Lord Byron was better at emulating than at criticising Falconer's
chef-d'oeuvre
. We have already once or twice alluded to
his
Shipwreck—surely the grandest and most characteristic effort of his genius, in its demoniac force, and demoniac spirit. As we have elsewhere said, "he describes the horrors of a shipwreck, like a fiend who had, invisible, sat amid the shrouds, choked with laughter—with immeasurable glee had heard the wild farewell rising from sea to sky—had leaped into the long-boat as it put off with its pale crew—had gloated o'er the cannibal repast—had leered, unseen, into the 'dim eyes of those shipwreck'd men'—and with a loud and savage burst of derision had seen them at length sinking into the waves." The superiority of his picture over Falconer's, lies in the simplicity and strength of the style, in the ease of the narrative, in the variety of the incidents and characters, and in certain short masterly touches, now of pathos, now of infernal humour, and now of description, competent only to Byron and to Shakspeare. Such are,—
"Then shriek'd the timid and stood still the brave."
"The bubbling cry
Of some strong swimmer in his agony."
"For he, poor fellow, had a wife and children,
Two things to dying people quite bewildering,"—
and the inimitable description of the rainbow, closing with,—
"Then changed like to a bow that's bent, and then—
Forsook the dim eyes of these shipwreck'd men."
The technicalities introduced are fewer; and are handled with greater force, and made to tell more on the general effect. You marvel, too, at the versatility of the writer, who seems this moment to be looking at the scene with the eye of the melancholy Jacques; the next, with the philosophical aspect of the moralizing Hamlet; the next, with the rage of a misanthropical Timon; and the next, with the bitter sneer of a malignant Iago: and yet, who, amidst all these disguises, leaves on you the impression that he is throughout acting the part, and displaying the spirit, of a demon—a deep current of mockery at man's miseries, and at God's providence, running under all his moods and imitations. We read it once, when recovering from an illness, and shall never forget the withering horror, and the shock of disgust and loathing, which it gave to our weakened nerves.
Since Falconer's time, besides Byron, Scott, in the