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There are, however, trials in the world from which the most imaginative cannot escape; and which are more real than those which self-love alone can make important to us. Keats's sensibility amounted to disease. "I would reject," he writes, "a Petrarchal coronation on account of my dying dayand because women have cancers!" A few months later, after visiting the house of Burns, he wrote thus," His misery is a dead weight on the nimbleness of one's quill: tried to forget it... it won't do. . . . We can see, horribly clear, in the works of such a man, his whole life, as if we were God's spies." (P. 171.) It was this extreme sensibility, not less than his ideal tendencies, which made him shrink with prescient fear from the world of actual things. Reality frowned above him like a cliff seen by a man in a nightmare dream. It fell on him at last! The most interesting of all his letters is that to his brother (p. 224, vol. i.), in which he, with little anticipation of results, describes his first meeting with the Oriental beauty who soon after became the object of his passion. In love he had always been, in one sense and personal love was but the devotion to that in a concentrated form which he had previously and more safely loved as a thing scattered and diffused. He loved and he won; but death cheated him of the prize. Tragical indeed were his sufferings during the months of his decline. In leaving life he lost what can never be known by the multitudes who but half live: and poetry at least could assuredly have presented him but in scant measure with the consolations which the Epicurean can dispense with most easily, but which are needed most by those whose natures are most spiritual, and whose thirst after immortality is strongest. Let us not, however, intrude into what we know not. In many things we are allowed to rejoice with him. His life had been one long revel. "The open sky," he writes to a friend, "sits upon our senses like a sapphire crown: the air is our robe of state; the earth is our throne; and the sea a mighty minstrel playing before it!" Less a human being than an Imagination embodied, he passed, "like a new-born spirit," over a world that for him ever retained the dew of the morning; and bathing in all its freshest joys he partook but little of its stain.

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The genius of the poet whose latest work we have discussed at the beginning of this paper has been more justly appreciated than that of either of them: But it will now probably be asked to which of the two great schools of English poetry illustrated by us he is to be referred? The answer to that question is not easy, for in truth he has much in common with both. His earlier poems might sometimes be classed in the same cateIgory with those of Shelley and Keats: For, the three have in common an ardent temperament, a versatile imagination, and an admirable power of embodying the classical; but in other respects they differ widely. Tennyson has indeed, like Keats, with whom he has most in common, a profound sense of the beautiful, a calm and often soft intensity, a certain voluptuousness in style, that reminds us of the Venetian school of painting, and a marvelous depth and affluence of diction-but here the resemblance ends. We do not yet observe in his works, to the same degree, that union of strength with lightness and freedom of touch, which, like the unerring but unlabored handling of a great master, characterized Keats's latest works. On the other hand, Tennyson has greater variety. Wide, indeed, is his domain-extending as it does from that of Keats, whose chief characteristic was ideal beauty, to that of Burns, whose songs, native to the soil, gush out as spontaneously as the warbling of the bird or the murmuring of the brook. Even in their delineation of beauty, how different are the two poets! In Keats that beauty is chiefly beauty of form; in Tennyson that of color has at least an equal place: one consequence of which is, that while Keats, in his descriptions of nature, contents himself with embodying separate objects with a luxurious vividness, Tennyson's gallery abounds with cool far-stretching landscapes, in which the fair green plain and winding river, and violet mountain ridge and peaks of remotest snow, are harmonized through all the gradations of aerial distance. Yet his is not to be classed with that recent poetry which has been noted for a devotion, almost religious, to mere outward nature. His landscapes, like those of Titian, are for the most part but a beautiful background to the figures. Men and manners are more his theme than nature. genius seems to tend as naturally to the idyllic as that of Shelley did to the lyrical, or that of Keats to the epic.

Shelley and Keats remained with us only long enough to let us know how much we have lost

His

The moral range of Mr. Tennyson's poetry,

"We have beheld these lights, but not possessed too, is as wide as the imaginative. It is rethem."

markable how little place, notwithstanding

the ardor of Shelley and of Keats, is given | ulty to other subjects instead of the drama in their works, to the affections properly so All his important poems are complete embodcalled. They abound in emotion and pas-iments, not merely illustrations of the subject sion: in which respect Mr. Tennyson resembles them; but he is not less happy in the delineation of those human affections which depend not on instinct or imagination alone, but which, growing out of the heart, are modified by circumstance and association, and constitute the varied texture of social existence. His poetry is steeped in the charities of life, which he accompanies from the cradle to the grave. He has a Shakspearean enjoyment in whatever is human, and a Shakspearean indulgence for the frailties of humanity; the life which his verse illustrates with a genial cheer or a forlorn pathos, is life in its homely honesty, life with its old familiar associations and accidents, its "merry quips," remembered sadly at the death of the old year, its "flowing can" and its "empty cup." The truth of this statement will at once be recognized by all who have read his Miller's Daughter," his "May Queen," and "New Year's Eve," with their beautiful "Conclusion;" his "Dora," " Audley Court," "Talking Oak," or his "Lyrical Monologue."

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Nor is his intellectual region less ample. Many of his poems are the embodiment of deep philosophical speculations on the problem of life. We allude to such pieces as the "Palace of Art," "The Two Voices," the "Vision of Sin," and those brief but admirable political poems, "You ask me why though ill at ease," and "Of old sat Freedom on the Heights." In these poems, whether metaphysical or ethical, there is a characteristic difference between the style of Mr. Tennyson and Shelley; the latter of whom was essentially dogmatic in the corresponding part of his works, while the former, with an interest not less deep in the intellectual and political progress of the human race, speaks only in the way of suggestion, and in his significant hints reminds us of Mr. Keats's expression, "Man should not dispute or assert, but whisper results to his neighbor." In this department of Mr. Tennyson's poetry we can, perhaps, trace the influences of German literature, modified by an English mind, and, we are glad to observe, by English traditions.

Mr. Tennyson's genius, so far as we can pretend to judge of what is so large and manifold, is perhaps, on the whole, most strikingly characterized by that peculiar species of versatility which, as we have already observed, is the application of the dramatic fac

treated. Each is evidently the result of long musings, meditative and imaginative; and each represents, in its integrity and distinctness, an entire system of thought, sentiment, manners, and imagery. Each is a window from which we have a vista of a new and distinct world. In each, too, we come to know far more of the characters than is explicitly stated; we know their past as well as their present, and speculate about their associates. How much, for instance, of our time and country do we find in "Locksley Hall," that admirable delineation of the modern Outlaw, the over-developed and undisciplined youth, the spoilt child and cast-away son of the nineteenth century! How many tracts against asceticism are condensed in his St. Simeon! Whether idyllic or philosophic in form,, not a few of these poems are at heart dramas. If it were true, which we cannot believe, that the drama is amongst us but an anachronism, such poems would be perhaps the most appropriate substitute for it. They are remarkable also as works of Mr. Tennyson is a great artist; nor would it have been possible without much study, as well as a singular plastic power, to have given his poems that perfection of shape which enables a slender mould to sustain a various interest.

art.

It is frequently asked whether Mr. Tennyson is capable of producing a great and national work. Hitherto such has obviously not been his ambition; nor can we think any man wise who, instead of keeping such a design steadily before him, and making all his labors a preparation for it, embarks on the execution of it at a period earlier than that at which his faculties and his experience approach their maturity. A great poem is a great action; and requires the assiduous exercise of those high moral powers with which criticism has no concern, and action much;-courage, prudence, enterprise, patience, self-reliance founded on self-knowledge, a magnanimous superiority to petty obstacles, a disinterested devotion to art for its own sake, and for that of all which it interprets and communicates. Should Mr. Tennyson devote himself to a great work, he has already exhibited the faculties necessary for his success: But, whether he writes it or not he has taken his place among the true poets of his country. With reference to a national poem, and to our previous observations concerning the ideal and the national in poetry,

we may remark, that Mr. Tennyson's progress has constantly been toward the latter, while he has carried along with him many attributes of the former. His early poems, steeped as they were in a certain fruit-like richness, and illumined by gleams of an imagination at once radiant and pathetic, like the lights of an evening horizon, were deficient, as all young poetry is, in subject and substance. They had then also a defect, which they shared with much of Shelley's and some of Keats's-that of appearing poetry, distilled from poetry, rather than drawn from the living sources of life and of truth. But that defect has long since been corrected; and it is observable, that in proportion as his poetry has become more robust and characteristic, it has also become more home-bred. He has given us admirably characteristic landscapes from almost all countries; but it is plainly among the meads and lawns of his native land that his imagination finds, a home. Nor is it English scenery only that he illustrates with such truth and power, but English manners likewise; indeed, when we say that his poetry does not shrink from the interests and accidents of daily life, it is especially English life to which we refer. It is not merely the romantic tale that he records, as in "Godiva" and "The Lord of Burleigh," but many a modern trait from the village green, the corn-field, the manor-house, many a recollection from college life, or the social circle. The tale which we have reviewed, though not English in subject, is yet eminently English in its setting. That modern England does not contain the materials of poetry we cannot believe, as long as we find that it produces the faculties that tend to poetry; but

those materials unquestionably are obscured by the rubbish that now overlays them; and to extricate and exhibit them requires, therefore, unusual poetic discernment. The difficulty of illustrating our modern manners is increased by the fact that they include much from which poetic sympathies recoil. A deep interest in national manners and history is the best imaginative preparation for a national poem. In what way the poetical side of modern life might be seized and set forth on a large scale, is a problem well worth consideration; but our limits deter us from even an attempt at the solution of it. Assuredly that life will not be poetically exhibited merely by allusions to its outward accidents,-its railways, and its steamboats, or by the application of poetry, in the spirit of a partisan, to the disputes of the hour. To delineate modern life, the first thing must be to understand human life; and the second to trace its permanent relations as they are modified by the more essential characteristics of modern society. In this process the poet will be assisted in proportion as his sympathies are vivid, as his habits are thoughtful, and as his versatile imagination unites itself to fixed principles. The sympathies which give power to those who feel them, are such as help their immediate objects likewise. The man must feel himself a part of that life which he would illustrate (though the poet in the man, must ever preserve his isolation); the hand must inform the heart, and the heart direct the mind; for it is through the neighborly duties alone that the universal relations of society become understood vitally. Scanned in speculation alone, they are a theme for the philosopher, not the poet.

SONNET

TO

CHASTE orator! whose silv'ry voice, when strung
To lofty subjects hitherto untaught,
Unheard in senate-house or regal fort,
With vigor to thy theme adapted, rung,
What need'st thou that thy effigy be hung
Where heroes lie who by Trafalgar sought
A grave illustrious, and priests who've bought

WILBERFORCE.

A resting-place Plantagenets among?

In Libya, where the sun, a glaring flame
Resembling, burns the arid plains, and where
The Senegal pursues his tardy course,
Most fervently, in their diurnal prayer,

The manumitted slaves pronounce thy name, And teach their babes to lisp forth WILBERFORCE.

From Tait's Magazine.

HENRIETTA SONTAG-COUNTESS DE ROSSI.

THE return of Mademoiselle Sontag to the lyrical stage, through circumstances so peculiar and unforeseen, very naturally awakens a more than ordinary curiosity respecting her. Many years ago she was the pride of the operatic boards throughout Europe. Her voice was magnificent, her person and manners were fascinating, and she had formed for herself a style of singing altogether sui generis. It is, moreover, one of the great arts of dramatic policy to trumpet forth the merits of favorite singers, so as to excite, and sometimes to bewilder, the intellects of those whose habitual pleasure is music. We remember Mademoiselle Sontag's first appearance in London. She had previously, as is well known, gained a high reputation on the Continent, by singing at Paris, Berlin, Vienna, and other cities of Germany. But as London is the ultima Thule of musical ambition, her career would have been imperfect, her success almost trivial, had she not passed the Channel, and delighted the amateurs of the British capital, which, without a figure of speech, is the greatest centre of energy and intelligence in Christendom.

There is a melancholy interest attached to her late reappearance. Admired for her beauty and her talents, she was married early to a Sardinian gentleman, engaged in the business of diplomacy, who, as might have been expected, in a short time withdrew her from the excitements and pleasures of public life. She then formed one of a class constantly becoming more and more numerous in European society-we mean ladies who have been transferred from the stage to the drawing-room, which some regard as an extraordinary and fortunate achievement. We have our doubts on this point. It may not be desirable at the outset to be placed on the stage, and surrounded by all its temptations, all its gaieties, all its excitements, and all its dangers; but these once subdued by the force of habit, or neutralized by the pure love of art, there is, perhaps, no life so full

of charms, and, therefore, so difficult to be quitted, as that of the stage-we mean to those few who attain pre-eminence there, and exercise a sort of sovereign influence over public taste.

Fame of all kinds is intoxicating, but especially that of a great actor or singer, who looks renown face to face, as it were, and enjoys in person that which others only taste proleptically, by throwing themselves through the force of imagination into the bright circles of futurity. To a woman, above all things, young, beautiful, susceptible, celebrity is a Circean cup. She beholds, in some sort, thousands at her feet-she lives in an atmosphere perfumed with applause-the whole public is but as an echo to repeat her praises perpetually. All who feel, and many thousands who only affect to feel, the pleasures imparted by music-all who have a voice in society, or, still more bewitching, who can give performance to their eloquent admiration through the press, unite in accomplishing her apotheosis.

When, therefore, through love, or any other passion, she is snatched from this mimic world, this blaze of admiration, this inexpressibly sweet and soothing atmosphere, to be removed to the calm and quietude of domestic life, the change is too frequently followed by poignant disappointment and regret. The existence of a great actress or singer is external. All she does is to produce effect on others. Her talents may, in fact, be said to be latent or invisible, till they are called into activity, and rendered palpable by the presence of applauding multitudes. No painter would create a gallery of pictures if all the rest of the world were blind. No man would give up his nights and days to the study of eloquence, if the music of his periods were to be displayed before a deaf or unappreciating audience. Still less, therefore, would a singer cultivate assiduously all the resources of her voice, and almost convert herself into a mere well

spring of sound, were she not to be repaid by the simulteneous admiration of brilliant and generous audiences, who have wealth, distinction, and fame at their command.

tion. What the voice is, we know not, save that it is a power to cause certain peculiar vibrations in the air, which, striking on our sensorium, give rise to sensations which are not afterward to be represented by ideas. Music is almost exclusively a matter of sensation, and has little or nothing to do with the intellect. It produces a peculiar condition of our nervous system; it occasions an agreeable motion in our animal spirits; it excites our feelings; it awakens our sympasigh-thies; it connects itself with innumerable associations, and stirs all the world of passion within us; but the means by which it exercises this power defy analysis, and even lie beyond the reach of conjecture. The most subtle metaphysics cannot descend into that abyss, so that we must be content to enjoy the pleasure, without knowing whence it cometh, or whither it goeth.

It is commonly believed that Mademoiselle Sontag abandoned the stage without reluctance, and voluntarily gave herself up to the obscurity of ordinary life. She herself, however, is deeply conscious, we are sure, that this is a grievous error. In the glimpses we obtain of her subsequent career, we discover irrefragable proofs that she perpetually ed for the enjoyment of publicity. Consequently, though the causes of her reappearance cannot but be painful to her, we make no doubt that, when the happy moment arrived, she again trod the stage with rapture, like one who escapes from long imprisonment to liberty, or ascends from the dim eclipse of defeat to victory and the exercise of power. This is the event of her life on which, were we her friend, we should be most inclined to congratulate her. Like a star long hidden by thick clouds, she has now emerged once more into the clear bright heaven, and sheds radiance far and wide around her. As the Countess de Rossi, she may have tasted all that equable pleasure and satisfaction which a retired and quiet life can bestow; but as Henrietta Sontag, the prima donna of the opera-house, she probably enjoys, at times at least, a rapturous delight, altogether unknown to other women. This would undoubtedly be her confession, could she be brought to disclose her secret thoughts; and, accordingly, she no doubt finds, as well as the public, that adversity "oft bears a precious jewel in its head."

A great deal has been written on the merits of this distinguished singer, who has been placed in parallel with Madame Pasta, Malibran, and Jenny Lind. These comparisons are generally ridiculous, because language supplies no medium for conveying correctly to others our impressions of singing. When we are speaking of a voice which those to whom we speak have not heard, the most elaborate and learned critic will fail in the attempt to impart a true idea of it. We may describe the amount of pleasure we have received; we may enter into details respecting it; we may be eloquent; we may exhaust the terms of admiration; but, when all this has been done, our hearers or readers will only be able to gather generally that we have been extremely delighted. Of Madame Pasta, for example, now that she has disappeared from the stage, it is impossible to give the opera-goers any concep

When persons in society talk of the opera, especially if they have the misfortune to possess a smattering of musical knowledge, you often seem ashamed to experience any pleasure in common with them, they are so intensely silly. Affecting to be pre-eminently familiar with all great singers, they talk of Pasta, Sontag, and Lind, just as, were they politicians, they would prate about Palmerston, Talleyrand, or Metternich. Often and often do they suggest a pungent quotation from Shakspeare

"The fool hath planted in his memory An army of good words,"

for, with their "contralto," their "soprano," and their "mezzo-soprano," they bother you by the hour. They do not hear music to enjoy it, but to dissertate about it. Mademoiselle Sontag is to them not a source of pleasure, but a topic. They carry their tablets to the opera-house, that they may set down those trite observations which they can afterward dole forth among persons of their own calibre in society. Nothing can exceed the airs of superiority which one of this class of persons feels, when he asks you if you have heard Lind or Sontag, and feels sure you will answer in the negative. He is then in a state of mental ecstasy; and if you care less for the truth than for a joke, you will humor him, that you may see his little mind overflowing with gratification. Yet these individuals help to make up the singers' world, which possibly, but for them, would be extremely limited; for the true lovers of music, like the true lovers of all other arts, are few indeed. We have been at the opera

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