is perhaps less

(page 138):

It is within my breast they sing,

As I pass by.

Within my breast they touch a string,

They wake a sigh.

There is but sound of sedges dry;

In me they sing.

typical of the writer than the superb sonnet Winter Heavens

Sharp is the night, but stars with frost alive

Leap off the rim of earth across the dome
It is a night to make the heavens our home
More than the nest whereto apace we strive.
Lengths down our road each fir-tree seems a hive,
In swarms outrushing from the golden comb.
They waken waves of thoughts that burst to foam:
The living throb in me, the dead revive.

You mantle clothes us: there, past mortal breath,
Life glistens on the river of the death.

It folds us, flesh and dust; and have we knelt,
Or never knelt, or eyed as kine the springs

Of radiance, the radiance enrings:

And this is the soul's haven to have felt.

The southern English landscape of Hampshire (where the poet was born n 1828) is far more the back-ground of his work than the stormy Celtic hills of his forefathers. Apart from atavistic fancies, his own first knowledge of wild grandeur must have come to him by foreign hill-sides and woods where much of his boyhood was spent. Like Heine he was sent to a Rhenish cloisterschool and may well have caused some surprise to his good old teachers later on. But his aesthetic "entente cordiale" with France (which few novelists now escape) does not destroy the marked traces of German ways of thinking in his outfit subtle and complex as it is. In width of vision wealth of fancy and depth of insight he has no real rival but Gottfred Keller (among stars shining in the same age and dream sky) in the old tongue of his schoolyears. Not that the stalwart Swiss peasant bears close resemblance to the favourite of an age of euphuism and wealth: yet both blend gentleness and strength and may be called epical and creative in a large if somewhat late sense. Keller's love poem about the rose and the deathless gardener approaches the great Anglo-Celt in the same way as Böcklin (surprising as it may seem) has points of contact with Burne-Jones. All are hymnologists of colour (chiefly of blue and white and gold the most celestial as is said) and go back to old instincts: love is once more in the woods and forsakes the countinghouse for old tombs. Few golden meadows and streams are more famous than those that smile on Richard and Lucy: few songs of dying leaves and flowers surpass such a sample as this (page 154):

A wind sways the pines,

And below

Not a breath of wild air;

Still as the mosses that glow

On the flooring and over the lines
Of the roots here and there.
The pine-tree drops its dead:

They are quiet, as under the sea.
Overhead, overhead

Rushes life in a race,

As the clouds the clouds chase;

And we go,

And we drop like the fruits of the tree,

Even we,

Even so.

German fancies may roam back to a lyre and voice stil! seldom unheard, to the peace passing reason (as we read) and to simple rest over all summits.

Like Goethe Mr. Meredith is not Christian in any strict sense of that term. To calm piety of feeling he weds disregard of all dogmas; no church (however free) could bear his song on her harp-tones aloft: his eye is closed to suffering and sin and the tale of love and pity and relief. Yet his paganism is healthful and not tainted: he does not fight under the old flag but is not to be found among the foe. Then after all his vague theism (steeped in red sunsets and clouds and flower-fancies and dead friends) with long mystic centuries behind it soothes (if it cannot save) the soul more than the new naturalism of the Far East which has never been Nazarene. Perhaps his marked difference from Wordsworth is not in all ways so large as the writer would have us believe (page 114) and as seems at first sight. No doubt the conditions of knowledge and thought had changed in the meanwhile their ghostly environments were not the same. On the other hand that which is worn out in the old dogmas of the lakist does not trouble his verse much he is seldom sheepish in wolf's clothing like some of his household and cloth. That the world is wonderful and good, that life and toil are not a curse, that prayer means strength for the soul are ideas that pervade the more earth-born no less than the child of white mists and bleak hills and stern faith. Even Darwinism only puts the first - cause some steps back and leaves life and death and the world-riddle as dark and mysterious as before.

In politics he has always been a good friend of light and freedom and advance. His novel "Vittoria" esponsed the Italian cause in time of trial: like others he paid glowing homage to the soul and metal of Mazzini: few can forget the great chapter entitled "A Duel in a Pass". One of his best sonnets was written to his friend now swaying Indian destinies: a short poem dealt with the death and life-toil of the old chief of that friend. Although a staunch patriot (as his studies of sea-man and husbandman and lord of earth in riches or in rough toil attest) he has never shouted in the streets or decried other races and lands. His fondness for France did not blind him to the fact that the fate which befel her in the last war was a punishment: but even Gustave Flaubert felt the same. "Forgetful is green earth" (page 128) but the gods still remember and strike: he just said "We hear an iron heel" of the Prussian troups when they got to Paris. In our own late struggle with the Boers (page 208) he fastened the blood-guilt on both sides: quite lately he was carried to the poll from his sick-bed to vote for free food.

His portraits of women bear witness to a great social change that has come since the early years of the late Queen. No type like Diana is to be found in the pages of Jane Austen: she could sooner have written that courttale (what a thought!) to deck the old deeds of Wettins. For this reason no writer is so modern in the eyes of "fair ladies in revolt" and such as want home-rule or model homes: we hear it said "he knows us more than we do", "he is so genial and sane", "one hates other women, his are fine". Mill in his famous little treatise over-looked certain psychical shades which spell varieties of sex, but the wakeful "Welt-Kind" is aware of them. Like a true evolutionist he teaches that new knowledge is needful for the after-growth through mother-hood of the whole type:

Materies opus est ut crescant postera saecla;

Vitaque mancipio nulli datur omnibus usu.

Is he a great master of style? Some like his studied scents and hues, others doubt: the nick-name "flamboyant" has been cast at him: the lakist might certainly have said such a stream was less limpid than his own. Though others have seized stuff from his store-house (if these words are fair coin) and adapted his hints and ideas, his style is somewhat childless and fatherless we cannot say at once to which current of the grand old river it belongs. As Taine's splendid survey of Balzac and the countless number of good styles is as true and fitting of Meredith it may well be cited here at length “La poésie orientale n'a rien de plus éblouissant, ni de plus magnífique; c'est un luxe et un enivrement; on nage dans un ciel de parfums et de lumières, et toutes les voluptés des jours d'été entrent dans les sens et dans le cœur, tressaillantes et bourdonnantes comme un essaim de papillons diaprés. Évidemment cet homme, quoi qu'on ait dit et quoi qu'il ait fait, savait sa langue; même, il la savait aussi bien que personne, seulement il l'employait à sa ,façon".

Taine (who understood all things English and prized clearness and strength) might well have been glad of this handbook for its theme and method of treatment. It yields little that is doubtful for its own sake or as a survey of a large mind: in any case it is rash to dispute with one who has talked so much to the master himself (preface page VII). The friend to whose memory it is inscribed seems as mist-like by now as those copies in 'light-blue" bookshops twenty years ago. Yet if life often brings “a dusty answer" as the first dew fades from the hill-flowers, the friendship of certain books lasts. It is well to go back to a bright star which beamed on gray courts and green banks and brought new longings and joy-in-life: even though it did not ripen vine-grapes it still showed fresh outlooks and hope. One stanza from Martin's Puzzle (not mentioned in this short work) has always struck me as his highest and best message to an age of doubt:

Stop a minute! I seize an idea from the pit;

They tell us that discord, though discord alone,

May be harmony when the notes properly fit:
Am I judging of all by a single false tone?

Is the Universe one immense Organ that rolls
From devils to angels? I'm blind with the sight:

It pours such a splendour on heaps of poor souls;

I might try at kneeling with Molly to-night.

Viareggio, June 24th 1906.

Maurice Todhunter.

Robert Buchanan. Some Account of his Life, his Life's Work and his Literary Friendships by Harriett Jay. London, T. Fisher Unwin, 1903. XII und 324 SS.

Unter den nicht in erster reihe stehenden englischen dichtern des vergangenen jahrhunderts lassen sich kaum zwei entgegengesetztere naturen finden, als Aubrey de Vere (vgl. Engl. Stud. 37, 272) und Robert Buchanan. Jener demütig, autoritätsbedürftig - dieser eine durch und durch oppositionelle natur, ein kühner denker und rücksichtsloser sprecher, der sich dem kirchlichen christentum gegenüber äusserungen gestattete, die dem frommen irländer blasphemisch klingen mussten. Jener voll anerkennung für seine mitstrebenden dieser stets bereit, die

literarische grösse des tages zu bekämpfen. De Vere's leben bewegt sich still auf weltfernen gleisen, in wohlgeordneten verhältnissen Buchanan steht mitten auf dem jahrmarkt des lebens, muss immer wieder, nicht ohne eigene schuld, mit nahrungssorgen kämpfen, wobei sich seine bedeutende kraft zersplitterte.

Buchanan's vater war ein schottischer schneidergeselle, der sein handwerk bald aufgab, um sich als jünger des sozialisten Robert Owen ganz der propaganda sozialistischer ideen zu widmen; seine mutter, an der der sohn mit heisser liebe hing, die tochter eines eines ebenfalls sozialistisch gesinnten advokaten. Recht kümmerlich schlug sich das junge ehepaar mit seinem am 18. August 1841 geborenen sohn Robert durch die welt, bis sich sein vater 1850 in Glasgow niederliess als redakteur einer sehr weit links stehenden zeitung. Dann kam eine reihe von guten tagen und jahren, die Buchanan senior so wenig vertragen konnte, dass er sich auf gewagte spekulationen einliess. Schon 1859 kam es zu einem vollständigen bankrott. Der dichter konnte somit seine eigene unfähigkeit, die gunst des tages praktisch auszunützen, als eine verhängnisvolle väterliche erbschaft betrachten. Im folgenden jahr, im Mai 1860, floh der junge Buchanan, um der not des hausstandes seiner eltern zu entgehen, nach London, hinter dem rücken der eltern, ganz mittellos, aber voll vertrauen auf die eigene kraft: Don't forget that I have still hands and a brain,

both of which may accomplish miracles, heisst es in einem seiner damaligen briefe an seine mutter.

Sehr anschaulich ist in der uns vorliegenden, von der novellistin und schauspielerin Miss Harriett Jay, der schwägerin und zugleich pflegetochter Buchanans, verfassten biographie das harte ringen des jünglings in jenen ersten Londoner tagen geschildert, in denen er oft dem verhungern nahe war. Unwillkürlich wenden sich unsere augen zurück in das 18. jahrhundert zu dem nahezu gleichaltrigen dichterknaben Thomas Chatterton, dessen ultimum refugium auch die lockende metropolis gewesen war, und der in ihr elendiglich zugrunde gegangen war. Der kräftigere, willensstarke Buchanan aber ging nicht unter. Allmählich knüpfte er verbindungen mit zeitungsverlegern an, die ihm seine arbeiten abnahmen und, freilich kärglich genug, bezahlten. Auch diesen für ihn so wichtigen männern gegenüber trat der junge schotte sehr selbstbewusst auf; einmal war er sogar nahe daran, sich an einem verleger, von dem er sich schlecht behandelt glaubte, in ganz ähnlicher weise wie seinerzeit Samuel Johnson tätlich zu vergreifen. Bald versuchte er sich auch in selbständiger dramatischer produktion und in der dramatisierung populärer einer tätigkeit, die ihm späterhin grosse erfolge und grosse, von ihm leider immer wieder schnell verschleuderte, einnahmen verschaffte. In seiner literarischen und dramaturgischen lehrzeit aber waren alle seine einkünfte so bescheidener und so unsicherer art, dass seine schon im jahre 1861 erfolgte verheiratung dem leser der biographie als ein grosses wagnis erscheinen muss, als ein neuer beweis seines unerschütterlichen selbstvertrauens.

romane

-

In späteren jahren ist auch Buchanan mit vielen mehr oder minder berühmten kollegen von der feder in berührung gekommen. Aber während de Vere die reizbaren literaten trefflich zu behandeln verstand und viele freunde unter ihnen gewann, fanden verschiedene dieser verbindungen Buchanans ein frühes und unerfreuliches ende, vor allem, weil Buchanan trotz seiner eigenen zwanglosigkeit doch argwöhnisch und leicht gekränkt war. So verdarb er sich seine freundlichen beziehungen zu dem bekannten philosophen und ästhetiker George Henry Lewes dadurch, dass er sich gegen dessen vergötterte lebensgefährtin, die grosse erzählerin George Eliot, deren zurückhaltendes, stolzes wesen ihm unangenehm war und deren werke seinen beifall nicht fanden,