WILLIAM BELL SCOTT'S POEMS. *

Tins volume is remarkable for the intellectual vigour it displays, and the little result that vigour produces Mr. William Bell Scott has poetical feeling, keen observation deep thought, a com- ratmd of language, and a manner which, though it does not pass beyond strangeness or the affectation of freshness, seems capable of being cultivated into a striking originality. We say seems, be- cause Mr. Scott is neither a new writer, nor, we believe, a very young man ; and because, like his brother David Scott the painter, a notice of whose mistaken and sad career appeared in this journal some years sgo,t he evidently wants some faculties essential to success in an imaginative pursuit. The poems in this volume exhibit want of art; but mere want of art is not the sole cause of the writer's failure, and the very deficiency itself seems traceable to something deeper than the absence of a quality which if not ac- quired is not born. A strong self-will, perhaps a self-opinion, seems combined with a gloomy temper to mar the effect of very great mental powers. It might be said that there is a want of judg- ment; but it seems a resolution not to judge—at least of the pro- per use of means to produce poetical effects. The question is yet unsettled whether an imaginative artist

should set out with a formed purpose, or whether he should trust to instinct and habit to direct him to an end. There is no doubt but that he should choose a subject which either in itself or by its mode of treatment should be broad and general enough to interest many, and should contain, however latent it may be, some lesson of life, a mingling of the useful and the pleasing. In this choice of subject Mr. Scott sometimes fails, sometimes he mars a subject by his treatment. An incident or a circumstance may produce a very strong impression on an individual, but it is useless to select it as a poetical theme if the impression is produced through ex- periences of so personal a kind that they do not convey the same sentiments to others, or that the author cannot—or, which is practically the same thing, does not—present them in the way the nature of his art requires. "The Artist's Birthplace" is of this nature. The poem consists of a visit paid to a country place, where not the sick artist but a handsome waitress at the village inn is seen by the visitors ; with which bald circumstance the poem closes. It is probable that the idea in Mr. Scott's mind is con- neoted with some facts respecting his brother David's decline ; but this does not justify a poem upon the subject, unless the associa- tion were made clear to the reader, and had sufficient general in- terest to excite the same feeling in his breast as in that of the poet. "The Duke's Funeral" is an example of a subject injured by treatment. Mr. Scott's starting-point appears to be, that only the vulgar, the vicious the politically timorous, and the worldly strong, should yield honour to the departed chief; at all events poets should not— "There is false inspiration in the theme; It puts the lamp out."

If true, it was a reason for silence. But before it can be re- ceived as true, Mr. Scott must show that the practice of all his

rat predecessors who have sung of war was wrong ; and that discharge of laborious duties, the weight of anxious responsibili- ties, the successful conduct of events on which the fortunes of nations and in some sense the future of mankind depend, is not as arduous and worthy a_ task as painting, or writing verses, or the fulfilment of genial duties, from which public men are frequently debarred. Even were this satisfactorily established, the poem, with the exception of a few lines, would be distasteful, for a cyni- cal and sour spirit, indirectly assailing the memory of the dead and running counter to the feelings of the living. The deficiency in breadth and generality is shown when the author has a subject of importance and popularity. " Maryanne " which had already been printed twice under the title of "Rosahel," is a succession of scenes in the life of a courtesan—first as a village child and maiden, next as a town seamstress then in keeping, afterwards on the town, and finally dying in the sick ward of a workhouse or hospi- tal. There is truth in the story; though the telling is disfigured by quaint attempts at simplicity, and some of the ideas seem drawn from Parliamentary blue-books or Temperance reports. But the truth is narrow. It is quite right to avoid the old- fashioned sentiment on tLe subject, where virtue was painted falling as virtue never fell; but there should be some lesson in the story—some temptation, some redeeming qualities in the wo- man, to excite sympathy. The reader should rise from the perusal wiser or better with a clearer idea of the evil and its remedy, or a stronger feeling against the vice, to check it within his own !There if he cannot go further. There is little or nothing of these in"Maryanne?' The reader knows and feels pretty much as he knew and felt before.

There are many harsh and rugged lines in the poems, whether

by negligence or design. Spite of his vigorous conception and command over language, it may be doubted whether Mr. Scott has an ear for the melody of words. Sometimes, in fact, his verse is only verse to the eye. Much of the following passage, descriptive of a street-walker, might be turned into prose ; and if the awk- Ward inversions were removed, no one would dream that it had ever been intended for verse.

* Poems by William Bell Scott. Published by Smith and Elder. + Supplement to the Spectator, February 2,..1880:

"Age—Twenty-five.

Down the wet pavement gleam the lamps, While the wind whistles past them shrill ; A distant heel rings hurrying home, It lessens into stillness now, And she is left alone.

The rain-drops from the eves are blown Against her face : she turns ; The wind lifts up her dripping scarf, Faded now with its ragged fringe, And flings it over her head. Her lips are sharp, as if a scorn Of our humanity had shrunk

And bitten them : her eyes—

They are not sunk, for generous care Is not her misery ; They never weep, for she can think Of her childhood while she laughs ; But they are blind and insolent. And is this Maryanne the mild ? Can it indeed be she ?

What is sin, and what is shame ? The brutish and the ignorant Say she hath borne them both.

But why measure blood in a carved wine-cup,

Or blame the blind although he laugh While funeral mutes pass by ? Then whose the sin, and whose the shame, That the ignorant say are hers ? Can the outcast retrace her steps ; Would any mourn with her, although She washed the earth with tears From a rent and festering heart ? The human voice no music brings To her, and the sun but shines That the shadow where she sits may be

More dense, that she may feel the light

In which the spider spins Can uuenlivening fall on such

As have a soul."

The deathbed of Maryanne may be adduced as another instance of truth and power injured by limping numbers.

" Age—Unknown.

A white-washed chamber, wide and long, With unscreened pallets placed in rows, Each tenanted by pain. In the first a grey-haired woman, though Still almost youthful : in the next A girl, with yellow teeth and eyes, And lips as blue as heaven. One form is there we have marked before, Who.4 merriment we have heard. My God!

And yet perhaps 't is her best bourne :

She shall not live to fight with dogs For bones on the nightly causeway, Or gather ashes thrifty wives May fling from their hearthstones. She may die ! the board is sawn And blackened, and the turf Is soon rent up to lay her down ; While forms as fair, as gleesome hearts, As blindly shall succeed her—place Their feet where she bath trod—amid Like laughter shut their eyes—and then

Fill this her mattress, thus, with shaven crowns.

And fathers still will shake their heads; And youths, who have not souls, have beards; And scribes and pharisees cross the way; And country queens at harvest-home Blush if they do not dance in silk ; And every lamp on every street Light them like Maryanne."