laire, still the traces of Alfred de Musset ness and the unity of tone which so simple here and there a young and candid Baudea plot could hardly fail to have. We aid in singing those May songs of the Florentine youth, in honor of spring, in the beginning . of Italian poetry. Then they decked with green May boughs the door of her they called their Madonna, and wearied not in repeating, nor she in hearing how the poetry and thoughts of love burst forth with the first buds. Poetry and love are an eternal spring; we are not astonished that the audience at the Odeon should have lent to these words, expressed in graceful verse, as complaisant an ear as the fair Florentines. M. Coppée seems a Zanetto, who, kindly received by Sylvia the first time, will soon return to her. He has tasted theatrical joys, he will return to them; to us, he is still the young author of the "Reliquary," the "Intimacies," and the "Modern Poems," who, on the eve of his dramatic success, could say with his hero: pursue. 66 In life! The draught is sweet, although with bitter poison rife!..... Poor poet! we are tempted to cry, so young, yet with such a fatal past. How many Mussets we have seen who were fashionably in love and unhappy, who anticipated the " Confessions of a Child of the Century." In M. Coppée, these freaks of imitation were only the waverings of a talent seeking itself, and he says in the Intimacies " 66 : Here, I warrant, M. Coppée paints himself as he is... This granted, must he by this confession break with Baudelaire and Leconte de Lisle ? ...To-morrow I shall know if Florence Still loves the lute and amorous song. Like him, he was uncertain which course to "The Reliquary," with the exception of two poems, The Saint" and the Grand-parents," wants originality. Many I've had of a day dedicating it to "his dear master," the author Illumined by steadfast Hope's clear ray, confesses the direction he has obeyed. The Of a peaceful home and a loving wife, display of contempt from the first, for the Of a happiness long and a rustic life. elegy is borrowed; nature gave him a tender, sensitive spirit, his master has made him only an impassive Olympian. Certain poems betray direct imitation. "The Lover of Justice" is plainly a reminiscence of "Barbaric Poetry, which he must have studied We prefer his "Modern Poems" to his first much. In spite of the mixture of different two volumes, and his play of the "Passenger" elements, this work shows him to be a de- to that. Of the seven poems which form scriptive poet minus the Hellenic or Oriental the "Modern Poems," there are five in Alexandrine verse, sometimes original and good, learning, a Leconte de Lisle in miniature, who has not crossed the limits of the sub- sometimes disjointed, like the example given at long intervals by M. Leconte de Lisle, in urbs. One page of the "Intimacies" avows a his "Barbaric Poetry," naturally exaggermarked preference for Sainte-Beuve, Musset, Baudelaire, whom the poet classes ated by his disciples. Of these five poems, three are short scenes, the most interesting together, a singular thing to do, and calls Those sweet and suffering ones." The Bench," an idyl found at the We being find here no trace of the dreamy psychoTuileries in a conversation between a soldier logical poetry of Sainte-Beuve, but there is a sign of Baudelaire in a short poem ending with this line: Something like an odor which might be fair, and which we will not copy, since it is one of those mistakes the author seems to have corrected. We hope that Baudelaire's influence will leave with him only an example of what an equivocal genius born in a brewery, has done to corrupt youthful minds, but which flowed for a time in healthier currents. The "Intimacies" show 66 and a nurse; the other two are little dramas, the best is the "Benediction." An old sergeant tells how, at Saragossa, the soldiers, incensed by the obstinacy of the Spanish priests, fired at a monk who was blessing them with the holy sacrament. The situation is dramatic; no description, all is motion; the verse is natural, popular without vulgarity. The last line alone offends us like a false note. Amen! said a drummer bursting into laughter. This line and burst of laughter are from 66 66 peculiar effect of secrets told us by the author, conversations not brought before the footlights. Happy are poets, since they have the privilege of fixing such memories as are contained in " The Confession," happy are poets that they can consecrate their sorrows and tears as in these lines on "The Tomb": The first that I saw die (Too young to suffer then was I, We suffer when we look on further,) I wept, for 'twas my father. The next, oh, yet he seems so near, the pure Gavroche; the author forgets that much a comic poet, and nothing differs there is nothing there but the soldier's fury more, in our opinion, than comedy and and the martyr's exaltation. It is not only satire. We consider his " Rogues," his the constant delicacy of sentiment which "Eudora," his "Pangloss," as promising constitutes the superiority of the "Passen- theatrical studies full of sketches from which ger," it is the logic of a heart satisfied to the the author will one day paint lasting fresend and especially at the end. One last coes. On the other hand, Hetrea," Ode word may ruin a whole play. to Laughter," Roses," "The Confession," M. Coppée is a talented young man bor-Sea Fogs," and "The Tomb," have the rowed by the theatre from poetry. He has let himself be led away, by yielding to the invitations extended, without disguise, without change of costume, bringing all he had, charming verses and unstudied sensibility. M. Edouard Pailleron is a poet of another kind. That he is a true dramatic poet has been established beyond doubt by his ever progressing works and his "False Households"; but even if he had not given in "Loves and Hates " a new pledge to the friends of true poetry, they would find many lines in his last comedy, marked with an accent they cannot but understand. There are two kinds of talent in M. Pailleron; one, active and impersonal, full of youth and wit, unites vigor and refinement, two qualities which often struggle for mastery in him. Applied to observation of mankind, to depicting morals, to a knowledge of the stage, it has produced the writer applauded for his plays. The other, personal and meditative, is pleased with delicate emotions and the expressing of loving feelings, to the point of making us doubt whether extreme sensibility and vigor can ever meet. This is the principal source of his lyric lyre; even here his temperament will not renounce its rights, and lyric poetry takes satiric seductions from his pen. From the beginning, before he had essayed that demon's work, called comedy, he showed this double tendency of his literary nature. His first volume is divided into two parts, odes and satires. The title of the second, "Loves and Hates," shows the same division, at least in thought. Tennyson draws an ideal portrait of a poet : Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, We must not trust too much in these angelic poets; some fine day the soft chords of their lyres break, to be replaced with iron. The hates of M. Pailleron are not so cruel as to prevent his finding pleasant words. In spite of the threatening title, I do not think a large enough dose of gall could be found in his whole book to write one satire like Juvenal's. True, earnest satire, which points out a victim and tears him to pieces, is almost impossible now. M. Pailleron will never write it; he is too It was my brother ever dear; My soul all doubt and cursing now. (For the third time it was she, And I doubt not, I stay. Why is it that we love to find in tears those poets who have a gift for laughter? We may, alas! doubt the sincerity of the laughter as of all else human. How can we doubt sorrow and death? Fate momentarily takes upon itself the duty of proving the cruel reality. Molière's most bril liant pages sometimes make us sad; we know but two or three instances where be speaks seriously of death, but they are enough to show us that the thing he can best do is to weep. In the succession of ideas set forth and pages passed over, a constant progression has been observed from works of art to human, personal works. By a curious chance, we are led to close this review of contemporaneous poetry with the most personal work of all, perhaps the most remarkable, certainly the most opposed to public habits, the work of a young lady, the "Lost Sunbeams," by Mlle. Louisa Siefert. From some pages, we might think the author was relating her own history. In the two sonnets beginning the book, she compares herself to the timid hind, hesitating on the roadside, before crossing it. This is her only preface, on which we congratulate her. I dinary joys become her tortures. She must She takes the liberty of a poet in talking of herself or inventing without warning of the change. We use the privilege of critics, and read these poems as a love story, one of the simplest and truest we ever knew. adorn herself, but not for him; look happy, but he will not see her smile; sing, dance, be natural and lively, he alone will guess the grief beneath that false gaiety, he who is the cause of it. She must laugh when In one of those Protestant families who she would much rather weep, talk of indifferformerly preserved their records the more ent perhaps odious trifles, that she may not sacredly that their country refused them the mention him who fills her whole mind. civil state and rights of citizens, we find a What then? Should she blush at her love, maiden, uniting in herself, the energy, or at the confession of it? Is it a crime to power of suffering, courage of conviction, believe in the truth of promises? Where is and sense of public opinion, natural to her now the natural equality of the two sexes? race. She questions the memory of her Among Protestant nations, especially those ancestors to feed her soul on their thoughts of Saxon origin, there is a more just equiand trials. One died at twenty-two, loving librium between man and woman. Proonly his mother and sister, and hardly know-testants, to encourage marriage, limit paing what the longings of a first love were. rental power. The Saxon race gives its Another, who died fighting for liberty under daughters a large share of that independthe republic, was no happier; the sorrows ence called self-government. With us the of life would soon have killed him. A third state of things is not the same: the revoluface rises up before her, more like her own, tion set free our sons, but left our daughters or what hers will be; it is the white-haired slaves as before. A marriage was formerly old maid who remained faithful till the end a contract between two families; one family to him she loved. There is a little of every-signing a compact with a young man is the thing in this family chronicle: bere is a state of affairs to-day. The ancient balpriest who went to Rome, but a priest after ance is disturbed: it remains for the law to Voltaire's heart, who returned a philosopher and free-thinker; here a soldier under William of Orange, who went back to France that there he might die for his religion, and he was broken on the wheel alive, in the public square at Nimes. All have suffered for love. The girl evokes these dear shades like the soldier of the republic she worships liberty; she has the holy faith, the sublime obstinacy, of the old maid; she will not be put to the torture like the martyr, but prejudice is a form of intolerance from which she may suffer. Will she ever be tempted like the priest to seek shelter from this prejudice in philosophy and free-thinking? We think not. She is a poet, she loves; and this double flame was born in the same day. At eighteen she loves hopelessly; he, whom she has long seen intimately, under her mother's eye, has gone. After four years, he saw that they were not suited to each other. How many poor young girls find themselves in this painful position, which they cannot confess! How many address to their woman's work, abandoned for such different cares, taken up with such sorrow, confi dences like these: White wool, crochet o'er my fingers rolled, Dreams, that alas! are now all gone. Such dramas, though stifled in the heart's silence, have their anguish. The girl's or re-establish it by degrees and to restore to custom what has been taken from it. 66 The daughter of the martyr of Cevennes I can conquer death, all dangers dare; Happiness is of short duration, just during the misconception of the love. It is composed of smiles, glances, two hands meeting by chance. What more natural when they think they shall always agree, when maternal tenderness encourages lawful hopes on either side, when the presence of either roused on every side murmurs all saying the same thing? One word ended the mistake, at least for her. He seemed so happy at my perfect joy, I threw my arms as might a petted child, A tear glistened in his eye, ence, though not without threats; but rage gives place to energy. The courageous girl listens to the voice which bids her live for religion, liberty, duty. She makes a last sacrifice and burns her dear treasure of letters and withered flowers. Such is the first and last page of her romance. Go, fly abroad on the wings of the wind, light ashes; go, touching verses, full of nobleness and sensibility! what matters it now Transfigured by poetry, they will become whether the sorrows you sing are real? reminders of those who fain would hear the soul speak in verse. He forgot this scene and was even more attentive and eager than before. Soon, mother and daughter call at his countryhouse; the girl is received with open arms by his mother. He appears, never so young and handsome as now. He smiles, all And now that we have, in part at least, seems to welcome her; even the dog, following his master, utters a joyful bark. He emptied the coffer which held the precious talks and his conversation is charming; be she who she may, to tell the hopes conrelics of a girl's love, let us leave the heroine "for he talks so well!" They gather ceived of the author's talent, with those resroses, the rarest, most precious of the year, ervations the sincerity of our praise comOctober roses; they make nosegays of lemon verbena, jasmine and pomegranate pels us to make. It is surprising that the blossoms; the garden is despoiled. They shown us her real self, Mme. Desbordes-Valone poetess of our age, who has most freely are not so gay as usual; but deep joy is always thoughtful. At the end, she is more, should also be the least busied about trembling, he almost timid. Who knows? the question of art. Her fine verses always Perhaps he loves her, perhaps he is going with some the best writers need not hesitate flow from the original fountain. Side by side to tell her so. The secret tear in his eye to own, are others trite or faint. Mlle. may have been a sign of hope. When she Leaves, he smiles calmly; still he says ten- Siefert, still more personal, has more of derly, This evening, I'll see you! those self-sufficing traits which seem the " she sees him but once more, and then learns her natural outflow of feminine genius; but the misfortune: the love she hoped for is an- known to her. An abuse of epithets is one other's. That nothing may be wanting to of her occasional imperfections; her rhymes the catastrophe and to the hero's success, three women's hearts depend on him. The are sometimes poor; in a girl of eighteen, calm serenity of the first is doubtless worthy these weaknesses, surprisingly few in numhis choice; the tomb has already closed ber, are but added graces. She is acquaintover the second, who could not endure her ed with the modern poets, she has studied grief. The third is left to sing a revenge-vented them. I cannot express my wonder new rhythms; we may even say she has inful song of suffering. She is too proud to die, too deeply wounded to be silent. Do you know many lines more frank than these showing her pride; 66 No, no, I am no meek girl to die Such devotion is silly, 'tho' it seems fine. secrets of art are neither indifferent nor un that M. Victor Hugo should have had so marked an influence over her, while her predecessor found in Lamartine, if not a model, at least delightful tones which waked the music in her soul. The ardent note of " The Sorrow of Olympus was needed to bring forth this creation of unexpected type, a virgin passionate as well as pure. If we expressed all our ideas of Mlle. Siefert we should have something to say of her ten With one foot on your coffin, to think they're di- dency to imitation. If we choose from "The vine. Lost Sunbeams" all those pieces which recall well-known models, we may be sure in advance that the choice will fall upon the poorest bits in the book. The "Republican Year" is full of such reminders: Mlle. Siefert was never less herself. Perhaps she was too eager to return to the pure source of verse, and did not give herself time to fill her mind. Perhaps she opened her heart too completely the first time. To see, to think, to feel, these three words enclose the poetry of every age. We | mote the utility of science, but they seem to have met with men, in this hasty outline, confound the two, they do not rely sufficientgifted with the power of seizing the ly on sentiment. They are such as could forms of things and translating into verse not bear to live among men, and have found the bright colors of objects. They some- verses coming from the heart and returning times paint forcibly, they always describe to it. An ancient said that sacred groves carefully. They are the direct heirs of were the favorite home of the Muse; he those innovators who have given tone and doubtless spoke of the writers we range color to poetry, yet they return involunta- among descriptive or philosophic. Charles rily to the pettinesses of the art their pre- Lamb, a child of London thought on the decessors dethroned. Some, however, contrary, that poets should live in large natural idealists, or shrinking artists, see towns; he spoke of those we have called more than can be discovered by the eye human. Great or small there are always alone; their art is not limited to copying an such. All fades and passes away, but the admirable model. After these, we are, per- heart of man. The heart's one fault is haps, the first to disengage from the crowd loving too much; it imparts this to human of poets those who justly desire to be poetry and buries it in an excessive personreckoned thinkers; a product of the present ality. Perhaps perfection may be found in a time, as a desire for sincerity is produced just mixture of the different faculties of by artificial situations, some want modera- sight, thought and feeling. tion, others decision; they understand that poetry has hitherto done nothing to pro LOUIS ETIENNE. Fortnightly Reviews. As we on Christmas Eve deck our houses with | night, so do the Japanese on the 7th day of the holly and mistletoe and evergreens, so on the new year take down and stow away their deco28th or 29th day of the 12th month the Japan-rations, which on the 14th day are with all soese begin decorating their houses to greet the lemnity burnt as a sacrifice to Sai no Kami, new year. The proper decoration for each house the God of Boads and Protector of Travellers. is a fir tree on one side of the door and a bamboo on the other, between which is stretched a rope of straw, such as those which are hung up outside temples to keep out evil influences. To the centre of this rope is attached a sort of bouquet, made up of a boiled lobster, a piece of charcoal, a large orange, a dried persimmon, a BUTTER FROM MUD. A fortnight ago we frond of bracken, a leaf of the evergreen oak, (South London Press) mentioned the fact that and a piece of seaweed. Each of these has its the butter of South London was adulterated with special signification. The fir and bamboo are tallow, starch, manganese, salt, and water. We evergreen emblems of long life; the lobster, strong thought then that we had reached the Ultima in spite of its crooked back, is a type of hale Thule of adulteration, but an ingenious individthough bent old age; the undecaying charcoal al has since added another sophisticating agent. represents imperishability; the name of the or- A friend has in his possession a specimen of a ange, dai-dai, means by a pun "from genera- pure white fat, tasteless and perfectly inodorous tion to generation," and the fruit itself, which which has been obtained by a clever analytical hangs longer to the tree than any other, is a chemist from—what do our readers suppose? token of longevity; the dried persimmon, the Simply from a portion of the Thames mud, taken sweetness of which is so lasting, is typical of the from the river at Battersea! And we are afraid unchanged sweetness of conjugal love and fidel- that this new discovery of science is no longer a ity; the bracken is slow to fade; the oak leaf, secret, for the owner of a small wharf on the which is supposed not to fall off until the young banks of the Thames had an offer this week leaf has put forth an appearance, signifies that from a person desirous of becoming the tenant, parents shall not die until their children have and on asking the purpose for which the wharf grown up to take their place; lastly, the sea- was required he was told it was to be used for weed, kompu or kopu, stands for the last two manufacturing butter, to be sold to the poor at syllables of the word yorokobu, to be happy. Alla shilling per pound! No doubt it was the inthese various emblems are hung up to pray the Year God to protect the house and its inmates from evil during the ensuing twelve months; and just as we take down our evergreens on twelfth tention of this philanthropic individual to have supplied the public with dairy butter fresh from the bosom of old Father Thames. |