THE HUMAN TRAGEDY.*

MR. AUSTIN has achieved no mean success by the publication of the Human Tragedy. His design, formed several years ago, shows a high ambition, and the courage and intellectual energy with which he has brought it to a completion will enlist the sympathy of his readers. It is unnecessary to assert the absolute success of the poet, while praising him for what he has accomplished. His work is far from faultless. We find in it much gracefulness of detail, but much also in the treatment of his subject that is inadequate and unsatisfactory. There are signs of conscientious labour upon every page, but there are signs, too, despite his unquestionable power and mastery of language, of the poet's inability at times to realise his own conception. The idea of bringing together in one poem several of the elements which unite in forming the complex society of our time, and of exhibiting the enthusiasm for humanity, the unquestioning faith, and the disquieting scepticism which influence modern life, is a thought worthy of a poet. It may be said, and doubtless will be said by some of Mr. Austin's critical readers, that the freedom of Italy, the deliverance of Rome, and the war of the Commune are events too near to us for poetical treatment. We do not say this. A poet is the best judge of what he can achieve, and his happy freedom is not to be unduly cabined by the formal restrictions of the critic. It is not for the critic to say what topic a poet should select, but how, judging from the poet's own standing-point, he has succeeded in carrying out his plan.

The amazing length of the Human Tragedy is a proof of Mr. Austin's poetical activity, but it shows also that he does not fully realise the difficulties which, in this age, a poet is bound to face. There can be little doubt that Mr. Austin would have done better for his own fame and given greater pleasure to his readers by compressing his work within narrower limits, and excluding rigorously every superfluous stanza. Measured by the duration of years, life is as long now as when Spenser wrote his Faerie Queene and Drayton his Polyolbion, but the claims upon men's thought and time have increased a thousandfold since then. We lack the leisure for enjoyment ; we cannot stay to daily with sweet thoughts ; we seek vainly for that freedom from care which will allow us to sit with a poet through the livelong day, smiling at his happy fancies, soothed by his music, purified and stimu- lated by his noble imagination. And this want of joyous freedom makes us more critical and more exacting than the readers of a simpler age. We take our intellectual food in a condensed form, swallow it, as it were, standing, and with loins girded up for some fresh enterprise, like the Jews at their Paschal supper. The Human Tragedy is nearly as long as Paradise Lost, and even Milton's great poem, which for richness and fulness of tone has no equal in our literature, is, we fear, more honoured than read, save by the few students who believe that the human intellect finds its highest expression in verse, and that Milton sits, with two or three compeers, unsurpassed and unapproach- able on the highest seats of the temple of Fame.

Mr. Austin, it should be observed, has endeavoured to antici- pate the requirements of modern readers by throwing a portion of his poem into the form of a novel in verse. This, we venture to think, is a mistake. The first book, if deprived of its poetical ornaments (some of which are of high value), reads like a story that would pass current at Mudie's. Godfrid, the hero, acts unheroically, but it is to be feared not unnaturally, in making love to a beautiful girl called Olive, and parting from her with a kiss. He resolves not to see her again, being, as he is, " poor as a church mouse, and not so pious." But Godfrid's visit and the kiss that closed it had fixed the girl's heart for ever :— " Ind Olive, wandering slow 'mong woods and meads, • The Oman Tragedy. By Alfred Austin. London : Blackwood and Sons. 187e.

Haunted by one dear voice, one echoing tread, Felt she could never the remembrance smother Of that close kiss, excepting with another!"

Godfrid, however, does not return, and Olive pines for him in vain. The parents, observing the mischief that is going on, think it may be best cared by finding the love-sick child a husband, and Sir Gilbert is chosen,—an honest, wealthy man, who cares nothing for sentiment or poetry, but " brute-like walks with eyes upon the ground." In sheer despair of heart, Olive accepts the lover provided by her friends, and then writes to Godfrid, telling him to congratulate her on the good news that she is engaged. After a while she goes to London with her mother to buy the wedding dresses, and meets Godfrid, who is foolish enough to accept a second invitation to Olive's home, and wicked enough, knowing of the girl's engagement, and of his influence over her, to make love to her again, till the poor child sinks her head upon his shoulder, and Godfrid soothes her soul with kisses. His con- duct is treacherous and unmanly, and one feels inclined to wish

that Sir Gilbert had appeared at the right moment to inflict a well-merited castigation, but some of the verse which describes this rather common-place and inconsiderate courting is of fine quality. We do not care for Godfrid's somewhat grandiose speeches, and the feverish unrest he betrays excites small pity, but Mr. Austin excels in description, and some of the scenes pre- sented in this act of the tragedy show a vigorous hand. Here is a summer picture, which exhibits the lovers enjoying the delights of their newly discovered secret: " To them it was as though Tune ne'er before

Had filled her lap with roses; as though now Did merle first sing and skylark rippling soar, And wren and blackcap glance from bough to bough.

The daisy's frill a wondrous newness wore, And childlike marvel puckered up their brow, When from deep banks, with tangled tussocks heaped, The roguish periwinkle, laughing, peeped.

When with staid mothers' milk and sunshine warmed, The pasture's frisky innocents bucked up, Flush from the ground, or, on smooth hillock swarmed, With hornless fronts each other 'gan to tup, That frolic sight their eyes as freshly charmed, As though ne'er carved on many an antique cup, Nor time on time, when men and gods were young, By the pastoral Muse o' the sweet Sicilian sung."

The parting scene is gracefully described, and would excite sympathy, were it not that the pity we feel is closely allied to contempt, not for Godfrid only, but for Olive, who accepts and returns his passionate love at the time when she has the dress prepared in which she is about to be married to another man.

The second act comprises, with much additional matter, the beautiful story already known to readers of Mr. Austin's poetry as " Madonna's Child," and in this act, which contains, we think, the writer's best work, Godfrid's fickle character becomes strengthened and in some measure exalted by the love awakened in him for the gentle and faithful Olympia. Sorrow, the great purifier, gives him dignity, and a deep but unselfish affection renders him worthy, or almost worthy, of the pure-minded girl. There are long passages in this act which we would gladly transcribe,— stanzas which satisfy the ear and kindle the imagination and touch the heart. Where so much is beautiful, choice becomes difficult, but as a specimen of the poet's descriptive power take the following, remembering always how impossible it is by any extract to do justice to a poet's work. The lovely Olympia is a devout believer not in Christ only, but also in the blessed Virgin. Godfrid has no faith, and is honest enough to say so. The girl hopes to convert him from his errors, and to this end has induced him, nothing loath, to travel in her sweet company to Milan, where she knows a ghostly father who may perchance be the means of converting her lover. The stanzas we have selected are not all of them consecutive in the poem :-

" Now woke the morn, pure as a maiden wakes, And, while the world still slept, forth hand in hand Went Godfrid and Olympia. Laying flakes Of silvery mist, by light gales curled and fanned, Fled up the hills ; from feathery-foliaged brakes Rang out melodious matins ; on the sand, And on the sea, glistened a pearly dew ;

And, over both, bright bent the heavens blue.

He had a leathern satchel at his back, And in her breast a missal small she bore ; And, their sole burdens these, they took the track That lies between the mountains and the shore.

On the smooth main was many a white-sailed smack, Upon the hillside many a ruin hoar ; With many a fluttering wing the air was sown, But on the mountain road themselves alone.

Through smiling tracts, close fenced from winds and snows, Fed, all the year, by the sun's fostering ray, And kissed by every vernal gale that blows, Tracts that are Eden still, their journey lay. Full on their left the eternal mountains rose, Upon the right ranged headland, creek, and bay, And jutting promontories, round which the bright Blue ocean ended in a fringe of white.

Nigher their ken were mulberry, fig, and vine, This linked to those in many a long festoon, 'Neath which the wise, when days are long, recline, Reaping the hours in a deep golden swoon. The tendrils yet had but begun to twine Round the pale stems that would be hidden soon ; But, in the cradling furrows lodged between, Peeped sprouting maize, and grasses newly green.

And ever and anon some quiet town Came into view, and thro' it straight they passed, Though once perhaps its name had won renown In this strange world, where nothing great doth last. With braided hair, bronzed limbs, and girded gown, Ranged round a fountain flowing clear and fast, Their eyes as bright as day, yet dark as night, Stood stalwart women, washing linen white.

And round the open thresholds children fair, Happy and lithe as lizards, romped and ran, Their grandame sitting by in sunny chair ; But, in the ways, never a sign of man. He was away, driving the ox-drawn share, Trimming the vine-clasped elm to shapely span, Or 'mong his maize in many a trivial course Scattering the rampant torrent's forward force.

When had the sun its upward journey ta'en, They sat them down and made their mid-day meal, The mountains at their back, in front the main, Those gray and calm, this flashing like burnished steel. High up in heaven was neither cloud nor stain, And Godfrid's lips could scarce the thought conceal, How blest 'twould be each alien faith to smother, And worship only Nature and each other.

'Twas Nature gave the simple meal they took, Sitting in sunshine-shadow side by side. A juicy orange, which from branch he shook O'erbead, for her to daintily divide, Last year's crisp almonds, water from the brook, And bread from out his pack, their wants supplied. Then rising up, they left their humble feast, And turned once more their footsteps to the east."

Long as our quotation is, these are but a few verses out of many which show the poet's quick eye and keen susceptibility for the characteristics and peculiar charms of Italian landscape. The passages that tempt the reviewer to linger and to quote are indeed numerous, and in the finest of them human emotion, blended with the aspects of nature, is uttered in sweet music, and with much originality of expression. Mr. Austin copies no one, but it is easy to see where his sympathies lie, and that his poetical instincts are opposed to the poets who describe life in mystic language, and express passion by obscure imagery which needs an interpreter to explain and an esoteric culture to enjoy. There is a manly ring about Mr. Austin's verse which is refreshing in days when so many poets are following, as we conceive, a false method, and re- sorting to tricks of style destructive of more than temporary fame.

The third act of the Human Tragedy contains, with much

careful revision and many significant alterations, the poem of "Rome or Death," reviewed two years ago in our columns.* It describes in vigorous language the campaign of Mentana, and brings upon the scene in a new aspect the characters that figured in the earlier acts. Olive, the unhappy wife of Gilbert, whom she had no business to marry, had died of a broken heart ; and her husband, whose nature, as described in Act 1, seemed unfitted for any kind of enthusiasm, has 'developed into a fiery Republican, and has joined Godfrid, whose views are more moderate, in fighting for Italian freedom. Gilbert has found a fine-spirited Italian maiden to console him for the loss.

of his English Olive :—

" Her skin was lustrous as the ripening grape,

And, like the grape's, the sanguine flesh beamed through ; Her eyes could match the olive's dainty shape, And far outshone its darkly-burnished hue.

Twisted in coils above the massive nape, Her classic hair grand memories might renew, Back from her brow, free from fantastic wiles, Rippling like ocean, when dark ocean smiles.

She seemed a bright embodiment of one Of those too marble visions that were lent To Grecian eyes ere Art's brief race was run,

Wherein grace, strength, and beauty all are bleat

A statue stirred to motion ; by the sun Pulsating made for mortal ravishment ;

* See 'Spectator, March 14, 1874.

A dream with flesh endued.; a chiselled thought, Catching warm being from the hand that wrought."

Godfrid, on the other hand, feeds upon the sweet remembrance of Olympia, whose gentle presence and lovely face are visible again and again, as we follow the track of her more earthly lover. We cannot pursue the eager steps of the enthusiasts who, at the cry of "Rome or Death !" march to the Eternal City, in- spired by a burning desire for what they regarded as freedom, and led on by Garibaldi, the Don Quixote of modern warriors ; nor do we stay here to inquire how far the poet's views of the struggle correspond with the facts of history, but we may observe that the difficulty of treating events poetically that stand out so clearly on the pages of the modern journalist is strikingly evident in this part of the poem. One has to forget certain incidents of the Italian struggle in 1867, in order fully to enjoy Mr. Austin's spirited and luminous narrative. The writer, by the way, has proved on more than one occasion that he possesses the lightness of touch and the spontaneity of feeling essential to the lyric poet, but some of the lyrical pieces in the Human Tragedy seem to us strained and mechanical. There is a song, sung by Miriam (see

p. 229), which in its best portion is an echo of Macaulay, but of which the burden, due entirely to Mr. Austin, grates upon the

ear with peculiar harshness. In the fourth and last act the scene of the poem passes from Italy to Paris, and the protagonists— Love, Religion, Country—which give life to the poetical drama in the third act, receive the additional inspiration afforded by Humanity. Olympia, a lovely, if somewhat shadowy, character, moves like a thing of light through the narrative, and is to Godfrid a guardian angel. Her tender pity and love for the man whose faith, or rather, want of faith, forbids an earthly union is pathetically described. This ground of division, while keeping them asunder, has not lessened the affection felt by both ; and when at last, after many tender and exciting interviews, they die in each other's arms, one working for Christ, the other for freedom, both following the dictates of conscience, and both at the supreme moment bent on a mission of mercy, one feels that poetical justice is satisfied. On one bier the two are carried to the convent to which Olympia belonged, and the reverend Mother sends for a venerable man, "with prayer lit face," from whom she and her spiritual children were accustomed to receive consolation :-

" To him, in hearing of them all, she told

The story she herself had learnt when first, Six brief weeks gone, Olympia joined their fold, And next, how Godfrid, aiding her, had nursed The wounded she with deeper balm consoled ;

But from their ears withholding not the worst,—

His strange, sad unbelief, which still had kept The pair apart, till one in death they slept.

The aged pastor, tlanswise as she spake, In silence listened, and then slowly said:

4 My children I these two souls, for Truth's pure sake, -

Divided were, since Faith, in him, was dead.

Who knows ? perchance it did in death awake : And 'twas to save the lost Christ breathed and bled.

Doubt watered by such prayers must somewhere bud; And see ! he bath the baptism of blood.

Therefore I dare not say Christ vainly died, Even for him. And since the twain would lie, Methinks, at Spiaggiascura side by side, Heaven will not earth's infirmity deny.

So let us there one grave for both provide, In consecrated ground beneath the sky.

She needs no epitaph; so let his plea,

Dilexit multum, sole inscription be !"

We have made no attempt to give an analysis of this re- markable poem, neither have we stayed to point out its pur- port, but have been satisfied with touching, as it were, incidentally on some of its merits and defects. It may be as well, however, to observe in reference to this poem—for readers and even critics are sometimes strangely oblivious of the fact—that it is absurd to expect in a poetical narrative the realism which we ask for from novelists like Jane Austen or Mr. Trollope. The reviewer does not know his vocation who seeks in a work like this for the resemblance to real life which satisfies us in a domestic tale. There are improbable incidents in Mr. Austin's poem at which a prosaic critic may carp, but the poetical instinct, if

we may use the expression, is not outraged, and this is all we have a right to claim from the poet. The Human Tragedy deserves the attention of readers who are, interested in the progress of the poetic art in our time, and in the attempt

of the author to throw upon recent events the light of poetry. If Mr. Austin has not produced a great poem, he has written a great deal of very beautiful poetry ; but while we might point to many pages full to overflowing of poetical imagery, of brilliant colour, and of tersely-uttered thought, we do not know one which has charmed us so much as the page which precedes the tragedy, and is dedicated to " H. J. A." Our readers will thank us for closing our review with this exquisite sonnet :—

CI Three graces still attend me, since the day

Your step across my graceless threshold came : Reverence, and Gratitude, and Love, their name.

Reverence, whose gaze fears from the ground to stray, And bows its head, and sues to you to lay Your foot thereon, and keep my base self down : Next, Gratitude, that bolder, by degrees Creeps up the folds of wedlock's rescuing gown, To make a circling fondness round your knees; And lastly, Love, which from that low perch sees Chaste lips, and tender eyes, and tresses brown, And, darting upward, finds a home with these.

So stand we level in that high embrace, And I have all your glory on my face."