| | | | | | There is something in the composition of an heroic poem, a poem | of many parts, elaborate and sustained, which naturally awakes our | sympathy. The author needs to be supported in his undertaking by | far other than vulgar aims; he cannot hope for golden rewards, nor | for general praise. When he sits down to his work, and its length | stretches out before him, the most fluent pen will hang suspended, | loath to begin a great labour; the most sanguine heart sink at the | task before it, glancing over the visionary scheme, the Alps upon | Alps which must be surmounted. How many bright expectations | must fade in discouragement, how many fancied successes yield to | the severity of a calmer judgment; how many images, clear in the | distance, must pale into indistinctness when their place awaits | them; how many harshnesses must be smoothed down, and | resolute obscurities be made intelligible, before the end comes. | What hopeless hours, what toilsome days loom upon the fancy | when the poet's genius will seem to desert him, or treacherously | elude his grasp, shining on the distant peaks of his plan, and | leaving him dark and unaided to his present task. What breaks and | chasms in the grand design, where over-arching imagination | reveals no path; what links wanting in the golden chain which | conscious poverty knows not how to supply! Wakeful nights and | care-worn days, and haunting perverse measures sounding on | wearied ears, self-mistrust, dread of others, all these casting their | shadows before, must dog the steps, and float dark phantoms round | the man who aspires to write an epic; who entertains that lordly | ambition, who would concentrate all his powers in that struggle for | fame; who would try that all but hopeless passage through | unknown poetic seas. Facing the strictures of sharp criticism, the | indifference of common readers, the contempt of the practical | world; resting on the future as the hopes of the present slip away | from him, he makes the hero's choice noble labour for inglorious | ease; and he must needs brace and purify his mind, as the athlete | his physical powers, by stern discipline, for the conflict. A great | poem is a great labour; even the attempt at one is self-denial, and | toil, and pain; it is the sweat of a man's brow, though airs from | heaven fan him, and hope, and gleams of a loftier joy cheer him on | his way. And so | | it is that with little respect for Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton as an | author, with a deep sense of the danger of that literature to which | he is a leading contributor, which undermines the broad principles | of right and wrong, by the systematic substitution of sentiment for | principle, which nicely discriminates between vice and crime, and | sees something sublime in the perpetration of enormous sins; | though we are well weary also of his vague philosophical | speculations, and all the mannerism and affectation with which | they are put forth, the yearnings after the Beautiful and the True, | which end too often in some horrible breach of God's and man's | laws; yet we have felt sympathy for him as a poet. It is a step in | advance. The hero of an epic poem, for such 'King Arthur' aspires | to be, must embody juster and nobler thoughts than the | melodramatic hero of a novel. The very construction and outward form | of the work is an earnest of higher aspirations, and persuades us | beforehand to expect better things. Its very length, its twelve | books, and innumerable stanzas, its careful arrangement, and | adjustment of parts to the whole, and of subordinate interests to the | main one, its attention to precedent, and obedience to critical laws, | its fable and episodes, its allegories and morals, its similes and | descriptions, its learning and research, the patient toil of mature | years expended on the first dream of young romance, all forward | this expectation; that must be a better and higher work which at | such expense of thought and labour chooses the fabled prince of | honour and chivalry for its theme, than those which indulge in such | impersonations as Pelham, or Philip Beaufort, or Eugene Aram; | there must be some chastening of the fancy, some preliminary | purification of heart and mind for such an enterprise. | | And in a popular writer, who has won the public ear, there is some | real sacrifice in thus renouncing the lighter toils of fiction, with | their instant need of appreciation and praise, as well as more | substantial rewards, for the ordeal of critics, who in poetry | constitute a far larger proportion of the whole amount of readers | than in prose. In these days the mass of readers will not read | poetry. Poetry used to be called light reading, and young people, | in the morality of a former generation, were warned against | wasting too much time on its fascinations. But the ingenuity of the | present age has invented something much lighter, and easier of | digestion, and the popular class of readers will not now endure the | labour of extracting the sense from verse. To most minds poetry is | a labour; it will not reveal its meaning to the absolutely passive and | lazy; they must take some trouble to enter into it, and that trouble | need not now be taken by those who seek only amusement from | reading, the case of the majority: for the popular literature of the | day needs no | | more thought, or study, or preparation of mind, than any scene or | pageant got up for the eye alone. The novels of society, which | have poured forth within the last thirty years, with the vast | facilities for skipping, which prose presents, should the author ever | attempt to introduce more serious matter than stirring incident and | sprightly dialogue, the more modern invention still of serials, | where even the fatigues of sustained attention are avoided, and the | voluntary effort of closing the volume on the unfinished story is | spared the reader, the author doing this for him ~~ all have tended | to make the most attractive, and least abstruse poetry, something of | an effort and exertion. Most of our readers will feel that it is easier | to spend half an hour on a half-forgotten number of Martin | Chuzzlewit, or Vanity Fair, than in reviving the early fascinations | of Thalaba, or the Lady of the Lake; and people commonly choose, | not the noblest or most intense pleasures, but those which are | easiest come at. Watch a crowd passing along the street of a gay | watering-place, on the one side are glittering shops and gay | equipages, on the other that plain of illimitable waters they have | traveled so many miles to see: all eyes are fixed on the gay scene, | and the fine things; the billows of the eternal ocean roll and flash | in vain. | | And no-one could be | better aware of all this than Sir Edward | Bulwer Lytton, himself one of the main props and pillars of the | circulating library, and who has tasted the glories of extensive | popularity. All the honours of the greasy volume are his. The | open page, redolent of cigars and candle-snuff, and contaminated | with the stains and odours of a hundred slatternly tables and untidy | homes, scored and underscored too, with many a comment of | untaught but earnest sympathy, however disgusting to the refined | reader who follows in the wake of popular appreciation, are like so | many rents and tatters in the battle-flag, to the victorious author. | And these are to be found only in the prose volume; or if a page of | poetry occurs therein, that page is not more distinguished by | difference of type, and arrangement of its lines, than by its fewer | thumb-marks, and whiter margin. None we say, could know all | this better than our author; he could never even hope to see a soiled | copy of 'King Arthur;' he wrote for a smaller, a more deserving, a | more fastidious class of readers, to whom he must present his | thoughts in their fairest, purest, and most chastened guise. This | was the task he must have set himself, however much formed | habits might interfere with these resolves: and therefore by the | very publication of a long poem our respect is raised. It is a more | magnanimous ambition, a search for a higher fame. It runs risks, it | braves neglects, it has essayed a hard, though it may be a pleasant | | task. Nor has this sympathy, which arose from the very nature of | the case been abated by our perusal of the poem. In these days of | skimming and glancing, and passing over uncut leaves, it is no | usual, no inconsiderable task, to have read through deliberately, a | poem of twelve books, averaging 170 or 180 stanzas each. What | then must it have been to have written them? We may really feel | lost in the greatness of the undertaking, and feel a generous pity | too for an author whose chosen, whose darling labour it has been, | when experience suggests how small the ultimate success and | consideration is likely to be for such an outlay of thought and | energy. | | There are many striking passages, many picturesque scenes, many | eloquent descriptions, and yet the conviction strengthens and | grows upon us, that the book will not be read. That it has already | come to a second edition is no contravention of this belief: the | author's name would cause his poem to be bought and ordered: | people will do this to a certain extent, but they will not read it. It is | therefore that pity mingles with our sympathy. A long poem in | these days is a sort of forlorn hope; the chances of failure so far | outbalance success, that just as we may always boldly hazard that | that assemblage of human beings called the World, will on any | given trial behave ill, so without reading it we may safely | conjecture that a long heroic poem by any author whose standing | and reputation are known will not be read. We take no credit to | ourselves for the prophecy. The sight of the book, the very turning | over the leaves, the difficulty inherent in the plan of throwing the | mind into the narrative, or comprehending the trials and adventures | of the hero, speak for themselves. They give a distaste, which a | well-founded hope might perhaps overcome, but people are slow to | entertain such hopes when they involve some real exertion on their | parts. Not yielding to such forebodings, however, it is thus | feelingly that our author speaks of his own finished work, in the | concluding words of his preface. | | | | Nor do we wonder that he should entertain these sentiments. The | book bears indications of fond and patient care. It is not an | effusion, but it contains all his mind, all his best mind, that is: | | all the philosophy and speculation of his prose is refined and | sublimated into verse; and they look and sound the better for the | change. But, after all, it is the same thing | over again; not only would any reader acquainted with his | numerous novels at once recognise the author, the resemblance is | much closer; it not only betrays the same turn of mind, it says the | same things, and images forth the same scenes. We could prove | this by parallel passages, but space would not allow us to do so by | examples numerous enough for our purpose. There is something | in repetition, which perhaps gives the notion of poverty of | invention more than it ought. An author may say the same thing a | great many times, because he is struck with its importance, not | because he has nothing else to say; but certainly this poem loses | much by perpetually sending us back to where what is said in its | pages was said for the first time, particularly where the thought has | not become clearer by being retouched and dwelt upon. This is | especially the case in the recurrence of Sir E. B. Lytton's most | characteristic abstract speculations, what may be termed his | Adverbial Philosophy. When the Far, the High, the Real, the | Actual, the Here, the There, the Everywhere, which have haunted | his prose so long, appear in their pristine vagueness in his verse, | we are tempted to interrupt so much learning, and to inquire if we | have not heard all this before? Nor is there much in the structure | and harmony of the verse to atone for want of freshness in the | thoughts. The language is always careful, the verse flowing, and | often eloquent; all exhibits facility, and considerable power; it is | the appropriate expression of an energetic and cultivated mind, but | it wants the nameless, indescribable charms of poetry. The writers | of poetical prose, indeed, do not often write poetical verse; with | them the verse is only the translation of | the prose, not that fresh coinage of the brain which does not exist | at all till it starts into life complete in harmonious numbers. But | we must leave preliminary remarks to enter upon the work, such as | it is. | | The author adduces with complacency, as he has reason to do, the | examples of Milton and Dryden in support of his selection of a | subject. But, with the utmost deference for these great men, we yet | demur to the judiciousness of his choice. There is so much poetry | in the name and traditions of the British Prince as might well | suggest him as a fitting hero; but, on second and more deliberate | thought, may his not have been found too shadowy and unreal an | image for the mind to raise a great fabric upon? For, in truth, | Arthur has been played with, and refined, and invested with new | attributes and deprived of old ones, till it almost seems as if | nobody ever did believe in him ~~ as if he never had had an | historical existence. The Troubadours who chose him as their hero | discard every national or probable feature. They | | make him and his knights exactly what suits them at the moment; | so that he is now only thought of in conjunction with a state of | society ~~ the chivalrous ~~ which had no existence in his day. It | was a name, and no more, which they took, and made what they | liked of. But in this false image set up and acknowledged, the idea | of the true British monarch is irrecoverably lost. Judging from | Dryden's proposed plan of celestial machinery, he must have | designed to set aside the Arthur of popular fable, with his wizards | and fairies, and to have recourse to something more probable ~~ | adventures which might sanction the proposed introduction of | angels and dominions, the celestial guardians of nations, who | contend in heaven while their several charges fight on earth. What | Milton's Arthur would have been we presume not to guess, and the | thought probably never took a very definite form; only we may | feel sure that he would not have been Arthur of chivalry, for while | extolling his ultimate choice of subject, 'long choosing and | beginning late;' he professes himself in a tone of contempt as ~~ | | | | The Arthur of the popular fancy is not a more real personage than | King Oberon or King Cole; and perhaps it is this very freedom | from all the trammels of fact, which has made him a favourite | thought and theme with the poets ~~ poets of such different ages | and such various genius. | | But too unlimited a freedom is really as little to be desired in art as | in morals. Lacking all substantial reality, Sir E. B. Lytton's hero | vacillates between extremes ~~ alternately the prince of fairy land, | with magic gifts and unearthly trials and the man of the present day, | acute, intelligent, well-informed: and this breach of what the | critics quaintly call 'manners' in the hero, with whom it has still | been the author's wish to observe them, is more conspicuous in the | general conduct of the poem. It is, in fact, too often a masque; the | personages are men of our own time, wearing the disguise of | knights or ancient Britons, as the case maybe; much as the fine | ladies of the last century arrayed themselves in flowers and crooks, | and, in spite of hoops and high-heeled shoes, called themselves | Arcadian shepherdesses. In the author's elaborate portraits of the | Knights of the Round Table, the reader's attention is entirely | engaged in seeking for their originals in our army or the senate; | and sometimes disguise is so completely thrown off, that it is | evident the modern has forgotten to assume the gorgeous | | habit of his part, and appears upon the stage in plain clothes. So it | is with Ludovick, king of the Vandals, and his counselor Astutio | ~~ in other words, Louis Philippe and Guizot. The introduction of | this monarch is, indeed, as fatal to all illusion as was the | appearance of the mouse in the fairy tale; the pretended princess | did not more instantaneously change to her old feline form and | nature, than does our poet into the eager politician at the scent of | this outwitter of his house and name. Until we have had the whole | quarrel out, and have witnessed all the revenge that words can take, | we are withheld from all thought or interest in the remote theme | which professes to engage our attention. A dangerous experiment | in the poet, as those far seeing glasses into the past, through which | he would win one glance, are not easily or readily re-adjusted, | when once their focus has been rudely disturbed. | | For the reader's sake, however, we will arrange them to the best of | our power, and give to those who have not yet read for themselves | some insight into the fable. | | Such as he is, then, our poet has chosen Arthur for his hero; and | has taken the popular view of him as the head and founder of | chivalry, with all chivalric symbols and accompaniments, rather | than adhered to the few and faint glimpses of his historical | character; and we will not quarrel with this decision; for the | popular mind knows very little of British life under the Roman | sway, and may have too barbarous a notion of an ancient Briton | whom history from earliest childhood described to us as a very | unsophisticated personage, but by no means a theme for heroic | song. At the same time, he prefers keeping so far to probability as | to confine his kingdom to South Wales, instead of suffering him to | reign over the whole of Britain, according to the | fabliaux . He considers, too, that by thus circumscribing his | dominions he preserves his heroic dignity, as still in his | descendants preserving what he originally held, instead of being | ultimately dispossessed by the Saxon. | | The scene opens in the Vale of Carduel, synonymous with Carleon, | in the Usk, and supposed to be the capital of Arthur's dominions. | This city is invested by the poet with an importance and a beauty, | which, though somewhat beyond our notions of rigid truth, is | allowable in the very shadowy realm of his romance. However, it | seems that certain chroniclers attest to the 'gilded domes of | Carduel,' and other signs of Roman civilization. In this vale the | king keeps holiday. It is spring time ~~ the poet's month of May | ~~ and knights and ladies rejoice in the glad season. The king at | once shares and reasons upon the universal joy: ~~ | | | | | And all the gay circle echoed, 'Time is but to blame.' When | suddenly there gloomed upon the circle, 'the shade of some | phantasmal thing,' which muttering from its spectral veil, (much | after the fashion of that Dweller of the Threshold which haunts the | pages of Zanoni,) summons the king away. Arthur rises from his | dream of pleasure, and follows the phantom within the thick shade | of a neighbouring forest. | | It was long before he reappeared, his countenance bearing traces of | an unearthly conflict, with its pale features and involuntary | shudderings; though repressed by kingly pride. Stedfastly refusing | to give any account of his adventure, he returns with his | discomfited train to the city. At midnight he rises from his | sleepless couch, and walks out upon the walls of the city. There | the lone taper shining from Merlin's tower strikes his eye, and at | once he resolves to make the enchanter a sharer in his dread secret. | We will give, in his own words, the author's description of the | great magician: these possessors of unearthly knowledge are a | favourite theme with him: ~~ | | | | | | There is something in this parenthesis of the wizard ~~ 'The young, | perchance are right,' ~~ a little too commonplace and merely moral | to suit our notions of the character; but, throughout, Merlin ~~ of | all antique conceptions the most ancient ~~ has too much of the | modern talker and philosopher about him. The author desires only | to make him a sage ~~ a sage with him is a man of modern | discoveries and ways of thought ~~ so that he gives him none of | the characteristics of one conversant with and master of the unseen | demon world, a lore which must necessarily separate him from | merely human instincts. | | | | Arthur then reveals to the enchanter his mysterious adventure in | the forest, where the phantom had led him to a black, sunless pool, | and there shown him, as in a mirror, the miseries and final | conquest of his race by the Saxon; accompanying this fatal pageant | with words of gloomy prophecy. To this Arthur had replied in | indignant despair, and the phantom vanished. The enchanter then | has recourse to his magic arts, and there ensues a great turmoil of | unseen spirits, which shakes the tower to its foundations, and casts | Arthur into a swoon. When day returns he wakes, to find Merlin | by his side with the mystic answer his charms have won. It is | ordained that for one year the king must leave his kingdom, to | wander forth alone in search of three gifts, by which alone the evil | augury of the demon-pool can be averted. | | | | | 'Up sprang the king,' in ardent hope and firm resolve, and that day | departs on his mission, while the prophet summons a council in the | halls of Carduel, and reveals to the assembled princes their king's | self-exile. A tender parting between Arthur and his bosom friend, | Sir Lancelot, closes the first book. | | The second opens with some caustic reflections on the great fact, | that let who will be missing, who will depart from us, the world | still goes on its way; still the same hopes and fears actuate us; and | Carduel, though the most loyal of cities, did without its king ~~ all | but his three faithful friends, Lancelot, Caradoc, and Gawaine, who | are leading personages in the after narrative. The last knight is a | sort of butt in the Fabliaux , and therefore | occupies the same post in the present poem. We feel him to be a | great misfortune to the book. It is no real recommendation of a | joke that it is five hundred or a thousand years old; yet this is the | only justification of the grotesque incidents and dilemmas which | form this knight's career. These adventures are, however, | evidently great favourites with the author; who dwells upon them, | and returns to them, and secretly chuckles over them. They are | also vehicles for satire of modern ways of thinking and acting, | which he thinks felicitous, and which, indeed, sometimes do | possess humour. Sir Gawaine, then, is the lawful depositary of all | the wit and waggery of the volume; but what infatuation could | have induced an author aspiring to the highest walk of poetry ~~ | building himself a name and place for his fame to dwell in ~~ what | evil genius, we ask, could have led him to introduce his bard ~~ | the bard of song who is destined for so bright a career and so | glorious an end ~~ whose muse is to sway men's hearts, and teach | them to triumph over pain and death ~~ to exhibit him first in a | ridiculous | | light. When, in the eleventh book, Caradoc has to do heroic deeds | ~~ to lead on a despairing nation to victory ~~ does the author | suppose that his reader can forget the original epic? No; he has | placed us permanently above his bard; he has constituted us critics. | It is irrevocably fixed and settled in our minds that Sir Caradoc | was a scribbler of bad verses, which would have been pronounced | great stuff in these enlightened days. | | | | While these three faithful friends mused over their absent lord, | Merlin presents himself to them, and informs them that one of | them is destined to join and aid the object of their thoughts. After | some mystic trials, the choice falls on Lancelot, who receives from | the enchanter a ring, in which a fairy hand ever points the way he | should go; and the story returns to Arthur's adventures. Arrived at | the sea-shore, he is gifted with a mysterious guide in the form of a | dove, which deserves some distinct notice at our hands, as to the | sacrifice of the probable, which Sir E. B. Lytton, in common with | the critics, considers essential to the interest of an epic poem; the | snow-white bird develops, towards the end of the book, into the | fair bride of song, the spotless Genevieve: ~~ | | | | | | The first flight of the mystic bird brings our hero into the court of | Louis Philippe, and right into the thick of modern politics. An | author should not thus play tricks with the harmony and | consistency of his poem. No bird files its own nest. It is hard | enough, without these rough shocks, to keep up our belief in a tale | of wildest romance ~~ by belief meaning a state of mind to receive | things in a certain order, in fit harmony and relation. | | If the author is so intent on unmasking the wiles of his personal | enemy, and triumphing over his downfall, as to forget his story, | can he expect the reader that he shall obediently take up the thread | of the real narrative when he chooses to resume it, and follow the | hero with due credence, in his fairy conflicts with wild men and | beasts and demons? In fact, however much the scheme of this | poem may have been a boyish fancy, the conduct of it betrays, | throughout, the man of modern times and modern ways of thinking. | He has none of that infatuation for the age | and the scene he portrays to carry him clear over, or only faintly to | touch upon the modern analogies which present themselves. | However there is a slight attempt to identify Arthur with the | modern scene. It occurs to King Ludovick at first as a subject of | regret that he should have no unmarried daughter to propose for so | excellent a match as the British king: but he may have a sister: ~~ | | | | | In this dilemma he has recourse to his friend Astutio: ~~ | | | The snow-white dove takes alarm at their conference, and compels | her charge to take a hasty leave of the Vandal court, just in time to | escape being betrayed by his unscrupulous host into the hands of a | Saxon embassage come to ask the Vandal aid against their enemies | the British. With the Saxon Harold we return to the legitimate | story. He is a heathen, and a barbarian; and represents a brave foe | under this twofold disadvantage. On hearing that Arthur has just | quitted the Vandal court, he pursues with bloodhounds to track his | unknown course; and, bidding adieu to the king and his ministers, | and his marriageable son, and all the details of modern civilization | on which for many stanzas we have dwelt, we pursue Arthur into | the remote and desolate wilds where his destiny leads him. Here | are some graphic scenes. In the two following extracts we see that | taste for symmetry, as opposed to the picturesque, which always | characterises this author; and which gives grace to so many of his | pictures. In all his scenes, whether of beauty or terror, this | symmetry is observable. The wolf and the savage, on opposite | sides of the ravine, hold their equal course. The king takes his | statue-like position on the circular mound, a grove on either side. | And in subsequent scenes, however various in other | | respects, this love of order, of due balance and proportion, are | conspicuous. Whether it be a procession of maidens, a ridge of | ice-rocks, a circle of Titan giants ~~ images of symmetrical | arrangements are always occurring. | | In the meanwhile the king has made some progress on his journey; | and comes, towards night, to an idol shrine. | | | | Unconscious of the double foe, Arthur lies down to sleep under a | beech tree, the wakeful dove resting among its branches. The man | and the wolf reach him at the same moment, the one | | prepares to spring; the other lifts the dagger to strike. The next | moment the king is roused from his slumbers by a dull crash, a | horrible discord from the howlings of the beast and the groans of | man. | | | | By heroic strength Arthur strangles the wolf in his grasp, and | releases his savage foe, whose first act is to renew his assault in | vindictive impotence. Arthur with a noble pity disarms and | reasons, and in the end converts the wild heathen to Christianity, | and then passes on his way. Soon at the same spot arrives Harold | with his bloodhounds still tracking the adventurer's path. They are | observed in their furious pursuit by the Aleman convert, who, | unperceived by them, suspects their design. At length, the hounds | come within sight of their prey. | | | | | | There follows a combat between Arthur and Harold, with such | feats of valour on the hero's part as are becoming the occasion, | concluding with a general skirmish between the Saxon retinue and | a band of Aleman savages, whom the convert had brought to the | rescue. The fray terminates in a truce between the hostile parties, | and a picture is drawn of the hero and the hovering dove which | would better suit our taste were it not obviously, though perhaps | unconsciously, borrowed from a sacred scene of which we can | endure no parody. | | And now the story suddenly transports us to a very different scene. | All poets of all times have loved to imagine a terrestrial paradise, a | blissful region, somewhere short of Heaven. It is the imaginative | child's earliest dream ~~ all ages and all climes have indulged in | the vision; on the tops of mountains, in hidden valleys, on islands | beyond the sea, in the spaces of mid air, in palaces below the deep, | amid the secret glittering treasures of the hills, the fancy has sought | to make for itself a home, a refuge from all the change and stir of | this outer world. | | The thought is no doubt a tradition ~~ a memory of our lost Eden | ~~ however much each erring human fancy may tarnish its | brightness or colour it with its own longings or impressions. | Perhaps a Christian man ought not to build his fairy isle of rest in | heathendom, but unquestionably a religion of definite faith and | stern duty finds no fit home in these elysiums where duty has no | place or where all duties are easy. | | To one of these scenes of unbroken happiness we are transported | by our author, who lavishes on it a wealth of luxurious description. | The charge of plagiarism is so often unfair, and minds like those of | the present writer so much oftener repeat themselves than | consciously borrow from any other source, that we will not say that | the idea of Ægle and her unchanging kingdom is taken from M. D'Israeli's similar fancy of a | beautiful young queen and a last home for heathen deities; we only | | remark upon the close resemblance in several points between the | realms of Astarte and of Ægle. Before Italy had yielded to the | aggression of early Roman power, a wise Etrurian chief, | forewarned of the conquest of his country, fled from 'fruitful | Fiesolè' with his household gods and a chosen band of followers to | seek a secure asylum beyond Ausonian bounds. | | Here it chanced that one of their band fell from the top of some | huge Alp, and in searching for his remains to perform the pious | rites of sepulture they discovered, through some small chasm at the | end of a rugged defile, a valley of most exquisite beauty and | fertility. The access to this sunny region was only through a long | and narrow cave. Through this they passed, and taking possession, | built themselves a Sylvan city. Nothing now failed them but the | smiles of home ~~ an adventurous few returned, and wives and | children soon gladdened the hearth. With these objects of dearer | care they brought the gifts of their parent soil, corn, the grape, and | the olive, and now every want and wish supplied, 'they closed the | rocky portals of the place' to preserve their posterity from the evils | of the outer world. And centuries passed by and brought no | change: ~~ | | This fairy scene is now peopled by expectant bands, ~~ bands of | maidens who remind the poet by turns of the Naiads, the Oreads, | the Napææ, the Hours. These wreathed with garland fetters and | linked hand in hand are waiting the coming of some glorious | stranger, they know not whom, some gifted messenger from the | gods. | | And thus it is. The kingly race is now reduced to its last scion ~~ a | princess more lovely than a poet's dream, and by the laws of that | ancient and unchanging realm the daughters of the royal race may | not marry or intermingle with the meaner tribes of the valley, their | choice being confined to the 'pure circle of the Lartian race.' | | Who, then, is to wed the fair Ægle? The Arch Augur in the | difficulty consults the archives, and finds that | twice before in their annals the stock has been reduced to | one solitary stem; and to renew the race, ~~ rather than break | through the laws of custom and introduce the seeds of ambition | and consequent anarchy, ~~ the priests had secretly opened the | portal into the | | outer world, and lured in from thence some wanderer into their | hidden valley, announcing the stranger to their simple flock as a | gift from the gods. As such he was the idol of an hour, but his | season of bliss and homage was short as it was blissful. Sir E. | Bulwer's priests never share the harmless or generous qualities of | the people whom they govern. Whether they worship Odin, or | Freya, or the gentler Etrurian divinities, or a Master indeed Divine, | they are equally merciless and inexorable. He has a notion of | priestcraft which places them all in the same category. The Priests | therefore made no difficulty of getting rid of their troublesome | guest when his task was done. | | They lead their unconscious victim to the temple of the god of the | Shades, which bounds the opposite end of the valley; there a dark | rushing stream engulfs the hapless bridegroom. | | For nine days the Augur had announced the coming of the | heavenly spouse, ~~ for nine days he had wandered in vain search | through the wild outer region of rocks and caves, rarely trod by | man; on the tenth, the signal torch streams from the temple, the | divine stranger comes. We will not insult our reader's penetration | by a more definite announcement. | | | | We need not say the mutual impression is as instantaneous as the | augur could desire. The poor dove may well retire from | | the scene, and coo in solitude amidst the gloomy pines and rugged | rocks without that paradise where her hero has found a rest; her | guiding wing is desired no longer. | | The same scene is resumed after some digression in the fourth | book, the author endeavouring to relieve the luxury of florid | description by some touches of his lighter manner. | | | | The priest then with 'laboured words and slow' proceeds to | acknowledge Arthur as a branch of the same parent stock; judging | from his language that he, too, was of Phœnician origin. Arthur | has never heard of Rasena, by which the augur designates Etruria, | but owns to some dim recollection of the Phœnician name, and | courteously expresses his satisfaction at hearing the priest speak ~~ | | The priest then anxiously inquires the latest news from Rasena. | | | | | | It is thus, that for the sake of a jest, the author again sacrifices | reality and all those 'decencies' of which the critics make such | point, and places the religion of his poem on as shadowy basis as | the poetry of his bard. We speak of it as a matter of taste, being | aware that we have no reason to expect from the poet the propriety | of feeling inspired by an earnest faith; but, surely, in this view | alone, he ought to identify himself with the creed of his hero, and | be jealous for it, not, in his desire to exhibit an acquaintance with | all religious systems, to admit flippant doubts and insinuations | against articles of belief which all Christians hold in awe or | reverence. | | But to return to our story. While Arthur passes away his time in | this garden of delights, the reader is carried back to Sir Lancelot, | who has set forward on his search, after receiving the friendly ring; | he encounters the wild Convert and his sons, but the meeting only | produces an interchange of information and courtesies. They tell | him of his royal master's combat with the Saxons; he in return | acquaints them with some facts of his own history, his gifted | infancy, and the fairy charm by which he is protected from each | watery peril. He then passes on his way till he reaches the rugged | walls of Arthur's luxurious prison, and there wanders, almost as | much at fault as the child in the game of magic music; the ring, | like the sounding | | strain, resolutely pointing one way, yet revealing nothing but | inaccessible fastnesses. In one of these ineffectual searches he | encounters what seemed a phantom horse, so 'fleshless, flitting, | wan, and shadowy.' At the sight of Lancelot it paused, and feebly | neighed, and the knight recognises Arthur's war-horse, still bearing | its armour, and its master's accoutrements, soiled, rusted, and | mouldering away. The heart of the seeker fell at these ominous | indications, but leading the reluctant charger, he pursues his way | through a narrow gorge of black rocks, down which invisible | torrents sweep, till he reaches a broad lake, and his ears are greeted | by the toll of a bell from a convent on its margin. Having brought | help so near, the story returns to the hero, still in his happy dream | of love, on which the poet dwells with many graceful expressions | of sympathy, and lofty encomiums on the power and salutary | wonders of that much-lauded passion. Arthur and Ægle have | talked Phœnician together ~~ we are not informed how long, to | their mutual delight, when he is startled by a missive borne into the | inaccessible valley by Merlin's fit messenger, the raven, who | figures not seldom in the narrative; in this instance as a serious | personage, more commonly in impish and grotesque fashion. The | enchanter tells him that the Saxons are invading his native land. | At this announcement all the king and the hero return upon him; he | starts as from a trance; the silken ties of love and ease are broken. | At once he seeks the augur reclining under Dodonian boughs, and | bids him ~~ | | The augur's reply is prompt and decisive. | | | Arthur promises secrecy on his knightly word, but persists in his | demand. The augur contemptuously upbraids him with treachery | to Ægle; in vain Arthur protests his faith, and promises to return; | the augur is inexorable, and still hopes through Ægle's charms and | persuasions to detain him, but when these are vain, or rather when | she submits, and acquiesces in those higher principles of action | which he pleads, though only dimly comprehending his reasons for | preferring war to peace, and duty to love; the indignant priest leads | him to the only outlet permitted to him from that blissful kingdom, | through dark forests, and cities of tombs, to the gloomy temple of | the Shades. This passage gives room for a full description of an | Etrurian temple, and of the mythology and divinities of this ancient | | people, about which modern research has discovered so much. | Behind the inner doors of this fatal shrine, yawns a cavern where | dark waters flow, ~~ smoothly flow for a space, ~~ but beyond, | where the torch-glimmer cannot reach, is heard the turmoil of | hidden cataracts. A boat like Charon's is moored to embark the | self-condemned on this hopeless voyage. After giving the | hero-king this glimpse of his fate, the augur again offers Ægle, and | return to happiness; but Arthur defies death in lofty words, and | seizing the torch descends into the frail bark as it drifts along the | smooth treacherous waters. The dove, absent so long, wings its | way before, into the dark void. Meanwhile Ægle recovers from | her first trance of grief, and in the impulse of despair resolves to | follow her lover. She appears calm and resolute, amongst her | wondering people, and demands the way the augur and his victim | have taken. A hundred hands point towards the gloomy fane. She | will at least see him once more: to her are unknown the fatal | secrets of that outlet ~~ he is leaving her; she knows not that he is | going to death. She reaches the aisles of the temple, and there the | death-lights guide her to the yawning cave and the livid waters. | She sees afar in the gloom that noble form, that fair and dauntless | brow; but fast the bark drifts from her, soon the last gleam fades; | she hears only the rushing cataracts beyond. Voiceless she stood | in despair, voiceless the augur stood in triumphant revenge. He | loved her more than child, but his only consolation were words of | vengeance. He tells her she need now fear no rival; but his words | only rouse and give strength to her grief. She yearns to follow her | lover, even to death; and breaking away from the hands that would | hold her back, she leaps into the dark stream: one gleam of her | white garments, and she is seen no more. | | The scene then changes to the outlet of that fearful torrent, where it | falls impetuously into the lake, and Lancelot watches in vague | expectation. But the dove soon appears, guiding his steps up cliffs | and almost inaccessible chasms, to where the wild stream gains a | temporary respite, forming itself a basin amid rocks and caves. | And here on the verge lies Arthur, still wrapped in a swoon from | the struggles of that fearful passage, and in his arms the dead form | of Ægle; whom he had rescued too late from the vortex of | maddening waters. This episode terminates with two funeral | hymns for Ægle; one Eturian, and sung in her own vale, the other | by Christian monks in the monastery to which her remains are | borne; both commonplace, as well in ideas as language. Lyrical | effusions breaking in upon the stately march of an heroic poem, | should be distinguished by a peculiar grace of expression; they | should soothe | | the ear with music, and take our fancy with that gentle surprise | which an harmonious happy choice of words always inspires in the | treatment of a subject, however familiar; as all that can be said on | death and the grave, and the loss of friends must needs be. | | And now the hero enters upon the threefold search so long delayed. | As he sits in gloomy apathy on the margin of the lake of Ægle's | grave, Lancelot, who is gifted with fairy vision, discerns a | shadowy sail float along the waters, and direct its course towards | the royal mourner. But Arthur's eyes behold nothing of the | phantom bark till the dove bears to him a leaf plucked from Ægle's | grave. Then he remembers Merlin's prophetic words: ~~ | | | | He steps into the magic bark; Lancelot in vain springs after him, | the king alone enters upon his perilous search, ~~ which ends the | fifth book. | | The sixth is devoted exclusively to Sir Gawaine's comic adventures, | into which we need not enter at length. Merlin having also sent | him forth to aid the king, gives the formidable raven as his guide, | which maliciously leads him through a long course of scrapes, | dilemmas, and adventures, some of them first sung by the | troubadours, others the poet's original conception. Among these | last the habits and peculiarities of the raven suggest to the | perplexed knight the thought of exorcism, which, perhaps, the | earlier poets would not have deemed a fit subject for a jest. With | this view he proceeds to consult the bishop Henricus, in whom it is | not difficult to detect the author's portrait of a modern prelate, who | has made himself obnoxious to liberals prosaic as well as poetical, | by his zeal for what they affect to call forms, which yet they attack | with the bitterness principles alone can excite. | | We extract a few stanzas of this graceful satire, only promising that | something more than barren forms must be involved in a dispute | which can bring an epic poet a thousand years out of his course to | discuss the question of the black gown or the surplice. | | | | Through a variety of mishaps Sir Gawaine finally stumbles into the | hands of a party of Vikings, on the point of sailing northwards, | who receive him, and a hound he has picked up by the way, as a | sacrifice the Fates have sent to their goddess Freya. | | In this awkward predicament, but with spirits always alert, and | equal to the occasion, he is left by the poet, who returns to his hero | on the magic lake. Time does not allow us very closely to follow | his adventures under its waves; he sees the forest growing on a | single stem, and rejects its glittering, costly fruit, insidiously | offered by the phantom for the sword of his search, ~~ ambition | for renown. She then unwillingly conducts him to the entrance of | the cave: the allegorical scene which follows is one of the points | of the poem, and characteristic both of the author's style, and turn | of thought, but our limits only allow us to extract the first picture | which meets the seeker's eye: ~~ | | | | | | The adventurer is greeted by the youthful Genius, and asks of the | enthroned Three their names and office. | | | | Under these arches lies concealed by a veil the vision of a | three-fold future, amidst these Arthur is to choose, and by his judgment | his fate is to be decided. The first is a future of pleasures and | luxury; the next of gold and subject labour; in the third he beholds | himself reposing in glorified death the darling of Poetry and Fame; | and in shadowy succession pass by him, to do him reverence, all | the kingly heroes and high actors in the drama of our country's | history. The vision ends at the close of thirteen centuries, by | Cymri's daughter on the Saxon throne, our queen, amongst her | noble ancestry, being supposed to include the king of Welsh | romance. Arthur chooses death as the life of Fame, and grasps the | hilt of the diamond glaive, which, however, will not move to his | touch. The dove flew forth and alighted on the thorn-wreath of the | crowned statue; then rose the vulture and up-coiled the asp to seize | their victim. The image announces itself as Fame, and demands | the sacrifice which every altar claims. From Arthur he requires the | sacrifice of the heart's affections figured in the dove; but the hero | refuses even Fame, at the expense of trust betrayed, and renounces | the prize: ~~ | | | | At these heroic words his trial is over, the vulture sails sullenly | back from its prey, the asps die of their own poison, the | thorn-wreath blooms into roses, and light and joy blaze around. After | this first achievement the story diverges to Sir Lancelot | | and a fair damsel, Genevra, the daughter of Saxon Harold, and | bosom friend of Genevieve, youngest daughter of the Saxon King | Crida, and Arthur's fabled queen. Both maidens have been | converted to Christianity by a British female captive, and at their | baptism took these similar names. The reader will readily perceive | in this device a praiseworthy attempt on the part of the author to | clear away the scandal which attaches to Arthur's Genevieve, | current in Dante's day, who traces to that queen's baleful example, | Francesca's eternity of woe. From Lancelot and Genevra and their | innocent loves, we return to Sir Gawaine and his adventures with | the Vikings, which, though out of place and offending the taste | grievously where they stand, are written with ease and a certain | Giant Grumbo kind of pleasantry. An extract from the argument | will give the reader the only insight into them we have space for: | ~~ | | | | And now Arthur enters upon his second search. The silver shield | of Lok ~~ the Scandinavian Mars. It chanced that Genevra, at the | moment of her first meeting with Lancelot, was on her way to be | the bride of the heathen Norwegian king, under the escort of a fleet | of his ships. A dream had warned her not to resist her father's will | in this matter, but to embark on this most unwelcome errand. A | tempest had cast her fleet on the coast, and the crews were | recruiting their stores. Thus it was that in Arthur's need he found a | ship to bear him on his way. The rest of the fleet, won over by | Genevra's persuasions, bore herself and Lancelot back to Carduel. | The ship with the raven flag sails northward into the regions of | eternal winter, on which the author has expended all his powers of | description, perhaps with too much labour and repetition of | characteristic features. Still it is amongst the most new and | striking portions of the book. The author thus alludes to it in his | preface: ~~ | | | | | | The north ~~ the region of silence and cold, and luminous darkness | and eternal snow ~~ has indeed a great and mysterious fascination. | There is something in its deep repose which haunts the mind of | busy life; in the thought of its cold, which fans and soothes the | feverish stir of action and passion; in its unchanging features which | tranquillizes and sobers; in its mysteries which sustains our interest. | But for such undefinable attractions how was it ever peopled, or | how does it still draw adventurers towards its treacherous and fatal | shores? It is to feelings like these that our poet seeks to give | expression in his pictures of the north. Some of these, vivid and | graphic as they are, we cannot but think suffer from that display of | learning of which the author has made his boast, and jealously | defended from the attacks of critics. For example, in referring to | those bright hues which relieve the cold tints of the arctic region, | we feel that nothing is gained to the general impression he seeks to | produce by tracing effects to their alleged causes. We would rather | not have the green of northern seas thus accounted for ~~ | | this and a similar assertion being further explained in the following | note: ~~ | | | We frankly confess that this statistical statement does not give us | any better notion of the number than we had before. Of course, if | the animalcules are there at all, there must be a great many of them. | For our part, we are rather tired of the subject of animalculæ, | which positively becomes a disease of some minds, and sticks to | them with a sort of parasitical tenacity. It is a point on which we | indulge an obstinate incredulity. We will not believe that every | drop of water swarms with those monsters if we could only see | them; and, indeed, we know that it takes a great deal of cooking | and doctoring to produce a drop which will do credit to the | microscope, and that a sharp eye could detect most of the living | creatures exhibited to us without its aid. However, they are a great | fact with our author, and one of the pillars of his philosophy. | Mejnour, the world-old sage, makes it the basis of a theory; and | Merlin, whom we supposed | | occupied by another sort of invisible world, takes up the same | theme: ~~ | | It is the vocation of science to develop impurities as a preliminary | to counteracting or destroying them; but the sparkling | health-giving stream of poesy need not so pollute its waves. | | We have not space for the opening invocation to winter, a fine | passage, though further illustrating what we have said. Into these | regions, heralded by the dove, sails the ship of the wonder-seeker | ~~ the crew smitten down by sickness (the scurvy, we are | informed in a note), and Arthur alone retaining his vigour and | majestic resolution. The ship is attacked and almost overwhelmed | by a herd of Walruses, when the collision of two icebergs separates | the combatants. They escape one danger, however, only to fall | into another; the vessel becomes ice-locked, and by Arthur's | persuasion, is at length abandoned by her crew, who build | themselves huts of its shattered relics. The dove has found an herb | which heals their sickness, but their present life is a living death; | Arthur alone is sustained by dauntless courage and the sense of a | task to be performed. | | | | In this scene of desolation the mysterious sympathy between | Arthur and the dove is further strengthened, and, indeed, this | mystic guide acts so very much the part of a wife, that, in this | respect, our hero must be considered to have the advantage over | modern adventurers into the same inhospitable regions, where we | believe that softer sex is now considered an incumbrance. While | wandering in these dreary trackless wilds, the king one day, to his | joy, discovers a human footstep, a sign, whether of friend or foe, | almost equally welcome; and, following the track of feet, the dove | guides him into the midst of a dwarf-like band of Esquimaux. | These, emerging from the fog, like goblins out of the inner earth, at | first make a show of hostilities, but recoil before Arthur's majestic | presence; when suddenly steps from among them a nobler form, in | whom, even in his rude garb of hides, is recognised a 'son of light.' | At his appearance the clamouring pigmies are silent and bend the | knee in reverence. The stranger approaches Arthur, and | commences an address in his own tongue, when he starts ~~ stops | ~~ springs forward, and at the same moment Arthur and Sir | Gawaine recognise each other. The good knight has escaped the | jaws of Freya to be the king of the Esquimaux tribes. The meeting | is certainly | | one of those coincidences not to be looked for every day, but | not the less joyful to the two adventurers. Arthur's followers are | soon revived under the cares of the 'pigmæan crew,' and borne to | their warmer huts, where Sire Gawaine has made himself as | comfortable as adverse circumstances would permit. Here, while | he regales the monarch on a slice of seal's flesh, he narrates his | own vicissitudes from the commencement, and enters into a | philosophical controversy with his royal master on the part, for | good or evil, the raven, to which he still bears a grudge, has played | in his destiny. In his turn, Arthur reveals to his light hearted friend | such facts of his own history as he deems suited to his ear, and | announces the object of his northern voyage, the silver shield of | Lok, about which Gawaine remembers to have heard certain | legends from his pigmy subjects. After this colloquy, ~~ and for | homely human interest, we think this meeting of the two friends in | those inexorable northern wilds to be among the best points of the | poem ~~ Sir Gawaine wraps the king in bear-skins to seek needful | repose, while he goes in search of more definite information. The | description which follows of sunrise, after the long polar night, is | very impressive: ~~ | | | | With the sun comes Arthur's second great trial; and a formidable | description of the cave, the mouth of an extinct crater, where | dwells the guardian of the treasure, opens the tenth book. This | guardian is a monster, half giant, half dwarf, whose shadow plays | ominously before the entrance of the cavern, himself still invisible; | an idea to be found elsewhere in the author's works. Arthur's | approach is scented from afar by a herd of white bears, who form | the flock of this goblin pastor; and whose uncouth movements and | clumsy ambuscades are very elaborately | | described. He comes, and hunger conquering awe and fear, they | attack him; but the diamond glaive repels them with great slaughter; | when from the cave rushes the owner of the shadow, the giant-dwarf; | whose presence casts a double chill over the air, and even | brings fear on the fearless. 'Fear was on the bold.' Here ensues a | colloquy, wherein the dwarf, in rage at this invasion of his dismal | region, seeks to awe and terrify the pale but dauntless king; but in | the end is forced to admit him within the subterranean region: and | Arthur enters upon a wild and terrible scene; where Nature carries | on her chemical experiments on the largest scale. Here, in the | glow of lava and the raging of hidden fire, he is conducted through | countless geological remains, the wrecks of the antediluvian world | ~~ iguanadons, mammoths, and other 'lurid skeletons of vanished | races,' who yawn and grin upon the invader of their realm. The | watchful dwarf looks for some sign of fear at the hideous spectacle; | for had the mortal faltered or quailed, he must become the fiend's | prey. But, through all sights and sounds of dread, Arthur walks | unmoved, fixing his eyes on the dove: the evil spirits of that place, | who gather round him, being in their turn awed and held back by | the glare of the magic sword. At length he enters upon a vast mine, | the Hall of Lok, where the demon sleeps, guarded by the corpses of | Titans, who kneel around in glittering armour ~~ giants who | perchance had heard the trump of Jubal, ~~ whose guilt provoked | the deluge. Within this outer enclosing circle sit the Valkyrs, or | choosers of the slain ~~ the Scandinavian Fates, spinning the webs | of endless wars ~~ guarding the unseen couch of Lok. Here the | dwarf shows Arthur the end of his search; within those curtains | rests the sleeping god, whom the Valkyrs themselves dare not | waken into terrible and vengeful life. For an instant, Arthur's | human heart fails; but faith, 'The Eos of the world to come,' came | to his aid. | | | and the story leaves the final unspeakable horrors of that conflict, | unsung. | | Meanwhile, Sir Gawaine and the Norwegians have tracked | Arthur's course, and in their turn are attacked by the bears; in | whose manœuvres the author takes peculiar pleasure; till the strife | is interrupted by unearthly sounds from the supernatural | inhabitants of the cave. Pestilential vapours stupefy the whole | band: when they awake to consciousness, the dove is poised in air | hovering over the unconscious form of Arthur, his armour dinted, | hewn, and crushed, the bright falchion dim with dark | | gore, and awe on the rigid face; yet on his arm is clasped the silver | shield, the wondrous prize dimmed ~~ tarnished ~~ grimed; but | the pure metal shining through all. Many days followed ere the | king recovered from his trance; nor did he ever breathe to mortal | what had passed in that unearthly conflict. We quite acquiesce in | this silence; yet the reader is, perhaps, critical enough to suspect | that the poet has no clearer idea of what did actually transpire than | ourselves. It very frequently happens with this author to raise a | good groundwork for curiosity, and fail in the superstructure. | | The hero, once more on earth, had no other mission on these ice-bound | shores; so that the arrival of ships at that juncture is felt to | be exceedingly opportune. It is a fleet from Rugen, in search of | furs and seals; and the captain gladly lends to King Arthur one of | his vessels, to bear him homewards. This Sir Gawaine undertakes | to victual for the voyage, and by his golden eloquence and winning | manners succeeds in gaining handsome contributions from the | whole fleet. Under the dove's guidance, they soon reach more | genial airs, and anchor at length in a Mercian haven on the English | coast, occupied by the Saxon foe. Here Arthur's third and last gift | is to be won. And this we must confess to have found the most | mystical and difficult of comprehension of all his achievements; | not made the less so by a profuse coinage of new nouns for the | occasion ~~ the characteristic peculiarity (though in a less degree | sanctioned by high authorities) we have already alluded to. The | author appears to think that a subversion of the received rules of | etymology ~~ an entire change in the uses of adjectives and | adverbs, will greatly assist thought in all its difficulties: that | Beauty ~~ that vain and fleeting good ~~ gains durability as the | Beautiful: that Truth is more attainable as the True: that we shall | understand the nature of Death better when it changes its awful | name into The Everywhere: that distant things are brought nearer | as the Far: and height become accessible as the High. Yet, to us, | sublimity is attained rather by using simple words in their ordinary | sense, than by all this transposition. Where, e.g., have we nobler | ideas of beauty and distance than in that promise ~~ . We | feel poetry, especially, injured by this novel affectation. But a | habit of this kind, once formed, cannot be shaken off; it has | become a part of Sir E. B. Lytton's mind. In the scenes we are now | led upon, a ghost is the principal speaker; and possibly | substantives are deemed too substantial for the language of | shadows; so ghost-like adverbs occupy their places, and, with dim | voice and half meaning, suggest rather than affirm the hidden | mysteries they point at. | | | No sooner, then, is Arthur landed, than the dove leads him through | a forest to a silent hill, 'with antique ruins crowned,' on which the | moon shines with ghastly ray. Here are ruins far anterior to the | rude structures of Druid degeneracy known to us, and built while | the Druid in his starry robe solved riddles to the Chaldee, and | talked with Pythagoras; luring Brahmins from their burning clime | to listen to Western wisdom. The style of the ruins speaks of this | difference; being of that architecture which the discomfited | builders of Babel disseminated over the world. | | | | In this antique seclusion the wonder-seeker sinks to sleep, and | wakes with a start of terror to find himself deserted by his mystic | guide. The dove is flown. A sense of desolation rushes on his | spirit, and the fear of death at that moment falls upon him. We are | now carried back to Carduel, as a necessary explanation of what is | to follow. Here the Saxons are gaining the day, and the besieged | city is sinking in famine and despondency, till roused by Caradoc, | the author of the 'Epic on the Shelf,' now inspired by Merlin's | prophecies to sacrifice himself for his country's cause. Unarmed, | as the bard must be, and singing heroic songs, he leads on his | countrymen in a desperate onslaught; charging them to hold the | spot of his death sacred, and never to yield it to the enemy. Time, | however, confines us to Arthur's adventures. Caradoc, after his | glorious death, is received into heaven, where are revealed to him | Arthur's trials and achievements; and love impels him to descend | again to earth, to lead him through his last ordeal to happiness. He | presents himself to his friend reft of his heavenly glory, and livid | with fresh wounds. | | | | In the centre of those ruins stood a royal tomb. Through the iron | doors, 'agar to every blast,' the vision passed forth with the king. | The following passage we offer to the reader in illustration of our | remarks on those peculiarities of diction which always appear to | accompany the author's most favourite and characteristic | speculations: ~~ | | | | | | To end in smoke, is a common expression for failure: yet the | author could hardly resent its being applied to the ghost's | conclusions; especially to the appalling image of nonentity | conveyed in the last line. But we must hasten on. Caradoc's spirit | discourses further on Nature and Fate, which he affirms to be | identical. After which, Arthur's guardian angel ~~ identical again, | in the author's view, with conscience ~~ presents himself before | him, and removes from his mind the fear of death; though why this | task should be assigned to Conscience , we | do not comprehend. | | On the disappearance of the angel, Arthur ventures to address the | spirit of his friend on the question of his present happiness; when | he, too, vanishes without reply. When lo! at the king's feet reposed | 'a virgin shape, half woman and half child.' He has found the third, | the crowning gift. | | | | The king wakes from his vision, to find this best gift no dream; but | fair reality. He speaks to the maiden; but, with her finger on her | lip, she enjoins silence. | | | | It is a pretty picture, but we do not think the author will find many | sympathizers in this metamorphosis. If a man's wife has once been | a bird, there seems no security that she may not relapse into the | same form and condition again; he can never be sure of her. But | such a conception comes fitly from an author who, in a previous | work, has made its leading character marry an idiot: ~~ a girl so | universally acknowledged as such as to explain why the boys do | not follow her in the street. The writer who makes his prose hero | happy in so singular a choice, may well espouse his epic hero to a | dove, and think he had provided well and adequately for his | domestic felicity. But in truth these ideas can only emanate ~~ as | in Eastern Fable ~~ from a disparaging notion of the sex: once | thoroughly convinced that women have souls in the same sense as | men possess them, and these fancies will be as uncongenial to the | imagination as they are to the understanding. | | The fair transformed, resuming her office of guide, leads Arthur to | his followers, and once more taking ship, they sail to | | his own dominions, and there they land within sight of Carduel | amidst signs of Saxon outrage, seeking a well known convent | where Arthur designs to place his maiden treasure, while he | proceeds to the defence of his capital. The convent lies in ruins; | and roused by the surrounding desolation, Arthur pours out threats | of vengeance against Crida, the ravager of his country, which | excite in his silent guide an agony of terror he cannot comprehend, | being in fact ignorant of what the reader has all along been aware, | that Genevieve, the dove, the 'destined soother,' is indeed the | daughter of his foe. Meanwhile a nun emerges from the ruins, who | proves to be Arthur's kinswoman, the Abbess. She blesses his | return, and conducts them to her hidden underground retreat, by | means of which she had eluded Saxon cruelty; there Arthur leaves | his charge. We pass over the mystical dreamy trances of the | half-awakening visionary maiden, which result at length in her | resolution to rejoin her father in the Saxon camp. The Abbess | recognizing the hand of heaven, suffers her to depart, hanging | round her neck a cross at once as sign and safeguard. Here, as | throughout the poem, the reader of Sir E. Bulwer's romances must | be struck by the recurrence of the old fancies; scenes and images | appearing again in a different garb. Genevieve, losing her sense of | power to warn and guide, in the resumption of the human form, | and with it, human love for Arthur, is only a repetition of Zanoni | losing his power to protect Viola, when he abandons himself to | human affection for her. To both only remains the | | | | The twelfth and last book is full of stir and incident, of fighting, | and critical conjunctions, of war and bloodshed. It takes up the | story from the moment of Caradoc's death, which is the turning | point of the Cymrian cause. Merlin, after addressing the people in | a patriotic speech, dismisses them to the walls, announcing a | renewal of the Saxon attack. From Lancelot he then demands a | great sacrifice, that he should restore Genevra to her father Harold, | his prophetic eye foreseeing an important part for her in | approaching events. The knight reluctantly consents, and the | maiden is dispatched under the guard of the Aleman Convert. | After these preparations the scene moves to the Saxon camp, on | which a superstitious panic has fallen since Caradoc's victory. | This panic the priests make use of as a plea for some of the more | barbarous rites of their religion. The Runic Soothsayer is thrown | into a trance, in which he reveals that their god Odin demands the | sacrifice of a Christian maiden. | | | and announces the speedy coming of the destined victim. In the | midst of baleful incantations in which king and priests share, the | silence of the temple is disturbed by shouts from without; Crida | rises in wrath to rebuke the comers, and is met on the threshold by | his fair-haired daughter. Soon his natural joy at the recovery of his | beloved and youngest born is turned to anguish by the demands of | the priests for their victim. They hail in Genevieve the destined | sacrifice. The father pleads that the oracle had desired a | Christian maid, and the 'arch Elder' points to | the cross still lying on her breast. The old king calls upon her to | cast down and trample on the sacred symbol, but she boldly | professes the true faith, and in wrath and despair the old king | renounces his child. They bind the trembling victim to the stone of | sacrifice and wait with impatience the appointed hour; when their | horrid rites are again interrupted by the forcible entrance of Harold, | the Saxon Thane, accompanied by his daughter Genevra, who has | brought him to the rescue. Harold is a very liberal Pagan; he | disputes with the priests, and while professing his belief in Odin | will have nothing to do with the bloody rites he enjoins; he rouses | the crouching king from his lair to arise and defend his child; but | bowed down by superstition, Crida gives her up to death as a | Christian and offender of the gods, on which Genevra eagerly | professes the same faith. Harold, however, will not listen to | theological questions while they should be fighting, and recalling | to mind his encounter with King Arthur, declares that for his part | he | | He is rebuked by the priest, who threatens to call in the Saxon host | to hear and avenge his blasphemies. Harold accepts an appeal to | the popular voice, and makes a proposition to the king that he and | his men, joined by all who would willingly follow his standard, | should renew the assault on Carduel. Let the throne of Cymri be | the maiden's ransom. He asks but till noon to complete the | conquest, but if refused, he withdraws from the king's cause with | all his adherents. None, not even the priests, dare hazard the loss | of their champion; the truce is therefore accepted, though the | revengeful priests are not less sure of their victim. Harold departs | on his enterprise. The king, after one embrace of his child, for | which his superstition reproves him, repairs to the watch-tower to | witness the combat; while the priest, his companion, surveys from | the same height the discontented, fear-stricken multitude gathered | in lazy apathy | | below, in whom he sees the instruments of his power. They | witness the progress of Harold's assault and see him scale the walls, | and disappear within the city, a success anything but satisfactory to | the bloodthirsty idolater, who | | When suddenly from the camp at their feet rose strange cries of | wrath, and wonder; and lo! the Saxon fleet moored beyond the | distant forest is in flames. This is the work of Arthur, who, with | his followers, had lain in ambush awaiting Merlin's appointed | signal from the dragon keep of Carduel. While the Saxon camp | rouses itself to arms, through the forest hastens the deliverer. They | are amazed by shouts of Arthur's name, and at the same moment | the conquerors within the city are driven back and dispossessed; | the Pale Horse of the Saxons, which had waved triumphant for an | hour, once more yielding to the Dragon Standard. At length | Harold, still facing the foe, is driven forth from Carduel, to the | savage joy of the watchful priest, who from his height witnesses | his retreat and the sun passing the meridian. He summons Crida to | the sacrifice: but the spirit of patriotism has seized the aged king, | he leaves the priest to do his worst; his own place is by the | retreating standard; his people are his children. His enthusiasm | diffuses a glow amid their discouraged ranks. | | | | The priest had descended to complete the sacrifice, already the | knife gleams over Genevieve, when a shaft sent as by the Fates | from invisible hands slays the slayer, and the priest falls bathed in | his own blood. While all stand suspended in wonder and terror, | wild clamours are heard without. The fane is besieged by a | dismayed multitude flying before the victor; Arthur himself ~~ in | his own person Victory. Roused by the very extremity of the | moment, the idolaters seek for the hand that has slain their chief, | when suddenly sprang upon the altar-stone a grim fiend-like image. | It is the wild Aleman, who as Genevra's escort to the Saxon camp, | had heard the rumours of Genevieve's approaching sacrifice. | Following unseen in Harold's train, he had concealed himself | behind the altar till the moment came to save. Springing from the | altar he cut the victim's bonds, and before their vengeance had time | to wreak itself, Arthur the deliverer treads the threshold, gleams | through the nave a destroying angel, ~~ and now the Silver Shield | rests over Genevieve. | | | | The fane soon becomes the last theatre of war. Crida rushes in | with all his tributary kings. Arthur, still in ignorance of his | relationship to Genevieve, makes his way in wrath to where he | stands. The old king's sword, wielded with all his strength shivers | before the diamond glaive. The conqueror's foot is on his breast | when the maiden springs forward to intercept the descending blow, | and declares herself the daughter of his prostrate foe. At this | juncture Harold appears: ~~ his of all that host the only undaunted | breast. He had assembled and reorganized his broken bands on the | brow of a neighbouring hill, and now enters the temple to make | honourable terms for the vanquished, and to offer peace. The | scene is drawn which there meets his eye: ~~ the idol god | overthrown amid pools of blood, and the Cross exalted in its place; | the captive Teuton kings haughty and in chains; Crida apart and | unbound, one hand concealing his face, the other resting on the | head of his kneeling child; Genevra by her side, mourning her | father's and her country's woe, and Lancelot whispering such | comfort as love could dictate: the circle of knights; the rigid form | of the Aleman, like some uncouth image of the gods he had | renounced, and in the midst the hero king, the impersonation of | honour and fame. In this assemblage Harold proudly offers his | terms ~~ peace, their captives released, and their kings restored; or | war while life shall last. Arthur, wise and magnanimous in his | triumph, accepts peace from his noble foe, a choice welcome to all, | though | | | | Standing by the fallen idol's altar, under the holy rood, Merlin now | utters prophetic words of comfort, and foresees the time when the | two conflicting races will blend in lasting peace, promising to his | countrymen the possession of their mountainous empire while time | shall last. To Harold he foretels that from him shall descend a race | of Scottish kings, and Lancelot is accepted by the hold heathen as | his son-in-law. | | King Crida does not yield to the dictates of fate so readily, but the | hero condescends to sue, and his heart relents. Arthur pleads ~~ | | | | | | We have thus at some expense of the reader's time attempted to | give an idea of the fable of the poem, without which no proper | view of its merits can be gained. We are aware that an abstract | cannot do justice to its subject, yet a full perusal leaves the same | impression, of a lack of human interests and of vigorous power to | arrest and sustain attention. With many striking, effective, | beautiful parts, the poem fails as a whole. At no time do we feel | the hero a real personage; we seldom can sufficiently believe in his | existence to sympathise in his trials, or to feel truly concerned for | him. His fairy mystic guide greatly aggravates this evil, not only | from the additional haze of unreality she diffuses round him, but | that we feel well satisfied she will keep him from all real peril, | whatever dangers may seem to threaten his path. This unerring | guardian is open to the objection Dryden makes to the machinery | of all Christian poets. Like Ariosto's angel in contest with Discord, | 'who soon makes her know the difference of strength between a | nuncio of heaven and a minister of hell,' we know (and surely the | hero also) that giants may threaten, and fiends gibber, and death | inevitable may seem to oppose his path, but she will in fact bring | him nowhere where he may not pass safely through. | | The rules of criticism, in common with all dogmas, often offend by | a seeming technicality and trivial attention to forms; a sacrifice of | real worth and beauty, to dry correctness: yet experience teaches | us the substantial truth of many a dictum which at one time we | deemed merely arbitrary; and amongst these is the paramount | necessity of the subserviency of parts to the whole. This our | author has not regarded; he has said whatever suited him at the | time to say, or seemed to enhance the effect of the particular | portion he was engaged upon. Whether it be a point of erudition to | be displayed, a fling at a political opponent suggested by the matter | in hand, a train of speculation or sentiment, appropriate to modern | times, but professedly from the lips of ancient wisdom ~~ if it | roughly dispel an allusion; if it weakens our faith; if it loosens our | hold and our interest on | | the main theme, however dear to the author, the mistimed show of | wit or wisdom should have found no place. In the words of Waller, | . The present writer has wished to make his poem the | depository of all his thoughts; to say all he can say; to record his | view of every topic which has engaged his own or the popular | attention; to display acquaintance and sympathy with the whole | field of modern inquiry. | | In the preface to his second edition he complacently observes upon | the charge of too much learning, answering it in the words of a | modern critic, . A poet ought unquestionably to possess | learning, but every man's own experience tells him that the most | learned do not commonly talk most learnedly. We presume that it | is learning out of place of which the critics complain. What is yet | crude and of recent acquirement is obtrusively exhibited; the | accumulated stores of an observant mind, ~~ what have matured | the understanding and formed the judgment, are no subjects for | display. They enrich and illustrate every theme, but they are only | manifest when the occasion asks for them. | | We agree with the author in thinking the choice of his metre a | happy one. He quotes Dryden's emphatic praise of the 'quatrain, or | stanza of four alternate lines;' but those who are acquainted with | the only long poem in which Dryden has used it, 'The Annus | Mirabilis,' will feel how greatly the monotony of this measure is | relieved by the rhyming couplet which concludes the stanza, | allowing more scope too, for the completion of the thought or | picture. Many of the preceding examples prove that our author has | understood its capabilities. His diction, if not poetical in the | highest sense, is easy, graceful, and eloquent, well-fitted for the | alternations of thought and narrative through which his subject | leads him. | | In conclusion, though we have no expectation that the mass of Sir | E. Bulwer Lytton's readers will acquiesce in his judgment, we are | inclined to agree with it so far as to believe that of all his works | 'King Arthur' has perhaps the most claim to a lasting reputation. | What hindrances we see to the realization of his sanguine hopes for | this darling of his latest care, we have explained elsewhere. But a | long poem is a great venture, and it is something even to fail with | credit, where the stake that is tried for is lasting fame.