The story of The Giaour could hardly be comprehended by human ingenuity, if it did not turn on circumstances the most commonplace, as we are only presented with unconnected fragments from the lips of two nameless narrators, who ask a variety of questions, and whom we should be glad to question a little in our turn. Fragments of this uninteresting story are tricked out in gaudy colouring, and amidst a greater proportion of indifferent lines than are fairly admissible in so short a production, we meet occasional proofs of originality and genius. Still The Giaour ranks far below any former production of the same author. It contributes, as far as its mite goes, to injure the taste of the age, by reducing poetry merely to an amusement for a vacant hour, instead of employing it to elevate our minds, soften our hearts, and refine our pleasures. Whether these effects are produced by sentiments, by characters, by imagery, is immaterial. When they are not produced, when poetry addresses herself chiefly through the ear to the eye, she must be on the decline; and this decline works like The Giaour at once accelerate and proclaim.
Nov. 22.—How rapid is the fall of this ‘Lucifer, son of the morning,’ whose portentous splendour so long dazzled and misguided the nations of the earth. England, that citadel of the world, that guardian of civilization, the asylum of fallen royalty, of persecuted genius, and of proscribed virtue, now begins to reap the harvest of her generous toils.
Nov. 23.—Overcome to-day with joy at the intoxicating rapidity of our successes. I felt a throb of exultation and gratitude only to be tranquillized by raising one’s heart and one’s tearful eyes to Heaven. I am glad I left my retirement and am amongst a multitude on this occasion. The joy that is shared with numbers seems purified and exalted. I found Bath to-day in an effervescence of joy;—the waggoners and chimney-sweeps decorated with laurel in honour of Lord Wellington’s victories, and the hope that Holland will break her chains. It is pleasing to see the pulse of public feeling beat in the very extremities. I met Mrs. Bonnefée, the Dowager Lady Ely’s mother, also wearing her sprig of laurel—at eighty-four.
Nov. 24.—Je lis Mad. de Staël sur l’Allemagne. Il me paroit qu’un peintre d’un génie supérieur me montre les desseins qu’il a faits sur des lieux qui m’interessoient vivement, et que je ne reverrai plus. Elle donne une idée précise de cette philosophie de Kant que mon amie, la Comtesse Münster m’a tant pressée d’étudier.[51] C’est la morale du Christianisme dépourvue de l’amour, et de l’espoir, et mélée d’une espèce de stoicisme moins imposante que celui des anciens. Il est beau de voir que les recherches métaphysiques les plus sévères nous conduisent au même but moral que le Christianisme, quoique c’est par un chemin aride, loin des sources d’eau vivante—ou, dans les paroles de David, ‘dans un désert sec et stérile où l’eau ne coule pas.’
Dec. 3.—Saw the Indian Jugglers. They act on a small slightly elevated stage, surrounded by a blaze of lamps. Two are men between twenty and thirty, the other a youth of sixteen. Dressed in white, with turbans, the ease of their attitudes, and serenity of their countenances, where light and evanescent shades of melancholy and gaiety alone break the predominant expression of repose, strike a European eye as novel and pleasing. Deep thought has never contracted those brows; strong feeling has never quivered on those lips; that face is a waveless lake, sometimes gently swelling, sometimes sparkling in the sun, but never agitated with tempests, or chafing against its bounds.
In the tricks of jugglers I have small delight. I see without interest the ball under the cup, though I may have had reason to suppose it in the juggler’s hand; or the beads strung with his tongue, or the entire thread so adroitly substituted for that which has been reduced to fragments that my senses are completely deceived. I view with pain those exhibitions where skill is ever on the verge of danger; and I have a sensation of mingled disgust and horror when I see a man actually sheath in his throat a bar of steel twenty-two inches long, a quarter of an inch thick, and one broad. The prettiest part of the exhibition was a sportive manner of throwing about in all directions, with ease, grace, and skill, four bright brazen balls. It seemed like the coruscations of a firework, or as if a fallen spirit amused himself by flinging stars and meteors in the air.
All was accompanied by songs from the youngest performer, somewhat monotonous, but not unpleasing, and expressive of a sort of melancholy gaiety, if the expression may be tolerated.
TO WILLIAM LEFANU, ESQ.[52]
Dec. 15, 1813.