E381100B. Findens’ Tableaux (1839).
Tait’s Edinburgh Magazine, November 1838, pp. 682–684.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 4, 406–408.
The annuals may now be regarded as a staple literary manufacture, quite as much as the supplies of the circulating library. Like these, they are a symptom of the progressive refinement of taste in society, if our theory hold, that they have taken the place of the savoury and substantial tokens of Christmas cakes, turkeys, and chines, and of the flimsy and tinsel perishing gifts of tawdry millinery and coarse jewellery. No one will question that this change is for the better. A book at worst is a book—a picture a picture; both endure, and are capable of diffusion: and these are but the smallest of their claims to superiority; for there is something to give intellectual pleasure, something to admire and to profit by, in the humblest Annual; while among them are embodied some of the most finished performances of living artists and authors. And this in addition to their value as gifts, as
——the beads of Memory’s rosary,
Whereon she reckons kind remembrances
Of friends and old affections.
The competition of publishers, and the becoming pride of artists and literary contributors, but, above all, the ambition, and by’r lady, the interest of all concerned, is every season improving the new literary manufacture in one respect or another, and sometimes in all. Each in its own sphere, so far as we have yet seen them, maintains its character and its claim on public patronage.
And first among the first comes Miss Mitford’s special charge, Finden’s Tableaux, again “regally gorgeous” in its garniture of green and gold, and containing gems worthy of so rich a casket. Miss Mitford has herself praised her friendly contributors so cordially and handsomely, that she has left us nothing to say. The “Tableaux” are this year illustrative of the “Womanly Virtues and Affections”; the designs are chiefly by Perring. They are all fine things enough in their way; but Zuliete and The Greek Wife are something more; and the Coronation is exquisite, and beautifully engraved. It is not the Coronation of Queen Victoria, nor indeed any vulgarity of the sort, but the picture of a lovely young girl, half reclining, half kneeling at a way-side chapel, in the attitude of devotion. It is the Elizabeth of Madame Cottin’s “Exiles of Siberia,” which is “done into” flowing and mellifluous verse by Richard E. Townsend, Esq., for Miss Mitford’s superb book. But the literary gem of this poetic volume is the “Romaunt of the Page,” by Miss Barrett. It is not without the peculiar blemishes of that lady’s style—haziness, and an occasional quaint simplicity, verging on something very like affectation; but, at the same time, it is rich in all the higher beauties of her poetry—a graceful and deep-toned composition, shewing true and original genius, and of a fine order:—
A knight upon a battle-steed,
And a page on a steed beside,
From the holy war in Palestine,
As slow and thoughtful ride
As each were a palmer, and told for bead
The dew of the even-tide.
“O young page,” said the knight,
“A noble page art thou;
And fearing not to steep in blood
The curls upon thy brow;
Anon in the tent, and anon in the fight,
Didst ward me a mortal blow.”
“O brave knight,” said the page,
“A while since talked we
In tent and field, and then we talked
Of the deadly chivalry;
But I have not a breath of that battle-rage
To breathe betwixt grass and tree.” [p. 683→]
As they ride on, the knight speaks of his lady as of one whose bower might ill suit his silent page.
Slowly and thankfully
The young page bowed his head;
His large eyes seemed to muse a smile,
Until he blushed instead;
And, I ween, no lady in her bower
Could blush more sudden-red!
“Sir Knight, the bower of thy lady
Will suit me well,” he said.
A beautiful descriptive passage intervenes, and heightens the dramatic effect of the scene; but all passes unheeded by the musing page.
“A boon, thou noble knight,
If ever I served thee—
Though thou art a knight, and I am page,
Now grant this boon to me.
Now, tell me sooth, if dark or bright,
If little loved, or loved aright,
Be the face of thy ladye.”
Gloomily looked the knight—
“As a son thou has served me;
And, oh, that I never had granted boon
To another, saving thee!
For haply then I should love aright;
For then I should know if dark or bright
Were the face of my ladye.
“Yet ill befits it knightly tongue
To mourn that granted boon;
For her Baron-sire avenged the wrong
To the fame of mine, sepulchred long,
By a lying caitiff done,
Who looked up the minster nave,
And dared to lie; for my father’s glaive
Was changed from steel to stone.”
The baron fell in this quarrel, and his dying wife, recovering from her swoon, as the knight relates, summoned him in haste, and demanded the boon that he should marry “the sweet child” made an orphan, for his father’s sake. He proceeds:—
“I said, my steed neighs in the court,
My bark rocks on the brine;
And the warrior’s vow I am under now,
To free the pilgrim’s shrine;
But fetch the ring, and call the priest,
And call that daughter of thine;
And rule she wide, from my castle of Nyde,
While I am in Palestine.
[“]In the dark chambère, if the bride were fair,
Ye wis I could not see;
But the steed thrice neighed,
And the priest fast prayed,
And wedded fast were we;
Her mother smiled in her bed,
As at its side we knelt to wed,
When the bride rose from her knee,
She kissed the smile of her mother dead
Or ere she kissed me.
“My page, my page, what grieves thee so,
That the tears run down thy face?”
“Alas! what if mine own sister
Was in that lady’s case!
But she laid down the silks she wore,
And followed him she wed before,
Disguised as his true servitor,
To the very battle-place.”
And wept the page, and laughed the knight,
A gay laugh laughed he:—
“Well done it were for thy sister,
But not for my ladye!
No woman bright my loves requite,
Unwomaned if she be.”
The page wept not—he smiled cold.
“Some wisdoms may declare
That womanhood is proved best
By the golden brooch and glossy vest
The mincing ladies wear;
Yet almost is it proved as well
By truth or by despair.”
No more he smiled, no more he wept,
But passionate he spake:—
“Oh, womanly she prayed in tent,
When none beside did wake!
Oh, womanly she paled in fight,
For one beloved sake.
And her little hand, defiled with blood,
Her tender tears of womanhood
Most woman-pure did make.”
“Well done it were for thy sister,
Thou tellest well her tale;
But, for my lady, she shall pray
I’ the kirk of Nydersdale.
No dread for me, but love for me,
Shall make my lady pale—
No casque shall hide her woman’s tear—
It shall have room to trickle clear
Behind her woman’s veil.”
“But what if she mistook thy mind,
And followed thee to strife;
Then, kneeling, ask thee for thy love,
As Paynims ask for life?”
“I would forgive; and evermore
Would love her as my servitor,
But never as my wife.
“Look up—there is a small bright cloud
Alone amid the skies:
So high, so pure, and so apart,
A woman’s glory lies.”
The page looked up—the cloud was sheen—
A sudden cloud did rush, I ween,
Betwixt it and his eyes.
And so his eyes did drop away
From welkin to the hill.
Ha! who rode there? the page is ’ware,
Though the cry at his heart is still!
The page seeth all, the knight seeth none,
Though banner and spear do fleck the sun,
And the Paynims ride at will.
He speaketh calm, he speaketh low—
“Now ride, my master, ride,
Or ere, within the broadening dark,
The narrow shadows hide!”
[“]Yes, fast—yes, fast—thou zealous page,
And keep thou by my side.”
The page prays to remain behind—he has a vow, and again urges his master to ride on—
——Who smiled free at the fantasy,
And adown the dell did ride.
Had the knight looked up to the page’s face.
No smile his words had won;
Had the knight looked up to the page’s face,
I ween he had never gone;
Had the knight looked back to the page’s geste,
I ween he had turned anon.
For dread was the wo in the face so young,
And wild was the geste wherewith he flung
Casque, sword, to earth, and downward sprung,
And stood alone, alone.
He clenched his hands, as if to hold
His soul’s great agony:—
“Have I renounced my womanhood,
For wifehood unto thee?—
And is this the last look of thine
That ever I shall see?”
“Yet God thee save—and mayst thou have
A ladye to thy mind,
More woman-proud, not faithfuller,
Than one thou leav’st behind! [p. 684→]
And God me take with Him to dwell,
For Him I cannot love too well,
As I have loved my kind.”
She looked up in earth’s despair,
The hopeful heaven to seek—
There floateth still the little cloud
Whereof her love did speak!
How bright the little cloud appears!
Her eyelids falls upon the tears,
And the tears fall down her cheek.
. . . . . .
The Paynims ride up; and the faithful page refuses to tell of his master, and answers them proudly;—
They cursed her deep, they smote her low,
They cleft her golden ringlets through—
The loving is the dying!
. . . . . .
A pathetic dirge closes this exquisite tragic ballad.
We have to complain of Miss Mitford giving way so much to her contributors as to have left little room to herself; though there are several gem-like stories from her own pen; one in particular, of which the scene is laid in the Imperial Court, and in which Napoleon, as well as Josephine, is made amiable. This little story is a sweet specimen of the pathos of the domestic affections.
Mrs Opie, Mr Kenyon, the brothers Chorley, and others, have brought tribute to the gifted Editress: but we turn from temptation, as we go no farther with the “Tableaux.”
Reviewed:
Findens’ Tableaux, ed. M.R. Mitford, London: 1839.
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