MASSEY'S CRAIGCROOK CASTLE. *
THIS volume of poetry will not advance,' indeed it will hardly sustain, Gerald Massey's reputation. To take the most obvious point first, his diction is defective, sometimes in the use of com- binations of words intended for poetical phrases, but which really convey no meaning—more frequently the defect appears in a loose vagueness of sounding words, which may perhaps suggest the author's idea but certainly do not express it. This fault very likely arises from haste or carelessness ; but few readers of poetry trouble themselves to investigate causes, and if they did, the dis- covery would not remove the faults, or render them a source of pleasure. • In poetry everything is essential, even down to words or syllables ; but the structure and thoughts are, as substantials, of
* Craigcrook Castle. By Gerald Massey. Published by Bogue. more consequence than expression, important as the latter doubt- less is. Unfortunately, neither the plan nor the thoughts of Craigcrook Castle advance very far beyond the common. A party agreeing to tell stories is as old at least as the days of Bocoacio ; it appears continually in some form, and we had it last week in a prose novel. Mr. MiL sey, however, can scarcely be said to carry out his plan. There are three stories, or at least three poems ; but the stories are not told by the visitors, but by the author; so That variety, and the dramatic consistency of the tale agreeing with the character and experience of the teller, are missed. Lady Laura, the tale of a lady of rank patronizing a factory youth, losing her property, the aforesaid youth rising to distinction, aid- ing in some way to restore this property, and at last marrying his patroness—is indeed the only story of the three. " The Mother's Idol Broken" is a series of poems on the death of a little daughter, in which the leading idea of the departed is reiterated in various forms. "Glimpses of the War" is a collection of poems, each of which might have appeared independently; they have no further relation than that of treating different parts of the same subject. The most unpromising feature of the poetry is the absence of deep or original thought. The introduction to Craigerook Castle, or rather to the three poems, has descriptive passages of sensuous if not of sensual beauty ; there are stanzas of feeling in all the poems ; but of thoughts, such as the author's struggles with life should have struck out, there are none. Neither are the ideas connected with the war equal to the theme. We have had the same sort of thing, if not better, in poets who wrote on the spur of the moment, when the occasion imparted a temporary interest scarcely to be felt for a past event. There is an improvement over the author's first volume so far as this—there is more homo- geneity in his style : but there is the same want of originality bothin matter and manner, with the exception of a sensual feel- ing in describing the beauty either of woman or flowers. This, however, is a quality quite apart from the deeper thought which is necessary to bring poetry home to our "business and bosoms." Some miscellaneous poems are appended to Craigerook Castle. Of these the best is "Little Willie "—perhaps the best thing in the book. There is much, no doubt, of a more sounding and loftier-looking kind, but nothing so simply natural or so com- pletely told: and completeness is an essential of poetry.
"Poor little Willie, With his many pretty wiles ; Worlds of wisdom in his looks, And quaint, quiet smiles; Hair of amber, toucht with Gold of heaven so brave; All lying darkly hid In a workhouse grave.
You remember little Willie : Fair and funny fellow ! he Sprang like a lily From the dirt of poverty. Poor little Willie !
Not a friend was nigh, When, from the cold world, He croucht down to die.
In the day we wandered foodless, Little Willie cried for bread ; In the night we wandered homeless, Little Willie cried for bed.
Parted at the workhouse-door, Not a word we said : Ali, so tired was poor Willie, And so sweetly sleep the dead.
'Twas in the dead of winter We laid him in the earth ; The world brought in the New Year On a tide of mirth.
But for lost little Willie Not a tear we crave ; Cold and hunger cannot wake him, In his workhouse grave.
We thought him beautiful, Felt it hard to part ;
We loved him dutiful—
Down, down, poor heart ! The storms they may beat, The winter winds may rave ; Little Willie feels not, In his workhouse grave.
No room for little Willie ; In the world he had no part ; On him stared the Gorgon-eye Through which looks no heart. Come to me, said Heaven : And, if Heaven will save, Little matters though the door Be a workhouse grave."
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