BOOKS.

THE CITY OF DREAM.* THE City of Dream contains much fine poetry, but we cannot think with Mr. Lecky, who eulogised it at the Royal Academy dinner as a noble poem. Perhaps Mr. Buchanan will say that this is because the present writer, who lives in what Mr. Buchanan calls "the fairy-land of dogmatic Christianity,"' cannot pass sufficiently out of himself to do The City of Dream justice. But there he would be mistaken. What we admire most are the beautiful delineations of the- restless spirit of modern doubt. What we admire least is the flaunting, glaring, empty, and even vulgar picture of the Roman Catholic and Protestant Churches. But besides this, the poem suffers grievously from its entire want of intellectual coherence. "The sympathetic modern," says Mr. Buchanan, "will find here the record of his own heart- burnings, doubts, and experiences, though they may not have occurred to him in the same order or culminated in the same way ; though he may not have passed through the valley of dead Gods at all, or have looked with wondering, eyes on the Spectre of the Inconceivable; though he may never have realised to the full, as I have done, the existence. of the City without God, or have come at last footsore and despairing, to find solace and certainty on the brink of the Celestial Ocean." That some of the heartbnrnings, doubts, and experiences of the modern thinker are here very effectively painted, we fully admit. But we deny that the picture of Greek mythology, can have had any real relation, such as is here assumed, to the development of modern doubt. The whole of the section, and it is a considerable part of the poem,. devoted to Greek mythology, seems to us completely out of place in an attempt to delineate the natural development of modern doubt ; while the two sections on "The Spectre of the Inconceivable" and "The Open Way," are wordy, weak, and wearisome, and neither prepare the reader for the striking section on "The City without God," nor bear any clear relation to the equally powerful sections on Greek mythology which have preceded. The truth is, that Mr. Buchanan should have given us his study of Greek mythology in a separate poem. It does not belong in any way to a study of the development of doubt in the soul of a modern thinker;. for beautiful as these Greek legends are, no student who was as much in earnest as Mr. Buchanan desires us to think his pilgrim to have been, would have thought for a moment of going back to the Greek mythology in search of a faith, after being disappointed in his study of the Christian revelation. He might possibly have gone to the Buddhists,—as few amongst us have done,—in search of a religion. He might possibly have gone to the Pessimists. But no modern thinker, in his despair at what he had held to be the failure of Christianity, would have seriously interrogated the oracles of Greece. Such a thinker, in his despair of truth, might, by some accident of moral caprice, have plunged into the literature of pagan fancy by way of literary refreshment after the collapse of his hopes. But such a task would not have been, as this is represented, a serious. and important part of his pilgrimage ; it would have been an interlude wholly unconnected with it ; nor are such interludes any proper constituents of such a poem as this, in spite of the unfortunate precedent which Goethe has made for such interludes in Faust. It is difficult to imagine a pilgrim in. search of faith passing from a serious study of the legendary lore of Greece, to the metaphysical passion for the In-- conceivable,—the Unknown and Unknowable, Mr. Spencer would, we suppose, call it,—and that, too, on his way to the pure atheism of "The City without God." Rather, we think, should the pilgrim have made his way straight from the phase of revolt delineated in the line canto which is termed "The Outcast, Esau," to "The City without God." Mr. Buchanan seems to us to have spoiled his poem by wedging into it the two cantos on Greek mythology, and following them up almost immediately with the two very dreary ones on "The Spectre of the Inconceivable" (which turns out not to be inconceivable at all, but a perfectly con- ceivable and uninteresting sort of aurora borealis) and "The Open Way." Again, in. the last canto we cannot find anything but the vaguest "reconciliation" of revolt with faith. Except

• The City ofDream : an Epic Poem. By Robert Buchanan. London: Ghetto- and Windue.

a very superfluous child who is supposed to effect the recon- ciliation, there is nothing in the canto on "The Celestial Ocean" which has not been urged again and again, without the smallest effect on the pilgrim's mind, in the course of earlier passages of the poem.

The worst part of the poem is, however, the coarse and commonplace picture which it presents of the Catholic and Protestant Churches, a picture of which Mr. Buchanan should be ashamed. No thoughtful modern pilgrim, however care- less, would have given such a picture as that of the great Christian Churches. It contains nothing, indeed, but the old invectives against priesteraft and worldliness. We suppose that the canto on "The Calvaries" is intended as some slight makeweight against these vulgar pictures, and as giving the effect of Christian teaching on an exceptionally noble character ; but it is too vague and feeble to counteract the effect of the gaudy and glaring pictures which have pre- ceded it. Indeed, for us the interest of the poem almost begins at the point where one-third of it is concluded; we

say abnoat, for we admit that the lyrics in the earlier portion of the poem have, on the whole, as much beauty as the lyrics in the later portion. Indeed, with only one or two exceptions, all the lyrics are singularly pathetic as well as musical. Take the first, for instance, the rationalist's lament that Christ did not rise, which might well compare, in its piteous beauty, with Matthew Arnold's lines on the grave of our Lord in the poem called " Obermann Once More :"-

" JESUS OF NAZARETH.

Tomb'd from the heavenly blue, Who lies in dreamless death ? The Jew, Jesus of Nazareth !

Shrouded in black He lies, He doth not stir a limb, His eyes Closed up like pansies dim.

The old creeds and the new He blest with His sweet breath, This Jew, Jesus of Nazareth !

His brows with thorns are bound, His hands and feet are lead ; All round His tomb the sands stretch red.

Oh, hark! who sobs, who sighs Around His place of death— 'Arise, Jesus of Nazareth !'

O'er head, like birds on wing, Float shapes in white robes drest ; They sing, But cannot break His rest.

They sing for Christ's dear sake ; The hour is here,' each saith ; Awake, Jesus of Nazareth !'

Silent He sleeps, thorn-crown'd, He doth not hear or stir, No sound Comes from His sepulchre.

Awake I' those angels sing; Arise, and vanquish Death, 0 King !

Jesus of Nazareth !'

Too late !—where no light creeps Lies the pale vanquish'd one— He sleeps Sound, for His dream is done!

Tomb'd from the heavenly blue, Sleeps, with no stir, no breath, The Jew, Jesus of Nazareth !"

But if it had really been so, whence would this tone of infinite piteousness have borrowed its marvellous depth of feeling

In fact, in that cage, no one could now have had any reason to suspect what the infinite loss of the world had been.

The interest of the poem hardly begins for us, as we have said, till after the pilgrim has been driven out of both divisions of Christopolis, and has got into the true wilderness of unbelief. Then the poem begins to rise, not only in its lyrics, but in its substance, into power and occasional sublimity. "The Wayside Inn," where the various outcasts meet, is powerful enough ; but the canto culled "The Outcast, Esau," seems to us full of true grandeim Here is a specimen. The pilgrim has mounted behind the outcast Esau on his marvellous black

steed :—

" At first my soul Shrunk trembling, but betimes a new desire Uprose within my heart and in mine eyes Soon sparkled while they open'd gazing round ; And I beheld with wild ecstatic thrills New prospects flashing past as dark as dream : For through a mighty wood of firs and pines, Shapen like harps, wherefrom the rising wind Drew wails of wild and wondrous melody, The steed was speeding; and the stars had risen, Cold-sparkling through the jet-black naked boughs ; And far before us in our headlong track Great torrents flash'd round gash'd and gaunt ravines ; And higher glimmer'd rocks and crags and peaks, O'er which, with blood-red beams, 'mid driving clouds The windy moon was rising. Once again, I question'd, looking on the rider's face Which glimmer'd in the moonlight dim as death, Whither, 0 whither? And the answer came, Not in cold speech or chilly undertone, But musically, in a wild strange song, To which the sobbing of the torrents round, The moaning of the wind among the pines, The beating of the horse's thunderous feet, Kept strange accord.

Winds of the mountain, mingle with ray crying, Clouds of the tempest, flee as I am flying, Gods of the cloudland, Christus and Apollo, Follow, 0 follow !

Through the dark valleys, up the misty mountains, Over the black wastes, past the gleaming fountains, Praying not, hoping not, resting nor abiding, Lo, I am riding !

Who now shall name.me ? who shall find and bind me ? Daylight before me, and darkness behind me, E'en as a black crane down the winds of heaven Fast I am driven.

Clangour and anger of elements are round me, Torture has clasp'd me, cruelty has crown'd me, Sorrow awaits me, Death is waiting with her— Fast speed I thither !

Not 'ne,ath the greenwood, not where roses blossom, Not on the green vale on a loving bosom, Not on the sea-sands, not across the billow, Seek I a pillow!

Gods of the storm-cloud, drifting darkly yonder, Point fiery hands and mock me as I wander, Gods of the forest glimmer out upon me, Shrink back and shun me !

Gods, let them follow !—gods, for I defy them! They call me, mock me ; but I gallop by them— If they would find me, touch me, whisper to me, Let them pursue me !

Faster, 0 faster ! Darker and more dreary Groweth the pathway, yet I am not weary— Gods, I defy them ! gods, I can unmake them, Bruise them and break them !

White* steed of wonder, with thy feet of thunder, Find out their temples, tread their high priests under,— Leave them behind thee—if their gods speed after, Mock them with laughter.

Who standeth yonder, in white raiment reaching Down to His bare feet ? who stands there beseeching ? Hark how He crieth, beck'ning with His finger, Linger, 0 linger !'

Shall a god grieve me? shall a phantom win me ? Nay—by the wild wind around and o'er and in me— Be his name Vishnu, Cluistus, or Apollo—

Let the god follow !

Clangour and anger of elements are round me, Torture has cla,sp'd me, cruelty has crown'd me, Sorrow awaits me, Death is waiting with her— Fast speed I thither !"

That seems to us the climax of the poem, so far as it represents the real religious feeling of the author, though no doubt the last canto, on "The Celestial Ocean," is intended to convey,—what it does not, however, at all effectively impress

on us,—that all this passionate revolt ends in some deep belief

in the love of God. It is on its negative side that Mr. Buchanan's dream is most vivid. While he paints desola- tion and despair with a force that very few can surpass, he paints the peace and hope of which he gives us occasional glimpses, with a comparatively feeble hand. Take, for example, this attempt to depict what Mr. Buchanan calls the reconcilia- tion of the soul after its long story of revolt. In the following dialogue, the first speaker, who is throughout called "the Man," is the interpreter of the divine message to the storm-tossed soul of the pilgrim :—

• Why "white"? The horse is repeatedly described ea black. "So far away He sits, the Mystery, vrrapt for ever round With brightness and with awe and melody ;

Yet even here, on these low-lying shores,

Lower than is the footstool of His throne, We hear Him and adore Him, nay, can feel His breath as vapour round our mouths, inhaling That soul within the soul whereby we live From that divine for-ever-beating Heart Which thrills the universe with Light and Love !'

THE PILGRIM.

So far away He dwells, my soul indeed Scarcely discerns Him, and in sooth I seek A gentler Presence and a nearer Friend.

THE MAN

So far ? 0 blind, He broods beside thee now Here in this silence, with His eyes on thine!

0 deaf, His voice is whispering in thine ears Soft as the breathing of the slumberous seas !

THE PILGRIM.

I see not and I hear not ; but I see Thine eyes burn dimly, like a corpse-light seen Flickering amidst the tempest ; and I hear Only the elemental grief and pain Out of whose shadow I would creep for ever.

THE MAN.

Thou canst not, brother ; for these, too, are God !

THE Pmeafm.

How ? Is my God, then, as a homeless ghost Blown this way, that way, with the elements ?

THE MAN.

He is without thee, and within thee, too ; Thy living breath, and that which drinks thy breath ; Thy being, and the bliss beyond thy being.

THE PILGRIM.

So near, so far ? He shapes the furthest sun New-glimmering on the furthest fringe of space, Yet stoops and with a leaf-light finger-touch Reaches my heart and makes it come and go !

THE MAN

Yea ; and He is thy heart within thy heart, And thou a portion of His Heart Divine !

THE PILGRIM.

Alas ! what comfort comes to grief like man's To weave a circle of sweet fantasy Around him, and to share so dim a dream ?"

It will be admitted that the " reconciliation " of the soul to God is depicted in far fainter colours than its revolt against God. The pilgrim reaches a very hazy and doubtful sort of hospice at the close of the dream. But he passes through no

hazy or doubtful paroxysms of denial and despair.

As to "The Groves of Faun" and "The Amphitheatre," while we estimate the poetical value of part of these cantos very highly, we have already said that we do not think that they properly belong to the history or psychology of modern doubt at all. The transfiguration of Eros (why, by-the-way, in "The Argument," does Mr. Buchanan so oddly miscall it the "transubstantiation" of Eros?) into the spiritual form of the crucified Saviour is not a Greek conception, and is one which the Greek mind would not, we think, have hesitated to repu- diate with a good deal of energy ; but Mr. Buchanan is evidently bent on giving us the supersensual side of Greek religious feeling, and in the effort to do this adequately, he has, we think, overshot the mark.