MANO : A POETICAL HISTORY.* IT is a great relief

to turn from the silly stuff which makes up so much of the poetry of the day, from its would-be subtle introspection, its pessimism, its animalism, and paganism, to this finely objective, vigorous, original work of Mr. Dixon's. It is

disfigured by considerable blemishes; the metre sometimes proves to be more than the poet can properly manage ; there are passages which are little better than prose indifferently versified. But as a whole, Mano is a notable poem. Mr. Dixon has formed in his mind, not, we may be sure, without mach and careful study of authorities, a clear and consistent conception of Christendom as it was during one of the very darkest periods of its history, the close of the tenth century ; and he -has set it forth, boldly outlined, and filled in with some striking detail, in these pages. He makes us feel something of the confusion and misery which made the men of that day sure that the end of that century must bring with it some great. cata- strophe, that wrongs so hideous, disorder so universal, must call down a judgment which should redress and set them right. We see the peasants ground down in -anuttdr- able suffering, by lords against whose coats of mail their rude weapons, wield them as fiercely as they may, are useless ; in- triguing and godless Churchmen ; Rome itself, which should be the source of light and peace to Europe, the centre of its worst contentions ; and lighting up the general darkness, gleams of faithful love, and loyalty, and pious faith.

The tale is told by one Fergant, who has known and loved men whose true history, "because that many things be lewdly said," he takes it in hand to write. Mano is a Norman knight, who comes from Italy to Duke Richard of Normandy, seeking succour for his countrymen who were in sore strait in a country where they had been wont to roam at their will, and bringing with him Diantha, the young daughter of Count Thurold, who turns out to be the "false Duessa " of the story. At the Court of Richard he sees his fate in "Blanche the Fair ;" and Joanna, sister to Blanche, sees her fate in him. But fate has unhappily ordered it that these loves should not be happy ; Blanche is troth-fast to Giroie, a noble knight, and Joanna,—

" Till her soul's release,

Never knew joy, but hungrily did watch The love which all so nigh her did increase : But, though so nigh, no glimmer could she catch,

Nor any ray of warmth ; ah ! fate unkind,

That love's designs and deeds so ill should match !"

And yet she was worthy of love, as we see her pictured :—

* Matto: a Poetical History of the Time of the Close of the Tenth Century : con- cerning the Adventures of a Norman Knight which fell Part in Normandy, Part in. Italy. By Richard Watson Dixon. London: Rontledge and Bons. 11333. "Full lovely was the falling of her hair, Sweet was her carriage, sweet the little folds

Of her fair dress, drawn close with meekest care.

Light as a bird she seemed in those dark holds Of sin and woe, soft-footed as a dove :

No fairer soul the Mother's glance beholds,

Since that she joined the virgin choir above, And woe is ceased with her, and tears and sighs, Which was the most she gained of earthly love."

Both Mano and Joanna resolve to seek counsel of Gerbert, one of the most famous Churchmen of the day, afterwards for a brief space Pope, under the title of Sylvester II. Joanna, on her way through the forest, meets with an adventure which gives us a glimpse into the social disorders of the time. Here is a little scene, full of lurid light. A robber, at his mistress's desire, has sent his band to take prisoners an aged couple, who are, indeed, his own father and mother :— " Alas for them ! for in the night heard they A fiendish yelling round their little place; And looking out, saw it as light as day, With torches burning in their garden space,

And the False Faces in disorderly

And frightful dresses, with great head-pieces."

The robber, it turns out, has assumed the arms and cognisance of Giroie, whom he keeps prisoner in the dungeons of his own castle. Mano vanquishes the caitiff in single combat, and sets free his rival. So the two make their way to Gerbert, whose dealings with Popes and Emperors, as well as his strange doings in necromancy and magic, whether true or false, Fergant sets down, deeming it better to relate than to deny." Joanna tells to Gerbert the secret of her love, but the Churchman, thinking that the knowledge of it might keep Mano from his warrior's career, and so rob him of a great helper in his schemes, keeps it back, a concealment that ends in great- trouble to all concerned. Here we come upon one of the finest passages in the poem, a passage which is not unworthy, we venture to say, to stand proximus, if not secundus, to Shelley's "Ode to a Skylark" :—

"Thou only bird that singest as thou flyest, Heaven-mounting lark, that measurest with thy wing The airy zones, till thou art lost in highest !

Upm the branch the laughing thrushes cling, About her home the humble linnet wheels, Around the tower the gathered starlings swing ; These mix their songs and weave their figured reels : Thou rifest in thy lonely joy away, From the first rapturous note that from thee steals, Quick, quick, and quicker, till the exalted lay Is steadied in the golden breadths of light, 'Mid mildest clouds that bid thy pinions stay.

The heavens that give would yet sustain thy flight, And o'er the earth for ever cast thy voice, If but to gain were still to keep the height.

But soon thou ainkest on the fluttering poise Of the same wings that soared : soon ceasest thou The song that grew invisible with joys.

Love bids thy fall begin ; and thou art now Dropped back to earth, and of the earth again, Because that love bath made thy heart to bow.

Thou hut thy mate, thy nest on lowly plain, Thy timid heart by law ineffable Is drawn from the high heavens where thou shouldst reign ; Earth summons thee by her most tender spell ; For thee there is a silence and a song : Thy silence in the shadowy earth must dwell, Thy song in the bright heavens cannot be long. —And best to thee those fates may I compare Where weakness strives to answer bidding strong."

The last two lines are not very clear, and there are other weak- nesses of expression, but the thought is fine, and finely ex- pressed.

After this, Mano sets forth for Italy, passing through Paris, where he meets King Robert,just compelled by Pope Gregory V.

to put away his wife Bertha, as having stood sponsor to her son by a former marriage. From Paris, he and his company ride on through Burgundy :— "There in our passage through the land were seen On every knoll and rock the castles high Of the great seigneurs each in his domain : There wretched serfs at labour in the eye

Of the hard villicus on every plain,

We saw in the shadow of each sovereignty. We saw at every dawn the struggling train

From their small hamlets led to drudge the day,

And by the ganger urged with heavy pain.

They who thus toiled in pitiful array,

By night were hutted into noisome fold, And, being forbidden lights, in darkness lay. Their only light, the sun, did they behold, Their great taskmaster rising in the east, From course diurnal into annual rolled ;

Their days into their lives with toil increased.

Ah, Lord, how many days saw we that throng In garments drab, with cramped limbs uneased !

We saw their faces dark with hopeless wrong ; And oftentimes their lords with merry cheer Drove their brave hunts the wretched troop among."

This is a side of mediaaval life which has clearly left a deep impression on the writer's mind. He comes back to it again and again, and always gives us a very real gloom to the picture which he draws. A battle with the Saracens, a description of the "old heresiarch " Vilgardus, surnamed " Grammaticus," "A Vision of Hell, which a Monk Had," and other sights and adven- tures, bring the travellers to Rome. From the " Vision " we must quote one striking image. The monk sees a limbo, where, "The souls of men in pain From one to the other side did leap and dart,

From heat to cold, from cold to heat again : And not an instant through their anguish great In either element might they remain.

So great the multitude thus tossed by fate, That as a mist they seemed in the dark air.

No shrimper, who at half-tide takes his freight, When high his pole-net seaward he doth bear, Ever beheld so thick a swarm to leap Oat of the brine on evening still and fair, Waking a mist mile-long 'twixt shore and deep."

"The doom of hell itself is otherwise," says the monk's guide,— " Therewith he drew aside his vesture's fold, And showed his heart : than fire more hot it burned One-half : the rest was ice than ice more cold,"

—where we certainly have a reminiscence of Vathek and "the Hall of Eblis." The rest of the story, down to its tragic close,. told as it is with true dramatic power, we shall leave our readers to find for themselves, taking leave of Mr. Dixon by extracting one more passage, a passage which, though it might have been more highly finished, and certainly would have been improvea by compression, is of notable excellence, especially, we think, in the contrast between the lily and the rose :—

"Ah ! now consider well in her fair dress This lily of the earth's field, her lovely head Who rears amid the waste, companionless : Wide open stands her heart : no secret dread Bids her enfold her petals, like the rose, Over her golden bosom undismayed.

Oh, undefended thus to friends or foes, Shall she endure, then, in her perfect state, Until she ripen to a timely close, By the kind season carried to her date; Or must she tremble on her lofty stem As the rough hand of sudden-working Fate, Scattering to the winds her diadem, Brushing the tender gold-bloom from her heart ; And die in her fall hour, a perfect gem,

In whose fair essence all sweet things have part e