E420700A. The Poems of Geoffrey Chaucer, Modernized.
The Church of England Quarterly Review, July 1842, pp. 44–49.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 6, 371–373.
Mr. Horne’s Introduction is well written, and abounding in valuable matter; but it is far too long, and altogether disproportioned to the work. He has wasted much valuable space by reiterating too often his opinion on the metre, which might have been despatched in a dozen pages; we, therefore, laid it down disappointed, regret[t]ing that he had not made a better use of the opportunity to illustrate the power and pathos of Chaucer’s genius, instead of a wearying repetition of “quantities and syllables.” We trust, should another edition be called for, that Mr. Horne, who is eminently qualified, will take a [p. 45→] broader view of the subject, and give us an essay on the old poet worthy his fine genius. We, however, can recommend the Introduction to the careful perusal of our readers, who will find a complete vindication of Chaucer’s metre in it, and they will altogether be better prepared for the study of his writings. Mr. Horne very properly says of Pope’s version—
“That the licentious humour of the original, being divested of its quaintness and obscurity, becomes yet more licentious in proportion to the fine touches of skill with which it is brought into the light. Spontaneous coarseness is made revolting by meretricious artifice. Instead of keeping in the distance that which was objectionable, by such shades in the modernizing as should have answered to the hazy appearance of the original, it receives a clear outline, and is brought close to us. An ancient Briton, with his long rough hair and painted body, laughing and singing half naked under a tree, may be coarse, yet innocent of all intention to offend; but if the imagination (absorbing the anachronism) can conceive him shorn of his falling hair, his paint washed off, and, in this uncovered state, introduced into a drawing-room full of ladies in rouge and diamonds, hoops and hair powder, no one can doubt the injury thus done to the ancient Briton. This is no unfair illustration of what was done in the time of Pope, and by these editions of Ogle and Lipscombe. They are not modernized versions—which implies modern delicacy, as well as modern language—they are vulgarized versions. The public of the present day would certainly never tolerate any similar proceeding, even were it likely to be attempted.”
We shall take now some specimens of the modernization before us, and we do not hesitate to say that it ought to accomplish somewhat towards rendering Chaucer a household book. How few of our families have his elevating works on their shelves. How little are his beautiful poems read! How little is known by the mass of his biography! Let us haste to wipe away a stain on the English reader by becoming more conversant with the works of the British Homer.
To Wordsworth, Hazlitt, and Leigh Hunt, the public owe much for their vigorous efforts to place his merits before their “critical” eyes. Nothing can be finer than Mr. Wordsworth’s “Prioress’s Tale,” published nearly thirty years ago; and the masterly criticisms of the two latter, in the “Round Table,” have done much towards the extension of his popularity.
How finely does the great poet of Rydal Mount fuse into his own fine Saxon verse the thoughts of his great ancestor:—
Then said he thus,—“O palace desolate!
O house of houses, once so richly dight;
O palace, empty and disconsolate!
Thou lamp, of which extinguished is the light;
O palace, whilom day that now art night, [p. 45→]
Thou ought’st to fall, and I to die, since she
Is gone who held us both in sovereignty.
“O of all houses once the crowned boast!
Palace illumed with the sun of bliss;
O ring, of which the ruby now is lost,
O cause of woe, that cause hast been of bliss:
Yet, since I may no better, would I kiss
Thy cold doors; but I dare not for this rout:
Farewell, thou shrine, of which the saint is out.”
Mr. Leigh Hunt’s versions are characterized by great vivacity, but stray more from the principle on which this book is put forth to the public than any of his fellow-labourers: still he keeps infinitely closer than Dryden, and there is a grace and wit about his performance which makes the more faithful modernizers read “cramped” after running over his sparkling verses.
The following is, we think, charmingly done: it is from the beginning of the “Manciples Tale.”
When Phœbus dwelt with men, in days of yore,
He was the very lustiest bachelor
Of all the world, and shot in the best bow.
Twas he, as the old books of stories show,
That shot the serpent Python, as he lay
Sleeping against the sun, upon a day.
He played all kinds of music, and so clear
His singing was, and such a heaven to hear,
Men might not speak during his madrigal.
Amphion, king of Thebes, that put a wall
About the city with his melody,
Certainly sang not half so well as he.
And, add to this, he was the seemliest man
That is, or has been, since the world began.
What needs describe his beauty? since there’s none
With which to make the least comparison.
In brief, he was the flower of gentilesse,
Of honour, and of perfect worthiness:
And yet, take note, for all this mastery,
This Phœbus was of cheer so frank and free,
That for his sport, and to commend the glory
He gat him o’er the snake (so runs the story),
He used to carry in his hand a bow.
We have spoken of Chaucer’s pathos; we now refer our readers to one of the finest specimens in his works, and would then direct his attention to a modernization by one of the first of our living poets. The pathetic confession of his inability to proceed with the horrible tale, and his quaint reference to Dante, are in the highest degree beautiful and simple. The quiet and yet irre- [p. 47→] sistible manner in which he relates the affection of the children for the father are triumphs! We do not envy the man who can read it without tears “coming to the portals of his heart.” For ourselves, we ingenuously confess we are unable to read it aloud. The heart seems overpowered with the sensations arising from the bare contemplation of Ugolino’s mental sufferings, and feels grateful to the poet for declining to finish the tragedy:—
The next on the list is Mr. Powell, who has modernized the legends of Adriadne, Phillis and Philomene, the Flower and the Leaf, and the rime of Sir Thopas. We regret that we must qualify our high praise of this gentleman’s version with some blame. The legends are very ably but very carelessly done, and thrown off as though it were an irksome task, and not a labour of love. He has done the Flower and Leaf so well that we regret this the more, and trust that, should another impression appear, he will carefully revise the Legends, more especially that of Ariadne, which is full of inelegancies and errors. We forbear quoting anything but one specimen from this part of his performance, but this is of a very high order. We do not praise even the extract for its fidelity, we merely give it as a well-wrought picture, and wish that the rest had been done in the same spirit, saving a few expletives of Mr. Powell’s own coinage. It is descriptive of the treatment of Philomene by Tereus.
Then to a trackless forest Tereus led
Fair Philomene, and to a cave he sped,
And bade her ease her weariness and rest.
Whereat her heart did beat against her breast
Right loud and fast, and then she answered thus—
“Where is my sister, brother Tereus?”
And therewithal she wept full tenderly,
And quaked for fear all pale and piteously.
Right as the lamb that of the wolf is bitten,
Or as the dove when by the eagle smitten,
And from his iron claws hath just got loose,
Yet trembles still, nor of her wings hath use,
Dreading to be re-taken, so sat she;
But otherwise, alas! it cannot be.
The traitor Tereus hath with brute-like power
Rifled the beauty of this virgin flower;
Yea, by the very villany of might.
Lo! here a deed to fill all men with fright.
“Sister!” she cried; to air her shriek was given;
Then “Father dear, oh! help me, God in heaven!”
But all was silent, and no succour came.
Then Tereus worketh yet another shame, [p. 48→]
For fear that she his deed should cry aloud,
All in the open air among the crowd,
She of her tongue he with his sword bereft,
And to a castle in a rocky cleft
He took her as a prisoner evermore,
And kept her there in anguish for his store,
So that she ne’er from prison could depart!
O gentle Philomene! woe’s in thy heart,
Huge are thy sorrows, worse than death their smart;
God help thee, maid, and send thee some fair boon.
Most of Miss Barrett’s verses are fantastical, and consequently very unlike the fine old poet. But some are perfectly absurd, and remind the reader more of “Don Juan” than “Dan Chaucer’s.” As an instance, take the following example:—
Young was this queen, but twenty summers old,
Of middle stature, and such wondrous beauty,
That Nature, self-delighted, did behold
A rare work in her—while, in stedfast duty,
Lucretia and Penelope would suit ye
With a worse model—all things understood,
She was, in short, most perfect, fair, and good.
Now let us turn to the original—
Young was the queene, of twenty yere old,
Of middle stature, and of soch farainesse,
That Nature had a joy her to behold,
And for to speaken of her stedfastness,
She passed hath Penelope and Lucresse,
And shortly if she may be comprehended,
In her might nothing been amended.
We are however much pleased with the following stanza, which is in itself a very exquisite image. We give the original, that our readers may compare the ancient with the modern.
And in this world there is not one
Who walketh with a sadder moan,
And bears more grief than I have done;
And if light slumbers overcome me,
Methinks your image, in the glory
Of skiey azure, stands before me,
Re-vowing the old love you bore me,
And praying for new mercy from me.
For in this world there is no creature,
Walking in more discomfiture,
Than I, ne more sorowe endure,
For if I sleepe a furlonge way or tway,
Than thinketh me that your figure
Before me stant clad in asure,
Eft to profre a newe assure,
For to ben trewe, and mercy me to pray. [p. 49→]
As every true poet has a song in his mind, yet more certainly has every great poet a religious passion in his soul. The emotion he derives from the thing created is often too strong to dwell upon its imperfections or rest satisfied in its beauty, and impels his imagination at once to ascend to the creative principle, wherein alone it can find relief and repose. With this feeling doth the profoundly simple-hearted old poet call upon God, and upon Christ, through the voices of earth’s many happy and many suffering children—with this thought doth he seek, with aching eye, to look through the darkness of forbidden knowledge, at the tree that burns impalpably beyond—with this yearning doth his soul spring upward in divine rhythmic harmony, with those spheres which are ever working while they sing.
Scattered, neglected, overgrown with weeds, and the dust of ignorance and olden time, thy page, oft illegible as the pale cobweb, or the tattered banner, whereon the name of the victor is confused with that of the vanquished, and the rest all faded—Father of English Poetry! thy hand-writing, and the writing of the hands guided by thee, have found but a careless preservation among after generations. Somewhat of these primitive inspirations have been mutilated—many damaged by errors of omission and intrusion—many lost; yet from the fulness and vitality of that genius once breathed over the lost prototypes, the worm, the moth, and the mouldering years, have lived their lives, and done their work upon them, without conveying the records into the all-compounding earth; nor hath the silence of progressive ages been unbroken by a strange cry, at intervals, which told that Chaucer was not gone into ultimate oblivion, but only sleeping till the modern world awoke. Sleeping, indeed, the deep sleep which follows great labours and long neglect; but, by those who were gazing with reverent love, still seen as of yore; by those who were listening, still heard—
Singing with voice memorial—in the shade.
Reviewed:
The Poems of Geoffrey Chaucer Modernized, ed. R.H. Horne, London: 1841.
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