The London Literary Gazette: Journal of Belles Lettres,
Arts, Sciences, &c. No. 842 (9 March 1833): 146-8.
THIS production, with many beauties not unworthy of the
talents and literary reputation of the younger D’Israeli,
seems to be an experiment on the English language and composition,
and, in our opinion, not likely to be a successful one, or
to lead to future imitation. It is, indeed, neither prose
nor verse, neither rhyme nor rhythm, neither Ossian nor the
translation of serious opera, neither connected narrative
nor the oracles of somnambulism,—but apparently a mixture,
partaking of all these styles and manners, and telling a tale
of no human interest. From first to last, the reader cares
nothing for the hero, or for any of his contemporaries; the
wonders are too visionary to create either surprise or concern;
and as the actors “come like shadows, so depart,” we finally
close the volume with a feeling of dissatisfaction, strong
in proportion to the weakness of the impressions made upon
us by a waste of powers, surely capable of better things.
Alroy is the last Prince of the Captivity, an enthusiast
who obtains the magical sceptre of Solomon, raises the sacred
standard of Israel, and conquers the East, at some early period
of history. He marries the daughter of the Caliph of Bagdad,
offends the theocracy and the Jews who adhere to the ancient
laws, is conspired against, betrayed, and brought to judgment
by his Turkish conquerors. His sister Miriam, Jabaster a Cabalist,
Honian an oriental Epicurian philosopher, Abidan a fanatic,
Esther a prophetess, and Schirrene his lovely fate, are the
other principal characters. The Talmud has furnished
the raw material, and the author’s travels have enabled him
to build up the superstructure with sketches of scenery, deserts,
ruined cities, costume, individuals of various countries,
customs, and modes of expression. From the mass we shall endeavour
to disengage such parts as will afford a fair idea of the
execution of the whole; and bear witness to the truth of the
few remarks we have ventured to offer on a performance which
is, if that be a merit, at least new in its fashion, and,
like most new things, looks fanatical and odd. But first,
let Mr. D’Israeli speak for himself:—
“I never hesitate, although I discard verse, to
have recourse to rhythm whenever I consider its introduction
desirable, and occasionally even to rhyme. There is no doubt
that the style in which I have attempted to write this work
is a delicate and difficult instrument for an artist to handle.
He must not abuse his freedom. He must alike beware the turgid
and the bombastic, the meagre and the mean. He must be easy
in his robes of state, and a degree of elegance and dignity
must accompany him even in the camp and the market-house.
The language must rise gradually with the rising passions
of the speakers, and subside in harmonious unison with their
sinking emotions. With regard to the conduct of this tale,
it will speedily be observed to be essentially dramatic. Had,
indeed, the drama in this country not been a career encompassed
with difficulties, I should have made Alroy the hero of a
tragedy. But as, at the present day, this is a mode of composition
which for any practical effect is almost impossible, I have
made him the hero of a dramatic romance. The author, therefore,
seldom interferes in the conduct of the story. He has not
considered it his duty to step in between the reader and the
beings of his imagination, to develope and dwell upon their
feelings, or to account for their characters and actions.
He leaves them in general to explain every thing for themselves,
substituting, on his part, description for scenery, and occasional
bursts of lyric melody for that illustrative music, without
which all dramatic representations are imperfect, and which
renders the serious opera of the Italians the most effective
performance of modern times, and most nearly approaching the
exquisite drama of the ancient Greeks.”
Alroy’s first ambitious aspirations are well illustrated
in a conversation with his uncle, who has just paid the Moslemin
tribute:—
“‘Live we like slaves?’ (argues the elder Hebrew.)
‘Is this hall a servile chamber! These costly carpets, and
these rich divans, in what proud harem shall we find their
match? I feel not like a slave. My coffers are full of dirhems.
Is that slavish? The wealthiest company of the caravan is
ever Bostenay’s. Is that to be a slave? Walk the bazaar of
Bagdad, and you will find my name more potent than the caliph’s.
Is that a badge of slavery?’ ‘Uncle, you toil for others.’
‘So do we all; so does the bee; yet he is free and happy.’
‘At least he has a sting.’ ‘Which he can use but once; and
when he stings—’ ‘He dies, and like a hero. Such a death
is sweeter than his honey.’”
The moody youth breaks away into solitude; and the style
of Ossian, though mixed with other imitative notes, as we
have mentioned, will be recognized in his soliloquy, and the
ensuing dialogue with his sister.
‘My fathers, my heroic fathers! if this feeble arm
cannot redeem thy heritage; if the foul boar must still wallow
in thy sweet vineyard, Israel, at least I'll not disgrace
ye. No! let me perish. The house of David is no more! no more
our sacred seed shall lurk and linger, like a blighted thing,
in this degenerate earth. If we cannot flourish, why then
we’ll die!’ ‘Oh! say not so, my brother!’ A voice broke on
the air, so soft, so sweet, so wildly musical; it sounded
like a holy bell upon a summer day—a holy bell that
calls to prayer, and stills each fierce emotion. And softly
kneeling at his side, behold a female form! Her face is hid,
her lips are pressed against the hand she gently steals. And
now she raises up her head, and waits with tender patience
for a glance from one who seldom smiles. ‘Oh! say not so,
my brother!’ He turns; he gazes on a face beauteous as a starry
night—a starry night in those far climes where not a
cloud is marked in heaven; when all below on earth’s so sweet,
and all above in air so still, that every passion melts away,
and life seems but a fragrant dream. I too have wandered in
those lands, and roamed mid Jordan’s vocal bowers. Ah! could
the nightingale that sang to Syria’s rose now sing to me,
I’d give the fame of coming years to listen to that lay! He
turns—he gazes—and he bends; his heart is full,
his voice is low. ‘Ah, Miriam! thou queller of dark spirits!
is it thou? Why art thou here?’ ‘Why am I here? Are you not
here? and need I urge a stronger plea? Oh! brother dear, I
pray you come and mingle in our festival. Our walls are hung
with flowers you love; I culled them by the fountain’s side;
the holy lamps are trimmed and set, and you must raise their
earliest flame. Without the gate my maidens wait, to offer
you a robe of state. Then, brother dear, I pray you come and
mingle in our festival.’”*
The concluding paragraphs almost jingle:—
Why am I here?
Art thou not here?
Oh! brother dear!
* * * *
Without the gate
My maidens wait,
To offer you a robe of state, &c.
Throughout the book the same style constantly occurs: thus,
Alroy and his courser galloping over the desert:—
“Food or water they have none. No genial fount, no grateful
tree, rise with their pleasant company. Never a beast or bird
is there, in that hoary desert bare. Nothing breaks the almighty
stillness. Even the jackal’s felon cry might seem a soothing
melody. A grey wild rat, with snowy whiskers, out of a withered
bramble stealing, with a youthful snake in its ivory teeth,
in the moonlight grins with glee. This is their sole society.”
Suppose the extract printed in regular lines:
No genial fount, no grateful tree,
Rise with their pleasant company.
Never a beast or bird is there,
In that hoary desert bare.
Even the jackal’s felon cry
Might seem a soothing melody.
Then comes, perhaps the natural, but certainly the ludicrous,
description of the rat with snowy whiskers, munching a youthful
snake; which
In the moonlight grins with glee.
This is their sole society.
Again, a bird flies away:—
“A moment since, and it was there, glancing in the sunny
air; and now the sky is without a guest. Alas, alas! no more
is heard the carol of that lonely bird, singing in the wilderness.”
A moment since, and it was there,
Glancing in the sunny air.
Alas, alas! no more is heard
The carol of that lonely bird.
But why multiply these examples?—only it doth us strike,
that we do not like to be taken in with chimes, with short
metres and rhymes, in the shape of honest prose, which all
the world knows.
Our next specimens of style are to mark what we have likened
to the indifferent translation of Italian opera, rather than
to striking original composition in our native tongue.
“I do observe the influence of women very potent over me.
’Tis not of such stuff that they make heroes. I know not love,
save that pure affection that does subsist between me and
this girl,—an orphan, and my sister. We are so alike,
that when last Passover, in mimicry, she twined my turban
round her graceful head, our uncle called her David. The daughters
of my tribe, they please me not, though they are passing fair.
Were our sons as brave as they are beautiful, we still might
dance on Sion. Yet have I often thought, that could I pillow
this moody brow upon some snowy bosom that were my own, and
dwell in the wilderness, far from the sight and ken of man,
and all the care, and toil, and wretchedness, that groan,
and sweat, and sigh about me, I might haply lose this deep
sensation of o’erwhelming woe that broods upon my being. No
matter: life is but a dream, and mine must be a dull one.”
Again:—
“Pallid and mad, he swift upsprang, and he tore up a tree
by its lusty roots, and down the declivity, dashing with rapid
leaps, panting and wild, he struck the ravisher on the temple
with the mighty pine. Alschiroch fell lifeless on the sod,
and Miriam fainting into her brother’s arms. And there he
stood, fixed and immovable, gazing upon his sister’s deathly
face, and himself exhausted by passion and his exploit, supporting
her cherished, but senseless body.”
And again:—
“‘Woe! woe! our house is fallen! The wildness of his gestures
frightens me. David, David! I pray thee cease. He hears me
not—my voice, perchance, is thin. I’m very faint. Maidens,
kneel to your prince, and soothe the madness of his passion.’”
The “thin” voice is genuine operatic, and the sentiments
in the three quotations partake largely of the same character,
which is far alike from the truly touching or nobly passionate.
Part II.—(for another of the novelties of this tale
is, that it is not divided into the ancient form of chapters,
but into parts, sections of parts, and continuations of parts—a
very useless innovation!)—Part II. commences in a similar
strain, as follows:
“Speed, fleetly speed, thou courser bold, and track the
desert’s trackless way. Beneath thee is the boundless earth,
above thee is the boundless heaven,—an iron soil and
brazen sky. Speed, swiftly speed, thou courser bold, and track
the desert’s trackless way!”
Not quite a bull, maybe, but an extravagance; and, while
tracking the trackless way, one might wish to view the viewless
wind, or perform some other equally impossible exploit. This
vein of exaggeration accompanies almost all the descriptive
portions of this flight through the desert. For instance,—(but
we quote more of the passage, as a general specimen, than
our illustration needs,)—
“Just as the sun set, they reached the well. Alroy jumped
off the horse, and would have led it to the fountain, but
the animal would not advance. It stood dreadfully shivering,
with a glassy eye, and then it bowed its head, and with a
groan fell down and died. Night brings rest—night brings
solace, rest to the weary, solace to the sad; and to the desperate,
night brings despair. The moon has sunk to early rest; but
a thousand stars are in the sky. The mighty mountains rise
severe in the clear and silent air. In the forest all is still.
The tired wind no longer roams, but has lightly dropped on
its leafy couch, and sleeps like man. Silent all but the fountain’s
drip. And by the fountain’s side a youth is lying. Suddenly
a creature steals through the black and broken rocks. Ha!
ha! the jackal smells from afar the rich corruption of the
courser’s clay. Suddenly and silently it steals, and stops,
and smells. Brave banqueting, I ween, to-night for all that
goodly company! Jackal, and fox, and marten cat, haste ye
now, ere morning’s break shall call the vulture to his feast,
and rob ye of your prey. The jackal lapped the courser’s blood,
and moaned with exquisite delight. And in a moment, a faint
bark was heard in the distance. And the jackal peeled the
flesh from one of the ribs, and again burst into a shriek
of mournful ecstasy. Hark, their quick tramp! First six, and
then three, galloping with ungodly glee. And a marten cat
came rushing down from the woods; but the jackals, fierce
in their number, drove her away; and there she stood without
the circle, panting, beautiful, and baffled, with her white
teeth and glossy skin, and sparkling eyes of rabid rage. Suddenly,
as one of the half-gorged jackals retired from the main corpse,
dragging along a stray member by some still palpitating nerves,
the marten cat made a spring at her enemy, carried off his
prey, and rushed into the woods. Her wild scream of triumph
woke a lion from his lair. His mighty form, black as ebony,
moved on a distant eminence—his tail flowed like a serpent.
He roared, and the jackals trembled, and immediately ceased
from their banquet, turning their heads in the direction of
their sovereign’s voice. He advanced—he stalked towards
them. They retired; he bent his head, examined the carcass
with condescending curiosity, and instantly quitted it with
royal disdain. The jackals again collected around their garbage.
The lion advanced to the fountain to drink. He beheld a man.
His mane rose—his tail was wildly agitated—he
bent over the sleeping prince—he uttered an awful roar,
which woke Alroy. He awoke; his gaze met the flaming eyes
of the enormous beast fixed upon him with a blending feeling
of desire and surprise. He awoke, and from a swoon: but the
dreamless trance had refreshed the exhausted energies of the
desolate wanderer; in an instant he collected his senses,
remembered all that had past, and comprehended his present
situation. He returned the lion a glance as imperious, and
fierce, and scrutinising as his own. For a moment their flashing
orbs vied in regal rivalry; but at length the spirit of the
mere animal yielded to the genius of the man. The lion cowed,
slunk away, stalked with haughty timidity through the rocks,
and then sprang into the forest.”
In the foregoing we have the faults and the better qualities
of the work pretty fairly balanced,—good ideas, bad
epithets, true pictures, want of taste, and poetical images
and something of philosophical reflection, marred by juxtaposition
with monstrosities and turgid laboriousness, aiming at effect.
The horse “dreadfully shivering;” the jackals, counted
so accurately, peeling the bones, like Byron’s dogs those
of man at Corinth, and barking faintly, moaning with
exquisite delight, and shrieking with mournful ecstasy;
the cat wild screaming, and the lion roaring
till it was cowed,—do not enhance the horror
of the scene. The description is too much wrought up; and
instead of inspiring terror, is either disgusting or ridiculous.
There is another point in this writing, to which we must
express considerable objection. We allude to the very frequent
invocation of the Deity, which, though very fit for the Old
Testament, and not misplaced in Jewish history, revolts the
mind by repetition in a fiction like this. Alroy, on reaching
the cave of Jabaster, exclaims,—
“‘God of Israel, lo, I kneel before thee! Here, in the solitude
of wildest nature, my only witness here this holy man, I kneel
and vow. Lord! I will do thy bidding. I am young, I am very
young, O God, and weak; but thou, Lord, art all-powerful.
What God is like to thee! Doubt not my courage, Lord, and
fill me with thy spirit; but remember, remember her, O Lord,
remember Miriam. It is the only worldly thought I have, and
it is pure.”
We have many pages of similar ejaculation; of which we say
no more, (except that the ill effect is heightened by often
alternating with sportive passages, which do not well accord
with even the more serious parts); but pass to a curious notice
of an Arab custom, where the hero is taken under the protection
of a robber.
“Scherirah unsheathed his dagger, punctured his arm, and,
throwing away the weapon, offered the bleeding member to Alroy.
The prince of the captivity touched the open vein with his
lips. ‘My troth is pledged,’ said the bandit; ‘I can never
betray him in whose veins my own blood is flowing.’ So saying,
he led Alroy to his carpet.”
Having brought forward this favourable trait, we shall proceed
to two or three other samples to match. Alroy drops down exhausted,
to perish in the desert.
“The sun became blood-red, the sky darker, the sand rose
in fierce eddies, the moaning wind burst into shrieks, and
respired a more ardent and still more malignant breath. The
pilgrim could no longer sustain himself. Faith, courage, devotion,
deserted him with his failing energies. He strove no longer
with his destiny, he delivered himself up to despair and death.
He fell upon one knee with drooping head, supporting himself
by one quivering hand, and then, full of the anguish of baffled
purposes and lost affections, raising his face and arm to
heaven, thus to the elements he poured his passionate farewell:—‘O
life, once vainly deemed a gloomy toil, I feel thy sweetness
now; farewell, O life, farewell my high resolves and proud
conviction of almighty fame. My days, my short unprofitable
days, melt into the past; and death, with which I struggle,
horrible death! arrests me in this wilderness. O my sister,
could thy voice, thy sweet, sweet voice, but murmur in my
ear one single sigh of love; could thine eye with its soft
radiance but an instant blend with my dim fading vision, the
pang were nothing. Farewell, Miriam! my heart is with thee
by thy fountain’s side. Fatal blast, bear her my dying words,
my blessing. And ye, too, friends, whose too neglected love
I think of now, farewell! Farewell, my uncle; farewell, pleasant
home, and Hamadan’s serene and shadowy bowers! Farewell, Jabaster,
and the mighty lore of which thou were the priest and I the
pupil! Thy talisman throbs on my faithful heart. Green earth
and golden sun, and all the beautiful and glorious sights
ye fondly lavish on unthinking man, farewell, farewell! I
die in the desert,—’tis bitter. No more, oh! never more,
for me the hopeful day shall break, and its fresh breeze rise
on its cheering wings of health and joy. Heaven and earth,
water and air, my chosen country, and my antique creed, farewell,
farewell! And thou, too, city of my soul, I cannot name thee,
unseen Jerusalem.”
With the trifling exception of the allusion to Byron’s verse,
and the disagreeable word “antique,” (which the author is
fond of using for its superior synonyme, ancient,) there is
much of force and tenderness in this farewell to fading life;
and a hundred pages on, we fall in with an equally pleasing
quotation, though of a more playful cast—it relates
to a meeting in the temple of Jerusalem.
“‘It is written,’ said the Rabbi, ‘ ‘thou shalt have none
other God but me.’ Now, know ye what our father Abraham said
when Nimrod ordered him to worship fire? ‘Why not water,’
answered Abraham, ‘which can put out fire? why not the clouds,
which can pour forth water? why not the winds, which can produce
clouds? why not God, which can create winds?’’ A murmur of
approbation sounded throughout the congregation. ‘Eliezer,’
said Zimri, addressing himself to a young Rabbi, ‘it is written
that he took a rib from Adam when he was asleep. Is God then
a robber?’ The young Rabbi looked puzzled, and cast his eyes
on the ground. The congregation was very perplexed, and a
little alarmed. ‘Is there no answer?’ said Zimri. ‘Rabbi,’
said a stranger, a tall, swarthy African pilgrim, standing
in a corner, and enveloped in a red mantle, over which a lamp
threw a flickering light; ‘Rabbi, some robbers broke into
my house last night, and stole an earthen pipkin, but they
left a golden vase in its stead.’ ‘It is well said, it is
well said,’ exclaimed the congregation. The applause was loud.
‘Learned Zimri,’ continued the African, ‘it is written in
the Gemara, that there was a youth in Jerusalem who fell in
love with a beautiful damsel, and she scorned him. And the
youth was so stricken with his passion that he could not speak;
but when he beheld her, he looked at her imploringly, and
she laughed. And one day the youth, not knowing what to do
with himself, went out into the desert; and towards night
he returned home, but the gates of the city were shut. And
he went down into the valley of Jehosaphat, and entered the
tomb of Absalom, and slept; and he dreamed a dream: and next
morning he came into the city smiling. And the maiden met
him, and she said, ‘Is that thou; art thou a laugher?’ And
he answered, ‘Behold, yesterday, being disconsolate, I went
out of the city into the desert, and I returned home, and
the gates of the city were shut, and I went down into the
valley of Jehosaphat, and I entered the tomb of Absalom; and
I slept, and I dreamed a dream, and ever since then I have
laughed.’ And the damsel said, ‘Tell me thy dream.’ And he
answered and said, ‘I may not tell my dream only to my wife,
for it regards her honour.’ And the maiden grew sad and curious,
and said, ‘I am thy wife, tell me thy dream.’ And straightforth
they went and were married, and ever after they both laughed.’
Now, learned Zimri, what means this tale, an idle jest for
a master of the law, yet it is written by the greatest doctor
of the captivity?’ ‘It passeth my comprehension,’ said the
chief Rabbi. Rabbi Eliezer was silent; the congregation groaned.”
We must add another bit: It is an effort in the supernatural,—the
colloquy of two spirits overheard by Alroy in the tombs at
Jerusalem.
“After some hours he woke. He fancied that he had been wakened
by the sound of voices. The chamber was not quite dark. A
straggling moonbeam fought its way through an open fret-work
pattern in the top of the tomb, and just revealed the dim
interior. Suddenly a voice spoke—a strange and singular
voice. ‘Brother, brother, the sounds of the night begin.’
Another voice answered, ‘Brother, brother, I hear them, too.’
‘The woman in labour!’ ‘The thief at his craft!’ ‘The sentinel’s
challenge!’ ‘The murderer’s step!’ ‘Oh! the merry sounds of
the night!’ ‘Brother, brother, let us come forth and wander
about the world.’ ‘We have seen all things. I’ll lie here
and listen to the baying hound. ’Tis music for a tomb.’ ‘Choice
and rare! You are idle. I like to sport in the starry air.
Our hours are few, they should be fair.’ ‘What shall we see,
heaven or earth?’ ‘Hell for me, ’tis more amusing.’ ‘As for
me, I am sick of Hades.’ ‘Let us visit Solomon!’ ‘In his unknown
metropolis?’ ‘That will be rare.’ ‘But where, oh! where?’
‘Even a spirit cannot tell. But they say, but they say—I
dare not whisper what they say.’ ‘Who told you?’ ‘No one.
I overheard an Afrite whispering to a female Ghoul he wanted
to seduce.’ ‘Hah, hah! hah, hah! choice pair, choice pair!
We are more etherial.’ ‘She was a beauty in her way. Her eyes
were luminous, though somewhat dank, and her cheek tinged
with carnation caught from infant blood.’ ‘Oh! gay, oh! gay;
what said they?’ ‘He was a deserter without leave from Solomon’s
bodyguard. The trull wriggled the secret out.’ ‘Tell me, kind
brother.’ ‘I’ll show, not tell.’ ‘I pr’ythee tell me.’ ‘Well,
then, well. In Genthesma’s gloomy cave there is a river none
has reached, and you must sail, and you must sail—Brother!’
‘Ay.’ ‘Methinks I smell something too earthly.’ ‘What’s that?’
‘The breath of man.’ ‘Scent more fatal than the morning air!
Away, away!’”
This appears to our humble apprehension to be wild nonsense;
but we have done. The “Caliph Vathek,” the “Epicurean,” “Beckford,”
“Moore,” and still more perhaps Chateaubriand,*
have not, it is evident, been unread by the author; from whom,
not to part in displeasure, we conclude with taking a glass
of forbidden wine, and chanting a stave, as sung by a robber
in Volume II.
“Drink, drink, deeply drink,
Never
feel, and never think.
What’s love? what’s fame? a sigh, a smile,
Friendship
but a hollow wile.
If
you’ve any thought or woe,
Drown them in the goblet’s flow.
Yes! dash them in this brimming cup,
Dash them in, and drink them up.
Drink,
drink, deeply drink,
Never
feel, and never think.”
The last half of the third volume is filled with a separate
and contrast tale, called the “Rise of Iskander;” but we have
no room to speak of it to-day. On the whole, its precursor
has disappointed us:—in it we cannot but think that
the author has mistaken his course, and fantastically wasted
his genius.
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