Four Books of Verse

A CRITIC has unsuspected pleasures, — pleasures which only the wisest of the wise would consider possible to a person in his supercilious trade. One of these is coldly, if not doubtfully, to take up a little book of rhyme, and suddenly find himself a charmed reader. Nowadays this does not often happen even to the most susceptible critic; but something similar to this has just befallen us. Dr. Mitchell’s A Masque and Other Poems ¹ is nearly a surprise, and entirely a delight. In certain respects it seems to us the most notable volume of recent American verse. The poems are chiefly dramatic in spirit, and in several instances dramatic in form. They possess strength, fire, directness, originality of conception, and are a positive addition to our scant store of this kind of poetry. We find in them admirable things admirably said; a scorn of the commonplace in thought and diction; a finely trained, observant intellect expressing itself picturesquely and dramatically. In The Huguenot Dr. Mitchell proves — what an imaginative writer can always prove — that all the stories have not been told, much contemporary fiction to the contrary notwithstanding. The same freshness of motif and the same self-respecting care in workmanship are noticeable in The Sketch, A Medal, and that very striking narrative poem called The Swan-Woman. The brief dramatic scene that lends its title to the volume is especially charming through its ingenuity of plot and its skillfully guarded climax, which instantly sets one to re-reading the little drama. A Masque belongs to that order of things which offers a new lure at each perusal. We refrain from laying bare the secret of the theme, — it shows to best advantage wrapped in its own music, like a fly in amber; but we shall not deny ourselves the satisfaction of copying the following lyric. One has for the most part to go back to the Elizabethan playwrights in order to get just this unpremeditated, bird-like quality:

Poverty of space gives us strength to resist the temptation to fill a page or two with extracts in a different sort. Isolated passages, however, establish nothing. A quotable line here and there does not necessarily constitute a good poem, though that is a poor poem in which there is no quotable line. Felicitous phrases and new epithets abound in Dr. Mitchell’s work. For a single example, this description of an antique coin : —

One of the marked characteristics of these poems is their novel, concrete imagery. As an illustration, we have, on page 51, a mythical Asian mountain,

It is refreshing, in a period of toddling triolets, to come across a verse that dares to fly.

We have spoken of Dr. Mitchell’s careful workmanship. We shall not insist upon it too strongly, not wishing to rouse the ire of those critics who despise form ; for, as Browning beautifully observes, —

“ The barrel of blasphemy broached once, who bungs ? ”

We will limit ourselves, then, to saying that our author is seldom at fault in his technique, and is not often to be caught attempting to pass off such clipped and obsolete coin as lated. The texture of his verse generally will bear comparison with the best. Of course there are several pieces in the collection which fall short of those we have named, — as, for instance, Rain in Camp, and A Doctor’s Century, the latter lacking that indescribable timbre which makes delightful the lines concerning George Bancroft on his eighty-sixth birthday. The lines in question are supposed to be addressed to the venerable historian by a decanter of Madeira,—such as Philadelphia knows, — also born in 1800. No future anthology of vers de société will be complete without the delicate, high-bred humor of these stanzas. They everywhere reveal that lightness and precision of touch which come only of serious practice. We were on the point of saying that in Weir Mitchell a very accomplished poet was lost in the scientist. It is by no means certain that this poet has not been found.

It is always a satisfaction to note poetic growth, and not the less when crudities and extravagances of expression indicate that the end of growth has by no means been attained. The expectation with which we greeted Miss Guiney’s Songs at the Start, two or three years ago, has been much more than realized in her later book, The White Sail and Other Poems,² the “ other poems ” being classed under Legends, Lyrics, and Sonnets. The White Sail is the story of Theseus’s neglect to change his black sail for a white one, when returning triumphant from Crete, and the consequent self-destruction of Ægeus. It is Greek in its incident, but romantic in treatment, as note especially the introduction of the two songs by Alcamenes and Theron, the latter of whom is bidden by the king to “ engird ” his “ pain with some thrice-gallant catch, some madrigal.” We are not taxing Miss Guiney with mere verbal anachronism, but reminding her that the whole spirit of the two songs, and, to a less degree, of the narrative itself, reflects an introverted, complex mind, and has little to do with the single-minded, straight-away course of Greek mythic story. It is more the pity since the naiveté of the dénoûment in the Greek story is not marred in Miss Guiney’s version.

But Greece is left behind with this story, and Miss Guiney is in a more native element when dealing with Roman and mediæval subjects. Her division of Legends shows her strength better than that of Lyrics. She needs a story in order to secure a concrete and well-defined theme ; for her method is in general so oblique and allusive that she runs the risk of glancing off from the mark, and leaving the reader in a somewhat painful uncertainty what has been hit. This method has its advantage, as indeed it is at home in the legendary form, which assimilates the ballad, for the ballad supposes a drama. Thus The Rising of the Tide, perhaps the strongest poem in the book, suggests two or three stories; and only when one has reached the last line does he see the whole force of the legend, though even then he would fain have, not a foot-note, but a little more distinct disclosure in the beginning to which to look back. Tarpeia is more direct and narrative, yet this poem has lines which seem to indicate an inability to keep to a straight course, a disposition to import into the legend readings which do not accord with the legend itself. Something of the same confusion or indistinctness attaches to The Caliph and the Beggar, and scarcely one of these longer poems but has one or more intrusive lines. In The Serpent’s Crown, which is almost a riddle, wholly a parable, one, after stumbling over some very consonantal lines, takes a rather quick slide over the line, —

“ Oh, I had once some wild schemes under my hat.”

We have hinted at what appears to be a snare in Miss Guiney’s path. She is so ambitious to be terse and sinewy, she evidently holds in such disdain the smooth ways of fluent versifiers, that she allows herself to tie knots in her sentences, and to hump her lines into a rugged insolence which is not strength, but clumsy affectation of virility. Here are a few of the lines which cross the reader’s path : —

It would scarcely be fair to take single lines, rent from their context, but one who has read the book attentively will remember that it was necessary to go back from time to time, in a poem, for a fresh start, since the way seemed to be lost. This excess of vigor, which aims to pack a thought into the briefest possible space, and hammers out new words from odds and ends of old ones, will give way, we trust, to a more harmonious measure. Miss Guiney shows that she has a good sense of rhythm, and, what is more, a conception of the capacity of different forms of verse ; and if she will consent to be a little plainer in her meaning, a little less of a connoisseur in words, her verse will have more of growing life in it, and will not so readily suggest to the reader a linguistic museum. So much strength can well afford to expend itself in the perfection of form. We shall look with interest for the sane development of this writer’s power.

The poem which opens the volume of Mr. Sill’s posthumous publication strikes the key-note of his work.³ Before the broken marble of the Venus of Milo a worshiper muses, and turns now and again for a contrasting figure to the Venus de’ Medici, in which he sees the

He has no scorn for her, though by such phrases as “ sly and servile grace ” he treats her with a little lack of gallantry, but rather a pity for those who worship her, when they might kneel at the shrine of his goddess. For himself, he knows her charms and confesses her subtle power, yet his backward look at her is not one of regret or lingering passion. She beckons him, but he is not drawn. “ Farewell,” he cries, —

Then he turns with strong voice to the other: —

It would be a narrow interpretation of this striking poem which held the speaker to be abjuring the delights of a sensuous love in the possession and anticipation of a nobler affection for intellectual and spiritual ideals, although this is involved in the thought. Rather, the poet sings the praises of the noble life, from the height of which all meaner pleasure may be coolly regarded, and the most seductive allurements dispassionately surveyed. The worshiper is beyond the reach of such temptation; his trials and tests are of another sort.

It is no accident that the erotic element is absent from this volume. Mr. Sill’s mind was so clearly absorbed in the pursuit of spiritual shapes that the graces of humanity seem chiefly to have served as symbols for higher loveliness. A face at a concert draws him by the eloquence with which it responds to the appeal of the music, and discloses, with a like indefiniteness of line, the shades and tints and half-tints of the soul. Yet one does not greatly miss this note of love, because the note of friendliness is sounded so distinctly, — of friendliness for human life in its restlessness, doubt, earnestness, and faith. There is not much materialization, — the figures that flit across the pages are rarely given very dramatic vividness; but there is a passionate realization of human thought as issuing in action and determination of purpose, a strong sympathy with men and women in their moments of spiritual struggle, which serves to make the reader oblivious to the lack of varied personalities.

What is this but saying that the poet has been himself the subject of many and diverse spiritual experiences, but has not hugged the delusion that these were his special, individual adventures ? He has seen in them the common lot of man, and has been aware of kinship in life. The worshiper at the shrine of the Venus of Milo may muse in solitude, but he does not forget that he is one of an invisible throng of worshipers. This loneliness which is not selfish, this absorption which is not blind disregard of one’s neighbor, this earnest penetration of mysteries which does not look to private gain, so characterizes Mr. Sill’s loftier verse as to impart to it that element of vicariousness which saves the poetry of unrest from evaporation into vague, shifting forms. It makes it possible for one to translate the language into his own more familiar dialect. In a word, we are reading poetry which reflects spiritual states, and not personal, capricious moods.

Nevertheless, it is the personality, we repeat, which endows these poems with a penetrating gift. We are aware of a fine nature, ardent, generous, baffled at times and beaten back by adverse winds, yet pressing forward, and never really despairing. He is eager for more life ; he will even look resolutely into those manifestations of the spirit which seem to deny the perpetuity of life, and the courage, not of despair, but of faith bids him track Death to his lair. Among the finest passages in this notable little volume are those which imagine the sudden encounter of Life with Death, and the clarion notes of Quem Metui Moritura ? the calm supremacy of A Morning Thought, fitly close the volume ; for they will linger in the ears of the reader as the lofty reach of this battling spirit.

We have not thought it necessary to copy freely from this book, since many of the poems have already been before our readers in these pages ; and we have been too desirous of discovering the spirit which pervades the whole collection to speak in detail of those technical excellences which render Mr. Sill’s verse so agreeable to the ear, those felicitous turns which make an incident, when he uses t, to have almost the effect of a whole drama, as notably in The Links of Chance. At the time of his death he was acquiring so thorough a mastery of his instrument that we had a right to expect constantly richer tones. The abundance of life which his nature demanded, the freedom with which he gave with open hands the best of everything that came to him, promised a fullness of expression which will always make this little volume, to those who study his career, a sad as well as an inspiring book.

Mr. Sill represents the poet whose material is thought, and whose constructions thus lack the clear outlines which belong to creations that are the images of visible beings and objects. He is a thinker having various modes of expression, and finding verse the natural vehicle for carrying certain ideas that are only illustrated by men and nature, not immanent in them. We pass to another order of poetry, like yet unlike, when we take up Miss Thomas’s new book.⁴ Here is a poet who is a thinker, not a thinker who is a poet; and though her thought is not so occupied with the ethical domain as is the case with Mr. Sill, it is penetrative of life, and in this book more even than in her former makes search into the depths of being. But the poetic faculty in Miss Thomas, that power which sees beneath the particular, which interprets and reconstructs in new and fitting form, in a word the creative faculty, is the commanding one, and thought waits upon it.

Many of the poems in the volume have already been given to the readers of The Atlantic, but Miss Thomas gains by having her separate poems brought together. Their range is discovered, and the different notes which she strikes are more distinct by their repetition. First of all, one notices afresh with delight that power which she has of animating nature, without recourse to the familiar machinery either of supernatural figures or of too insistent translation into human analogues. The opening poem in this volume, for instance. The Breathing Earth, renders with exquisite grace a most subtle sympathy with nature. This poem illustrates also that artistic touch which every one perceives in Miss Thomas’s work, — a touch of lightness, which affects one much as the rare skill of some pianist, whose fingers seem so sensitive to contact with the keys that the merest touch is enough to awaken melodies. The poem on Anemone again catches the faint flush of the wind flower, and A Nocturn has the hush of the night. Again and again one is surprised by the fine accord with nature which permits the poet to render the most elusive moments not in vague terms of the human sentiment, but in specific terms of natural life.

We are glad to see a gain in this respect over the poems of Miss Thomas’s former volume. In that, she made more frequent use of classic terms in which to express her interpretation of nature.

There are but few poems here directly inspired by classic subjects, and we would gladly have more ; but there is a marked absence of that suggestion of a book in the hand which gave a certain charm to her earlier poems, — a charm, however, not so abiding as the stronger one, which rests in the immediate contact of life and nature. A firmer tread in the woods and by the lake shore falls upon our ear, as the poet leaves her book behind.

There is a tone in this volume which was occasionally sounded in the earlier, but so frequently here as to be unavoidable. We mean that questioning of mystery in suffering and death which, speculative in some, is in others too earnest and forcible to be referred to merely intellectual curiosity. It takes the form in these poems, not of impatience, or querulousness, or resistance to fate, but of that silence which is broken by song, that courage which is born of serene faith. There is a breath of sadness in many of the verses, but one is aware of spiritual power which is not to be overcome by adverse fate. Indeed, even more than in the previous volume, there is sounded a note of triumph which stirs one’s blood. The Leader is a poem which has the voice of a trumpet, and we greatly mistake if it does not quicken the pulse of many a man and woman. Altogether, in its range and in its depth, this volume of Lyrics and Sonnets will not merely confirm Miss Thomas’s position, but greatly increase the confidence in her genius.