E600414A. Poems Before Congress.
The Morning Post, 14 April 1860, p. 3.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 27, 386–387.
That there is a great deal in a name we all believe. When the name is that of a book, it always creates some impression which we, perhaps unconsciously, seek to confirm. Mrs. Browning has not made a felicitous choice in the appellation of the small volume just published. “Poems before Congress” does not exactly convey what the writer means; and is more likely to be wrongly than rightly interpreted now that the Congress to which she refers in anticipation is postponed sine die. It is a great disappointment to have expectation raised that a great genius has produced a great work on a great subject, and then to find that expectation unfounded. Such a disappointment attends the reader in the perusal of Mrs. Browning’s occasionally fine, but far more frequently faulty, poems. One expects to admire the rhyme, at least, if not altogether to coincide with the reason. Yet this tribute of admiration it is impossible to render, unalloyed, to such lines as the following. They form the opening verse of a poem entitled “Italy and the World:”—
Florence, Bologna, Parma, Modena,
When you named them a year ago,
So many graves reserved by God, in a
Day of judgment, you seemed to know,
To open and let out the resurrection.
These lines are not chosen as the worst, but only as the first. The versification, if it may so be called, is as rugged as unmelodious, as unpleasant all through. Quite apart from the subjects of this poem—a rampant raid upon England and her cautious policy, and a very intemperate tirade upon her commercial disposition—its faults of construction and mere mechanical harmony are too grave to be accepted without protest by Mrs. Browning’s readers. It is merely very ill-tempered declamation, distorted out of prose, but not elevated into poetry. Of all classes of subjects for a poet, the political claims the utmost polish and the most sedulous arrangement. Mere bluster will not do, mere assertion will not do, dogmatism is foolish, and satire, unless very keen and bright, as unimpressive as a toy dagger. “Italy and the World” is composed of these elements, so badly combined that they produce on the reader the effect of the title of the Lyceum pantomime. Here is our poetess, “a little pet in a great passion.” As, rather fortunately for the peace of our island, we have not travelled so far towards a perfect “organization” as to govern by sentiment, and to make war for an idea, we can afford to allow to the gifted and enthusiastic poet, to whom we owe so much, the privilege of scolding us as much as she pleases. When she scolds in numbers which halt, to say nothing of creaking, we do feel inclined to say, “Pray, Goody, try to moderate the rancour of your tongue,” but if only always “such harmonious madness from her lips should flow,” as we enjoy in the “curse” with which she favours England, in conclusion, who could ever desire the taming of so charming a shrew? The enthusiasm, the exaggeration, and the precipitate judgment which are very ungallantly, but unfortunately generally, attributed to women, are not likely to be underrated in individual cases by the gift of poetry. When a poet meddles with politics he, and still more emphatically she, applies to that intricate subject those faculties and endowments which are least appropriate, and, generally speaking, “fudge” is the result. Even Tennyson’s individual withers are not quite unwrung on this point. But Mrs. Browning is altogether flown away with by the resonant steam-eagles of her Italian sympathies. Prophetic in her zeal, she invokes everlasting pæans upon the heroes of her approbation. She hails the Emperor of the French in a very long series of very unrhythmical verses, an uncountable number of times, as “Emperor evermore;” and calls upon the world to do, in one sense, what the said Emperor is calling upon it, rather urgently, to do in another, i.e., “Shout for France and Savoy.” The oracle does not stop there, however; the blessing is commanded to fall, and then the blister is bidden to rise. England gets a most unmerciful bullying, and, it seems to us, on rather illogical grounds. If it be proved to such perfect and pleasant demonstration, as Mrs. Browning boasts on behalf of Italy, that we are not wanted—that the resuscitated nations can afford to pooh-pooh us; if, in short, we are nothing whatever to Hecuba, why are we heartless, soulless, slave-driving, cotton-spinning monsters because Hecuba is not everything to us? These are paltry considerations to offer to the giant mind of the fair medium of an angel’s curse. Perhaps when the riddle of these times is read, in protocols rather than in poetry, we may be found “owre gude for banning, and not gude enough for blessing,” like Rob Roy, and so conform to that medium which is the usual fiat of time. The portions of her little volume which are not written in a rage abound in those beauties which are to be expected from Mrs. Browning. Of these, “A Court Lady” is entitled to the first place. There is “Campanaro,” a magical musical melody, in these lines:—
Her hair was tawny with gold, her eyes with purple were dark,
Her cheeks’ pale opal burnt with a red and restless spark.
Never was lady of Milan nobler in name and in race,
Never was lady of Italy fairer to see in the face;
Never was lady on earth more true as woman and wife,
Larger in instinct and judgment, prouder in manners and life.
She stood in the early morning, and said to her maidens, “Bring
That silken robe made ready to wear at the court of the king.
Bring me the clasps of diamond, lucid, clear of the mote;
Clasp me the large at the waist, and clasp me the small at the throat;
Diamonds to fasten the hair and diamonds to fasten the sleeves—
Laces to drop from their rays, like a powder of snow from the eaves.
Gorgeous she entered the sunlight, which gathered her up in a flame;
While straight in her open carriage she to the hospital came.
The last line is the only blemish in the poem. Even without the grammatical error of using the word “came,” in a sense in which “went” is intended, there is a decided awkwardness about it. This dainty lady’s visits to the wounded men is beautifully described, and how at length she kneels before a dying Piedmontese and speaks to him stirring words. These are the concluding lines:—
Back he fell while she spoke. She rose to her feet with a spring,
That was a Piedmontese! And this is the court of the king!
To two poems besides admiration is due. They are “The Dance,” which tells how the noble Florentine dames danced with the victorious French officers at the Cascine:—
Where the people on the feast-days walk and drive,
And through the trees, long-drawn in many a green way,
O’er-roofing hum and murmur like a hive;—
and “An August Voice,” which possesses point, spirit, and humour. It is an ironical appeal to the Tuscans to “take back their Grand Duke.” In the volume is included the pretty, but strained and rather foolish little piece, called “A Tale of Villafranca,” which appeared in the Athenæum last year. Altogether this book is not unacceptable, though beneath Mrs. Browning’s mark in even its beauties! We are grateful for the occasional tones of true music, though the greater part be but “Sweet bells jangled, harsh, and out of tune.”
Reviewed:
Poems Before Congress (EBB), London: Chapman & Hall, 1860.
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