BRYAN WALLER PROCTER (Barry Cornwall) was a schoolfellow of Byron's at-Harrow; while the young lord was enjoying himself, as a nobleman and rich heir should do, the poor commoner was studying law, which nobody, that ever went through it, ever thought of calling enjoyment. Byron had emerged from the obscurity of his noble station, and was in the full blaze of popu larity, before Procter made his humble appearance in the world of letters, a new candidate for poetic honors. His first publication or volume of Dramatic Sketches" was favorably received by the public, and kindly reviewed by most of the critical reviews of the time. Lambe, Hazlett, Southey and others had lately been calling attention to the writers of the Elizabethan age, and the people were beginning to appreciate again the pathos and sweetness of those glorious old masters who looked deeper into the human heart than men had ever done before or are likely to do again. Procter was their disciple and follower. His "Sketches" were full of fine natural touches and lines, which, like those of Apelles, bespeak the hand of the master. The Edinburgh Review for January, 1820, speaking of his "Sicilian Story," uses the following language: "His style is chiefly moulded and his versification modulated on the pattern of Shakspeare, and the other dramatists of that glorious age, particularly Marlow, Beaumont and Fletcher, and Massinger. He has also copied something from Milton and Ben Jonson, and the amorous cavaliers of the Usurpation, and then passing disdainfully over all the intermediate writers, has flung himself fairly into the arms of Lord Byron, Coleridge, Wordsworth and Leigh Hunt. * "It is obvious that a man may imitate Shakspeare and his great compeers, without presuming to rival their variety or uni. versality. This is the case with Barry Cornwall. He does not meddle with the thunders and lightnings of the mighty poet: and still less with his boundless humor and fresh springing merriment. He has nothing to do with Falstaff or Silence; and does not venture himself into the lists with Macbeth, or Lear, or Othello. It is the tender, the sweet, the fanciful only that he ventures to copy; * * the girlish innocence and lovely sorrow of Juliet, Imogen, Perdetta or Viola-the enchanted solitude of Prospero and his daugher-the etherial loves and jealousies of Oberon and Titania, and those other magical scenes all perfumed with love and poetry, and breathing the spirit of a celestial spring, which lie scattered in every part of his writings. The genius of Fletcher is perhaps more akin to his muse of imitation than the soaring and "extravagant spirit" of Shakspeare; and we think we can trace, in more places than one, the impression which his fancy has received from the patient suffering and sweet desolation of Aspasia in his "Maid's Tragedy." It is the youthful Milton only that he has presumed to copy-the Milton of Lycidas, and Comus, and the Arcades, and the Seraphic Hymns, not the lofty and austere Milton of the Paradise. From Jonson, we think he has imitated some of those exquisite songs and lyrical pieces which lie buried in the rubbish of his masques, which continued to be the models for all such writings down to the period of the Restoration. * * There is a great deal of the diction of Wordsworth and Coleridge, and some imitation of their beauties; but we think the natural bent of his genius is more like that of Leigh Hunt than any other author. He has the same play of fancy, and the same capacity of deep and delicate feeling, together with the same relish for the old Italian poetry, and the plain and simple pathos of Dante and Boccacio-we doubt, however, whether he has equal force of original talent, or whether he could bave written anything so good, on the whole, as the beautiful story of Rimini. But he has better taste and better judgment-or what is perhaps but saying the same thing, he has less affectation and far less conceit." This critique was doubtless from the pen of Jeffrey, and in the main is appreciative and just; though we can not help demurring to the charge of Imitation so pertina. ciously set forth in the indictment. For our part, we are apt to fancy that a man of Procter's genius rather resembles certain authors in certain phases of their character and writings, than that he deliberately imitates them. The stigma of imitation A SHORT PAPER ON PROCTER. is easily and too often falsely stamped on men of kindred minds. "There is a mountain in Macedon, and a mountain in Wales." There is, certainly, great resemblance between Procter and Hunt, but it is rather in subject than style: Hunt is pleasant, careless, affected, and slip-shod; one can hardly trust him in serious passages, for fear of smiling: his face is always on the smirk. Procter is careful in his diffusion; sweetly pleasant, serious and solemn in his delicate affectations, and never, in the sense of Hunt, slip-shod. Hunt has more exuberance and animal spirits; Procter more pathos and refined feeling. If Procter could not have written" Rimini," Hunt could not have written "The English Songs" of Procter. Both are beautiful and unique in their way; and the world is wide enough for them without jostling. Procter must have been a careful student of old books in his time; his language and style betrays it; above all, his little songs, which are undeniably the finest of modern times, always excepting the best of Burns. One can hardly tell one of his best songs from one of Shakspeare's, it is so full of the very soul of poetry: passion and lyrical feeling are interblended like scent and color in the heart of a violet. Many of them are running over with vague emotions, and delicate sensibilities. Kings and queens, pages and princesses, lads and lassies, all hearts and stations find a fit utterance in his magical lines. Sometimes he is as clear as noonday; sometimes as shadowy and unsubstantial as a dream; but always poetical and human. Now he will sing you a drinking ditty that Sir John Suckling would have delighted to father; anon a love poem worthy of Catullus, and as chaste as Paradise. He writes in all moods, and under all inspirations: and is probably, in his songs, the most dramatic writer since Shakspeare. Here is one of the first that we lay our hands on. Of course you are all aware of the festivities of olden times-the misletoe bough that was suspended from the ceiling-and the custom of kissing the maids beneath it. Happy custom! not yet obsolete in the rural districts of England. Read this little song, and guess who wrote it. No! it was not Shakspeare. THE MISLETOE. When winter nights grow long, And winds without blow cold, We sit in a ring round the warm wood fire, And listen to stories old! And we try to look grave (as maids should be) How pleasant when night falls down, To see them come in to the blazing fire, It tells (like a tongue) that the times are jolly! Sometimes, (in our grave house Observe, this happeneth not:) And then what then? why, the men laugh low, Oh brave is the Laurel! and brave is the Holly! Here is another, but of a very different cast; sombre and dark, and yet right jolly withal. The subject is as old as life. It is Death and the rest he brings. An attempt to embody and personify the King of Terrors, the monarch of a greater realm than ever Alexander wept for in his wildest moments. The subject is deep, awful, and magnificent, not repulsive. A lesser poet would have pictured a skeleton, skull, ribs, cross-bones and all. Procter leaves that to the reader's imagination, and only gives the outline of a dusky old king, pledging his subjects in the wine of forgetfulness: KING DEATH. King Death was a rare old fellow ! And poured out the coal black wine. Whose eyes had forgot to shine; From a draught of his sleepy wine, The Poet his fancied woes; Hurrah! for the coal black wine! All came to the royal old fellow, But pledged them in Death's black wine, Hurrah! for the coal black wine! Here is something as sweet as the life of a child, fresh, simple and touching. If you have ever loved and lost a little wingless angel, whose voice was more than words to you, I fancy you will like it. How pretty it is! Read it slowly, and with due emphasis, as if you felt it, and you will before you get through with it. 1 46 But perhaps one of the most remarkable traits in Procter is the home feeling in many of his poems. They seem to have been written in the midst of his family, around the fireside of a winter night. The "Song for Adalaide" is one of the most beautiful nursery lyrics in the world, just such a song as a happy father would sing to his wife. "The Prayer in Sickness" and the Petition to Time" can hardly be read, without loving the man; such poems prove conclusively that the humblest emotions and feelings are poetical in the hands of a true artist. Nothing is too mean for the poet to glorify and exalt; but most common things must be exalted, to be glorified and made poetical. A dull Flemish exactness to the mere outside truth of objects is not, nor ever can be, artistic. This was the great mistake of Wordsworth in the beginning of his career, when he wrote "Betty Foys" and "Peter Rells;" and it would have killed him if he had not had genius enough to retrieve himself in other respects: his 5 best poems are contradictions of his own theo ries A PETITION TO TIME. Touch us gently, Time! Let us glide adown thy stream Gently as we sometimes glide Husband, wife, and children three (One is lost, an angel, fled To the azure overhead !) Touch us gently, Time! We've not proud nor soaring wings: O'er Life's dim unsounded sea We have not left ourselves room to copy any of his lyrical poems, per se, which we hardly dare believe the reader would think equal to those we have quoted. A pure lyric,-like one or two of the best of Shakspeare's, such as "Hark! hark! the lark." "Tell me where is Fancy bred," and "Under the Greenwood Tree," is rarely appreciated by the mass of poetical readers, not to say poets themselves. It is considered too small and trifling but the trifle however is a diamond. The same remark will apply to the best songs of Burns; and to one or two of the last poems of Tennyson. "The Cradle Song," for instance, in the new editions of the Princess." In conclusion, let us reccommend all our readers who love fine poetry (and who does not?) to read the English songs and other small poems of Barry Cornwall. TO THE GENIUS OF POETRY. Thou seraph voiced, bright child of heaven, The secret fount of harmony: Unseen, unheard thou art by those In whose dim souls no vision glows Of something yet to be possest, The dream of which makes mortals blest; And few will on thy pinions rise, To grander, glorious beaming skies, Bright child of heaven. But I, thou angel-guide, with thee, All radiant in thy purity, Will leave the laden, earth-clad throng, With all their ills, their strife, their wrong, To tread that starry spirit-way, Soul-teaching in its mystery, Thou child of heaven. |