E260700A. An Essay on Mind.
The Eclectic Review, July 1826, pp. 78–82.
Addendum to The Brownings’ Correspondence, vol. 1.
That this little volume is the essay of no ordinary mind—that it discovers considerable talents, informed by extensive reading, no one, we think, can hesitate to admit. We wish we could add, that the judgement and poetical skill displayed in the principal poem are equal to the power of thought which has been exerted in its production. If ‘ethical poetry be the highest of all poetry,’—and as it is the highest, so, it is the coldest and most barren region,—metaphysical poetry may be pronounced to be the deepest of all poetry,—deep as the abyss—the very chaos of fancy. Akenside, we need not be reminded, has made philosophy speak the language of poetry, and his Pleasures of Imagination is a splendid achievement. But he is likely to stand alone. The subject of the present Essay is decidedly ill chosen, and the most brilliant success alone could have redeemed this original fault. In order to this, a style far more remote from the sparkling, crackling style of Pope, with his sardonic grin and ever-recurring antithesis, or from the tinsel and affectation of Darwin, should have been adopted. Philosophical thoughts require to be clothed in philosophical language, which is always clear, simple, and colourless. Obscurity is, in such writings, the greatest of faults. But this Essay on Mind is perpetually running into enigma, and the constant attempt to convey abstract propositions in metaphorical language, can be compared only to those ingenious little works for children, called Hieroglyphic Bibles, in which passages of Scripture are expressed by pictures. The Author has indeed had the precaution to affix to each book, a commentary under the name of an [p. 79→] analysis; but how far this will answer the purpose of a key, our readers shall judge. The following is part of the analysis of the first book.
‘The poem commences by remarking the desire, natural to the mind, of investigating its own qualities—qualities the more exalted, as their developement has seldom been impeded by external circumstances—The various dispositions of different minds are next considered, and are compared to the varieties of scenic nature: inequalities in the spiritual not being more wonderful than inequalities in the natural—Byron and Campbell contrasted—The varieties of genius having been thus treated, the art of criticism is briefly alluded to, as generally independent of genius, but always useful to its bproductions—Jeffrey—The various stages of life in which genius appears, and the different causes by which its influence is discovered—Cowley, Alfieri—Allusion to the story of the emotion of Thucydides on hearing Herodotus recite his History at the Olympic Games—The elements of Mind are thus arranged, Invention, Judgment, Memory, and Association—The creations of Mind are next noticed, among which we first behold Philosophy—History, Science, and Metaphysics, are included in the studies of Philosophy.’
Now for the text.
‘Since Spirit first inspir’d, pervaded all,
And Mind met Matter, at th’ Eternal call—
Since dust weigh’d Genius down, or Genius gave
Th’ immortal halo to the mortal’s grave;
Th’ ambitious soul her essence hath defin’d,
And Mind hath eulogiz’d the pow’rs of Mind.
Ere Revelation’s holy light began
To strengthen Nature, and illumine Man—
When Genius, on Icarian pinions, flew,
And Nature’s pencil, Nature’s portrait, drew;
When Reason shudder’d at her own wan beam,
And Hope turn’d pale beneath the sickly gleam—
Ev’n then hath Mind’s triumphant influence spoke,
Dust own’d the spell, and Plato’s spirit woke—
Spread her eternal wings, and rose sublime
Beyond th’ expanse of circumstance and time:
Blinded, but free, with faith instinctive, soar’d,
And found her home, where prostrate saints ador’d!
‘Thou thing of light! that warm’st the breasts of men,
Breath’st from the lips, and tremblest from the pen!
Thou, form’d at once t’ astonish, fire, beguile,—
With Bacon reason, and with Shakespeare smile!
Thou subtle cause, ethereal essence! say,
Why dust rules dust, and clay surpasses clay;
Why a like mass of atoms should combine
To form a Tully, and a Catiline?
Or why, with flesh perchance of equal weight,
One cheers a prize-fight, and one frees a state? [p. 80→]
Why do not I the muse of Homer call,
Or why, indeed, did Homer sing at all?
Why wrote not Blackstone upon love’s delusion,
Or Moore, a libel on the Constitution?
Why must the faithful page refuse to tell
That Dante, Laura sang, and Petrarch, Hell—
That Tom Paine argued in the throne’s defence—
That Byron nonsense wrote, and Thurlow sense—
That Southey sigh’d with all a patriot’s cares,
While Locke gave utterance to Hexameters?
Thou thing of light! instruct my pen to find
Th’ unequal pow’rs, the various forms of Mind!
‘O’er Nature’s changeful face direct your sight;
View light meet shade; and shade dissolve in light!
Mark, from the plain, the cloud-capp’d mountain soar;
The sullen ocean spurn the desert shore!
Behold, afar, the playmate of the storm,
Wild Niagara lifts his awful form—
Spits his black foam above the madd’ning floods,
Himself the savage of his native woods—
See him, in air, his smoking torrents wheel,
While the rocks totter, and the forests reel—
Then, giddy, turn! lo! Shakespeare’s Avon flows,
Charm’d, by the green-sward’s kiss, to soft repose;
With tranquil brow reflects the smile of fame,
And, ’midst her sedges, sighs her Poet’s name.
‘Thus, in bright sunshine, and alternate storms,
Is various mind express’d in various forms.
In equal men, why burns not equal fire?
Why are not valleys hills,—or mountains higher?
Her destin’d way, hath destin’d Nature trod;
While Matter, Spirit rules, and Spirit, God.’ p. 5—9.
This last line, to say nothing of other objections which lie against it, is so exquisitely equivocal, that whether it be meant that spirit rules matter, or that matter rules spirit, is riddle-meree. In reviewing a poem, we do not expect to be required to enter the lists of polemical discussion; we shall therefore waive any animadversions on the Author’s doctrines. We must, however, protest against the flippancy with which some subjects are treated, and the rash and self-complacent manner in which sentence is passed on the illustrious men referred to. Thus, while Lord Byron is styled, very affectedly ‘the Mont Blanc of intellect, who o’erlook’d the nations and shook hands with Time;’—and Jeffrey, the Northern Aristarchus, is described in the language of fulsome praise, as
‘The lettered critic of a lettered age,
Who justly judges, rightfully discerns,
With wisdom teaches, and with candour learns;’— [p. 81→]
Leibnitz is compared to ‘the owlet meeting the eagle (Newton) at the sun.’ The following lines are in a sounder spirit of criticism.
‘Let Gibbon’s name be trac’d, in sorrow, here—
Too great to spurn, too little to revere!
Who follow’d Reason, yet forgot her laws,
And found all causes, but the ’great first Cause:’
The paths of time, with guideless footsteps, trod;
Blind to the light of nature and of God;
Deaf to the voice, amid the past’s dread hour,
Which sounds His praise, and chronicles His pow’r!
In vain for him was Truth’s fair tablet spread,
When Prejudice, with jaundiced organs, read,
In vain for us the polish’d periods flow,
The fancy kindles, and the pages glow;
When one bright hour, and startling transport past,
The musing soul must turn—to sigh at last.
Still let the page be luminous and just,
Nor private feeling war with public trust;
Still let the pen from narrowing views forbear,
And modern faction ancient freedom spare.
But ah! too oft th’ historian bends his mind
To flatter party—not to serve mankind:
To make the dead, in living feuds, engage,
And give all time, the feelings of his age.
Great Hume hath stoop’d, the Stuarts’ fame t’ increase;
And ultra Mitford soar’d to libel Greece!’
We gladly turn from these barren and dazzling themes, to the green spots which indicate the genial flow of feeling in the minor poems. The following, we think, will best please our readers.*
*Stanzas, occasioned by a passage in Mr. Emerson’s Journal, which states, that on the mention of Lord Byron’s name, Captain Demetrius, an old Roumeliot, burst into tears.
‘Name not his name, or look afar—
For when my spirit hears
That name, its strength is turned to woe—
My voice is turned to tears.
‘Name me the host and the battle-storm,
Mine own good sword shall stem;
Name me the foeman and the block,
I have a smile for them!
‘But name him not, or cease to mark
This brow where passions sweep—
Behold, a warrior is a man,
And as a man may weep! [p. 82→]
‘I could not scorn my Country’s foes,
Did not these tears descend—
I could not love my Country’s fame,—
And not my Country’s Friend.
‘Deem not his memory e’er can be
Upon our spirits dim—
Name us the generous and the free,
And we must think of him!
‘For his voice resounded through our land
Like the voice of liberty,
As when the war-trump of the wind
Upstirs our dark blue sea.
‘His arm was in the foremost rank,
Where embattled thousands roll—
His name was in the love of Greece,
And his spell was on her soul!
‘But the arm that wielded her good sword,
The brow that wore the wreath,
The lips that breathed the deathless thoughts—
They went asleep in death.
‘Ye left his heart, when ye took away
The dust in funeral state;
And we dumbly placed in a little urn,
That home of all things great.
‘The banner streamed—the war-shout rose—
Our heroes played their part;
But not a pulse would throb or burn—
Oh! could it be his heart!
‘I will not think—’tis worse than vain
Upon such thoughts to keep;
Then, Briton, name me not his name—
I cannot choose but weep!’
Reviewed:
An Essay on Mind, with Other Poems (EBB), London: James Duncan, 1826.
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