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MRS BARRETT BROWNING-AURORA LEIGH.

THERE is some necessity, we think, at the present time, of applying the rules of criticism to the critics; for it cannot be denied that many who wear the robes of Aristarchus are no more entitled to the style of literary censors, than is the American Lynch to the title of a legitimate judge. Nothing can more forcibly demonstrate the anarchy which prevails in the republic of letters, than the fact that persons of narrow education, limited views, confined sympathies, and inordinate prejudice, take upon themselves, every day, without hesitation, the responsibilities of the reviewer; and under cover of the editorial "we," pronounce judgment upon the efforts of their superiors. The complaint, no doubt, is an old one, but the evil has been steadily increasing. Formerly critics were scarce, and, in consequence, as well known as mastiffs in a country parish. Their deep bow-wow, even when they were unnecessarily surly, had something in it of power and significance: now, the traveller cannot pass through a village without having a whole pack of curs yelping vociferously at his heels. Powerless to bite, they are numerous enough to annoy; and they seem to consider, perhaps with reason, that incessant barking is an indispensable condition of their existence. Instead of remaining quiet under shelter of the peat-stack or haycock, as well-conditioned animals should do when nobody is attempting to molest them, they dash forward frantically on the advent of each newcomer on the highway, and expend a monstrous deal of unavailing breath before they slink back to their accustomed lurking-places. Possibly, upon more minute acquaintance, some of them may prove to be rather amiable tykes in their way-fellows who attack the passenger more from exuberance of spirits than from malice, and who think that there is something wonderfully clever in the utterance of their canine music. But there are others whose existence is a perpetual snarl-who have snarled from the day they were littered till now; and who

will continue to snarl until they are pitched ignominiously into a quarryhole with a stone of reasonable weight suspended to their necks. Subaqueous snarling we believe to be impossible, else doubtless they would expend their last energies in snarling at the tadpoles.

When a nuisance becomes so universal as this, most people cease to regard it seriously. Men of strong nerves and equable temperament stride along without regarding their clamorous following, though those of weaker nerve are sometimes startled and disturbed. If indeed there was a common feeling in the pack—if a a plausible reason could be assigned why some five-and-twenty animals of different breeds should combine in a general yelp-if it could be shown that your hat was of such a texture or so long in use that they all took offence at it, or that your coat was so monstrously bad that they deemed it their duty to protest against it, or that you walked along the road with the air of a ticket-of-leave man or a thimblerigger, their assault might, in a certain measure, be justified. But they have no common motive. One barks at you because he objects to your hat; another, because your breeches are not to his liking; a third, because he thinks you supercilious; a

fourth, because you righteously bestowed a kick upon the carcass of a cousin of his own; a fifth, because you come from a different parish; a sixth, because he considers barking a proof of genius; and a seventh, because from puppydom upwards he has had a tendency towards hereditary hydrophobia. Each has a separate motive for dislike, though the cry be general; and even the possession of good qualities will not protect you from their assault. Where there is envy, a very small matter indeed will serve to elicit hatred. Witness the instance of the Athenian, who asked Aristides to inscribe his own name on the shell of banishment, because he was weary of hearing him denominated "the just."

To criticism, however stringent,

we do not object, provided the critic deals fairly and honourably with his subject. For many years Maga has been a choice repertory of criticism; but we shall not go the length of saying that her judgments have been infallible. No individual critic that ever lived has been infallible; and in a college of critics there must needs be diversity of opinion. Maga has erred, sometimes on the side of overpraise, sometimes, though much more rarely, on the side of undue depreciation; but throughout she has striven to be honest, kindly, and sincere. To be supercilious is not in her nature; though she may at times have dealt rather sharply with impostors, and indulged in a vein of humour, while noticing the efforts of worthy aspirants, which has wounded their selfconceit. But never has she degraded herself by an unworthy attack; still less can it be said that she has allowed extraneous matters to influence her literary verdicts. We swear by the beard of Buchanan, that all of us have tried to hold the balance equally; and if in any instance we have failed, what wonder is it, since popular fable proclaims that, long ago, Astræa has ascended to the heavens?

The first duty of a critic is to form as near an estimate as may be of the measure of power possessed by the author whom he is reviewing. If he neglects this, his performance will be worthless, because, in art, every individual ought to be judged according to the extent of his gifts. It would be a gross error to institute a comparison between the Apollo Belvidere and the Farnese Hercules. The one is the embodiment in marble of godlike grace; the other the incarnation of physical strength. In like manner a poet may have peculiar excellencies of his own, though he is not gifted with the universality of Shakespeare, the majesty of Milton, or the nervous energy of Dryden. To try him by the standard of each or all of these would be manifestly unfair, for he is a worker in another field, and has been differently endowed. There is no analogy between the trades of the embroiderer and the blacksmith. We do not expect a display of power from the one, or delicate workmanship from the other. It is no blame to the

performer on the flute that he is not a master of the bassoon.

We must know, or at all events endeavour to ascertain, what especial talent has been vouchsafed to a man, before we can form a just estimate of the use which he has made of it. For talent, though it may be cultivated to an almost indefinite extent, cannot be acquired-it is a gift from the Creator. No man is so universal a genius that he is not debarred by nature from certain pursuits, in which others, perhaps less gifted, can achieve distinction; and it is this diversity of talent which makes the world of art so large. Therefore we reject, as utterly spurious and unprincipled, that school of criticism which, in each branch of art, sets up a model, and judges of all new productions according to their likeness to the idol. Work may be better or worse according to the degree of labour bestowed upon it, but we are not entitled to demand impossibilities from any one.

All authors, after they have once gained possession of the public ear, are liable for the future to be tried by their own standard. This is, to a certain extent, a disadvantage; for it by no means rarely happens that the first work of an author is also his best, either because his earlier impulses have been stronger than his later ones; because, through flattery, he has been led to suppose that his measure of power is greater than it is in reality; or because he has adopted false theories of art, and so has gone astray. It may be an uncomfortable thing for a poet to shiver under the shade of his own laurels ; still there is consolation in knowing that he was the planter of the tree. There is no escape from this kind of criticism, which proceeds upon a strictly natural and correct principle, and is moreover calculated to check that intellectual drowsiness which is often the result of success. No author is the worse for being shaken rather roughly by the shoulder when he exhibits symptoms of somnolence. Nay, though he may be a little peevish at first, he will ultimately, if he is a fellow of any sense, be grateful to his monitor for having roused him from a lethargy which might be fatal to his fame.

For the application of his gifts, every author is responsible. He may exercise them well and usefully, or he may apply them to ignoble purposes. He may, by the aid of art, exhibit them in the most attractive form, or his execution may be mean and slovenly. In the one case he is deserving of praise; in the other he is liable to censure. Keeping this principle in view, we shall proceed

to the consideration of this new volume from the pen of Mrs Browning, a lady whose rare genius has already won for her an exalted place among the poets of the age. Endowed with a powerful intellect, she at least has no reason to anticipate the treatment prophesied for her literary heroine, Aurora :—

"You never can be satisfied with praise Which men give women when they judge

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Mrs Browning takes the field like Britomart or Joan of Arc, and declares that she will not accept courtesy or forbearance from the critics on account of her sex. She challenges a truthful opinion, and that opinion she shall have.

Aurora Leigh is a story of the present time in nine books. When we say a story, it must not be understood in the sense of a continuous narrative or rather poem of action, for a great portion of the work is reflective. Still there is a story which we shall trace for the information of the reader, abstaining in the mean time from comment, and not making more quotations than are necessary for its elucidation. The poem is a monologue, and the opening scene is laid in Tuscany.

The father of Aurora Leigh, an Englishman of fortune and a scholar, fell in love with a young Florentine girl, whom he first saw bearing a

The

taper in a religious procession. They were married; but the wife died shortly after she had given birth to her sole daughter, Aurora. widower, in a frenzy of grief, withdrew to a cottage among the mountains, and there occupied his time in the education of his child, who soon became a proficient in the classics.

"The trick of Greek And Latin he had taught me, as he would Have taught me wrestling or the game of fives,

If such he had known,-most like a shipwrecked man

Who heaps his single platter with goats'

cheese

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Across the boy's audacious front, and swept With tuneful laughs the silver-fretted rocks.

He wrapt his little daughter in his large
Man's doublet, careless did it fit or no."

This mode of tuition-the same, by the way, which Dominie Sampson proposed for the mental culture of Lucy Bertram-had a strong effect upon the character of Aurora, who throughout the poem discourses in a most learned manner. When she was only thirteen her father died, and she was brought away, most reluctantly, from her pleasant Italy, to dwell in foggy England with a virgin aunt, who is thus described :—

"I think I see my father's sister stand Upon the hall-step of her country-house To give me welcome. She stood straight and calm,

Her somewhat narrow forehead braided tight

As if for taming accidental thoughts From possible pulses; brown hair pricked with grey

Although my father's elder by a year),
By frigid use of life (she was not old,
A nose drawn sharply, yet in delicate lines;
A close mild mouth, a little soured about
The ends, through speaking unrequited
Or peradventure niggardly half-truths;
loves,
Eyes of no colour,-once they might have
smiled,

But never, never have forgot themselves
In smiling; cheeks, in which was yet a rose
Kept more for ruth than pleasure,—if past
Of perished summers, like a rose in a book,

bloom,

Past fading also.

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to her cage,

And she was there to meet me. Very kind.
Bring the clean water; give out the fresh
seed."

This prim old lady was not exactly
to Miss Aurora's mind; indeed, there
was not much love lost between
them, for Aunt Marjory had been
screly incensed, and with good rea-
sas will presently appear, at her
riber's marriage with a foreigner,
never thoroughly forgave the
However, she did her
Cyber in her own fashion, sup-
gher education by giving
tion in such things as are
ught to English girls, an
regimen which excited
dest disgust in Aurora.
head strength enough to
though occasionally
and her patience
warded by finding
a garret. These
, and lighting
perceived her

The marts and temples, the triumphal
gates

And towers of observation, clears herself
To elemental freedom-thus, my soul,
At poetry's divine first finger-touch,
Let go conventions and sprang up sur-
prised,

Convicted of the great eternities
Before two worlds."

So Aurora began to make verses, and found herself all the better for the exercise. But there were more Leighs in the world than Aurora. She had a cousin, Romney Leigh, the proprietor of Leigh Hall, who, even as a youth, exhibited queer tendencies:

66

Romney, Romney Leigh.
I have not named my cousin hitherto,
And yet I used him as a sort of friend;
My elder by few years, but cold and shy
And absent-tender, when he thought of
it,

Which scarcely was imperative, grave be-
times,

As well as early master of Leigh Hall,
Whereof the nightmare sate upon his
youth

And agonising with a ghastly sense
Repressing all its seasonable delights,
Of universal hideous want and wrong
To incriminate possession. When he came
From college to the country, very oft
He crossed the hills on visits to my aunt,
With gifts of blue grapes from the hot-
houses,

A book in one hand,- -mere statistics (if
I chanced to lift the cover), count of all
The goats whose beards are sprouting

down toward hell,

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my way;

That sometimes he should seem to sigh
And sighing was his gift.'
It made him easier to be pitiful,

This young gentleman, after his own odd fashion, has conceived an attachment for Aurora; nor is he an object of total indifference to her, though her mind is more occupied with versification than with love. The two characters, male and female, are meant to stand in strong contrast to each other. Romney is a Socialist, bent on devoting himself to the regeneration of mankind, and the improvement of the condition of the Theme was ripe, fect the schemes of Fourier and working classes, by carrying into efOwen-the aim of Aurora is, through Art, to raise the aspirations of the and, people. The man is physical, the woman metaphysical. The one is

25 the earth
fres

for increasing bodily comfort, the other for stimulating the mind. Both are enthusiasts, and both are intolerably dogmatic. Now it so happens that, on the morning of the twentieth anniversary of her birthday, Miss Aurora sallies forth early, with the laudable purpose of crowning herself after the manner of Corinna, and is surprised by Romney in the act of placing an ivy wreath upon her brows. Romney has picked up a volume of her manuscript poems, which he returns, not, however, with any complimentary phrase, but rather sneeringly, and forthwith begins to read her a lecture, in a high puritanical strain, upon the vanity of her pursuits. This, of course, rouses the ire of Aurora, who retorts with great spirit on his materialistic tendencies. In the midst of this discussion he has the bad taste to propose, not so much, as he puts it, through love, but because he wants a helpmate to assist him in the erection of public washing-houses, soupkitchens, and hospitals; whereupon our high-souled poetess flies off at a tangent :

"What you love, Is not a woman, Romney, but a cause: You want a helpmate, not a mistress, sirA wife to help your ends-in her no end! Your cause is noble, your ends excellent, But I, being most unworthy of these and that,

Do otherwise conceive of love. Farewell.'

'Farewell, Aurora? you reject me thus?' He said.

'Why, sir, you are married long

ago. You have a wife already whom you love, Your social theory. Bless you both, I say. For my part, I am scarcely meek enough To be the handmaid of a lawful spouse. Do I look a Hagar, think you?''

Aunt Marjory, when she hears of this refusal, is frantic, and rates Aurora soundly for rejecting a fortune laid at her feet. She explains that, by a special clause in the Leigh entail, offspring by a foreign wife were cut off from succession - that no sooner was Aurora born than the next heir, Romney Leigh's father, proposed that a marriage should be arranged between his son and the child, so that the penalties of disinherison might be avoided-and that Romney, by asking her to marry

him, was in fact carrying out that intention. Otherwise Aurora is a beggar, for her aunt has no fortune to leave her. Such suggestions as these, when they occur in romance and poetry, always prove arguments in favour of obstinacy; and Aurora, even though she likes Romney, fixes upon them as insuperable obstacles to the marriage :—

To a benefactor, to a generous man,

"Romney now was turned

Who had tied himself to marry-me, in-
stead
Of such a woman, with low timorous lids
He lifted with a sudden word one day,
And left, perhaps, for my sake.—Ah, self-
By a contract,―male Iphigenia, bound

tied

At a fatal Aulis, for the winds to change,
(But loose him-they'll not change); he
well might seem

A little cold and dominant in love!
This poor, good Romney. Love, to him,
He had a right to be dogmatical,

was made

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My right hand teaching in the Ragged Schools,

My left hand washing in the Public Baths, Both his to me in vain! I could not claim What time my angel of the Ideal stretched The poor right of a mouse in a trap, to squeal,

And take so much as pity, from myself."

In short, she will be her own mistress, and work out her own indeAurora about three hundred pounds. pendence. Her aunt dies, leaving She peremptorily rejects a large sum of money which Romney, with delicate generosity, had attempted to place at her disposal, without allowing

her to incur the sense of obligation, and starts for the metropolis:

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