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The Corvey Poets Project at the University of Nebraska —
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The Corvey Poets Project at the University of Nebraska —
British Poetry of the later Eighteenth and Earlier Nineteenth Centuries
Bibliographical and Contextual Apparatus
Tales of Superstition and Chivalry. London: Vernor and Hood, 1802. Pp. vi+144.
Contemporary Reviews
British Critic, 21 (January, 1803), 78-79
Art. 15 Tales of Superstition and Chivalry. 12mo. 144pp. 4s. Vernor and
Hood. 1802.
This beautiful little book belongs, as its title implies, to the family of
Tales of Wonder. It is printed without a name; but, if we are not misinformed,
it is the production of Miss Bannerman, already known for poetical talents.
The Tales abound with fancy; but it is fancy perverted to the purpose of raising
only horror, and raising it by preternatural agency. This uniformity has an
effect not pleasing to those, who have not learnt to accommodate their taste
to a transient fashion; and we, who can see through the disguise the marks of
talent formed for better things, cannot but regret that the volume is not of
a more miscellaneous kind. Its contents are ten Tales, illustrated by three
plates; the third of which, prefixed to "the Murcian Cavalier," is
not without elegance. The following almost regular Sonnet, is placed at the
beginning under the title of
"Prologue.
Turn from the path;
if search of gay delight
Lead thy vain footsteps
back to ages past!
Frail are the blighted
flowers, and thinly cast
O'er the dim regions
of monastic might.
Yet in their cavern'd,
dark recesses, dwells
The long lost Spirit
of forgotten times,
Whose voice prophetic
reach'd to distant climes
And rul'd the nations
from his witched cells;
That voice is
hush'd!—But still, in Fancy's ear,
Its first unmeasur'd
melodies resound!
Blending with terrors
wild, and legends drear,
The charmed melody
of mystic sound,
That rous'd, embodied,
to the eye of Fear,
Th' unearthly habitants
of faery ground."
The measure used in most of the Tales is of the ballad kind, and an imitation of ancient simplicity seems every where to be intended. As the effect of such narratives arises from the whole context, we shall not attempt to give a partial specimen; but, recommending the book to those who love to shudder o'er the midnight fire, we advise the author to make a livelier and a better use of a fancy stored with images.
Critical Review, s2, v38 (May 1803), 110-13.
Art. 34-Tales of Superstition and Chivalry. 8vo. 4s. Boards. Vernor and
Hood. 1802.
The language of these Tales is made up of imitations, chiefly from Mr. Scott's
and Dr. Leyden's ballads, and the poems of Mr. Wordsworth. 'Omne ignotum pro
magnifico,' should have been the motto: the author has heard that obscurity
is one source of the sublime, and has therefore veiled his sublimity in impenetrable
darkness. He has perceived how rapidly good poets connect their narratives,
and this also he has imitated; but, with great originality, has contrived to
leap over, not the dull parts, but what would in ordinary hands have formed
the main action. The beginning of every poem excites expectation of something
very great: when the explanation should come, we are always reminded of the
country-schoolmistress—What, can't you spell the word, you little dunce?
well, then, skip it and go on!'
To evince the justice of our censure, we will analyse one of these poems. A
ship is becalmed near the island of Seäm, and the crew are all terrified
by 'a sound that stoppeth not, like the shrieks of a soul in woe!' Father Paul,
a monk of Einsidlin, is on board, and he terrifies them still more, by his account
of their danger.
"He told them,
he remember'd once
A father of St.
Thomas' tower,
Who never had bow'd
before the cross
Till he touch'd
his dying hour.
"That then
he named to the priest
What he had seen
in Seäm's caves,
For he had reach'd
them in a ship
When that calm was
on the waves!
"Thro' the
sleepless nights of thirty months,
He had listen'd
to that shriek of woe:
But he never had
seen the prophetess
Of the oracle below!
"Till that
chilly night, at the equinox height,
When the thirty
months were gone,
As he listen'd,
in the outer cave,
To that unbroken
groan,
"A hand, he
saw not, dragg'd him on,
The voice within
had call'd his name!
And he told all
he witnessed
At the oracle of
flame!
"But when he came
to tell, at last,
What fearful sacrifice
had bled,
His agony began
anew,
And he could not
raise his head!
"And he never
spoke again at all,
For he died that
night in sore dismay:
So sore, that all
were tranc'd for hours
That saw his agony!
"And
he told not how he left the cave
When that
dreadful sacrifice was o'er;
But some have
thought he was preserv'd
By the crucifix
he wore!
"And
some have thought he had bent his knee
At Seäm's
dark, unhallow'd shrine;
And that might
be his agony
When they
rais'd the blessed sign!" P. 23.
The vessel is lost, and only father Paul remains alive in the cave and he is
dragged into the inner cave by the oracle of flame. The prophetess stretches
her hand from behind the veil, and points to him to lay aside his crucifix.
Father Paul remembers then the man whom he had seen die in such agony; and he
felt that recollection more terrible than the terrors of the cave. What, then,
did father Paul do?—here the author skips and goes on.
'That monk
was never seen again,
Till forty
years were pass'd, or more;
'Twas in the
aisle of Einsidlin
As even-prayer
was o'er;
'The priest
had clos'd the service-rite,
For the eve
of Holy Ghost;
He was seated
in the upper choir,
'Twas the
feast of Pentecost:
'When he
saw a monk, by the altar-rail,
Kneel down
upon the step to pray;
The dying
lights were glimmering,
And all had
gone away:
'The priest
descended from the choir,
By the lamp that
burn'd on the wall,
And he look'd on
that uncover'd face,
'Twas the holy father
Paul!
'He stood like
one in trance, to gaze
Upon that mild and
sacred head
Forty years had
pass'd away
Since he was with
the dead.
'Forty years had
pass'd away
Since the ship had
struck on Seäm's steep;
And every soul that
breathed there
Had perish'd in
the deep!
'In all that time,
if he liv'd still,
That none should
see the father Paul,
It awed the priest
of Einsidlin,
And he could not
speak at all!
'The aged monk
had left the aisle,
And the dying tapers
sink and fail;
All, but the lights
on the high altar,
And they are dim
and pale:
'The priest
was still by the altar-rail
On the morn of Holy
Ghost;
When the bell was
done for matin prayers,
At the feast of
Pentecost.' P. 34.
And here the poem ends.
There was once a painter, who painted one daub of red, and called it the passage of the Israelites, over the Red Sea, 'Where are the Israelites?' asked a critic.—'All safely got over.'—'But where are the Egyptians?'—'Where should they be?' replied the painter: 'all drowned, to be sure.' Our author's ballads are like the picture of the Red Sea.
New Annual Register, 23 (1802), [318].
— "Tales of Superstition and Chivalry," in which we perceive
more smoke than fire, more imitation than original genius; the aim at being
grand, without the power of magnificence:—
Poetical Register, 2 (1802), 431-32
Tales of Superstition and Chivalry. Small 8vo. pp. 144.
These tales contain many passages of no common merit. The language is frequently in a high degree poetical, and the incidents well imagined. One fault, however, runs nearly through the whole of the volume. It is obscurity. The author solicitous, as it would appear, to produce a striking effect, has often left so much to be imagined by the reader that he is turned aside from the general beauty of the poem to discover the connexion or the meaning of particular parts.
Other reviews I was unable to locate:
Annual Review, 1 (1802), 720-21.
Monthly Mirror, 15 (Feb. 1803), 102-03.
Prepared by Cheney Luttich, University of Nebraska, December 2004.
© Cheney Luttich, 2004.