NORTH.

And can the interest-not now of Raphael's, but of Milton's "fit audience" -be sustained throughout? The answer is triumphant. The Book is, from beginning to end, a stream of the most beautiful descriptive Poetry that Not however, mind you, Seward, of stationary description.

exists.

Sir?

SEWARD.

NORTH.

A proceeding work is described; and the Book is replete and alive with motion--with progress-with action-yes, of action- of an order unusual indeed to the Epos, but unexcelled in dignity—the Creative Action of Deity!

SEWARD.

What should hinder, then, but that this same Seventh Book should have been written in Prose?

NORTH.

Why this only-that without Verse it could not have been read! The Verse makes present. You listen with Adam and Eve, and you hear the Archangel. In Prose this illusion could not have been carried through such a subject-matter. The conditio sine quâ non of the Book was the ineffable charm of the Description. But what would a series of botanical and zoological descriptions, for instance, have been, in Prose? The vivida vis that is in Verse is the quickening spirit of the whole.

But who doubts it?

BULLER.

NORTH.

Lord Bacon said that Poetry--that is, Feigned History-might be worded in Prose. And it may be; but how inadequately is known to Us Three.

And to all the world.

BULLER.

NORTH.

No-nor, to the million who do know it, so well as to Us, nor the reason why. But hear me a moment longer. Wordsworth,in his famous Preface to the Lyrical Ballads, asserts that the language of Prose and the language of Verse differ but in this-that in Verse there is metre-and metre he calls an adjunct. With all reverence, I say that metre is not an adjunct--but vitality and essence; and that verse, in virtue thereof, so transfigures language, that it ceases to be the language of prose as spoken, out of verse, by any of the children of men.

SEWARD.

Remove the metre, and the language will not be the language of Prose?

NORTH.

Not-if you remove the metre only-and leave otherwise the order of the words-the collocation unchanged-and unchanged any one of the two hundred figures of speech, one and all of which are differently presented in the language of Verse from what they are in Prose.

It must be so.

SEWARD.

NORTH.

The fountain of Law to Composition in Prose is the Understanding. The fountain of Law to Composition in Verse is the Will.

?

SEWARD.

NORTH.

A discourse in prose resembles a chain. The sentences are the successive links-all holding to one another-and holding one another. All is bound,

Well?

SEWARD.

NORTH.

A discourse in verse resembles a billowy sea. The verses are the waves that rise and fall-to our apprehension-each by impulse, life, will of its own. All is free.

SEWARD.

Ay. Now your meaning emerges.

NORTH.

E profundis clamavi. In eloquent prose, the feeling fits itself into the process of the thinking. In true verse, the thinking fits itself into the process of the feeling.

I perpend.

SEWARD.

NORTH.

In prose, the general distribution and composition of the matter belong to the reign of Necessity. The order of the parts, and the connexion of part with part, are obliged-logically_justifiable-say, then, are demonstrable. See an Oration of Demosthenes. In verse, that distribution and composition belong to the reign of Liberty. That order and connexion are arbitrary-passionately justifiable-say, then, are delectable. See an Ode of Pindar.

Publish-publish.

SEWARD.

NORTH.

In prose the style is last-in verse first; in prose the sense controls the sound in verse the sound the sense; in prose you speak-in verse you sing; in prose you live in the abstract-in verse in the concrete; in prose you present notions-in verse visions; in prose you expound--in verse you enchant; in prose it is much if now and then you are held in the sphere of the fascinated senses-in verse if of the calm understanding.

BULLER.

Will you have the goodness, sir, to say all that over again?

NORTH.

I have forgot it. The lines in the countenance of Prose are austere. The look is shy, reserved, governed-like the fixed steady lineaments of mountains. The hues that suffuse the face of her sister Verse vary faster than those with which the western or the eastern sky momently reports the progress of the sinking, of the fallen, but not yet lost, of the coming or of the risen sun.

I have jotted that down, sir.

BULLER.

NORTH.

And I hope you will come to understand it. Candidly speaking, 'tis more than I do.

I venerate Wordsworth. Wordsworth's poetry stands distinct in the world. That which to other men is an occasional pleasure, or possibly delight, and to other poets an occasional transport, THE SEEING THIS VISIBLE UNIVERSE, is to him--a Life-one Individual Human Life-namely, his Own-travelling its whole journey from the Cradle to the Grave. And that Life-for what else could he do with it?-he has verified-sung. And there is no other such Song. It is a Memorable Fact of our Civilisation--a Memorable Fact in the History of Human Kind-that one perpetual song. Perpetual but infinitely various-as a river of a thousand miles, traversing, from its birthplace in the mountains, diverse regions, wild and inhabited, to the oceanreceptacle.

Confoundedly prosaic at times.

BULLER.

NORTH.

He, more than any other true poet, approaches Verse to Prose-never, I believe, or hardly ever, quite blends them.

NORTH.

Seldom-seldom-seldom if ever, my dear sir. He tells his Life. His Poems are, of necessity, an Autobiography. The matter of them, then, is his personal reality; but Prose is, all over and properly, the language of Personal Realities. Even with him, however, so peculiarly conditioned, and, as well as I am able to understand his Proposition, against his own Theory of writing, Verse maintains, as by the laws of our insuppressible nature it always will maintain, its sacred Right and indefeasible Prerogative.

To conclude our conversation

Or Monologue.

BULLER.

NORTH.

Epos is Human History in its magnitude in Verse. In Prose, National History offers itself in parallelism. The coincidence is broad and unquestioned; but on closer inspection, differences great and innumerable spring up and unfold themselves, until at last you might almost persuade yourself that the first striking resemblance deceived you, and that the two species lack analogy, so many other kinds does the Species in Verse embosom, and so escaping are the lines of agreement in the instant in which you attempt fixing

them.

BULLER.

Would that Lord Bacon were here!

NORTH.

And thus we are led to a deeper truth. The Metrical Epos imitates History, without doubt, as Lord Bacon says-it borrows thence its mould, not rigorously, but with exceeding bold and free adaptations, as the Iliad unfolds the Ten Years' War in Seven Weeks. But for the Poet, more than another, ALL

It is, my friends, the arguing in verse of a question in Natural Theology. Whence are Wrong and Pain? Moral and Physical Evil, as we call them, in all their overwhelming extent of complexity sprung? How permitted in the Kingdom of an All-wise and Almighty Love? To this question, concerning the origin of Evil, Milton answers as a Christian Theologian, agreeably to his own understanding of his Religion,-so justifying the Universal Government of God, and, in particular, his Government of Man. The Poem is, therefore, Theological, Argumentative, Didactic, in Epic Form. Being in the constitution of his soul a Poet, mightiest of the mighty, the intention is hidden in the Form. The Verse has transformed the matter. Now, then, the Paradise Lost is not history told for itself. But this One Truth, in two answering Propositions, that the Will of Man spontaneously consorting with God's Will is Man's Good, spontaneously dissenting, Man's Evil. This is created into an awful and solemn narrative of a Matter exactly adapted, and long since authoritatively told. But this Truth, springing up in the shape of narrative, will, now take its own determination into Events of unsurpassed magnitude, now of the tenderest individuality and minuteness; and all is, hence, in keeping-as one power of life springs up on one spot, in oak-tree, moss, and violet, and the difference of stature, thus understood, gives a deep harmony, so deep and embracing, that none without injury to the whole could be taken away.

BULLER.

What's all this! Hang that Drone-confound that Chanter. most unseasonable of Bagpipes! Silence that dreadful Drum. Horns

Burst, thou Draw in your

SEWARD.

Musquetry! cannon! huzza! The enemy are storming the Camp. The Delhis bear down on the Pavilion. The life is in danger. Let us save the King.

NORTH.

See to it, gentlemen. I await the issue in my Swing-chair. Let the Barbarians but look on me and their weapons will drop.

"Twas but a SALUTE. THE BOYs have come back from Kilchurn. They are standing in front beside the spoil.

NORTH.

Widen the Portal. Artistically disposed! The whole like one huge Starfish. Salmo ferox, centre-Pike, radii-Yellow-fins, circumference-Weight I should say the tenth of a ton. Call the Manciple. Manciple, you are responsible for the preservation of that Star-fish.

BULLER.

Sir, you forget yourself. The People must be fed. We are Seven. Twelve are on the troop roll-Nine strangers have sent in their cards-the Gillies are growing upon us-the Camp-followers have doubled the population since morn, and the circumambient Natives are waxing strong. Hunger is in the Camp-but for this supply Famine; Iliacos intra muros PECCATUR et extra; Dods reports that the Boiler is wroth, the furnace at a red heat, Pots and Pans a-simmer-the Culinary Spirit impatient to be at work. In such circumstances, the tenth of a ton is no great matter; but it is better than nothing. The mind of the Manciple may lie at rest, for that Star-fish will never see to-morrow's Sun; and motionless as he looks, he is hastening to the Shades.

NORTH.

Sir, you forget yourself. There is other animal matter in the world besides Fish. No penury of it in camp. I have here the Manciple's report. "One dozen plucked Earochs--one ditto ditto Ducklings-d. d. d. March Chickone Bubblyjock-one Side of Mutton-four Necks-six Sheep-heads, and their complement of Trotters-two Sheep, just slaughtered and yet in wholes --four Lambs ditto-the late Cladich Calf-one small Stot-two lb. 40 Rounds in pickle-four Miscellaneous Pies of the First Order-six Hams— four dozen of Rein-deer Tongues-one dozen of Bears' Paws-two Barrels of

BULLER.

Stop. Let that suffice for the meanwhile.

NORTH.

The short shadow-hand on the face of Dial-Cruachan, to my instructed sense, stands at six. You young Oxonians, I know, always adorn for dinner, even when roughing it on service; and so, V. and W. do you. These two elderly gentlemen here are seen to most advantage in white neckcloths, and the OLD ONE is never so like himself as in a suit of black velvet. To your tents and toilets. In an hour we meet in the-DEESIDE.

INDEX TO VOL. LXV.