Selections From the Poetry of Robert Herrick

THE revival of art in these days extends, happily, to the revival of certain poets also, if we may judge by the beautiful volume in which Robert Herrick is newly brought to our ken.¹ But perhaps it ought not even to he hinted that “ revival ” is possible in the case of a writer who, in various effusions, alluded to the prospect of his undying fame with such calm confidence, as if it were a mere incidental, a matter of course ; as, for instance, in those lines where he represents himself as coming to his father’s tomb, and by way of payment for the debt of birth he owes exclaims, —

But, though bards may be immortal, they do not always, so to speak, lead an active career of immortality ; and as Herrick’s survival has been somewhat passive —mostly confined to The NightPiece to Julia and the “ Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,” of anthologies — it is pleasant to see him brought out boldly among books of the day, in so worthy a garb. His “ vein of poetry was very irregular,” says his distinguished Caledonian co-member among the British poets, Thomas Campbell; but the irregularity, so far as it is represented in this very excellent selection, only adds to the charm of his literary presence. At all events, here he is, reproduced with a literal fidelity calculated to drive the spelling - reformer into a frenzy even greater than that which now afflicts him ; and, moreover, he is accompanied by a wealth of pictorial comment from the hand of a truly congenial mind, — that of Mr. Edwin A. Abbey. Herrick was a singer of delightful individuality, in an epoch of remarkable individualities, — that epoch to which Taine has given the name of the Pagan Renaissance, when men had awakened to a fresh enjoyment of life, and found poetry wherever they turned their eyes. A man in the prime he was when Shakespeare died; a contemporary of Milton, a competitor with Carew and Waller. In all that conflict of claims, he preserves his hold on us as deserving a separate place. He glances out of window, from his parsonage in Devon, and straightway finds material for a poem ; the human, natural note of the layman he always was in spirit, and afterwards became in fact, bursts out in his exquisite love lyrics ; he has strange fancies of flowers, and of maidens metamorphosed into them ; even the bare meadows are addressed by him in a flight of verses, filled with glad shapes of life ; and, under these phases, as well as when he is brooding upon death and eternity, he never fails to charm. Even the occasional awkwardness of his verse and the threat of having nothing to say at the end contribute to the effect by imparting a surprise and a sense of lurking humor. To all this Mr. Abbey’s genius responds most agreeably. Mr. Austin Dobson’s preface intimates that the present volume grew out of studio readings, — the modern English poet reciting from the older lyric master, while the young American draughtsman worked and listened ; and the book has just that easy, spontaneous air which might be expected from such an origin. Nevertheless, it seems to us that, in his dainty and very cleverly turned introductory paragraph, Mr. Dobson has a little swerved from the line of unaffected quaintness, traceable in Herrick, by too great an indulgence in quotation and allusion, and by a certain over-consciousness of his theme ; as if — to adopt a modish simile — Herrick were simply bisque, and Mr. Dobson had chosen to coat that humbler surface with a light, brilliant glaze. Something of this same defect may, perhaps, with all due recognition of merit, be discerned in Mr. Abbey’s designs. There is in them at times a kind of forced, though sympathetic quaintness. It should, however, be remembered that to edit or illustrate a lyrist of another age involves a difficulty like that of painting the lily. Taking simply the conception and method of Mr. Abbey’s pictures in themselves, we are still compelled to note some limitations upon their excellence. The male figures are generally inadequate; there is a tendency to reduce them to manikins, as in the Corinna’s Going A-Maying. In the Beucolick, or Discourse of Neatherds, this tendency is also manifest; and in the first of the drawings of the several belonging to this poem, “ Lalage with cow-like eyes ” really is given the physiognomy of a pétroleuse. In the famous Night-Piece, Julia is extremely engaging; but the poet, sitting at her feet, has his left leg laid out limp as a paint-tube when squeezed half dry. Mr. Abbey’s drawing, indeed, is in more than one instance very deficient: we cannot find it in us to commend the initial composition accompanying To His Muse, with its ludicrous little male figure lost in shrubbery, and its Thalia elongated to a stature which even a goddess could not support; and there are other examples that might be cited. Furthermore, the artist has now and then been careless, or his imagination has failed him; for on no other hypothesis can we explain his feebleness in illustrating the distich on Julia Weeping. But it is perhaps ungracious to dwell upon such points as these, when there is so much in the series to call forth a hearty recognition of success. It certainly exhibits remarkable fertility: that one man should so happily have planned and executed compositions so varied, so picturesque, and so generally pleasing, in the midst of much other work, is proof of unusual versatility and excellence. Not to mention the graceful flower pieces, there are several landscapes of great merit, among the drawings, — though that of DeanBourn, a Devon river, is perhaps unavoidably lost in the printing. The design Upon Julia’s Clothes is not alone technically good, but is full of spirit: the peacock attitude of the woman, subtilely echoed in her peacock-fan and the feathers around the border, is admirably presented. The Mad Maid’s Song is honored with a design abounding in strength, beauty, and a peculiar insight. That which accompanies the verses To Musique is, in its purity and loveliness, like a full, clear, sober note of melody. Then, too, there are refreshing glimpses of out-door scenes, like that containing the lustrous and buoyant figure of Mistress Susanna Southwell. Perhaps the finest of all these designs is the one belonging to His Poetrie his Pillar, where the “ winged minutes ” of the poem are, with keen sense of fitness on the part of the artist, depicted as muffled shapes ascending a stair, instead of being endowed with conventional wings. There is an original seductiveness about this volume, in its entirety, which arouses a vague suspicion that it is a sort of nursery rhymes for larger children; and precisely therein consists its especial value. At the same time that it appeals to the emotional and intellectual nature of mature readers, it takes us back to the unsophisticated mood of childhood ; a characteristic which is sure to give it wide popularity. And whatever criticisms one may pass upon Mr. Abbey, here and there, everybody will admit that there is no one who can dispute with him his peculiar function as an illustrator, which in these pages is seen at its best.

In viewing this superb rendering of Herrick’s fancies, we are reminded of his own epigram, wherein he asks “ the detractor” what poets he likes best, and receives reply, “ The dead : ” thereupon he says that he too will soon be dead, and

“Then sure thou ’t like, or thou wilt envie me.”

One may well envy Herrick his illustrator.