"Dear me," said I, with apprehension, "what is the matter with it?"
"0," said he, "melodramatic, melodramatic - terribly so!"
I was so appalled by this word, of whose meaning I had not a very
clear idea, that I dropped the defence at once, and determined to
reconsider my tears. To have been actually made to cry by a thing that
was melodramatic, was a distressing consideration. Seriously, however,
on reconsidering the objection, I see no sense in it. A thing may be
melodramatic, or any other _atic_ that a man pleases; so that it
be strongly suggestive, poetic, pathetic, it has a right to its own
peculiar place in the world of art. If artists had had their way in
the creation of this world, there would have been only two or three
kinds of things in it; the first three or four things that God created
would have been enacted into fixed rules for making all the rest.
But they let the works of nature alone, because they know there is no
hope for them, and content themselves with enacting rules in
literature and art, which make all the perfection and grace of the
past so many impassable barriers to progress in future. Because the
ancients kept to unity of idea in their groups, and attained to most
beautiful results by doing so, shall no modern make an antithesis in
marble? And why has not a man a right to dramatize in marble as well
as on canvas, if he can produce a powerful and effective result by so
doing? And even if by being melodramatic, as the terrible word is, he
can shadow forth a grand and comforting religious idea - if he can
unveil to those who have seen only the desolation of death, its glory,
and its triumph - who shall say that he may not do so because he
violates the lines of some old Greek artist? Where would Shakspeare's
dramas have been, had he studied the old dramatic unities?
So, you see, like an obstinate republican, as I am, I defend my right
to have my own opinion about this monument, albeit the guide book,
with its usual diplomatic caution, says, "It is in very questionable
taste."
We went for our dinner to the White Hart, the very inn which
Shakspeare celebrates in his Merry Wives, and had a most overflowing,
merry time of it. The fact is, we had not seen each other for so long
that to be in each other's company for a whole day was quite a
stimulant.
After dinner we had a beautiful drive, passing the colleges at Eton,
and seeing the boys out playing cricket; had an excellent opportunity
to think how true Gray's poem on the Prospect of Eton is to boy-nature
then, now, and forever. We were bent upon looking up the church which
gave rise to his Elegy in a Country Churchyard, intending, when we got
there, to have a little scene over it; Mr. S., in all the conscious
importance of having been there before, assuring us that he knew
exactly where it was. So, after some difficulty with our coachman, and
being stopped at one church which would not answer our purpose in any
respect, we were at last set down by one which looked authentic;
embowered in mossy elms, with a most ancient and goblin yew tree, an
ivy-mantled tower, all perfect as could be.
There had been a sprinkle of rain, - an ornament which few English days
want, - and the westering beams of the sun twinkled through innumerable
drops. In fact, it was a pretty place; and I felt such "dispositions
to melancholies," as Sir Hugh Evans would have it, that I half
resented Mr. S.'s suggestion that the cars were waiting. However, as
he was engaged to speak at a peace meeting in London, it was agreed he
should leave us there to stroll, while he took the cars. So away he
went; and we, leaning on the old fence, repeated the Elegy, which
certainly applies here as beautifully as language could apply.
What a calm, shady, poetical nature is expressed in these lines! Gray
seems to have been sent into the world for nothing but to be a poem,
like some of those fabulous, shadowy beings which haunted the cool
grottoes on Grecian mountains; creatures that seem to have no
practical vitality - to be only a kind of voice, an echo, heard for a
little, and then lost in silence. He seemed to be in himself a kind of
elegy.
From thence we strolled along, enjoying the beautiful rural scenery.
Having had a kind invitation to visit Labouchere Park that day, which
we were obliged to decline for want of time, we were pleased to
discover that we had two more hours, in which we could easily
accomplish a stroll there. By a most singular infelicity, our party
became separated; and, misunderstanding each other, we remained
waiting for W. till it was too late for us to go, while he, on the
other hand, supposing us to have walked before him, was redoubling his
speed all the while, hoping to overtake us. In consequence of this, he
accomplished the walk to Labouchere Park, and we waited in the dismal
depot till it was too late to wait any longer, and finally went into
London without him.
After all, imagine our chagrin on being informed that we had not been
to the genuine churchyard. The gentleman who wept over the scenes of
his early days on the wrong doorstep was not more grievously
disappointed. However, he and we could both console ourselves with the
reflection that the emotion was admirable, and wanted only the right
place to make it the most appropriate in the world. The genuine
country churchyard, however, was that at Stoke Pogis, which we should
have seen had not the fates forbidden our going to Labouchere Park.
LETTER XXIII.
DEAR SISTER:
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