We confess, on this subject of beauty, we are half-disposed to fall into the mysticism of Raphael Mengs, who had some notion about a principle of universal harmony, if we did not dread the censure of an eminent critic. CHARLEMAGNE: OU L'ÉGLISE DÉLIVRÉE. The Champion] [December 18, 1814. IT seldom happens that the same family produces an emperour and an epic poet. So it is, however, in the present instance. The brother of Buonaparte may be allowed to take his rank among poets, as Buonaparte himself has done among kings. But the historian of Charlemagne does not appear to us to present quite the same formidable front to the established possessors of the seats of the muses, as the imitator of Charlemagne did to the hereditary occupiers of thrones. A self-will without controul, an ambition without bounds, a gigantic daring which built its confidence of success on the contempt of danger, were the means by which Buonaparte obtained and lost his portentous power; and by which he would probably have lost it on the borders of the Ganges, or among the sands of the Red Sea, if he had not been prevented by the snows of Russia. Our poet is not the same monster of genius that his brother was of power. In the career of fame, he does not risk the success of his reputation by the unlimited extravagance of his pretensions. His muse does not disdain to borrow the conceptions of others, or to submit to the rules of art; and the boldest flights of his imagination seldom pass the bounds of a well-regulated enthusiasm. Charlemagne is the work of a very clever man, rather than a great poet; it displays more talent than genius, more ingenuity than invention. It is more artificial than original. In saying this, we would not be understood to mean, that it is without considerable novelty, either of description or sentiment. Far, very far from it: almost every page presents examples of both, equally striking and elegant, which it would be difficult to refer immediately to any similar passages in other authors. But the whole wants character: it does not bear the stamp of the same presiding mind: no new world of imagination is opened to the view: we do not feel the presence of a power which we have never felt before, and which we can never forget. The stanzas are all equally or proportionably good: but they are as good separately, as taken together: they do not run into one another; they do not make a poem. There is no strong impulse given, no overpowering grandeur of effect. In scarcely any part of the story does the mind look back with terror and delight at what is past, or hurry on with eager curiosity to what is to come. The art is too apparent. The author is too busy in managing his materials, in selecting, adorning, varying, and amplifying them to the best advantage: but they seem something external to him. His subject has not taken entire possession of his mind, and therefore he does not take full possession of his readers. Yet it is certain that all the materials of poetry are here;-imagery, incident, character, passion, thought, and observation-all but the divine enthusiasm of the poet, which can alone communicate true warmth and enthusiasm to others. There is one praise which we most willingly bestow on this poem, which is, that it is not French. It is not another HENRIADE :— that is, it is not poetry devoid of all imagination, and of every thing like imagination. On the contrary, it abounds with variety and distinctness of conception, and is evidently written on the model of Italian poetry. We were a little surprised to find that the author had not adopted the common heroic French verse, but has borrowed the Italian Stanza with varying rhymes, and a little half verse in the middle, which has an agreeable effect enough in the lighter parts of the poem, but does not accord so well with the more serious and impressive. The following stanzas will give our readers an idea of the metre, and of the general style of description. They represent Charlemagne traversing the Alps the night before a battle. 'Au dessus du mont Jove, un mont plus escarpé L'ardente canicule en vain darde ses feux : A sa fécondité la terre est infidèle. C'est par là qu'aujourd'hui Charles s'ouvre un passage, Et par mille détours le terrible escadron Entrechoquant par fois les lances formidables, En cercles resserrés près du fils de Pepin, S'allume par le choc des principes divers. Tels, auprès d'Ilion, les dieux enfants d'Homère, Osant de Jéhova dénaturer l'image, De ces guerriers obscurs 1 Homère fit de dieux Ainsi les paladins, environnant leur roi,' etc. We might refer to many other passages equally picturesque, though perhaps to none so poetical. Such as the comparison of Roland taken from the scene of combat by Oliver, to a lion led off by an African, that still roars as he follows his well-known guide ;-the first appearance of Armelie, the death of Wilfred at the altar, the vanishing of Adelard from the sight of Charlemagne, the forest of Eresbourg, the Druidical sacrifice, and the funeral rites of Orlando in the valley of Ronscevalles. The language of the poem often bears a striking resemblance to the language of painting, or seems like a detailed description of some chef d'auvre of the art, rather than the creation of the poet's fancy. We should have little doubt that the solitary church in the valley of Ronscevalles is copied from that in the background of Titian's St. Peter Martyr, and the massacre at the altar in the first canto is certainly taken from some picture of Raphael! In the sentiments of this poem there is more feebleness, a greater number of Gallicisms, than in the imagery. We meet with such courtly expressions as these: 'Les Francs à chaque instant voient de nouveaux guerriers 1 Why fabulous or obscure? The devil addresses the deity with the following piece of highflown sentimentality: 'Pour braver les remords, et la gêne et la flamme, Je ne demande rien qu'un seul rayon d'espoir.' We know, indeed, from whence the allusion is taken, and we wonder the more at the affectation implied in the alteration. It is like some of Pope's refinements on Isaiah. In giving an account of the sorrow which prevails in heaven at the disasters of the church of Christ, the author has expressed a trite theological sentiment with more felicity than we recollect to have seen it expressed before: 'On entend à ces mots toutes les voix célestes La harpe ainsi murmure au souffle des zéphirs. Aux peines, aux chagrins, Aux passions du monde ils ne sont plus en proie; Et leur tristesse à peine altère leur bonheur.' The conception of his Heaven is much more just than that of Hell, though the execution is (almost as a matter of course) less powerful. The two figures of Adam and Moses, in the former, are particularly fine: 'Le père des humains voit sa nombreuse race, Moïse près de lui, d'un seul regard embrasse Our poet has, very good-naturedly, (and we hope with the approbation of his holiness the Pope, to whom this work is dedicated,) set aside two stanzas for the secret conveyance of the souls of virtuous heathens and of little children, into the abodes of the blest. The author of Charlemagne has constructed his hell upon an entirely new and fanciful theory. We see no sort of reason why Satan should not, in strict propriety, sit upon a throne; nor why his followers should be degraded from the rank of fallen angels into modern French revolutionists. We like Milton's account much better in all respects; and our author himself, as is the natural consequence of all affectation, flounders into contradiction in the very next verse, where he gives a most superb account of Lucifer. In the same spirit, he has made a more enlightened distribution of crimes and punishments; and established an entire new set of regulations and bye-laws in the regions of the damned. Alexander and the two Brutuses figure there with Cain and other murderers, while 'the noble Cæsar' is exempted. Now we have no notion of such a philosophical hell as our poetical casuist would carve out. This celebrated place is, we think, of all others the least liable to plans of reform. It is almost the oldest establishment upon record, and placed quite out of the reach of the progress of reason and metaphysics. We hate disputes in poetry, still more than in religion. At least, whatever appeals to the imagination, ought to rest on undivided sentiment, on one undisputed tradition, one catholic faith.1 Besides, the whole account of the infernal regions is an excrescence, equally misplaced and improbable. None of the heroes of the poem descend there, but as Satan is brought thence to appear to Charlemagne in the shape of a lying priest, this opportunity is taken to describe the geography of the place according to the latest discoveries. There is one point in which we agree with the poet, viz. in his indignation against tyrants and their flatterers, though he does not go so far as honest Quevedo, who, when his hero wonders to see so few kings in hell, makes his guide reply sullenly, Here are all that ever reigned.' We shall conclude our remarks on this part of the poem with the author's description of the punishment of Cain, which we think the most striking. 'Ici rugit Cain, les cheveux hérissés, Et portant sur son front la marque sanguinaire. "Cain, Cain, réponds: qu'as-tu fait de ton frère ?" Cain croit voir Abel éclatant de lumière; Il ose encor frapper l'objet de son courroux : Mais l'ombre glorieuse échappant à ses coups, THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED [December 25, 1814. The Champion.] THE story of a poem is seldom worth a long description. It may be sufficient to say in the present case, that the danger to which the 1 The personification of the Deity is another instance of critical contradiction and conceit. Objecting to the figures of Raphael and Michael Angelo as mythological and sensible, he introduces a little golden triangle behind a cloud (triangulum in nube) as a philosophical emblem of the Trinity! |