Originally published in Howitt's Journal (William Lovett) vol.1 #9 (27 Feb 1847).
Cicero, a Drama. By the Author of Moile's State Trials. London: Simpkin & Marshall; and Kimpton, High Holborn.
The Author of the State Trials is a true poet, though he loves to veil his name under the cognomen of Nicholas Thirning Moile, and his poems under such titles as State Trials, and Cicero, a Tragedy. On a former occasion, and in another periodical, we did our best to make the public acquainted with the music of his rhythm, and the vigorous beauty of his poetry; and we are glad to have seen lately a new and cheap edition of his State Trials issue from the press. Everything which Mr. Moile writes, testifies that he is a sound classical scholar, a good lawyer, and as good a poet. But the mischief of it is, that he will choose his subjects with entire reference to his own tastes and little regard to those of the public. Hence, his readers will always be few. Those few, however, will be the men of the purest taste. The ordinary reader will be much puzzled on opening the present volume to know why it is called a Drama. It is divided into three acts, each containing sundry scenes, as the author terms them, but as others would call them, cantos. They are mixtures of narrative and dialogue, not purely in a dramatic form, and are well garnished with Greek mottos. But few except classical scholars will care much for a long poem on Cicero, especially when the Author indulges his vein for discussion in two tremendous speeches: that of Mark Anthony against Cicero, and Cicero's reply, with which the book closes, without any catastrophe or winding up; after spending no less than 125 pages over these two harangues, out of the 287 of the whole volume.
In this, we must repeat, Mr. Moile does not consult his fame; and yet every page abounds with most vivid and graphic description, with the finest sentiments, and with strong and masterly painting of passion and character. The limnings of Rome, of Cicero's study, of Atticus, of the death of Cesar, of Brutus, of Portia, of Fulvia, of the Brother and Sister, two Slaves, the Capitol and the Senate, are all extremely fine. They are full of the music and the stately verse-march of this peculiar author, and bring before you the distinguishing features of both places and men, as in an old picture from a master hand.
In the riches of this beautifully printed volume, which, however, we have never seen a single critical notice of, we are at a loss where to choose. Shall it be in the garden of Cicero, where the slave Timna is encountered by her dark and fiery brother Philo, and a scene of passionate accusation and womanly anguish takes place; for Timna has forgotten her country and birth in the love of Marcus her master's son?
In cloisters square, on turf as velvet shorn,
Midst tall arcades, whence Tullia's bier was borne,
Where a green ilex reared its bowery dome,
Whose murmuring top gave chaffinches a home,
Couched at the trunk, which woodbine wreaths enrolled,
A bond-maid bent, and braided cloth of gold.
With delicate hand, and arm in motion graced,
Her needle blazoned flowers her pencil traced;
Pausing at times, oblivious of its art,
Till deep sighs freed the blood-encumbered heart.
Then heavenward turned her face. Of heaven it seems,
O'erspread with spirit, as with moonlight gleams
Pale flowers through shadows from the ilex shown,
When sad its vesper hymns to heaven intone.
With glistening dew her raven eyelids filled;
She rose, the court and cloisters round were stilled,
Save top leaves rustling to the zephyr's breath—
Stilled, as in chambers lately left by death!
Smooth from her brow dark tresses flowed behind;
Her brow so sweetly grave, so sadly kind.
Based on the sward stood Tullia's marble form,
Instinct with grace, with youth's affections warm.
Thither, half fond, half shuddering, stole the maid,
Cast o'er the statue's head her bright brocade,
Turned adverse, sought the tree's extremest shade,
Faced to the east, heaven's azure light surveyed,
And sunk upon her knees, and spread her hands, and prayed;
Silent, with sighs, as though her heart were sawn.
Or shall it be the proud Fulvia? No, rather the loving Portia, as her Brutus takes his farewell for the fatal.
On ebon couch her task the matron plied;
In whom each muse, each grace, with nature vied;
Vied to reveal some model of her kind,
And charm all hearts by manners, mien, and mind,
Her downcast eyes their long black lashes showed,
And brow, how dark, how delicately bowed!
Yet stern her gaze, as hymns to Dian made,
And deeply calm, as summer's sea embayed;
No dimple marked, nor colour tinged her cheek,
Till ruby lips unveiled her teeth to speak,
When dark eyes flashed with thought dilate and warm,
And light seemed radiant from her face and form,—
From flame within as pictured vases shine,
Or glowed Pygmalion's stone with life divine:
Sunbursts of soul seemed emanating there;
Subdued, yet dowered to suffer and to dare.
White was her stole, with purple border graced,
With band of purple girt around her waist,
And with rubies o'er her shoulders fair,
Which caught from pearly wreaths her raven hair,
On mats two maidens couched, in dusky stole—
One swept the strings, one chanted from a scroll;
While young Calphurnius gazed behind her arm,
To learn her art, and marvel at its charm.
The parting of Brutus and Portia, full of soul and beauty, and the description of the Capitol and the Senate, tempt us, but our space will not permit further extract. The whole poem will be a rich treat to a genuine lover of poetry of a classical taste. As a work of art, it is very fine.
The Art-Union, Parts I. and II. London: Chapman and Hall, Strand.
This beautiful work, in its improved character, proceeds most satisfactorily. Each Monthly Part is rich both in engravings and in letter-press. In each are two fine engravings and in letter-press. In each are two fine engravings. In the first part, the portrait of the Queen from Thorburn's miniature, and Paul Potter's Studio; in the second part, are the Children in the Wood from Benwell and Westalls, and the Dancing Girl Reposing of Canova. These are principally on steel: the Children in the Wood, an Electrotype, from the engraving of Greatbach. Any one of these is worth far more than the price of the whole part; and the electrotype is a curious specimen of the perfection now reached in that art. It has the complete finish and clearness of an engraving. Besides these, the second part abounds with wood engravings of the most tasteful character, both in pictorial and decorative art. Add to this, the mass of fresh and invaluable information on art, both at home and abroad, and you have one of the very cheapest as well as most elegant productions which ever issued from the periodical press. Mrs. Hall's very charming Fairy Tale of Killarney, equally attractive, by its recalling to us some of the finest scenes in Europe, and by its beautiful spirit, is lavishly illustrated; and the "Visits to Private Galleries," is a series of papers which bid fair to supply a great and crying deficiency in this country; a good guide to the treasures of art in it. We recollect hearing Professor Bannermann express his great astonishment at finding, on his visit to England in quest of material for his Life of Raffaelle, the immense multitude of the productions of the old masters, scattered all over our country, without a single reliable clue to their discovery by a stranger. This series, well carried out, will remove this national disgrace. In every respect the Art-Union richly merits that popularity which we are rejoiced to find that it enjoys.
The Autobiography of Goethe; Truth and Poetry from my Life. Edited by Parke Godwin. Parts I. and II. London: Wiley and Putnam, 1847.
This is an American translation of Gocthe's famous Wahrheit und Dichtung, forming a part of Wiley and Putnam's Library of Choice Reading. It is a singular circumstance, that there has hitherto been no good translation of this most fascinating work, certainly one of the most delightful, if not the most delightful pieces of autobiography in any language. We have in it the life and literary, as well as personal and contemporary, history of one of the greatest and most accomplished of poets. No one can read Goethe's poetry with full effect and comprehension, who has not read Wahrheit und Dichtung; and no one can read it, without immediately perceiving how Goethe was in the habit of working his finest pictures out of the material of his own life. Goethe is not only the great poet and artist, but the great painter of German life; and whoever reads this work, lays up for himself a great pleasure, in case he should subsequently visit Germany; and whoever has visited Germany, will, on reading it, experience a similar enjoyment in meeting at every page with scenes and characters that there have arrested his attention. We have here, however, but half of the work. There remain two more parts to be published. When complete, it will form a valuable addition to the literature of our language.