International Weekly Miscellany of Literature, Art and Science - Volume 1, No. 8, August 19, 1850

"DEATH'S JEST BOOK, OR THE FOOL'S TRAGEDY."

The Examiner, for July 20, contains an elaborate review, with numerous extracts, of a play just published under this title in London. "It is radiant," says the critic, "in almost every page with passion, fancy, or thought, set in the most apposite and exquisite language. We have but to discard, in reading it, the hope of any steady interest of story, or consistent development of character: and we shall find a most surprising succession of beautiful passages, unrivaled in sentiment and pathos, as well as in terseness, dignity, and picturesque vigor of language; in subtlety and power of passion, as well as in delicacy and strength of imagination; and as perfect and various, in modulation of verse, as the airy flights of Fletcher or Marlowe's mighty line.

"The whole range of the Elizabethan drama has not finer expression, nor does any single work of the period, out of Shakspeare, exhibit so many rich and precious bars of golden verse, side by side with such poverty and misery of character and plot. Nothing can be meaner than the design, nothing grander than the execution."

In conclusion, the Examiner observes—"We are not acquainted with any living author who could have written the Fool's Tragedy; and, though the publication is unaccompanied by any hint of authorship, we believe that we are correct in stating it to be a posthumous production of the author of the Bride's Tragedy; Mr. Thomas Lovell Beddoes. Speaking of the latter production, now more than a quarter of a century ago, (Mr. Beddoes was then, we believe, a student at Pembroke College, Oxford, and a minor,) the Edinburgh Review ventured upon a prediction of future fame and achievement for the writer, which an ill-chosen and ill-directed subsequent career unhappily intercepted and baffled. But in proof of the noble natural gifts which suggested such anticipation, the production before us remains: and we may judge to what extent a more steady course and regular cultivation would have fertilized a soil, which, neglected and uncared for, has thrown out such a glorious growth of foliage and fruit as this Fool's Tragedy."

The following exquisite lyric is among the passages with which these judgments are sustained:

"If thou wilt ease thine heart Of love and all its smart, Then sleep, dear, sleep; And not a sorrow Hang any tear on your eyelashes; Lie still and deep Sad soul, until like sea-wave washes The rim o' the sun to-morrow, In eastern sky. But wilt thou cure thine heart Of love and all its smart, Then die, dear, die; 'Tis deeper, sweeter, Than on a rose bank to lie dreaming With folded eye; And then alone, amid the beaming Of love's stars, thou'lt meet her In eastern sky."

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED

Praed, it has always seemed to us, was the cleverest writer in his way that has ever contributed to the English periodicals. His fugitive lyrics and arabesque romances, half sardonic and half sentimental, published with Hookham Frere's "Whistlecraft" and Macaulay's Roundhead Ballads, in Knight's Quarterly Magazine, and after the suspension of that work, for the most part in the annual souvenirs, are altogether unequaled in the class of compositions described as vers de societie.—Who that has read "School and School Fellows", "Palinodia", "The Vicar", "Josephine", and a score of other pieces in the same vein, does not desire to possess all the author has left us, in a suitable edition? It has been frequently stated in the English journals that such a collection was to be published, under the direction of Praed's widow, but we have yet only the volume prepared by a lover of the poet some years ago for the Langleys, in this city. In the "Memoirs of Eminent Etonians," just printed by Mr. Edward Creasy, we have several waifs of Praed's that we believe will be new to all our readers. Here is a characteristic political rhyme:

VERSES

ON SEEING THE SPEAKER ASLEEP IN HIS CHAIR IN ONE OF THE DEBATES OF THE FIRST REFORMED PARLIAMENT Sleep, Mr. Speaker, 'tis surely fair If you mayn't in your bed, that you should in your chair. Louder and longer now they grow, Tory and Radical, Aye and Noe; Talking by night and talking by day. Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may! Sleep, Mr. Speaker; slumber lies Light and brief on a Speaker's eyes, Fielden or Finn in a minute or two Some disorderly thing will do; Riot will chase repose away Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may! Sleep, Mr. Speaker. Sweet to men Is the sleep that cometh but now and then, Sweet to the weary, sweet to the ill, Sweet to the children that work in the mill. You have more need of repose than they— Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may! Sleep, Mr. Speaker, Harvey will soon Move to abolish the sun and the moon; Hume will no doubt be taking the sense Of the House on a question of sixteen pence. Statesmen will howl, and patriots bray— Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may! Sleep, Mr. Speaker, and dream of the time, When loyalty was not quite a crime, When Grant was a pupil in Canning's school, And Palmerston fancied Wood a fool. Lord, how principles pass away— Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.

The following is a spirited version of a dramatic scene in the second book of the Annals of Tacitus:

ARMINIUS

Back, Back;—he fears not foaming flood Who fears not steel-clad line:— No warrior thou of German blood, No brother thou of mine. Go earn Rome's chain to load thy neck, Her gems to deck thy hilt; And blazon honor's hapless wreck With all the gauds of guilt. But wouldst thou have me share the prey? By all that I have done, The Varian bones that day by day Lie whitening in the sun; The legion's trampled panoply The eagle's shattered wing. I would not be for earth or sky So scorned and mean a thing, Ho, call me here the wizard, boy, Of dark and subtle skill, To agonize but not destroy, To torture, not to kill. When swords are out, and shriek and shout Leave little room for prayer, No fetter on man's arm or heart Hangs half so heavy there. I curse him by the gifts the land Hath won from him and Rome. The riving axe, the wasting brand, Rent forest, blazing home. I curse him by our country's gods, The terrible, the dark, The breakers of the Roman rods, The smiters of the bark. Oh, misery that such a ban On such a brow should be! Why comes he not in battle's van His country's chief to be? To stand a comrade by my side, The sharer of my fame, And worthy of a brother's pride, And of a brother's name? But it is past!—where heroes press And cowards bend the knee, Arminius is not brotherless, His brethren are the free. They come around:—one hour, and light Will fade from turf and tide, Then onward, onward to the fight, With darkness for our guide. To-night, to-night, when we shall meet In combat face to face, Then only would Arminius greet The renegade's embrace. The canker of Rome's guilt shall be Upon his dying name; And as he lived in slavery, So shall he fall in shame.

CAMPBELL AND WASHINGTON IRVING

The Editor of The Albion, in noticing the republication by the Harpers of the very interesting Life and Letters of Thomas Campbell, by Dr. Beattie, has the following observations upon Mr. Irving's introductory letter:

"WASHINGTON IRVING, at the request of the publishers, contributed a very interesting letter to themselves, directing public notice to the value of this edition. He pays also a hearty and deserved tribute, not only to the genius of Campbell, but to his many excellencies and kindly specialities of character. The author of "Hohenlinden," and the "Battle of the Baltic" stands in need of no man's praise as a lyric poet—but this sort of testimony to his private worth is grateful and well-timed. Here is an interesting passage from Mr. Irving's introductory communication. He is alluding to Campbell's fame and position, when he himself first made Campbell's acquaintance in England.

"'I had considered the early productions of Campbell as brilliant indications of a genius yet to be developed, and trusted that, during the long interval which had elapsed, he had been preparing something to fulfill the public expectation; I was greatly disappointed, therefore, to find that, as yet, he had contemplated no great and sustained effort. My disappointment in this respect was shared by others, who took the same interest in his fame, and entertained the same idea of his capacity. 'There he is cooped up in Sydenham,' said a great Edinburgh critic to me, 'simmering his brains to serve up a little dish of poetry, instead of pouring out a whole caldron.'

"'Scott, too, who took a cordial delight in Campbell's poetry, expressed himself to the same effect. 'What a pity is it,' said he to me 'that Campbell does not give full sweep to his genius. He has wings that would bear him up to the skies, and he does now and then spread them grandly, but folds them up again and resumes his perch, as if afraid to launch away. The fact is, he is a bugbear to himself. The brightness of his early success is a detriment to all his future efforts. He is afraid of the shadow that his own fame casts before him.'

"'Little was Scott aware at the time that he, in truth, was a 'bugbear' to Campbell. This I infer from an observation of Mrs. Campbell's in reply to an expression of regret on my part that her husband did not attempt something on a grand Scale. 'It is unfortunate for Campbell,' said she, 'that he lives in the same age with Scott and Byron.' I asked why. 'Oh,' said she, 'they write so much and so rapidly. Now Campbell writes slowly, and it takes him some time to get under way; and just as he has fairly begun, out comes one of their poems, that sets the world agog and quite daunts him, so that he throws by his pen in despair.'

"'I pointed out the essential difference in their kinds of poetry, and the qualities which insured perpetuity to that of her husband. 'You can't persuade Campbell of that,' said she. 'He is apt to undervalue his own works, and to consider his own lights put out, whenever they come blazing out with their great torches.'

"'I repeated the conversation to Scott sometime afterward, and it drew forth a characteristic comment. 'Pooh!' said he, good-humoredly, 'how can Campbell mistake the matter so much. Poetry goes by quality, not by bulk. My poems are mere cairngorms, wrought up, perhaps, with a cunning hand, and may pass well in the market as long as cairngorms are the fashion; but they are mere Scotch pebbles after all; now Tom Campbell's are real diamonds, and diamonds of the first water.'"

"The foregoing is new to us, and full of a double interest. It is followed, however, by a statement, that needs a word of explanation. Mr. Irving says:

"'I have not time at present to furnish personal anecdotes of my intercourse with Campbell, neither does it afford any of a striking nature. Though extending over a number of years, it was never very intimate. His residence in the country, and my own long intervals of absence on the continent, rendered our meetings few and far between. To tell the truth, I was not much drawn to Campbell, having taken up a wrong notion concerning him, from seeing him at times when his mind was ill at ease, and preyed upon by secret griefs. I thought him disposed to be querulous and captious, and had heard his apparent discontent attributed to jealous repining at the success of his poetical contemporaries. In a word, I knew little of him but what might be learned in the casual intercourse of general society; whereas it required the close communion of confidential friendship, to sound the depth of his character and know the treasures of excellence hidden beneath its surface. Beside, he was dogged for years by certain malignant scribblers, who took a pleasure in misrepresenting all his actions, and holding him up in an absurd and disparaging point of view. In what hostility originated I do not know, but it must have given much annoyance to his sensitive mind, and may have affected his popularity. I know not to what else to attribute a circumstance to which I was a witness during my last visit to England. It was at an annual dinner of the Literary Fund, at which Prince Albert presided, and where was collected much of the prominent talent of the kingdom. In the course of the evening Campbell rose to make a speech. I had not seen him for years, and his appearance showed the effect of age and ill-health; it was evident, also, that his mind was obfuscated by the wine he had been drinking. He was confused and tedious in his remarks; still, there was nothing but what one would have thought would have been received with indulgence, if not deference, from a veteran of his fame and standing; a living classic. On the contrary, to my surprise, I soon observed signs of impatience in the company; the poet was repeatedly interrupted by coughs and discordant sounds, and as often endeavored to proceed; the noise at length became intolerable, and he was absolutely clamored down, sinking into his chair overwhelmed and disconcerted. I could not have thought such treatment possible to such a person at such a meeting. Hallam, author of the Literary History of the Middle Ages, who sat by me on this occasion, marked the mortification of the poet, and it excited his generous sympathy. Being shortly afterward on the floor to reply to a toast, he took occasion to advert to the recent remarks of Campbell, and in so doing called up in review all his eminent achievements in the world of letters, and drew such a picture of his claims upon popular gratitude and popular admiration, as to convict the assembly of the glaring impropriety they had been guilty of—to soothe the wounded sensibility of the poet, and send him home to, I trust, a quiet pillow.'

"Now, the very same facts are seen by different observers in a different point of view. It so happened that we ourselves were present at this dinner, which took place in 1842; and the painful circumstance alluded to by Mr. Irving did not produce the effect on us, that it appears to have produced on him. Without making a long story about a trifle, we can call to mind no appearance of hostility or ill-will manifested on that occasion; and on the contrary, recollect, in our immediate neighborhood, a mournful sense of distress at the scene exhibited, and sufficiently hinted in the few unpleasant words we have italicized. A muster of Englishmen preferred coughing down their favorite bard, to allowing him to mouth out maudlin twaddle, before the Prince, then first formally introduced to the public, and before a meeting whereat "was collected much of the prominent talent of the kingdom." Mr. Irving, himself most deservedly a man of mark, looked on with much, surprise. Looking on ourselves then, and writing now, as one of the public, and as one of the many to whom Campbell's name and fame are inexpressibly dear, we honestly think that of two evils the lesser was chosen. We think Mr. Hallam's lecture must have been inaudible to the greater part of the company."

The Archbishop of Lemburgh has prohibited his clergy from wearing long hair like the peasants, and from smoking in public, "like demagogues and sons of Baal."

The Persians have a saying, that "Ten measures of talk were sent down upon the earth, and the women took nine."

Authors and Books

No man is more enshrined in the heart of the French people than the poet BERANGER. A few weeks since he went one evening with one of his nephews to the Clos des Lilas, a garden in the students' quarter devoted to dancing in the open air, intending to look for a few minutes upon a scene he had not visited since his youth, and then withdraw. But he found it impossible to remain unknown and unobserved. The announcement of his presence ran through the garden in a moment, the dances stopped, the music ceased, and the crowd thronged toward the point where the still genial and lovely old man was standing. At once there rose from all lips the cry of Vive Beranger!

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