Papers Past | Newspapers | Otago Witness | 10 May 1873 (2025)

REVIEW.

Hanoi/ and Amohla : A South Sea Dream! By Alfred Domett. , New Zealand literature is bidding fair to make ib 3 mark in the Republic of letters. We can lay our hands on three ■ books closely connected with this Colony, each of which is of the highest order of merit in its own particular line.. First comes the unapproachable Pakeh'a Maori 'with his "Old New Zealand/ 3 What writer has ever described' with more exquisite irony, truer humour,, or 'in ore complete happiness, the effect 'prtiduced upon a cultivated man by a long familiarity with savages 1 How different from the Exeter Hall view, and yet how iiifinitely more fortunate for the Maoris, if they had been treated in jhiA "big brother" fashion, ' instead of being alternately ' petted and robbed, as missionaries or traders happened to be in the ascendant. If. is a book of singular value, for it describes- a phase of life which is even now impossible, arid gives us, as perhaps no other book, an insight into the undeveloped man whom we, in interests of civilisation, and the plenitude of our wisdom, ate replacing by the degenerate man, driving out Maorisy that the land may be repeopled with larrikins, and various modifications of the London rough, and the other varieties of the savage of civilisation. Then, again, that amazing satiric fiction — the finest,'" in our opinion* of all its ] species' since Swift wrote of the deathless Gulliver — ' 'Erewhon," bears nofainttraces of a New Zealand origin. Its opening scenes, laid in one of the higher runs of what can only be Canterbury, stamp it our own. Tried by a hard standard, by comparison with Lord Lytton's " Coming Race " — a Work of infinite imagination and ability, which deals with very similar matter, and is cast in a not dissimilar mould—" Erewhon" comes out moi o than victoriously. There is a detachment from English superstition, ' combined ■ with a thorough understanding of them, which is perhaps only possible to an Englishbred colonist. There is a charming appreciation of missionary effort, and a rich enjoyment of the hazy notions which those who have never been brought into actual contact with the noble savage entertain of the process needful to convert him into a professing Protestant Christian — that probably is impossible ' to those who only know the heathen through Exeter Hall. The exquisitely simple proposal for making the "best of both worlds," by combining missionary enterprise with an armed expedition to supply moral and religious Queerislanders with cheap labour, on condition of their converting the cheap labour to a saving knowledge of Gospel truths, is in the very best style of Swift. And now we come to Mr Domett's magnum opus. It is far more ambitious than those to which we have alluded, and our praise of much that is of extraordinary beauty must be balanced by the qualification that it would have been well for the author if quite half of it had been suppressed. This much, however, it is only fair to say, that a judicious use of the scissors might have made, and might still make, " Ranolf and Amohia " One of the most important poems of the century. When Mr Domett describes men, nature, action, he writes with admirable vigour and truth. But when he strays into the fields of metaphysics, he is — well ! he is like any other poet wh6 may chance to get into uncongenial fields. Metaphysicians, Kant, Hegel, and the rest, may be exceedingly meritorious persons, but a digest or review of tfieir works in rhyme, when executed by a master as able as Mr Domett, is reading to , set the teeth on edge, and to promote profane swearing. Their disquisitions are like the famous, but anonymous, town of Horace, quod versu dicere non est. Never was there a more signal proof of this than given by Mr Domett himself. Full of nerve and melody when he describes a gale, a shipwreck, a Maori chief, or the greatest of British seamen he loses his vigour and his tunefulness alike whenhe descends into the cave of philosophy, and like a greater than himself, even his friend Browning, finds that " silk purses cannot be made out of sows' ears." That philosophy can be •taught by poets ; thati's highest problems may be proposed to mankind, perhaps, by theirs more efficiently than by any other process, the examples of Lucretius, Dante, Milton, and Shakespear forbid us to doubt. But these questions must be suggested, mooted, embodied, ' not discussed. To take' an analogous case in illustration — some of the hymns of the Latin Church, and some, very few, of the religious poems of English Protestants, enable one to realise certain abstract theological conceptions with a vigour and a clearness that tones of theological controversy can only diminish ; bnt these happy efforts of 'pious genius are not controversial. So Lucretius, and Shakespear in Hamlet, leave upon the mind a clearer conception of certain philosophical problems than the greatest writers of philosophy can impart ; but it is by a

happy power of presenting the abstract in the concrete, and not by criticism or discussion set to music more or less harsh and crabbed. This is what Mr Domett has failed to see, and the consequence is that his pages upon pages of metrical discussion, and disquisition, and criticism will disgust many a reader whom the vigour, picturesque effects, and music of his best passages should have attracted, and will justify many a carping critic whom wise excision might have set at nought. • ■ One more cavil and we have done, and will at once proceed to introduce our readers to some- at least of the beauties which are so thickly scattered over the 488 pages of Mr Domett's volume. We have spoken of his vigour in the description of action and scenery. There is but one exception, and unfortunately this is the opening scene, wherein a large pig immolates himself to sounding verse on Mr Domett's spear, set in rest against a'"rata" stump. Now^ we have assisted, ' as the French say, at the last scene of several wild pigs, but the conduct of this particular pig beats them all. We do not deny that boars may die to sweet music. Is there not the boar of Calydon ? But Mr Domett's boar is just one of our familiar pigs, which are paid for every day at per tail. He does, indeed, kill a gallant hound, but, alas, that only lets us in for a disquisition on the immortality of animals, and, besides, forces on us the question how the hero, who' had been only a few days in the Colony, bad managed to be in possession of a pig dog, so well trained in the sylvan warfare of New Zealand, and so entirely devoted to the master he can only have known a few days. If our experience may be trusted, it takes some time to get to love a pig dog, and even more to make a pig dog love his master. Homer knew more of dogs than this. Then, under guise of recounting the mental history of his hero, Mr Domett proceeds to his terrible catalogue of the philosophies. It is true that the second book of the "Iliad" is also a dreary catalogue ;' but in ships one Can take some interest, over rhymed metaphysics who can be enthusiastic ? Barring a few pictures of scenery, and the very charming introduction of the heroine, the early cantos are wholly barren. Many of the flippant, unkindly criticisms which have appeared are accounted for, perhaps excused, by the sterile desert that encounters you at the entrance of tho promised land. But as even Mr Donu-tt exclaims, at the conclusion of his criticisms on "isms," " enough of this."' Take as a specimen of Mr Domett in. his happier mood the very first passage that meets us, when once we get clear of the "boar — shall we write it "bore?" — and' tlie schools. Can anything be more fresh, picturesque, breezy, healthy, than this 1 A noble sport, and my delight, That reefing topsails ! just to make all right, Ere the wind freshens to a gale at night. See ! clambering nimbly up the shrouds, Go, thick as bees, the sailor crowds ; The smartest for the post of honour vie, That weather yard-arm pointing to the sky : They gather at the topmast head, And dark against the darkling cloud, Sidling along the foot-ropes spread ; Dim figures o'er the yard-arm bowed, How, with the furious sail, a glorious sight, Up in the darkness of the sky they fight ! While by the fierce encounter troubled, The heavy pitching of the ship is doubled ; The big sail s swelling, surging volumes full Of wind, the strong reef tackle half restrains ; And like some lasso-tangled bull, Checked in hia mad career of savage might O'er far La Plata's plains, It raves, and tugs, and plunges to get free, And flaps and bellows ia its agony ! But slowly yielding to its scare.-seen foes, Faint and more faint its frenzied struggling grows ; Till by its frantic lage at length Exhausted, like that desert ranger's strength, Silent and shrill it seems to shrink and close •; Then tight compressed, the reef -points firmly tied, Down to the deck again the sailors glide ; And easier now, with calm, concentrated force, The ship bounds forward on her lightened course. — p. G9. And this again :—: — Top gallant masts and royals gone, And huddled sails, and shattered spars, And tangled tackle everywhere ; While all amazed, bur gallant tars, Stood at the sudden wreck aghast, Nor seemed to heed the swift commands The captain shouted through the blast. The heaving staysail swayed and swung, As from the strainedjib-boom it hung ; Of course, with some sharp words addresfc, To two or three, our sharpest hands, Forward I jumped to do my best. They followed quick ! The lightest, I The bowsprit's end could safest try. if We grasped the frail spar like grim death, And shut our eyes and held our breath, Clinging with tightened arms and knee?. When o'er us dashed successive seas ; And blinded, ducked, and drenched us, till* Seeing the chance of every lull To look and lash, and tug and pull, We furled the sail, and got it still. Tho' no one knew, as there we hung, How badly was the bowsprit sprung. .But when 1 lighted on the deck,

Shaking the water off, the good White-headed-master, who had stood, : He told me since, in breathless mooil (His heart was in his mouth, he said, While looking on for very dread), , Threw his old arras about my neck, i ' God bless you,' cried he, 'my dear son,' ■ T'was nobly,' beautifully done.' — p. 71. ■ , Those of our readers who are familiar with Browning will recollect that the' last glimpse of Waring^ whose prototype Mr Domett is, left him in command of a felucca in the Adriatic. There is certainly tho Sailor in him. But let . us give a sample of our poet dealing with men jan,d scenes of a more local character., Here is a Maori Chief, sketched from the life and to the life :— , Such was this Tangi — such "the Wailing ' Sea"; '■ f Of form almost gigantic he— - Bull-necked, square-jawed, firm-lipped, boldeyed, broad-browed, His looks proclaimed his character aloud : And when he stood forth, in full height and pride, In flowing vest of silky flax, undyed, But crimson-spotted with round knobs of wool, Black points of cord, alternate, hanging free; And o'er it, down to the brown ankles bare, A mantle of white wild-dog fur, well-dressed, Its skirt's broad rim tan-hued ; his snowy hair, Crowned with a jet-black arching crest Of hoopoe feathers stuck upright, Their tips a crescent of pure white ; And in his hand, to order with and smite, The greenstone baton broad of war or rule^ Green, smooth, and oval as a cactus leaf — ' Did he not look, aye every inch, a Chief ? Did not each glance and gesture stamp him then, Self-heralded, a God-made king of men ? Here we have a New Zealand landscape, one of many, sketched in with a firm and true hand :: — • In sunshine stretching lightly o'er The lake's far end from shore to shore, , Long strips of gauze, like awning, lay In stripes serene, and white as they, Repeated on its bright blue floor ; And many a rocky, rugged bluff, With crimson blossoming boscage rough, O'er beetling crest and crevice flung ; White cliff, or dark green hill afar, With patches bleached of scarp and sear — Stood boldly forward, sunrise fired, Or back in sun-filled mist retired. ■ ' Untrembling round the glistering rim Of that expanse of blooming blue, From headland bright, or inlet's brim, Long fringes of reflection hung. It's ramparts stretched along the sky, Onp mighty mountain reared on high Far .o'er the rest a level crest, With.jutting rounded parapet, And rude rock-corbels, rough beset, , Half-blurred by time, and tempest's fret; | While smooth its slope came Bweeping down' From that abraded corir.ee dowu. — p.'299.i Take, again, this for animated nature :• — The wild duck's black and tiny fleet Shot in and out their shy retreat ; Tne cormorant left his crowded tree, And stretched his tinselled neck for sea ; ' All nature's feathered favourites poured ■ To their adored, undoubted Lord | Of light and heat, .accordance sweet Of pure impassioned revelry ; And honey bivd, and mocking bird, i And he of clearest melody, The blossom-loving bell bird, ea<:h Delicious-throated devotee • In happy ignorance framed to be Content with' rapture — longing-free For life or love- they cannot reach — Like chimes rich toned, to heaven preferred The praise of their mellifluous glee ; Each lurking lyrist of the grove With all his might sang all his love. — p. 301. One special meed of praise Mr Domett deserves — the consciousness of the high and poetical side of colonial life, which he never loses. Take the lines suggested by the death of his own gallant kinsman, young St George, anJ read them- side by side with his noble 'sketch of the great hero of the Southern Hemisphere, and compare both with the photograph of the Maori Chieftain, and you will know something of Mr Doaiett in his highest mood. But not in vain i No, though our. bane, , These rulers, should renounce the power For good such deaths are dared to dower Their weakness with ; though they the same; New conquests' should alike disclaim, ■ And old assured dominion — nay, Should fling away tho world's wide lands For ends that own 1 God's, clear commands Entrusted to .their trembling hands. Birthright ~of England's swarming sons, Won by her,mighty deathless dead; Her heroes'- blood like ivater shed! But let such soulless puppet-play ; Of rabble-rid mock rule endure ; SucJi crawling creeds thy counsels swny Unchecked, unchanged. Oh ! then, be sure England, my country, nought avails • Thy wealth, thy commerce. Ho who runs May read Upon thy whited wall ' • The 'Mene, TekeV of thy fall! : ■ Then, hide thy head for shame, then say, - And sigh,' thy soaring sun has past , '- , Its zenith. Own thyself at last, Weighed in the fitting p-ader-scales, . ' Found wanting ; then, confess thy day \ Of greatness done— thy glory, gone ; ' Thy peddling kingdom passed away. — p. 370. Kb wonder that he who can appreciate the greatness of our past heroes, as the

Kb wonder that he who can appreciate the greatness of our past heroes, as the

following extract shows, thus eloquently laments our passing greatness :—: — That keen searcher of the seas, Whose tempest-battling, never-baffled keel, Left half our planet little to reveal ; But restless roaming everywhere, Zigzagged the vast Pacific as he prest With god-like patience his benignant quest j, True hero god, who realised the notion Its races feign of mythic Maui still, And plucked up with a giant might of will A hundred islands from oblivion's ocean ; Sea-king and sage— staunch huntsman of pure fame, Beating the waste of waters for his game, Untrodden shores, or tribes without a name ; That nothing in an island's shape, Mist-muffled peak or faint cloud-cape, Might his determined thoughtful glance escape ; No virgin lands be left unknown, Where future Englands might be sown, And nations noble as his own. We have not space to quote even one of the many lovely songs with which the volume is richly strewn, but we trust we have said enough to send some readers tothe original. . As Milton preferred what of his work 3no one would r<-ad, to those that, held men breathless with awe and wonder, so no doubt Mr Domett will pity the taste which prefers his pictures of nature and life to his metaphysical controveifeies. Be it so. In him we recognise a true' and noble poet, and rejoice that our good fortune has associated him with this Colony. We only wish he had taken time to prune his exuberance, and the good advice which would, we are convinced, have excised his philosophy. .With that philosophy in itself — though we cannot accept it— we should not quarrel if it were presented by itself. But for a work of art, the first requisite is i to get well rid of the controversial element ; and mankind do not as yet accept an optimistic pantheonism sufficiently without question to make the needful, acquiescence possible. To this and the terribly weak opening, we attribute much of the carping of reviews ; tothe Philistinism which asks whether any thing, good can possibl3 r come from tho Colonies, we set down the rest. - mediocribus essepoetis, Non di, non homines, non concessere columnar Yet there are divers ways of attaining mediocrity. Yon may supply homogeneous "seconds," or wheat mingled with chaff. If, Mr' Domett fall under the critic's doom, it is not for want of wheat, but for excess of chaff, and the absence of the winnowing fan. His singing robes are not conspicuous for "purple patches;"" they are rather of Tyrian purple patched with sorry fustian. His defect is want of humour. He cannot see himself a* others • see him. Wit, keen intellect, above all poetic insight he has, witk the gift of expressing what he seesHe loves all that is beautiful in naturearid noble in man, and can detect these under many a disguise that would baffle a poetaster, but he lacks the faculty thatinstinctively rejects the superfluous, thewearisome, the unpoeticaL So did Wordsworth, and so does Browning. Therefore they will be forgotten and unread, when men of a tithe of their poetic faculty are living in the mouths of men. Ne quid nimis should' be the first and the last prayer of the poet ; for is it not his part to speak- to the mads of mankind P stupid, uncultivated, and wearied with, their daily toil ? A sharp pair of scissors and a cynical friend would even yet give Mr Dometta high place among the greatest; of mankind, our English poets.