| | | The minor poets, like brewers, seem to reserve themselves | for a great effort in the month of October. The magazines | of the month teem with unwonted quantities of verse. But | unluckily the parallel does not hold good all through. The | October brew of ale is the best in the year. The brew of | poetry is the very stalest and washiest. Sound October ale | is pleasant in the mouth and wholesome in the stomach, | and, like wine, maketh glad the heart of man. But the | poetry which has come into the market along with the ale | produces just the opposite set of effects. It is as vinegar to | the teeth and as smoke to the eyes; it is harsh to the ear, | and empty and soulless to the understanding. And the | most curious thing is that this season it is all the same. Out | of the dozen sets of verses with which the autumn month is | welcomed there is not found one decent set, no, not one. | Can there be such a thing as an infectious murrain among | poets, as there is upon the beast of the field? If so, why | does not the same providential rule which prevents a | disordered cow from giving milk, extend to poets, and | prevent them from giving verse? Bad verses, besides, | leave us worse off than bad milk. If the cow fails, we may | fly to the ass; but when the magazine poets fail, what other | asses have we to fly to? The force of nature can no further | go, and we are left verseless. No doubt there are some | people to whom this lamentable failure of the monthly crop | of poetry will be a serious deprivation. Somebody, we | presume, must like magazine poetry, or else it would cease | to appear. Or it may be possible that, like sermons, nearly | everybody hates the poetry, but that usage and tradition, | and the wishes of a weak-headed minority, prevent the | abolition of so tedious and unprofitable an ordinance. | However, we know there are persons who find even the | thinnest discourse of the feeblest of curates largely useful | for edification once a week; and so, very likely, there is a | similar class who are equally delighted to surrender their | emotions once a month to be stirred to their very depths by | the washiest of poets, and find themselves braced by the | process. It is so refreshing, so elevating, to be led away by | the magic hand of the poet from the sordid cares and petty | turmoil of everyday life, up into the purified regions of | tender thought and lofty imaginings. Of course it is part of | the theory of the perfect life, in our time, that a man ought | to give his emotions towards the beautiful a bath or a | brush-up at given periods. Poetry, as Mr. Tupper might say, | is the wash-leather and brickdust of the soul. A mind | tarnished and blunted by much use is rendered bright and | sharp by a turn or two on the poetic knifeboard. On this | theory it is clear that the poetry itself need not be bright or | sharp. It is a notorious fallacy to conclude that the quality of | the cause must resemble that of the effect. Anything will | answer the cleansing purpose, provided it is printed so as | to look like verse, and is written in a sufficiently vague style. | Under the name of “Good Cheer,” whose precise | appropriateness not every reader will be so fortunate as to | discern, Mr. T. Hood, in the current number of Temple | Bar, seems to shadow forth this beautiful | soul-yearning of the reader of magazines: ~~ | It is fair to ask how, if the poet’s soul is so feeble and faint | and desolate, his heart is so cheery? What is the difference | between the soul and the heart in the verse? However, the | poet goes on to find solace in a number of very picturesque | and pertinent considerations. His singing heart discovers | that , though, to an impartial eye, it is hard to see | how the thorn is the rose’s mother. Less disputable is the | statement that ; but how can it be said that | ? Surely a by without dangerous capes would be just | as safe. And is it quite true that ? If it ‘scaped from | chalk might it not be as clear? But it is unfair to be too nice. | Anybody can see what our poet is driving at. He wants to | cheer up his desolate over-worked soul; so he puts before | it a variety of more or less untrue statements to illustrate | the consolatory untruth that all that is best is made so by all | that is worst; in other words, that his soul, if it have | patience, will be all the better for a little hard work. We | should think so too, only let not the work be in the | department of poetry. No doubt, however, a great many | people will be very much charmed by the pretty talk about | safe bays nestling, and clear springs ‘scaping, and honest | labour’s hand pressing the rich wine from life’s full grapes. | Images are to a minor poet what terrifying anecdotes are to | the agitators against Popery. Truth or probability in either is | not of the slightest consequence. But the reader is not left | to the rather cold comfort of “Good Cheer.” The same | number contains some tremendously rollicking verses by | another author. They are called a “Rhyme of Thames,” and | begin: ~~ | The change from the third to the first person rather reminds | one of the elegant construction,

“Mrs. Smith presents | her compliments to Mr. Robinson, and I do hope you will | come,”

&c. But to the rollicking poet a trifling point like | this counts for very little. Still he is scarcely justified in | calling his lines a

“rhyme”

Thames, when

| “Moment”

is made to answer

“foam on’t.”

| On the whole, however, we prefer the “Rhyme of Thames” | to the rhyme of Rhine in Macmillan. The poet | seems to have been reminded by the Rhine that life is full | of vicissitudes, and that people who have been parted by | circumstances, when they meet again years after, are quite | like strangers. There is an appalling depth in the thought. It | is so refreshingly new and original too. We are requested | to look at a travelling youth reclining | Then we are told that | May

“luminous”

fairly rhyme with

| “mysterious?”

Certainly, it may be admissible with a | poet who makes rhyme with . | Or answer in rhyme and rhythm with | Mr. Noel’s way of telling us that the boy and maid kissed | one another is peculiarly humorous: ~~ | But gentle melancholy is Mr. Noel’s strong point. For | instance ~~ | | It is a comfort to find, by the modified repetition of the | opening verse about village and tillage, that Mr. Noel | distinctly knows a good rhyme when he has got one. | But the people who study Macmillan are not to | be put off with a poor little poetic whimper like this. They | are of sterner stuff. Life is real, life is earnest, to them. So | there are some sombre verses on the “Matterhorn | Sacrifice.” The poet is dreadfully angry with the climbers: | ~~ | | As for this, we may be pardoned for remarking that there | never have been any Sabbath skies in Switzerland. Ben | Nevis, or Ben Lomond, or the Grampians might grumble at | losing the quiet rest beneath Sabbath skies; but only a | Scotch mountain could ever think of such a thing. Again: | ~~ | The crushing contempt, as well as the irresistible reasoning, | contained in the point that a butterfly might mount as high | will not, we trust, be lost on the Alpine Club. Men are fools | to climb mountains, because after all a butterfly can do it | just as well. It is a wonder that the same keen-witted poet | never thought of improving the occasion of poor Mr. | Purkiss’s death at Cambridge while bathing. The argument | would be just as cogent. Because a brute can do a thing | more easily than a man, gymnastics might be poetically put | down; thus ~~ | The strong-limb’d horse | Has as much force ~~ | To man what can such goal avail? | with chorus ad infinitum. So might bad poetry be | extinguished: ~~ | The slow-soul’d ass | Can be as crass ~~ | To man what can such goal avail> &c. | After this strong drink of poetry, what can we say of the two | or three hundred milky lines in which somebody in | Bentley writes about the death of Tom Moore’s | widow? ~~ | That is to say, all the people of rank with whom Moore | dined would have been proud to receive him as a suitor for | one of the daughters of the house. This is so uncommonly | like the temper of the English aristocracy. However, the | verses are kindly enough, and the writer means well: ~~ | | Tom Moore’s deep thoughts! | Perhaps the most remarkable poetry of this very | remarkable month may be found, not in the magazines, but | in a book of its own. They are lines addressed “to a Young | Lady who expressed a wish to join the Established | Church.” They begin ~~ | | Then, after saying that the Dissenters use a form in spite of | the apparent spontaneity of their services: ~~ | [there is surely a little jolt here] | | And yet people say that the age of true poetry is past!