The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 16, No. 96, October 1865

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Gerald Massey is one of the most recent instances of the certainty with
which a poetic faculty by no means of the highest order will enforce its
own development, under seemingly fatal discouragements. The author of
"Saul" is a better illustration of the same fact; for, although, in our
ignorance of the circumstances of his early life, we are unable to
affirm what particular difficulties he had to encounter, we know how
long he was obliged to wait for the first word of recognition, and to
what heights he aspired in the course of many long and solitary years.

The existence of "Saul" was first made known to the world by an article
in the "North British Review," in the year 1858, when the author had
already attained his forty-second year. The fact that the work was
published in Montreal called some attention to it on this side of the
Atlantic, and a few critical notices appeared in our literary
periodicals. It is still, however, comparatively unknown; and those into
whose hands it may have fallen are, doubtless, ignorant of the author's
name and history. An outline of the latter, so far as we have been able
to ascertain its features, will help the reader to a more intelligent
judgment, when we come to discuss the author's claim to a place in
literature.

Charles Heavysege was born in Liverpool, England, in the year 1816. We
know nothing in regard to his parents, except that they were poor, yet
able to send their son to an ordinary school. His passion for reading,
especially such the poetry as fell into his hands, showed itself while
he was yet a child. Milton seems to have been the first author who made
a profound impression upon his mind; but it is also reported that the
schoolmaster once indignantly snatched Gray's "Elegy" from his hand,
because he so frequently selected that poem for his reading-lesson.
Somewhat later, he saw "Macbeth" performed, and was immediately seized
with the ambition to become an actor,--a profession for which few
persons could be less qualified. The impression produced by this
tragedy, combined with the strict religious training which he appears to
have received, undoubtedly fixed the character and manner of his
subsequent literary efforts.

There are but few other facts of his life which we can state with
certainty. His chances of education were evidently very scanty, for he
must have left school while yet a boy, in order to learn his
trade,--that of a machinist. He had thenceforth little time and less
opportunity for literary culture. His reading was desultory, and the
poetic faculty, expending itself on whatever subjects came to hand,
produced great quantities of manuscripts, which were destroyed almost as
soon as written. The idea of publishing them does not seem to have
presented itself to his mind. Either his life must have been devoid of
every form of intellectual sympathy, or there was some external
impediment formidable enough to keep down that ambition which always
co-exists with the creative power.

In the year 1843 he married, and in 1853 emigrated to Canada, and
settled in Montreal. Even here his literary labor was at first performed
in secrecy; he was nearly forty years old before a line from his pen
appeared in type. He found employment in a machine-shop, and it was only
very gradually--probably after much doubt and hesitation--that he came
to the determination to subject his private creations to the ordeal of
print. His first venture was a poem in blank verse, the title of which
we have been unable to ascertain. A few copies were printed anonymously
and distributed among personal friends. It was a premature birth, which
never knew a moment's life, and the father of it would now be the last
person to attempt a resuscitation.

Soon afterwards appeared--also anonymously--a little pamphlet,
containing fifty "so-called" sonnets. They are, in reality, fragmentary
poems of fourteen lines each, bound to no metre or order of rhyme. In
spite of occasional crudities of expression, the ideas are always poetic
and elevated, and there are many vigorous couplets and quatrains. They
do not, however, furnish any evidence of sustained power, and the
reader, who should peruse them as the only productions of the author,
would be far from inferring the latter's possession of that lofty epical
utterance which he exhibits in "Saul" and "Jephthah's Daughter."

We cannot learn that this second attempt to obtain a hearing was
successful, so far as any public notice of the pamphlet is concerned;
but it seems, at least, to have procured for Mr. Heavysege the first
private recognition of his poetic abilities which he had ever received,
and thereby given him courage for a more ambitious venture. "Saul," as
an epical subject, must have haunted his mind for years. The greater
portion of it, indeed, had been written before he had become familiar
with the idea of publication; and even after the completion of the work,
we can imagine the sacrifices which must have delayed its appearance in
print. For a hard-working mechanic, in straitened circumstances, courage
of another kind was required. It is no slight expense to produce an
octavo volume of three hundred and thirty pages; there must have been
much anxious self-consultation, a great call for patience, fortitude,
and hope, with who may know what doubts and despondencies, before, in
1857 "Saul" was given to the world.

Nothing could have been more depressing than its reception, if, indeed,
the term "reception" can be applied to complete indifference. A country
like Canada, possessing no nationality, and looking across the Atlantic,
not only for its political rule, but also (until very recently, at
least) for its opinions, tastes, and habits, is especially unfavorable
to the growth of an independent literature. Although there are many men
of learning and culture among the residents of Montreal, they do not
form a class to whom a native author could look for encouragement or
appreciation sufficient to stamp him as successful. The reading public
there accept the decrees of England and the United States, and they did
not detect the merits of "Saul," until the discovery had first been made
in those countries.

Several months had elapsed since the publication of the volume; it
seemed to be already forgotten, when the notice to which we have
referred appeared in the "North British Review." The author had sent a
copy to Mr. Hawthorne, then residing in Liverpool, and that gentleman,
being on friendly terms with some of the writers for the "North
British," procured the insertion of an appreciative review of the poem.
Up to that time, we believe, no favorable notice of the work had
appeared in Canada. The little circulation it obtained was chiefly among
the American residents. A few copies found their way across the border,
and some of our authors (among whom we may mention Mr. Emerson and Mr.
Longfellow) were the first to recognize the genius of the poet. With
this double indorsement, his fellow-townsmen hastened to make amends for
their neglect. They could not be expected to give any very enthusiastic
welcome, nor was their patronage extensive enough to confer more than
moderate success; but the remaining copies of the first small edition
were sold, and a second edition--which has not yet been
exhausted--issued in 1859.

In February, 1860, we happened to visit Montreal. At that time we had
never read the poem, and the bare fact of its existence had almost faded
from memory, when it was recalled by an American resident who was
acquainted with Mr. Heavysege, and whose account of his patience, his
quiet energy, and serene faith in his poetic calling strongly interested
us. It was but a few hours before our departure; there was a furious
snow-storm; yet the gentleman ordered a sleigh, and we drove at once to
a large machine-shop, in the outskirts of the city. Here, amid the noise
of hammers, saws, and rasps, in a great grimy hall smelling of oil and
iron-dust, we found the poet at his work-bench. A small, slender man,
with a thin, sensitive face, bright blonde hair, and eyes of that
peculiar blue which burns warm, instead of cold, under excitement,--in
the few minutes of our interview the picture was fixed, and remains so.
His manner was quiet, natural, and unassuming: he received us with the
simple good-breeding which a gentleman always possesses, whether we find
him on a throne or beside an anvil. Not a man to assert his claim
loudly, or to notice injustice or neglect by a single spoken word; but
one to take quietly success or failure, in the serenity of a mood
habitually untouched by either extreme.

In that one brief first and last interview, we discovered, at least, the
simple, earnest sincerity of the man's nature,--a quality too rare, even
among authors. When we took our seat in the train for Rouse's Point, we
opened the volume of "Saul." The first part was finished as we
approached St. Albans; the second at Vergennes; and twilight was falling
as we closed the book between Bennington and Troy. Whatever crudities of
expression, inaccuracies of rhythm, faults of arrangement, and
violations of dramatic law met us from time to time, the earnest purpose
of the writer carried us over them all. The book has a fine flavor of
the Elizabethan age,--a sustained epic rather than dramatic character,
an affluence of quaint, original images; yet the construction was
frequently that of a school-boy. In opulence and maturity of ideas, and
poverty of artistic skill, the work stands almost alone in literature.
What little we have learned of the history of the author suggests an
explanation of this peculiarity. Never was so much genuine power so long
silent.

"Saul" is yet so little known, that a descriptive outline of the poem
will be a twice-told tale to very few readers of the "Atlantic." The
author strictly follows the history of the renowned Hebrew king, as it
is related in I Samuel, commencing with the tenth chapter, but divides
the subject into three dramas, after the manner of Schiller's
"Wallenstein." The first part embraces the history of Saul, from his
anointing by Samuel at Ramah to David's exorcism of the evil spirit,
(xvi. 23,) and contains five acts. The second part opens with David as a
guest in the palace at Gibeah. The defeat of the Philistines at Elah,
Saul's jealousy of David, and the latter's marriage with Michal form the
staple of the _four_ acts of this part. The third part consists of _six_
acts of unusual length, (some of them have thirteen scenes,) and is
devoted to the pursuits and escapes of David, the Witch of Endor, and
the final battle, wherein the king and his three sons are slain. No
liberties have been taken with the order of the Scripture narrative,
although a few subordinate characters have here and there been
introduced to complete the action. The author seems either to lack the
inventive faculty, or to have feared modifying the sacred record for the
purposes of Art. In fact, no considerable modification was necessary.
The simple narrative fulfils almost all the requirements of dramatic
writing, in its succession of striking situations, and its cumulative
interest. From beginning to end, however, Mr. Heavysege makes no attempt
to produce a dramatic effect. It is true that he has availed himself of
the phrase "an evil spirit from the Lord," to introduce a demoniac
element, but, singularly enough, the demons seem to appear and to act
unwillingly, and manifest great relief when they are allowed to retire
from the stage.

The work, therefore, cannot be measured by dramatic laws. It is an epic
in dialogue; its chief charm lies in the march of the story and the
detached individual monologues, rather than in contrast of characters or
exciting situations. The sense of proportion--the latest developed
quality of the poetic mind--is dimly manifested. The structure of the
verse, sometimes so stately and majestic, is frequently disfigured by
the commonest faults; yet the breath of a lofty purpose has been
breathed upon every page. The personality of the author never pierces
through his theme. The language is fresh, racy, vigorous, and utterly
free from the impress of modern masters: much of it might have been
written by a contemporary of Shakspeare.

In the opening of the first part, Saul, recently anointed king, receives
the messengers of Jabesh Gilead, and promises succor. A messenger
says,--

"The winds of heaven,
Behind thee blow: and on our enemies' eyes
May the sun smite to-morrow, and blind them for thee!
But, O Saul, do not fail us.

"_Saul._ Fail ye
Let the morn fail to break; I will not break
My word. Haste, or I'm there before you. Fail?
Let the morn fail the east; I'll not fail you,
But, swift and silent as the streaming wind,
Unseen approach, then, gathering up my force
At dawning, sweep on Ammon, as Night's blast
Sweeps down the Carmel on the dusky sea."

This is a fine picture of Saul steeling his nature to cruelty, when be
has reluctantly resolved to obey Samuel's command "to trample out the
living fire of Amalek":--

"Now let me tighten every cruel sinew,
And gird the whole up in unfeeling hardness,
That my swollen heart, which bleeds within me tears,
May choke itself to stillness. I am as
A shivering bather, that, upon the shore,
Looking and shrinking from the cold, black waves,
Quick starting from his reverie, with a rush
Abbreviates his horror."

And this of the satisfied lust of blood, uttered by a Hebrew soldier,
after the slaughter:--

"When I was killing, such thoughts came to me, like
The sound of cleft-dropped waters to the ear
Of the hot mower, who thereat stops the oftener
To whet his glittering scythe, and, while he smiles,
With the harsh, sharpening hone beats their fall's time,
And dancing to it in his heart's straight chamber,
Forgets that he is weary."

After the execution of Agag by the hand of Samuel, the demons are
introduced with more propriety than in the opening of the poem. The
following passage has a subtle, sombre grandeur of its own:--

"_First Demon._ Now let us down to hell: we've seen the last.

"_Second Demon._ Stay; for the road thereto is yet incumbered
With the descending spectres of the killed.
_'Tis said they choke hell's gates, and stretch from thence
Out like a tongue upon the silent gulf_;
Wherein our spirits--even as terrestrial ships
That are detained by foul winds in an offing--
Linger perforce, _and feel broad gusts of sighs
That swing them on the dark and billowless waste_,
O'er which come sounds more dismal than the boom,
At midnight, of the salt flood's foaming surf,--
Even dead Amalek's moan and lamentation."

The reader will detect the rhythmical faults of the poem, even in these
passages. But there is a vast difference between such blemishes of the
unrhymed heroic measure as terminating a line with "and," "of," or
"but," or inattention to the caesural pauses, and that mathematical
precision of foot and accent, which, after all, can scarcely be
distinguished from prose. Whatever may be his shortcomings, Mr.
Heavysege speaks in the dialect of poetry. Only rarely he drops into
bald prose, as in these lines:--

"But let us go abroad, and in the twilight's
Cool, tranquillizing air discuss this matter."

We remember, however, that Wordsworth wrote,--

"A band of officers
Then stationed in the city were among the chief
Of my associates."

We had marked many other fine passages of "Saul" for quotation, but must
be content with a few of those which are most readily separated from the
context.

"Ha! ha! the foe,
Having taken from us our warlike tools, yet leave us
The little scarlet tongue to scratch and sting with."

"Here's lad's-love, and the flower which even death
Cannot unscent, the all-transcending rose."

"The loud bugle,
And the hard-rolling drum, and clashing cymbals,
Now reign the lords o' the air. These crises, David,
Bring with them their own music, as do storms
Their thunders."

"Ere the morn
Shall tint the orient with the soldier's color,
We must be at the camp."

"But come, I'll disappoint thee; for, remember,
Samuel will not be roused for thee, although
I knock with thunder at his resting-place."

The lyrical portions, of the work--introduced in connection with the
demoniac characters--are inferior to the rest. They have occasionally a
quaint, antique flavor, suggesting the diction of the Elizabethan
lyrists, but without their delicate, elusive richness of melody. Here
most we perceive the absence of that highest, ripest intellectual
culture which can be acquired only through contact and conflict with
other minds. It is not good for a poet to be alone. Even where the
constructive faculty is absent, its place may be supplied through the
development of that artistic sense which files, weighs, and
adjusts,--which reconciles the utmost freedom and force of thought with
the mechanical symmetries of language,--and which, first a fetter to the
impatient mind, becomes at length a pinion, holding it serenely poised
in the highest ether. Only the rudiment of the sense is born with the
poet, and few literary lives are fortunate enough, or of sufficiently
varied experience, to mature it.

Nevertheless, before closing the volume, we must quote what we consider
to be the author's best lyrical passage. Zaph, one of the attendants of
Malzah, the "evil spirit from the Lord," sings as follows to one of his
fellows:--

"Zepho, the sun's descended beam
Hath laid his rod on th' ocean stream,
And this o'erhanging wood-top nods
Like golden helms of drowsy gods.
Methinks that now I'll stretch for rest,
With eyelids sloping toward the west;
That, through their half transparencies,
The rosy radiance passed and strained,
Of mote and vapor duly drained,
I may believe, in hollow bliss,
My rest in the empyrean is.
Watch thou; and when up comes the moon,
Atowards her turn me; and then, boon,
Thyself compose, 'neath wavering leaves
That hang these branched, majestic eaves:
That so, with self-imposed deceit,
Both, in this halcyon retreat,
By trance possessed, imagine may
We couch in Heaven's night-argent ray."

In 1860 Mr. Heavysege published by subscription a drama entitled "Count
Filippo; or, the Unequal Marriage." This work, of which we have seen
but one critical notice, added nothing to his reputation. His genius, as
we have already remarked, is not dramatic; and there is, moreover,
internal evidence that "Count Philippo" did not grow, like "Saul," from
an idea which took forcible possession of the author's mind. The plot is
not original, the action languid, and the very names of the _dramatis
personae_ convey an impression of unreality. Though we know there never
was a Duke of Pereza in Italy, this annoys us less than that he should
bear such a fantastic name as "Tremohla"; nor does the feminine "Volina"
inspire us with much respect for the heroine. The characters are
intellectual abstractions, rather than creatures of flesh and blood; and
their love, sorrow, and remorse fail to stir our sympathies. They have
an incorrigible habit of speaking in conceits. As "Saul" is pervaded
with the spirit of the Elizabethan writers, so "Count Filippo" suggests
the artificial manner of the rivals of Dryden. It is the work of a poet,
but of a poet working from a mechanical impulse. There are very fine
single passages, but the general effect is marred by the constant
recurrence of such forced metaphors as these:--

"Now shall the he-goat, black Adultery,
With the roused ram, Retaliation, twine
Their horns in one to butt at Filippo."

"As the salamander, cast in fire,
Exudes preserving mucus, so my mind,
Cased in thick satisfaction of success,
Shall be uninjured."

The work, nevertheless, appears to have had some share in improving its
author's fortunes. From that time, he has received at least a partial
recognition in Canada. Soon after its publication, he succeeded in
procuring employment on the daily newspaper press of Montreal, which
enabled him to give up his uncongenial labor at the work-bench. The
Montreal Literary Club elected him one of its Fellows, and the
short-lived literary periodicals of the Province no longer ignored his
existence. In spite of a change of circumstances which must have given
him greater leisure as well as better opportunities of culture, he has
published but two poems in the last five years,--an Ode for the
ter-centenary anniversary of Shakspeare's birth, and the sacred idyl of
"Jephthah's Daughter." The former is a production the spirit of which is
worthy of its occasion, although, in execution, it is weakened, by an
overplus of imagery and epithet. It contains between seven and eight
hundred lines. The grand, ever-changing music of the Ode will not bear
to be prolonged beyond a certain point, as all the great Masters of Song
have discovered: the ear must not be allowed to become _quite_
accustomed to the surprises of the varying rhythm, before the closing
Alexandrine.

"Jephthah's Daughter" contains between thirteen and fourteen hundred
lines. In careful finish, in sustained sweetness and grace, and solemn
dignity of language, it is a marked advance upon any of the author's
previous works. We notice, indeed, the same technical faults as in
"Saul," but they occur less frequently, and may be altogether corrected
in a later revision of the poem. Here, also, the Scriptural narrative is
rigidly followed, and every temptation to adorn its rare simplicity
resisted. Even that lament of the Hebrew girl, behind which there seems
to lurk a romance, and which is so exquisitely paraphrased by Tennyson,
in his "Dream of Fair Women,"--

"And I went, mourning: 'No fair Hebrew boy
Shall smile away my maiden blame among
The Hebrew mothers,'"--

is barely mentioned in the words of the text. The passion of Jephthah,
the horror, the piteous pleading of his wife and daughter, and the final
submission of the latter to her doom, are elaborated with a careful and
tender hand. From the opening to the closing line, the reader is lifted
to the level of the tragic theme, and inspired, as in the Greek tragedy,
with a pity which makes lovely the element of terror. The central
sentiment of the poem, through all its touching and sorrowful changes,
is that of repose. Observe the grave harmony of the opening lines:--

"'Twas in the olden days of Israel,
When from her people rose up mighty men
To judge and to defend her: ere she knew,
Or clamored for, her coming line of kings,
A father, rashly vowing, sacrificed
His daughter on the altar of the Lord;--
'Twas in those ancient days, coeval deemed
With the song-famous and heroic ones,
When Agamemnon, taught divinely, doomed
_His_ daughter to expire at Dian's shrine,--
So doomed, to free the chivalry of Greece,
In Aulis lingering for a favoring wind
To waft them to the fated walls of Troy.
Two songs with but one burden, twin-like tales.
Sad tales! but this the sadder of the twain,--
This song, a wail more desolately wild;
More fraught this story with grim fate fulfilled."

The length to which this article has grown warns us to be sparing of
quotations, but we all the more earnestly recommend those in whom we may
have inspired some interest in the author to procure the poem for
themselves. We have perused it several times, with increasing enjoyment
of its solemn diction, its sad, monotonous music, and with the hope that
the few repairing touches, which alone are wanting to make it a perfect
work of its class, may yet be given. This passage, for example, where
Jephthah prays to be absolved from his vow, would be faultlessly
eloquent, but for the prosaic connection of the first and second
lines:--

"'Choose Tabor for thine altar: I will pile
It with the choice of Bashan's lusty herds,
And flocks of fallings, _and for fuel, thither
Will bring umbrageous Lebanon to burn_.'

* * * * *

"He said, and stood awaiting for the sign,
And heard, above the hoarse, bough-bending wind,
The hill-wolf howling on the neighboring height,
And bittern booming in the pool below.
Some drops of rain fell from the passing cloud
That sudden hides the wanly shining moon,
And from the scabbard instant dropped his sword,
And, with long, living leaps, and rock-struck clang,
From side to side, and slope to sounding slope,
In gleaming whirls swept down the dim ravine."

The finest portion of the poem is the description of that transition of
feeling, through which the maiden, warm with young life and clinging to
life for its own unfulfilled promise, becomes the resigned and composed
victim. No one but a true poet could have so conceived and represented
the situation. The narrative flows in one unbroken current, detached
parts whereof hint but imperfectly of the whole, as do goblets of water
of the stream wherefrom they are dipped. We will only venture to present
two brief passages. The daughter speaks:--

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