E371021A. Findens’ Tableaux (1838).
The Athenæum, 21 October 1837, pp. 783–784.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 3, 338–339.
Finden’s Tableaux, &c., edited by Mary Russell Mitford.—We like this handsome book none the less, because its letter-press has, in some degree, a character of its own. The poems illustrative of six of the plates are longer than those usually ventured in Annuals, and therefore better: some of them, too, are by writers comparatively unhackneyed, (our own contributor, E.B.B., among the number,) and if their staple be but gossamery, it is still gossamer of a new pattern. The opening poem, by Mr. Kenyon, “The Shrine of the Virgin,” accompanying a group of Sicilian peasants, contains some stanzas which remind us of Crabbe when in his lyrical mood.
She cometh to the seaward shrine,
A mother with her children three,
And they have made the holy sign,
And they have dropped on bended knee.
Three in the lowly rite combine,
And one is cradled, peaceably.
That mother’s heart hath business here,
For she doth love the mariner.
Her gallant boy is on the deep,
She loves him more that he is brave;
Yet when around Peloro’s steep
The midnight surges leap and rave,
What marvel if a mother weep,
And, thinking on the tropic wave,
Doth flee to thee, O mother mild!
Thou mother of the Blessed Child!
Thro’ winds, that sweep like hurricane,
And deadly lightning’s lurid light,
She speedeth to the pillared fane,
Where thou dost stand in silver bright.*
If solace but for him she gain,
What should a mother’s soul affright?
And, now, the porch-way she doth win,
And through the portal glideth in.
I love the ever open door
That welcomes to the house of God;
I love its wide spread marble floor,
By every foot in freedom trod!
Free altars let me kneel before,
Free as the pathway or the sod,
Whence journeying pilgrim—mid broad air
Wafts unpremeditated prayer!
She prayeth in the silent pile,
Her whispers round the columns creep,
She prayeth all alone—the while
Her babes at home securely sleep;
Their brother loved to see her smile,
She would not they should see her weep
Youth’s rightful joys she will not dim,
With tears—not even tears for him!
But now—when eve is calm and bright,
You see her here, and not alone—
Her children—in the sweet blue light,
Are with her by the sculptured stone.
With her they share a soothing sight,
Yon scarce-stirred bark, the only one—
Almost as still, on that still tide,
As unrocked cradle by her side.
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*In the Cathedral of Syracuse is a statue of the Virgin of silver.
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But we have been giving that precedence to contributors, which ought, of courtesy, to belong to the editress. Her own tales are so fresh, graceful, and spirited, as to make us wonder she has tarried so long on her own village ground; and we recommend her to take wing thence without delay,—being assured, from this specimen of her powers, that wherever she alight, she will make herself at home, cheerfully and naturally, to the satisfaction of her readers as well as of herself. “The King’s Ward,” an old English story, is very good,—but the sketch most to our liking is “The Wager,” an Italian tale of an Accademia and a lawsuit, full of delicate humour: this, too, is prefaced by so rare an anacreontic, (from the same pen as produced the verses already quoted) that we must make room for it; meaning thereby no neglect of Barry Cornwall’s “Death of the Bull,” (Andalusian)—or Mary Howitt’s North American ballad—or the “Bride’s Departure,” written in the true gondola measures; which are all good—but all, from [p. 784→] their length, less manageable than the following song:—
Lily on liquid roses floating
So floats yon foam o’er pink champagne,
Fain would I join such pleasant boating,
And prove that ruby main,
And float away on wine!
Those seas are dangerous (greybeards swear)
Whose sea-beach is the goblet’s brim;
And true it is they drown old Care—
But what care we for him,
So we but float on wine!
And true it is they cross in pain,
Who sober cross the Stygian ferry,
But only make our Styx—champagne,
And we shall cross right merry,
Floating away in wine!
Old Charon’s self shall make him mellow,
Then gaily row his boat from shore;
While we, and every jovial fellow,
Hear, unconcerned, the oar,
That dips itself in wine!
We should like to give the tale so jovially prefaced, but it is beyond our limits: and we are almost closing our notice, without having spoken of the plates—so important a feature in these drawing-room books. They are equal to those of last year,—picturesque rather than faithful, in their representations of costume; and thus merely pretty where they might be valuable. The strong point of this volume is its letter-press.
Reviewed:
Findens’ Tableaux, ed. M.R. Mitford, London: 1838.
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