E381027B. The Amaranth.
The Atlas, 27 October 1838, p. 681.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 4, 404.
[After some remarks about annuals in general, this review dealt with three of them; we reproduce only the comments relating to The Amaranth, to which EBB contributed.]
The Amaranth appears for the first time—a volume of costly dimensions, but, except in size and grandeur of pretension, not distinguished from the rest of the annuals. The articles are all of the same class—stories so airy, brief, and graphic, as to make us feel, while we are reading them, as if we were looking at a vignette—little poems, some legendary, some of the class called “occasional,” and some as fantastic as the dance of idle phantasies can make them. Of the pieces that deserve special enumeration, we may particularly point out an exquisite dramatic scene by Douglas Jerrold, called “The Prodigal’s Farewell,” exceedingly touching, and full of beauty, of a kind which is not often to be traced in Mr. Jerrold’s writings—a very tender and sweet dramatic sketch by Barry Cornwall, called “The Cousins”—a poem of an elevated and spiritual cast by Miss Barrett, entitled “A Sabbath on the Sea”—and “The Sculptor of Cyprus,” by John Graham, whose muse, we were afraid, had fallen asleep in the sunshine of praise, but is here revived in all her original vigour. We have enumerated only four pieces, and these all poetical, out of a collection of probably fifty articles, but it must not be supposed that there are not many others of considerable, and some, perhaps, even of a higher order of merit. It is out of the question, however, in our cabined confines, to discuss special claims in a catalogue of this description, and, as these poems struck us in running through the volume more immediately than any of the others, we are disposed to think that a close examination would only confirm our first impressions. The prose tales, as usual, exhibit the least skill; there is not room in such short narratives to vary the incidents very materially; love, disappointment, revenge, all shown in glimpses of circumstantial evidence, rather than in complete development, constitute the staple of these inventions; and they seem to us exactly like a row of faces with pretty much the same family lineaments, modified merely enough to stamp upon each a separate individuality. Mr. Hervey is too good a poet himself not to be a judge of poetry in others; and he has, therefore, not only contributed well himself to this volume, but drawn able contributions from other quarters. We cannot quote prose, so we will give a snatch of verse. The worthier poems in the collection are too long for extract, but we will take something that will amuse a part of our readers, at least, even more.
[The review concludes with “A Charade” by Winthrop Mackworth Praed; this we omit.]
Reviewed:
The Amaranth, ed. T.K. Hervey, London: 1839.
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