from time to time as having been won from infidelity, to believe in that future state which these manifestations reveal. It had been a charity to leave them in their old belief. For such an immortality who could be grateful? Βουλοίμην κ' ἐπάρουρος ἐὼν θητευέμεν ἄλλῳ Ε' πᾶσιν νεκύεσσι καταφθιμένοισιν ἀνάσσειν. But we will leave Sludge, without attempting to consider the sly specious argument, wonderfully sustained by Mr. Browning, in which the impostor, half a dupe himself, tries to show that after all there may be something in his science. For one brief picture we must make room; it is that of the literary man, who "makes capital," as the phrase is, for himself out of these "lying wonders." That the scornful satire is not undeserved, the reader of modern fiction will at once acknowledge: "Then there's the other picker out of pearl Of the doctrine, flavours thence, he well knows how, And the cash that's God's sole solid in this world! Look at him! Try to be too bold, too gross For the master! Not you! He's the man for muck; Find him the crude stuff; when you recognise P. 204. The more ardent admirers of Mr. Browning will think that we might have quoted more characteristic passages. Such stanzas as the following, for instance, ought to have suggested the staple of our criticism. A lover forsaken upbraids his mistress, who, as it would appear, has forsworn him, in order henceforth to live a blameless life. He says: "Men tell me of truth now-'False!' I cry; Of beauty- A mask, friend! Look beneath! "Far better commit a fault and have done As you, dear! for ever; and choose the pure, And a place in the other world insure, "Misery! What shall I say or do? I cannot advise, or, at least, persuade : Will live the old life out and chance the new. "And your sentence is written all the same, And my heart feels ice while my words breathe flame. "Dear, I look from my hiding-place. Are you still so fair? Have you still the eyes? Be good! Why want what the angels vaunt? If we meet, I will pass, nor turn my face. Pp. 42, 43. But enough has been said about these vivid, abrupt delineations of exceptional moods. They are often fraught with fiery power. Mr. Browning is not reticent with respect to the stronger passions, nor does he veil his meaning in conventional phrases. Some readers therefore find him coarse; but we fear not to say that he is the most moral, as he is the most metaphysical and the most Christian, of our modern great poets. And the volume before us, though it has no wrought-out dramas like "Strafford" or "The Blot on the Scutcheon," no lyrics like "Saul," no ballads, and very few Ingoldsby-rhymes, is perhaps, on the whole, as complete a representation of Mr. Browning's genius as any other of his works. We recommend it, therefore, as a Primer-an Introduction-and shall be much surprised if many of our readers, after reading it, do not henceforth make Robert Browning's poems a study and delight. We close with some noble lines, different in strain from all that we have quoted before: The post of the foe; Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, Yet the strong man must go : For the journey is done and the summit attained, Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, I was ever a fighter, so-one fight more, The best and the last! I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, And bade me creep past. No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears, Of pain, darkness, and cold. For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, And the elements' rage, the fiend voices that rave, Shall change, shall become, first, a peace; then a joy, O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, Pp. 149, 150. G. A CLUSTER OF OLD ENGLISH CHRISTMAS MORE than fifty generations have come and gone since the plains of Bethlehem were radiant with heavenly glory, and the awestruck shepherds heard the angelic song of "Glory to God in the highest; on earth peace, good-will to men." Through all subsequent ages, even the darkest, have men rejoiced in that light, and amongst the din of arms have the echoes of that song been heard. Genius, in its manifold forms, has gained new inspiration from the wondrous theme. Painting, music, eloquence, poetry, have come with the shepherds and the magi to gaze, and wonder, and adore at the shrine of the Incarnate God, and to lay their offerings at His feet. The object of this paper is not to deal with these loftier tributes of devout homage to the Divine Child, but to set forth some of its ruder and simpler forms. The progress of civilization and refinement is rapidly putting an end to the old-world customs in which our forefathers delighted. Christmas Waits and Carols will soon be numbered with the things that were. The besotted musicians and draggle-tailed vocalists who make night hideous at Christmas time in our towns and manufacturing districts, only caricature the quaint antique minstrelsy which was wont to usher in the day which celebrates the birth of our Lord. Before Christmas carols are quite forgotten it seems worth while to bring together a few of those which may, even yet, be heard in the few districts of England which the snort and shriek of the steam engine have not invaded. The first which we give lingers in the North of England, though in a somewhat broken and distorted form. It was printed in Byrd's collection (1587), and is copied with some abridgment in Montgomery's "Christian Poet." The tendency to alliteration which is observable throughout proves its archaic character. It is undoubtedly amongst the very earliest specimens of old ballad literature now extant. In spite of the rudeness of its versification, this monody of the Virgin over her child has a tenderness and pathos which are very attractive. As sung, there is a soft and plaintive lullaby, forming a chorus at the end of each verse. "My sweet little Baby, what meanest thou to cry? Be still, my blessed Baby, though cause thou hast to mourn, From fury Thou shall step aside, help have we still in store; From death must fly the Lord of life, as lamb both mild and meek; Thus must my Babe obey the king that would him kill. Oh! woe and woeful heavy day when wretches have their will! "But Thou shalt live and reign, as David hath foresaid Whom Catiffs none can 'tray, whom tyrants none can kill. Oh! joy and joyful, happy day, when wretches want their will! " The holly tree is commonly supposed to be the holy tree. What gained for it this reputation and name? The next carol which we give will answer the question. There is much true poetry in the natural symbolism thus quaintly shadowed forth. The carol belongs to a period probably quite as remote as the last. THE HOLLY AND THE IVY. "The holly and the ivy Now are both well grown, Of all the trees that are in the wood The holly bears the crown. * A reference to the old tradition that the wise men of the East were kings, who each left his own country, without concert or knowledge of the others, and that they met together as perfect strangers at Bethlehem. CHORUS. "The rising of the sun, The running of the deer, "The holly bears a blossom, As white as the lily flower, "The holly bears a berry, As red as any blood, And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ, The holly bears a prickle, As sharp as any thorn, And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ, "The holly bears a bark, As bitter as any gall, And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ, "The holly and the ivy Now are both well grown, Of all the trees that are in the wood The origin of the next carol is to be sought in the various Apocryphal Gospels, such as those of Nicodemus and of the Infancy. The legendary Gospels abound in similar incidents, in which the imagination of the early Church endeavoured to fill up the void left by the inspired record. Many of these Apocryphal narratives are found in a great variety of forms, yet are marked by an essential unity; so that it is difficult to avoid the conjecture that they rest upon some common tradition. "As it fell out one May morning, And on a bright holiday, Sweet Jesus asked of His dear mother, If He might go to play. "To play, to play sweet Jesus shall go, And to play now get you gone. And let me hear of no complaint, At night when you come home. "Sweet Jesus went down to yonder town As far as the Holy Well, And there did see as fine children As any tongue can tell. "He said, 'God bless you every one; May Christ your portion be; Little children, shall I play with you? And you shall play with me.' |