20 SEPTEMBER 1879, Page 14

BOOKS.

A TRAGIC IDYLL OF MODERN LIFE.*

" Po011 Hilda, and how very pathetic the whole story is !" most readers will be found saying to themselves, when they reach the closing scene of this remarkable poem. But who is the author, and with whom does he take rank in the goodly fellowship of British poets, from the times of Chaucer and Barbour down to thee° last days P The former question we have, as critics, no materials for answering, except inductively ; and. as to the latter, at the risk of being thought either unjust to an author, who in these columns has already received no stinted meed of commendation, or cowardly towards the claims of literature, we prefer, instead of giving to it a formal and judicial reply, to shelter ourselves under the felicitous affirmation of the candidate for theological honours who, on being asked to state which, or who, were the "miner prophets," informed his examiner that "he did not like to draw invidious distinctions."

To speak to the first question. There are two Free-Church ministers in Edinburgh whose sermons are looked forward. to by many during the preceding week as the special treat of the next "Sabbath," though they have formidable rivals in Dr. Cameron Lees, of the Cathedral and Established Church of St. Giles, and in Dr. MacGregor, of the Established West Church. These two ministers are Mr. White, of Free St. George's, and Dr. Smith, of the Free High Church. Now, if we refer to Oliver and Bayd's Ahnanack, we shall find that Dr. Smith, the attrac- tive preacher, has the same Christian name and initial as the author now under review. Both are "Walter 0. Smith," and if the present writer, not being under seal of the confessional, may be permitted to state the result of his own experiences, he has no alternative, after listening to a sermon from Dr. Smith and after perusing Hilda, but that of concluding that the preacher and the poet are one and the same person. But if our induc- tion be that of the pure lumen siccum, where, to quote the characteristic expression of Thomas Chalmers, is the " fine nose for heresy," on the part of Kirk Session, or Presbytery, if a Free-Kirk minister, at once popular and able, is allowed, with- out challenge—at least, as yet—to publish, with his name in full, the very bold and beautiful lines in this volume entitled, "The Self-Exiled," and those other very striking and original ones of which the subject is "Judas Iscariot P" As is known to some of our readers, and as the present Arch- bishop of Canterbury was careful to emphasise in his last Charge as Bishop of London, the Confession of Faith pro- * Hilda Among the Broken Goole. By Walter 0. Smith. Second Brillion. Glaegorn Jame* Maelehone. 1575. claims that "by the decree of God," for the manifestation of his glory, some men and angels are predestined to everlast- ing life, and others foreordained to everlasting death ; " and again, "the rest of mankind God was pleaeed for the glory of his sovereign power over his creatures, to pass by (like a supreme priest or Levite), and (like a supreme Nero) to ordain them to dishonour and wrath for their sin, to the praise of his glorious justice," (chap. Again, in the Larger Cateele4m, it is stated that the punishments of sin in the world to cpme are "most grievous torments in soul and body, without intermission, in hell-fire for ever ! " Now, just as in some of Pra Angelico's pictures the sweetest faces of angels and re- deemed souls look out on the beholder with serene contentment, while the most terrible shapes of demons and of doomed men are grouped beneath in obvious agony, or hate, or despair, in like manner the piety of the Scottish Kirk has revealed itself as clothed with the "garments of praise," while accepting the dogma, so dark, so destructive of all genuine or spontaneous worship of the heart and soul, that from a vast multitude of human beings, innocent infants as well as men of riper years, but these latter not necessarily in moral character defaulters above others, mercy is withheld, and for no diviner reason than "the exhibition of sovereign power."

But modern Scottish piety has risen up, not in " revolt " merely, but in " revoltition," against the grim decree, and the revolution, as represented somewhat notably in the recent pro- ceedings of the United Presbyterian Synod, held in Edinburgh, has become passionately lyrical in the pages of Walter C. Smith. The author may, or he may not, feel morally bound to acknowledge as his own private beliefs the sentiments to which, in the person of Claud .Maxwell, the husband, and the hero of his poem, he has given such fine expression in the verses alluded to. But, all the same, the world at large, and the theological world especially, is under great obligation to him for giving them publicity with the sanction of his name., indicating, as they so obviously do, that there is a rift in the northern clouds of dogma, and that in tho open space "the sign of the Son of Man" is becoming conspicuous. We regret that our space forbids our printing the two sets of verses in their entireness, but our readers may: perhaps, learn something of their quality and their purport from the following stanzas quoted from each, respectively, we only premising that the "Self-Exiled" could not possibly take harp in hand, and sing hymns of praise everlastingly, on account of blessings vouch- safed to herself, if millions of her fellow-creatures are to be left out in darkness, and in extremest anguish ; while in the ease of Judas, Satan himself comes to the gates of Paradise, to ask St. Peter what he is to do with one who goes about howling and preaching all day, and whom his other subjects will not "have among them at any price :"— " TH E SELF-EXILED.

Now, open the gate, and let her in, And fling it wide, For she bath been cleansed from stain of sin,' St. Peter cried.

And the angels all were silent.

Though I am cleansed from atain of She answered low, 'I came not hither to enter in,

Nor may I go.' And tho angels all were silent.

But I may not enter there,' she said, For I must go

Across the gulf, where the guilty dead Lie in their woe.'

And the angels all were silent.

`If I enter heaven, I may nut speak My soul's desire, For them that are lying distraught and weak In flaming aro.' And the angels all were silent.

St. Peter he turned the keys about, And answered grim : Can you love the Lord, and abide without

Afar from Him ?'

And the angels all were silent.

Should I be nearer Christ,' she said, By pitying loss The sinful living, or woeful dead, In their helplessness ?' And the angels all were silent.

Should I be liker Christ, were I To love no more

The loved, who in their anguish lie Outside the door ?'

And the angels all were silent.

. ......

Did Ho not hang cm the cursed tree, And bear its shame, And clasp to His heart, for love of me, My guilt and blame?'

And the angels all were silent.

Should I be liker, nearer Him, Forgetting this,—

Singing all day with the Seraphim, In selfish bliss ? '

And the angels all wore silent.

The Lord Himself stood by the gate, And heard her speak

Those tender words compassionate, Gentle and meek.

And the angels all were silent.

Now, pity is the touch of God In human hearts

And from that way He over trod Ho ne'er departs.

And the angels all were silent.

And Ile said, Now will I go with you, Dear child of Love; I am weary of all this glory, too, In heaven above.'

And the angels all were silent.

'We will go seek and save the lost, If they will hoar.

They who are worst but need me most; And all are dear.'

And the angels all were silent."

"JUDAS ISCARIOT.

"Then Satan : There's the mischief.

Ho goes whining like a saint ; I could keep my people quiet, But he'd have them penitent.

It's as bad as if a parson Made their very hearts grow faint.

But as Peter looked on Judas, Sunk in utter misery,

Lo! there rose before his vision A grey morning by the sea, And a weary, broken spirit, On the shores of Galileo. 0! once, too, I despbairkl, For my Lord I had denied ; And once my heart was breaking; For I cursed Him and I lied; I did not slay myself, but yet I wished that I had died.

IJOR170 thy burden with me, Satan,

He is not too bad for me; He will get his "own place" duly; Andlit is not mine to be

A breaker of the bruised,

Or the judge of such as he.'"

Hilda itself is a very able, discriminating, and picturesque representation of the present time of severe transition, with all its trembling doubts and dogmatic denials, and its solemn, if serene joys. The poem, in fact, with all its varied excellencies, is nothing if not theological. We do not mean that the volume contains merely a catalogue in verso of the latitudes, attitudes, or platitudes of modern religious opinion, or that the work, in form and by profession "a song," has, after all, only "turned out a sermon." A most impressive sermon, indeed, Hilda is, and few will lay it down without feeling that they are both sadder and. wiser men. And here, too, are typical representatives of the various, more pronounced conclusions which split up our pro- fessedly religions community into a variety of encampments, which cultivate towards each other mainly' polite laws of war." Then, besides the High Churchman and Hilda herself, the Evangelical "saint-wife," and Luke Sprott, the sensational preacher and village blacksmith in one, we have figured and subtly limned the poet Claud Maxwell, who reminds us not a little, before his great sorrow comes to him, of a certain super- fine, bantering personage, who shall here be nameless ; and a portrait, drawn with true impartiality, but with great vigour, Winifred Urquhart, the lady materialist. We are not, however, made ttequainted with these respective individuali- ties directly. Mr. Smith has written a domestic drama, though his poem is not dramatic in form ; and with skilful art he has supplied each of his creations with a double thread, by means of which each throws on the woof of the story a twofold portrait,—that of him, or herself, and that of another actor in the successive scenes.

In a poem in which each of' the characters introduced is de.

lineated with so much life-likeness, which, at the same time, can only be thoroughly appreciated when read as a whole in the light of the prologue and l'envoi, and which so entirely fulfils the Horatian conditions of unity and simplicity, it is almost impossible to fix upon any particular passages as those which in themselves best exemplify the author's aim and mode of pre- sentation. But we would, for our own part, select as specially illustrative of both, the sketches of the materialist and Luke Sprott. The latter meets his end during a thunderstorm, which is described very powerfully by Mr. Smith ; and the former, who had done her best, or her worst, to blast the happi- ness of the poet's home, is painted, both by herself and by a second hand, with considerably different effects. To use the words of Milton, the tale of Hilda is told in language which is at once "simple, sensuous, and passionate," and we have not read for some considerable time a poem which is more rivetting in interest, though the author, a master of verse and of the English language, is at times loosely careless in his composition, and the narrative has inwoven in it no intricate situations. We need scarcely add that the moral tone of the volume is of a very high and pure kind, or that in every page the author reveals that all nature is a great parable to him, and that he has held intimate converse with her various, aspects. Tti him, the order and law which, amid storm and sunshine, are unmistakably obvious in the realm of sense-phenomena, are prophetic of the coming higher order, when "Love, which is the soul of all the Creeds," shall reign supreme over all and in all. One unfailing effect of genius, whether in wit, in humour, in science, or in song, is, surprise ; and, to our mind, Walter C. Smith has achieved this differentia of poetic success.