and the British Government susceptible and suspicious so that long continuance of wrong is not possible. A Mr. Des Voeux, formerly a stipendiary magistrate in Demerara, now an administrator in St. Lucia, at the close of 1869 addressed a letter to Earl Granville, the Colonial Secretary, representing the state of the coolie emigrants 'to be little other than that from which not many years ago the tillers of the same soil were redeemed by our generous fathers. Seduced from India or China by false promises (so he seems to have averred), not duly notified of the legislation which would affect their relations when they reached the field of labour, assigned without due caution on the part of the executive to the power of unconscientious masters, wronged by the law and against law, daily injured, and unable to obtain redress because of combinations between unjust magistrates, hireling doctors, and manoeuvring planters, dying unrecked and unreckoned (I have tried faithfully thus to sum up this man's charges), such a fifty thousand British subjects anywhere existing would heat the sympathies of English hearts to boiling point.' Earl Granville consequently appointed a commission of inquiry, and two philanthropic societies, 'The Anti-Slavery,' and 'The Aborigines Protection Society,' induced no doubt by the humane sympathies and the great descriptive power of 'Ginx's Baby,' engaged Mr. Jenkins, who is a barrister, to go out as counsel to watch proceedings on their behalf--'to represent the coolies in this inquiry.' 'I accepted and held their retainer as a counsel, not as a partisan.' This volume is his report. It is, we must confess, simply a blue-book; but little of the dash and humour and graphic description of 'Ginx's Baby' characterize it. His clients are distant; his employers required exact statements of facts and figures. It is a law case, and not a romance. It is full of valuable information, but useful information is interesting only to politicians and philanthropic societies. Mr. Jenkins is not dull--he is most so when he tries to force the fun; ordinarily, he is as graphic in description and as picturesque in statistics as his subject-matter will permit him to be. Everywhere he is intelligent and apparently most solicitously impartial. In the descriptive parts of his book he suffers by comparison with the graphic power of Mr. Kingsley's 'At Last,' yet fresh in the memory of all readers. The book is to be accepted, therefore, simply as a blue-book of useful information. The question is one of interest and importance; it affects our national honour and philanthropy. It is 'whether an artificial system for the transfer of the swarming hives of Eastern Asia to the needy plains of the tropical West can be formed, organized, and conducted with results equally efficacious to the capitalists and beneficial to the emigrants.'

Although Mr. Jenkins thinks that Mr. Des Voeux's statement, made under fear, as he says, of a coolie rising, are exaggerated, and that his examination before the commissioners 'proved to be of a very unsatisfactory character,' that he had written 'a very long and serious letter, with the honestest of intentions but with the least business-like of performance,' he thinks that there was a necessity for the inquiry, and that 'the severe animadversions on Mr. Des Voeux's conduct, in the report of the commissioners, was beyond the proper sphere of their duty;' also that, 'on one or two points, absolute justice does not seem to have been done him in the report.' Mr. Jenkins describes his voyage out, several farms which he visited, the proceedings before the commissioner, the organization for emigration in India and in British Guiana, with the management of the emigration office, indentures, registers, &c., women and marriages, emigration laws, remedies against employers, wages, medical inspection, &c., illustrating each by facts, anecdotes which may not be always facts, and various details. He also traces the growth of the coolie system from the time of the abolition of slavery, and discusses the apprenticeship and other provisions for its regulation. The home Government has refused to subsidize the emigration; hence it has been in a state of chronic feud with the colony. The details given by Mr. Jenkins in his appendix, under the head 'Review of Emigration,' are of a very grave and ominous character. First he tells us that 'every importation of African blood, whether aboriginal or West Indian, has from the first regularly disappointed its promoters; the causes 'lie partly in the character of the negro, partly in the incapacity of the old labour system for adaptation to a state of things in which the labourers had become free.' In 1839, a society was formed to procure emigrants without the aid of the State; 2,900 labourers were obtained from Barbadoes, and thirty from the United States. The emigrants were speedily absorbed into the mass of village population. In 1841, bounty was paid on 8,098 emigrants, chiefly Portuguese, from Madeira and Brazil; the mortality was appalling, and under an act of disallowance in October of the same year, public emigration came to an end. In 1844, Acts were passed providing for Chinese and coolie emigration, and the next year 563 emigrants came from Calcutta, and 225 from Madras. In the following year nearly 6,000 Portuguese emigrants arrived, together with 1,373 from Calcutta, and 2,455 from Madras. They were 'ravaged by disease, and literally decimated year by year in the process of acclimatization.' Between 1845 and 1851, 18,707 Madeirans had been imported. The census of 1851 showed that only 7,928 were in the colony; some, however, had returned to their native country. The quinquennial increase in the number of Indian emigrants arriving during each of the four periods 1851-1855, 1856-1861, 1861-1865, 1806-1870, is represented by the figures 9,000, 14,000, 18,000, and 24,000. In 1853, besides the Indians, 647 Chinese were added, and in the seven years 1859-1866, about 12,000 more. The Chinese have proved very valuable emigrants. About 10,000 Barbadians, 12 Portuguese, and 2,500 Africans, made an estimated rural population of 92,466. The death-rate is very high, never less than 10 per cent. The proportion of women to men among the coolies in British Guiana is as 10,000 to 29,000, among the Chinese as 2 to 114. The detailed evils resulting from this, given in Mr. Jenkins's chapter on the subject, are appalling. Mr. Jenkins also quotes from the _Pioneer of India_ an ugly story concerning Jamaica emigration agents, who attempted in India to carry off some twenty women by force, whom they had got into confinement; and were defeated only by the energy of the Rev. Mr. Evans. Although women are almost useless as labourers, it is a suspicious fact that the fee for each woman recruited in India is seven rupees, while that for a man is only four. We cannot discuss the various points of emigration policy advocated by Mr. Jenkins; we can only thank him for directing public attention to a matter so deeply affecting our colonial future on the one hand, and our national honour on the other.

_Westward by Rail; a Journey to San Francisco and Back, and a Visit to the Mormons._ By W. T. RAE. Longmans, Green, and Co.

In a new introductory chapter to this second and cheaper edition of his book, concerning which, on its first appearance, we spake with strong and merited commendation, Mr. Rae gives additional information concerning the Mormons, and the effect produced upon Mormonism by the new railway, by the Mormon revolt under Mr. Godbe and the sons of Joseph Smith, and by the vigorous policy of the United States Government. Mr. Rae does not think that it has sustained much damage by either. Brigham Young said that he did not 'care anything for a religion which could not stand a railroad.' Mr. Godbe's reform is brought under suspicion by its commercial motive, and was checkmated by Brigham Young giving the electoral franchise to women. The chief perils to Mormonism are the successful assertion of the control of the Mormon militia by Governor Schaffer, and some decisions of Chief Justice McKean securing absolute impartiality between Mormon and Gentile in the law courts, refusing to naturalize any aliens who are polygamists, and refusing to legalize certain donations of public land made by the Mormon Legislative Assembly. The recent census gives a population in Salt Lake City of 17,246 persons, in the territory of Utah of 86,786, both much below the calculation of the Mormons themselves.

Mr. Rae also gives the latest information concerning gold and silver mining in the States of California and Nevada, and the territory of Utah, and concerning the development of traffic on the Great Pacific Railway.

_Canoe Travelling: Log of a Cruise in the Baltic, and Practical Hints in Building and Fitting Canoes._ By WARINGTON BADEN-POWELL. With Twenty-four Illustrations and a Map. Smith, Elder, and Co.

The canoe achievements of Mr. McGregor--and perhaps even more the graphic way in which they have been described--have provoked much emulation, and bid fair to raise canoeing into one of our characteristic national recreations, like yachting and Alpine climbing. Mr. Baden-Powell records a remarkable achievement of 400 miles of canoeing in the Baltic. Starting from Gothenburg in the Cattegat, on the western coast of Sweden, he and his companion took their two canoes up the river Gotha, and across the large inland lake Wevern, 100 miles long, which they crossed in a steamer; then through the West Gotha Canal, and across the Lakes Wicken and Wettern, Boven, Roxen, and Elen, with their connecting canals, to the Baltic; then along the north coast of the Baltic, with its innumerable islets, and up the Oxlo Sound to Stockholm. From Stockholm they went by steamer to Gothland, Carlsharm, and Malmo, from which place they crossed in the canoes to Copenhagen, thence by railway and steamer to Ketson, Kiel, and Hamburg, where, after some short river canoe excursions, they took steamer to England. The account of the voyage is little more than a log of sailing experiences, with slight touches of description of people and places; but it will be read with interest by all who are fond of boating, and by many who are not. The second part of the book is purely technical, and furnishes data for the construction of canoes.

POETRY, FICTION, AND BELLES LETTRES.

_Balaustion's Adventure: including a Transcript from Euripides._ By ROBERT BROWNING. Smith, Elder, and Co.

Mr. Browning's pastimes are characteristic enough. This new poem he calls a May-month amusement, in the very graceful dedication in which he explains its origin; but still we have the personal qualities as predominant as elsewhere. The Countess Cowper, it appears, urged him to give a version of a play of Euripides, 'of that strangest, sweetest song of his, Alkestis;' and Mr. Browning gallantly set himself to the task. But well may he say, in a slightly different sense from what he meant it, though truly in no disparagement of his own originality, '_Euripides might fear little; out I, also, have an interest in the performance_; and what wonder if I beg you to suffer that it make, in another and far easier sense, its nearest possible approach to those Greek qualities of goodness and beauty, by laying itself gratefully at your feet?' Had it not been for the skill with which Mr. Browning invents dramatic expedients to aid him in relieving and toning down the contrast which would inevitably have been felt between the direct and sunny simplicity of the Greek, and his own wayward, imperative many-moodedness--to coin a phrase--something of the grotesque would assuredly have mingled itself with this performance. But, though the clear wine has been poured into a coloured glass, ornamented with design all too florid, it is presented to us by so sweet a hand that we often forget the contrast in the singular grace of the maidenly face and figure. Balaustion--wild pomegranate flower--has in her something of the Greek; but she has also an ineffable touch of our modern time. Her image comes as that of a reconciling spirit between Mr. Browning and the old Greek poet, in such a manner, as suffices to divert the mind from a too exclusive devotion to particular points. The necessity that rests on Mr. Browning to first of all create a series of media through which any circumstance or event may be seen, comes out most strongly here, where the subject-matter seemed least of all to admit of it. The triumph of Mr. Browning's genius lies in this, that in some sort he justifies his own injustice to those Greek qualities of unvarying clearness and grace of outline. Goethe, in his 'Helena,' celebrated in significant style the marriage of the Greek and Gothic spirit, and he even condescended under allegorical figure to point at individual poets. Had he lived to read 'Balaustion's Adventure,' he would have found in it a valuable instance. Mr. Browning is Greek in the fresh simplicity of his feeling; but Gothic in the necessity he is ever under to see his thoughts reduplicated in the shade and sunshine of many different moods or minds. Hence the lyrical spirit and the peculiarly dramatic form of his work; and so it is in this 'Adventure.'

The girlish simplicity of Balaustion, the Rhodian maiden who recites the play, and her capacity for pure unalloyed devotion--for she twice saves her friends by her patriotism and love of poetry--justify, in part at least, what appear to be inconsistencies in Mr. Browning's rendering; such, for example, as the lofty idealisation of the character of Admetos. It is just such as a fresh enthusiastic girl would, out of her own maidenly conception, impose on a hero of her own, thrown into such tragic circumstances of those of Alkestis. Thus, even where we are most induced to criticise, the figure of the teller comes in to warn us; but after all, the modern poet, by virtue of his dramatic medium, has reached a truer conception than that of Euripides, or has illumined his conception by letting full upon it the freer lights of earlier time. But clearly, the transcript from Euripides, in the hands of Mr. Browning, undergoes a strange transformation. It is not alone that lines here and there vary very much from the original, and that expressions are amplified or departed from; it is that on the old Greek thought a wholly modern conception of love, and of life and death, is superimposed, and a dim doctrine of spiritual compensation interwoven with it, which is quite alien to Greek feeling. Something, however, may be said for the fact that we have here really a reminiscence of a former telling, in which, naturally, much of the halo that rests on the past, simply because it has 'orbed into the perfect star,' would unconsciously well up round the recollection, and colour the incident. All this, of course, shows Mr. Browning's supreme art in dramatic expedient; but some of the expressions of Herakles and not a few utterances of Admetos, are almost too distinctly spiritualistic to pass muster in the connection in which we find them. For example, this:--

'Since death divides the pair,
'Tis well that I depart and thou remain
Who wast to me as spirit is to flesh:
Let the flesh perish, be perceived no more,
So thou, the spirit that informed the flesh,
Read yet awhile, a very flame above
The rift I drop into the darkness by,--
And bid remember, flesh and spirit once
Worked in the world, one body, for man's sake.
Never be that abominable show
Of passive death without a quickening life,
Admetos only, no Alkestis now!'

Mr. Browning, in quoting the verse from Mrs. Browning, sufficiently indicates the spirit in which he would read the Alkestis; but clear it is that he might have chosen from the earlier poets passages far less likely to give rise to the contradiction which we have spoken of, and which cannot but be more or less felt in this instance. In Euripides, we see the first fatal symptoms of the skepticism and materialism which finally overtook the Greek stage. There is a good deal of casuistry in his expedients, which often the stage-play (of which Mr. Browning has decisively got rid) helped him to conceal. The old honest belief in the myths was beginning to fade and weaken, and had already become pretty much a thing for the theatre. Mr. Browning has aimed at idealising Euripides--at elevating him, as it were, to the point at which Greek myth will reflect the rising lights of modern ideas. But it is inevitable that scholars should feel that there is a lack of solid foundation for the rendering. To those who choose to receive Mr. Browning's Alkestis implicitly, it can only be a thing of beauty and of noblest meaning. So far as it is Greek, it gives the earlier rather than the later conception; but it has wrapped the Greek ideal in a new atmosphere of spiritual truth. If Mr. Browning had chosen the Alkestis of Euripides for the sole purpose of proving his wonderful dramatic capability, and his power of involving himself in a theme and so transforming it, he could not have found a better, that is to say, a more difficult, subject. In Greece the husband existed for the State, the wife for the husband, and the conjugal relation was little relieved by sentiment. Euripides celebrates the mere triumph of this Greek wifely duty--no more; but how exquisitely does Mr. Browning make Balaustion play chorus, so as occasionally to give opportunity for the infusion of his own transcendentalism. Sometimes, however, Mr. Browning shows fine capacity for catching the Greek grace and unconscious sensuousness of conception. Nothing could be more faithful than this:--

'For thee, Alkestis, Queen!
Many a time those haunters of the Muse
Shall sing thee to the seven-stringed mountain shell,
And glorify in hymns that need no harp,
At Sparta when the cycle comes about,
And that Karneian month wherein the moon
Rises and never sets the whole night through:
So too at splendid and magnificent
Athenai. Such the spread of thy renown,
And such the lay that, dying, thou hast left,
Singer and sayer.'

We take it for granted that our readers, either directly or indirectly, have got some notion of what we may call the machinery of the poem. When the Rhodians revolt because of the disastrous failure of the Nikian expedition against Syracuse, Balaustion urges her friends not to throw off their allegiance, but--

'Rather go die at Athens, lie outstretched
For feet to trample on, before the gate
Of Diomedes or the Hippadai,
Before the temples and among the tombs,
Than tolerate the grim felicity
Of harsh Lakonia.'

She urges them to go to Athens, and they set sail. When they are blown out of their course she encourages them to new effort by singing poems; and when they are cast on the Syracusan coast, she wins the suffrages even of the Syracusans by her recitations. She tells her friends, just when she is about to be happily wedded, of this her early adventure, and recites the 'whole main of a play from first to last,' which was associated in her mind with such strange, glad memories.

And this is Mr. Browning's way of reproducing Euripides to us. Nothing could be more characteristic than this performance. It is full of dramatic subtleties; yet ever and anon the pure naturalness and simplicity of Greek life break through upon us with subduing force from the strange relief of contrast. One of our poets, in a very clever _jeu d'esprit_, spoke of Mr. Browning as 'thinking in Greek.' This poem proves, in a certain respect, how true was the characterization. But if Mr. Browning thinks in Greek, then it is most often to the low, sad undertone of modern doubt, question, and perplexity. The sunshine that is cast over this whole adventure is what most entitles it to be called Greek, though there is far too much suggestion of shadow, in the shape of perilous speculation, in the background.

_Faust; a Tragedy._ By JOHN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE. Translated in the original metres by BAYARD TAYLOR. Strahan and Co.

All translators of first-class poetry have a difficult series of problems to solve; but we are disposed to think a version of 'Faust' in the original metres is about the most arduous task a man could set himself. We would almost rather attempt 'The Birds' of Aristophanes. Mr. Taylor, hitherto known as one of the choicest writers of that variety of English prose which has developed itself across the Atlantic--a variety which is what gardeners call a 'sport'--is not quite up to the great work he has undertaken. He is not a sufficiently subtle metrist to echo the delicate melodies which lurk in Goethe's simplest forms of rhythm; nor does he always faithfully reflect Goethe's ideas--which, though twisted into recondite form, are usually simple reproductions of archaic axioms. It is the highest compliment you can pay Goethe, to say that there is nothing new in him. He iterated ancient truths in forms that suited his own era. He was like a mighty tree, bearing fresh foliage every year, but always the same old oak that cast cool shadows on the lawns of Eden. Nothing can be more certain than that absolutely new ideas must be false ideas; but it is equally certain that a man of great genius does infinite good by thinking out old ideas afresh, and presenting them in a form that suits his generation. There is not much in 'Faust' that there is not in 'Job' (which some authorities deem the oldest poem in existence), and there is much in 'Job' which there is not in 'Faust.' But 'Faust' was a necessity of the age, for all that. And even Bailey's 'Festus,' a very crude and washed-out variation of the theme, did good in its time.

The deficiencies we have indicated in Mr. Taylor's work are more visible in the second part of 'Faust' than in the first. In both they are painfully observable. Take Gretchen's song, 'The King in Thule:' we select the first, second, and fifth stanzas:--

'There was a king in Thule
Was faithful till the grave,
To whom his mistress dying
A golden goblet gave.

'Nought was to him more precious;
He drained it at every bout;
His eyes with tears ran over
As oft as he drank out.

* * * * *

'Then stood the old carouser,
And drank the last life-glow,
And hurled the hallowed goblet
Into the tide below.'

Herewith we venture to compare the same stanzas, in a boyish translation of our own, made when we had a vision of translating 'Faust':--

'There was a king in Thule, the ancient sea beside;
His love a goblet gave him upon the day she died.
'At festival and banquet he loved that cup of gold,
For many a dream it brought him of the sweet days of old.

* * * * *

'The aged king arises; a mighty draught drinks he,
Then hurls the golden-goblet away into the sea.'

Some of Mr. Taylor's expressions in the few lines we have cited are unpoetic, and some are unintelligible; for example, what is to be understood by the old king's drinking 'his last life-glow?' Rhyme is of course answerable for the barbarism.

Now let us take the first four lines of 'The Prologue in Heaven'--the song of Raphael, the Archangel. Thus Mr. Taylor:--

'The sun-orb sings in emulation,
'Mid brother spheres, his ancient round--
His path predestined through creation,
He ends with step of thunder-sound.'

This is awkward and unpoetic. The sun 'singing a round' makes one think of

'Three blind mice--
See how they run!'

Here is Dr. Anster's version of the same lines:--

'The sun, as in the ancient days,
'Mong sister stars in rival song,
His destined path preserves, obeys.
And still in thunder rolls along.'

Shelley writes:--

'The sun makes music as of old
Amid the rival spheres of Heaven,
On its predestined circle rolled
With thunder speed.'

Again, let us place in parallel the final lines of Raphael's song. Taylor:--

'The lofty works, uncomprehended,
Are bright as on the earliest day.'

Anster:--

'Mysterious all--yet all is good,
All fair as at the birth of light.'

Shelley:--

'The world's unwithered countenance
Is bright as at the birth of day.'

Mr. Taylor's liability to mistake Goethe's meaning--a liability shared by most translators, because the poet is really simple, when they fancy him only an utterer of enigmas--is curiously shown by his rendering of a famous line:--

'Es irrt der Mensch, so lang er strebt.'

Goethe meant simply this, 'Man errs when he strives'--calm is both power and joy--leave the great movement of the world do to its work, and be passive in the hands of the Creator. His faith was in repose. Well, Mr. Taylor gives us the renderings of nine translators, none of whom have approached the simplicity, and only one or two the meaning of the original.

_Ex. gr._:--

'HAYWARD.--Man is liable to error, while his struggle lasts.

ANSTER.--Man's hour on earth is weakness, error, strife.

BROOKS.--Man errs and staggers from his birth.

SWANWICK.--Man, while he striveth, is prone to err.

BLACKIE.--Man must still err, so long as he strives.

MARTIN.--Man, while his struggle lasts, is prone to stray.

BERESFORD.--Man errs as long as lasts his life.

BIRCH.--Man's prone to err in acquisition.

BLAZE.--L'Homme s'égare, tant qu'il cherche son but.'

To which let us add:--

BAYARD TAYLOR.--'While man's desires and aspirations stir,
He cannot choose but err.'

One would like to know what becomes of the _original metres_, when a line of eight monosyllables is transmuted into two claudicant lines that run to sixteen syllables. By the way, we must remember one other rendering:--

SHELLY.-- ... 'Man
Must err till he has ceased to struggle.'

But even Shelley has not quite caught Goethe's meaning. This is excusable, as we know that Shelley's German was imperfect.

Our ultimate judgment on Mr. Bayard Taylor's effort is simply this: it is a worthy piece of work, but it does not, and cannot stand as representative of 'Faust,' for the two reasons already assigned. Mr. Taylor cannot fathom Goethe's meaning, and cannot catch his music.

_The Breitmann Ballads._ By CHARLES G. LELAND. Complete Edition. Trübner and Co.

Mr. Leland has found it necessary to protest against spurious Breitmanns, and to say that his only authentic ballads are contained in this volume--a testimony at once to both the popularity of the ballads and the value of this edition. The various parts of the volume are very unequal in merit, but 'Hans Breitmann in Italy' is equal to the best work of the author, and attests his varied attainments. We have already done justice to the ballads, and need only quote his advice to the Pope:--

'"Tonitrus et cespes!" dixit Johanes Breitmann.

"Si veritatem cupies, tunc ego sum der right man;
Percute semper ferrum dum caldum est et _malleable_,
Nunc est tuum tempus te facere _infallible_.

'"In nostra America quum Præses decet abire,
Die ultimo fecit omne quodposset imaginire.
Appointet ambasciatores et post-magistros,
Consules et alios, per dextros et sinistros.

'"Quum Rex Bomba ista Neapolit--anus,
Compulsus fuit to shin it--ut dixit Africanus--
Fecit ultimo die ducos et countos, vanus.
(Inter alios McCloskey, tuus Hibernicus chamberlanus.)

'"Et quia tu es; ut credo; ultimus Poporum,
Facis bene devenire, quod dicitur High Cockalorum--
Sei magnissimus _toad in the puddle_, ite caput, magnamente;
Et ERITUS SICUT DEUS, nemine contradicente!

'"Unus error solus, Sancte Pater commisisti.
Quia primus _infallible_ non te proclamavisti,
Nam nemo audet dicere: Papa fecit quod non est bonus.
Decet semper jactare super _alios_ probandi onus.

'"Conceptio Immaculata, hoc modo fixisti,
Et nemo audet dicere unum verbum, de isti:
Non vides si infallibilis es, et vultis es exdare,
Non alius sed _tu_ solus hanc debet proclamare."

'"Figlio mio," dixit Papa; "tu es homo mirabilis,
Tua verba sunt mi dulcior quam ostriche cum Chablis,
In tutta Roma, de Alemania gente,
Non ho visto uno con si grande mente.

Ver obenedetto es--eris benedictus,
'"Tibi mitterem photographiam in qua sum depictus,
Tu comprendes situatio--il punto et gravamen.
Sunt pauci clerici ut te. Nunc dico tibi.--Amen."'

_The Member for Paris: a Tale of the Second Empire._ By TROIS-ETOILES. Three vols. Smith, Elder, and Co.

The purpose of this very clever book is to give a picture of the political and social state of France during the early period of the Second Empire, the period immediately subsequent to the _coup d'état_--the period of the Crimean War, and of the _Crédit Mobilier_. Anything more shrewd in observation, more competent in knowledge, more healthy in judgment, more caustic in refined sarcasm, more sparkling in style, it is difficult to imagine. The thread of story upon which these sketches are strung is of the slenderest. Raoul Aimé was Duke of Hautbourg, on the Loire, whose head shared the fate of those of so many of the old aristocracy in 1793, and whose estate was sold for a mere song to an attorney. Raoul Aimé's son went into exile, married the wealthy daughter of an English slave-owner, with whose money he bought back the estate, returned to France with Louis XVIII., and died a Minister of State. His son was accidentally killed in the streets the day after the _coup d'état_ of 1851, his nephew, Manuel Gerald, being heir to his title and property. A sturdy, and noble-hearted Republican, Gerald cannot take possession of estates purchased with the money of a slaveholder, or live in France under the _régime_ of Napoleon III. He lives, therefore, in comparative poverty in Brussels, and distributes the large revenue of his estates in charities. His two sons, Horace and Emile, enthusiastically ratify their father's repudiations, and study law in Paris in order to practise as barristers. The father, however, wisely refuses to accept the verdict of his sons as final, puts into their hands a deed conveying the estate to them, and puts them upon a probation of five years, at the end of which their decision is to be given. The two young men enter at the bar, take modest lodgings in the house of a haberdasher, and become the heroes of the story. Their characters are finely discriminated. Horace, the elder, is full of fine generous impulses and virtues, but has certain social weaknesses that render him incapable of the austere, not to say Quixotic virtues of his father. Emile, who is subordinate in the narrative, is less brilliant than Horace, but studious, solid, modest, and Spartan; both brothers, moreover, are affectionate and filial. The interest centres on Horace, who makes a brilliant _début_ in defence of a press prosecution, and becomes famous; is returned deputy for Paris, becomes acquainted with M. Macrobe, the great financier, the founder and chairman of the Crédit Parisien; is so far entangled by him as to marry his daughter Angelique, notwithstanding a deeper passion for Georgette, the haberdasher's daughter; writes brilliant articles, makes effective speeches, passes through various phases of Parisian life, and ultimately, after his father's death, determines to claim the dukedom. Almost every class and aspect of the venal life of Paris during this humiliating period is made to pass before us, the chief personages being portraits from life, easily cognizable by anyone moderately acquainted with history: indeed, the names of some are but very thinly disguised. Thus, Jules Favre is Claude Febre, M. Thiers is M. Tiré, M. Arsène Houssaye is Arsène Gousset, Mr. Worth is Mr. Girth, Blanqui is Albi. Journalist, Republican, Legitimist, and Imperial, notably the renowned correspondent of the _Daily Telegraph_, who is everywhere and knows everything; politicians, lawyers, novel writers, financiers, aristocrats, bourgeoisie, Parisians, and villagers, are presented in careful portraiture--evidently from life--the whole being done with very great literary skill and brilliancy. The story, slight as it is, and notwithstanding the somewhat melodramatic incidents of the struggle between Horace and Albi at his father's grave, and the death of the former and his wife on the day they take possession of the estate, indicates great powers of novel writing, if the writer be so minded. Nothing can be more skilful, discriminating, or beautiful than the delicate contrasts in character between the two brothers, Horace and Emile, the two girls Georgette and Angelique, the two patriots Horace Gerald and Nestor Roche; or more masterly than the way in which the working of Imperial institutions is exhibited. The marvel is that any despot, in such a position of moral isolation, and with such unscrupulous and reckless methods of tyranny and corruption could, for eighteen years, have maintained himself upon the throne of France. The fact speaks volumes for the condition to which unscrupulous rulers and blind revolutions may reduce a great people. The writer's intimate acquaintance with the interior of French life, whether the court life of Paris, or the village life of Hautbourg, the legal life of the Palais de Justice, or the bourgeoise life of commercial travellers, and Parisian shopkeepers, is manifest in every sentence, and is something unique. The book is a gallery of portraits, in a series of social sketches eminently original and clever. A genial and high-minded Asmodeus, in a vein of delicate sarcasm, reveals a state of things which all were assured of, but which very few could picture. Here, with graphic realism, and yet with perfect delicacy, its terrible rottenness is indicated. In his very different field, and with a very different genius, both in quality and degree, the author of "The Member for Paris" has been as eminently successful as MM. Erckmann-Châtrian. We trust that the writer, whom we can scarcely err in identifying with the author of the brilliant French sketches which have appeared in the _Cornhill Magazine_, will work yet more fully the mine of which he has given us these specimens.

_Behind the Veil_. By the Author of 'Six Months Hence.' Smith, Elder, and Co.

It is an undoubted weakness in a writer of fiction when the interest of the story is made to depend upon a succession of exciting situations and tragic catastrophes. There was in this writer's former work a weird interest in the strange psychological problem which he set himself to work out, and which was done with a considerable degree of power and promise. In the present story sensational incident abounds, and is not earned off by morbid psychology. Here, as in the former work, the interest centres upon a murder--surely human life is varied enough for a fresh source of interest. The story opens with a railway accident, in which the hero is well-nigh killed, and, in his delirium, awakens certain suspicions about his antecedents, the pendant picture of which is a scene of murder in the Australian bush. After his marriage is broken off he nearly dies of typhus fever, in the delirium of which he removes the suspicions which had gathered round him; and Jessie, his betrothed, nearly dies of a ruptured blood-vessel. Twice he is found by Beresford in a remote part of Wales--the chances of finding him there being a hundred thousand to one, while the plot is carried on by a dozen most improbable coincidences. Then James his brother, who in fleeing from justice has slept in a railway truck, apparently rides to his death in a furnace, into which, by automatic action, it is likely to deliver him; but by a refinement of feeling, resembling that of a cat with a mouse, he is made to jump off and over a precipice, only to die a few hours after in the custody of the police, who are in pursuit of him for murder--having confessed himself guilty, first of the murder, then of the crime of blocking the railway, to cause the death of his brother. In addition to all this, Jessie's brother dies of consumption, and a seaside acquaintance is half killed by cardiac asthma. Now we have no objection to a reasonable amount of the tragic, but thus to fill a novel with it is simply repulsive, and is defective art. A good plot should be constructed like a Chinese puzzle, and, like a Chinese puzzle, taken to pieces. The Author of 'Behind the Veil' simply breaks the puzzle after cleverly putting it together. There can be but little good, and a very inferior land of interest in such melodramatic stories; we get too impatient even to be amused, and we cannot rank very highly the writer who chiefly depends upon them. The best parts of 'Behind the Veil' are its dialogues and letters--especially those of Jessie and Flo--which are very spirited and clever; as is also the schoolboy slang of Conrad. If the writer would trust himself to a novel of character he would, judging from these, succeed well. The characters themselves, too, are well conceived and discriminated, especially those of the mother and the two sisters. Noel Arlington is too galvanic to be natural or interesting. Beresford is better, and has two amusing foils in Smith, the pianoforte tuner, and Pinthorne, the curate--both of which are very clever caricatures. The literary power evinced is considerable; the love-making is well-nigh perfect, although we do not quite like a man of thirty-five and upwards marrying a girl of fifteen. The writer ought to do good work; and will, if he will only emancipate himself from a vicious school, depend less upon blue lights, and more upon natural human developments. His book is one in which, while the defects hinder perfect sympathy, the excellences are too distinctive to permit us to lay it aside.

_Fernyhurst Court; an Every-day Story._ By the Author of 'Stone Edge.' Strahan and Co.

If the author of 'Behind the Veil' has gone to the one extreme, the author of 'Fernyhurst Court' has gone to the other. Although her work belongs to the higher and more thoughtful school of character, and although it is written with the delicacy, beauty, and power that challenged attention and excited expectation in 'Stone Edge,' it has not movement enough to sustain its characters. The artistic structure is loose, although upon the artistic finish much careful pains is bestowed. More of the evolution of a story would have prevented the tendency to run into inordinate descriptions and to desultoriness which has sometimes wearied us. The book is a thoroughly good one--it could not be otherwise from the pen of its author--but like 'Benoni Blake,' upon which we have offered some criticisms in another place, it might have been better. Whatever the skill of touch and the effects of colour, the first great requisite of a picture is composition; so the first great work of a novel writer is a story--and story there is none in 'Fernyhurst Court.' Its studies are chiefly of women, and are apparently intended to exhibit the causes of wifely unfitness and motherly failure, in little defects of temper and unselfishness. Some half-dozen thoroughly disagreeable women are delineated--none of them wicked, but all unloveable through little naggings, or little selfishnesses. We confess that we could have dispensed with one-half of them, and could have desired the substitution of two or three contrasts like May. Milly is an improvement upon Dickens's Dora, but Lionel's chances of happiness are not great. The moral of the story is a wholesome one if the girls will but take it; but we confess we should like to see the authoress devoting her fine perception of character, and her great descriptive powers, to a work architecturally great, as well as artistically beautiful.

_Her Title of Honour._ By HOLME LEE. Henry S. King.

This charming biographical fiction is constructed upon the outline of Henry Martyn's history, which it clothes with imaginative flesh and blood, incident, conversation, and motive; so far, that is, as the actual history does not supply these. The authoress has been very faithful to biographical fact; her religious sympathies, moreover, have enabled her to enter with great appreciation into the purposes and motives, the hopes and fears, the fluctuations and resolves of that heroic life. The result is an imaginative story that is probably more true to actual life than the ordinary biographies of Henry Martyn are; for imaginative genius--faithful, as here, to ascertained facts, even the minutest--can represent men and women much more truly and vividly than a mere common-place biographer who is restricted to literal fact. The conception of Eleanor's character, generous and loving, and yet falling short of needful heroism, is not only very fine, but is, perhaps, the true explanation of the great disappointment in Martyn's career. Personal and local names are changed so as to give greater freedom of treatment to the artist, but they are easily identified--Truro with Pengarvon, Salisbury with Craxon, Eleanor Trevelyan with Lydia Grenfell. We scarcely need say of a book of Holme Lee's writing that it is carefully finished, and redolent of a refined and beautiful soul. We have no more accomplished or conscientious literary artist. The fine touches of characterization of which the book is full, give it a great charm to cultivated minds. The broken-off purposes of Henry Martyn's life give novelty to the course and issue of the story, and significance to the moral which wise preachers often proclaim, that tangible achievement is not the greatest end or influence of a life. Henry Martyn may have applied great scholarship and refined intellectual powers to work, which ordinary literati would have done even better, but the consecration of ordinary powers would not have filled the Church and the world with such an influence.

_Benoni Blake, M.D., Surgeon at Glenaldie._ By the Author of 'Peasant Life in the North.' Strahan and Co.

'Peasant Life in the North' won for its author a respectful attention to whatever else he might publish. Few sketches, of contemporaneous writers, surpass or equal the racy characterizations and subtle human tenderness of 'Muckle Jock,' the mild Rhadamanthus doom of 'The Dainty Drainer,' or the perfect admixture of refined passion and rustic roughness of 'The Mason's Daughter.' 'Benoni Blake,' therefore, excited expectations which it will both gratify and disappoint. Let us have done with the grumbling first. Of course the subjective characteristics of this author were to be anticipated. No one could have looked for a novel in the style of Charles Lever or Wilkie Collins from him. Subtle analysis, quiet description, and a certain vein of sentimental and philosophical reflection and comment were to be expected. We will not say that in these rather than in crowded incident and dramatic representations the chief genius of fiction lies. Every man in his own order. 'Charles O'Malley' is, in its way, as good as 'The Transformations;' but we may say that the greatest achievement of genius is a just equilibrium between the two, and this the author of 'Benoni Blake' has not maintained. His work is a photograph rather than a story, a photograph of the kind that presents the same face in four aspects of it. The effect is like looking through an album containing only different photographs of the same person. The art is very beautiful, and the effect for a little while very charming, but one gets tired before the second volume, and wishes that 'Benoni Blake' would do something, or that somebody would do something to him. We get as tired of his simple inertia as he of the simple facile sweetness of Bessie's kisses. There is, moreover, a little too much about kissing; the sweetness of kisses is better suggested than described. The author has made the mistake of expanding a sketch, such as might have found a place in 'Peasant Life,' into a book--story it scarcely is--and he has done this by repetitions and reiterations of substantially the same situation and sentiments. This probably is an unconscious revolt against mere sensationalism, for the writer is clearly capable of spirited dialogue and of inventive construction. We are not, however, quite sure of the limit of this power. Neither the peasant dialogues nor the conversations of educated persons have much variety; the latter, indeed, if we except the brief episodes at Fanflare Lodge and of the flirtation with Miss Shawe, are almost wholly substituted by descriptions. We are told what the characters are--they do not unfold or exhibit themselves. The author has, however, a minute acquaintance with the provincial thought and speech of the Scottish peasantry; their racy humour, pawky shrewdness, and quaint prejudices, are admirably described. John, the minister's man, and Nannie, his female counterpart, are genuine types;--John's leal affection comes out very nobly in the proffer of his hoarded savings. So, in a somewhat higher grade, are Mr. Bowie, the 'paper minister,' and Miss Robison. The conversation between Mr. Bowie and John, as the latter drives home the former, is the raciest bit in the book; but all this runs in a very narrow groove. There are, too, certain mannerisms, which recall unpleasantly reminiscences of the way in which Thackeray buttonholes his readers and takes them into his confidence, which had better be avoided, as also a covert, although not ill-natured, vein of sarcasm, which leaves you in doubt whether the writer is in jest or earnest; in which again, the influence of Thackeray is a little too perceptible. Decidedly, too, the puff indirect, in reference to the opinion of the _Saturday Review_ on 'Peasant Life in the North,' is in bad taste. Altogether, there is a lack of the _ars celandi artem_, a certain artificialness, and self-conscious mannerism that mars the effect of the book. The writer is apparently ashamed of his gentle sympathies, and tries to appear cynical.