'The Coming of Love' shows that independence of contemporary vogues and influences which characterizes all Mr. Watts-Dunton's work, whether in verse or prose, whether in romance or criticism, or in that a.n.a.lysis and exposition of the natural history of minds about which Sainte Beuve speaks. It was as a poet that his energies were first exercised, but this for a long time was known only to his poetical friends. His criticism came many years afterwards, and, as Rossetti used to say, 'his critical work consists of generalizations of his own experience in the poet's workshop.' For many years he was known only in his capacity as a critic. James Russell Lowell is reported to have said: 'Our ablest critics. .h.i.therto have been 18-carat; Theodore Watts goes nearer the pure article.' Mr. William Sharp, in his study of Rossetti, says: 'In every sense of the word the friendship thus begun resulted in the greatest benefit to the elder writer, the latter having greater faith in Mr.

Watts-Dunton's literary judgment than seems characteristic with so dominant and individual an intellect as that of Rossetti. Although the latter knew well the sonnet-literature of Italy and England, and was a much-practised master of the heart's key himself, I have heard him on many occasions refer to Theodore Watts as having still more thorough knowledge on the subject, and as being the most original sonnet-writer living.'

'Aylwin' and 'The Coming of Love' are vitally connected with the poet's peculiar critical message. Henry Aylwin and Percy Aylwin may be regarded as the embodiment of his philosophy of life. The very popularity of 'Aylwin' and 'The Coming of Love' is apt to make readers forget the profundity of the philosophical thought upon which they are based, although this profundity has been indicated by such competent critics as Dr. Robertson Nicoll in the 'Contemporary Review,' M. Maurice Muret in the 'Journal des Debats,' and other thoughtful writers. Upon the inner meaning of the romance and the poem I have, however, ideas of my own to express, which are not in full accordance with any previous criticisms.

To me it seems that the two cousins, Henry Aylwin of the romance, and Percy Aylwin of the poem, are phases of a modern Hamlet, a Hamlet who has travelled past the pathetic superst.i.tions of the old cosmogonies to the last milestone of doubting hope and questioning fear, a Hamlet who stands at the portals of the outer darkness, gazing with eyes made wistful by the loss of a beloved woman. In both the romance and the poem the theme is love at war with death. Mr. Watts-Dunton, in his preface to the ill.u.s.trated edition of 'Aylwin' says:-

"It is a story written as a comment on Love's warfare with death-written to show that, confronted as man is every moment by signs of the fragility and brevity of human life, the great marvel connected with him is not that his thoughts dwell frequently upon the unknown country beyond Orion, where the beloved dead are loving us still, but that he can find time and patience to think upon anything else: a story written further to show how terribly despair becomes intensified when a man has lost-or thinks he has lost-a woman whose love was the only light of his world-when his soul is torn from his body, as it were, and whisked off on the wings of the 'viewless winds' right away beyond the farthest star, till the universe hangs beneath his feet a trembling point of twinkling light, and at last even this dies away and his soul cries out for help in that utter darkness and loneliness. It was to depict this phase of human emotion that both 'Aylwin' and 'The Coming of Love' were written.

They were missives from the lonely watch-tower of the writer's soul, sent out into the strange and busy battle of the world-sent out to find, if possible, another soul or two to whom the watcher was, without knowing it, akin. In 'Aylwin' the problem is symbolized by the victory of love over sinister circ.u.mstance, whereas in the poem it is symbolized by a mystical dream of 'Natura Benigna.'

In 'The Coming of Love' Percy Aylwin is a poet and a sailor, with such an absorbing love for the sea that he has no room for any other pa.s.sion; to him an imprisoned seabird is a sufferer almost more pitiable than any imprisoned man, as will be seen by the opening section of the poem, 'Mother Carey's Chicken.' On seeing a storm-petrel in a cage on a cottage wall near Gypsy Dell, he takes down the cage in order to release the bird; then, carrying the bird in the cage, he turns to cross a rustic wooden bridge leading past Gypsy Dell, when he suddenly comes upon a landsman friend of his, a Romany Rye, who is just parting from a young gypsy-girl. Gazing at her beauty, Percy stands dazzled and forgets the petrel. It is symbolical of the inner meaning of the story that the bird now flies away through the half-open door. From that moment, through the magic of love, the land to Percy is richer than the sea: this ends the first phase of the story. The first kiss between the two lovers is thus described:-

If only in dreams may Man be fully blest, Is heaven a dream? Is she I claspt a dream?

Or stood she here even now where dew-drops gleam And miles of furze shine yellow down the West?

I seem to clasp her still-still on my breast Her bosom beats: I see the bright eyes beam.

I think she kissed these lips, for now they seem Scarce mine: so hallowed of the lips they pressed.

Yon thicket's breath-can that be eglantine?

Those birds-can they be Morning's choristers?

Can this be Earth? Can these be banks of furze?

Like burning bushes fired of G.o.d they shine!

I seem to know them, though this body of mine Pa.s.sed into spirit at the touch of hers!

Percy stays with the gypsies, and the gypsy-girl, Rhona, teaches him Romany. This arouses the jealousy of a gypsy rival-Herne the 'Scollard.'

Percy Aylwin's family afterwards succeeds in separating him from her, and he is again sent to sea. While cruising among the coral islands he receives the letter from Rhona which paints her character with unequalled vividness:-

RHONA'S LETTER

On Christmas Eve I seed in dreams the day When Herne the Scollard come and said to me, He s off, that rye o yourn, gone gentleman clean away Till swallow-time; hes left this letter: see.

In dreams I heerd the bee and gra.s.shopper, Like on that mornin, buz in Rington Hollow, Sh.e.l.l live till swallow-time and die then sh.e.l.l mer, For never will a rye come back to gentleman her Wot leaves her till the comin o the swallow.

All night I heerd them bees and gra.s.shoppers;

All night I smelt the breath o gra.s.s and may,

Mixed sweet wi' smells o honey from the furze

Like on that mornin when you went away;

All night I heerd in dreams my daddy laugh sal, Sayin, De blessed chi ud give de chollo girl-whole O Bozzles breed-tans, vardey, greis, and tents: waggons: horses all- To see dat tarno rye o hern palall back Wots left her till the comin o the swallow.

I woke and went a-walkin on the ice All white with snow-dust, just like salt sparklin loon, And soon beneath the stars I heerd a vice, A vice I knowed and often, often shoon; hear An then I seed a shape as thin as tuv; smoke I knowed it wur my blessed mammy s spirit mollo. {403a} Rhona, she sez, that tarno rye you love, He s thinkin on you; don t you go and weep rove; You ll see him at the comin o the swallow.

Sez she, For you it seemed to kill the gra.s.s When he wur gone, and freeze the songs brooklets gillies; There wornt no smell, dear, in the hay sweetest cas, And when the summer brought the water-lilies, And when the sweet winds waved the wheat golden giv, The skies above em seemed as bleak and black kollo {403b} As now, when all the world seems frozen snow yiv.

The months are long, but mammy says you ll live By thinkin o the comin o the swallow.

She sez, The whinchat soon wi silver throat Will meet the stonechat in the buddin whin, And soon the blackcaps airliest gillie song ull float From light-green boughs through leaves a-peepin thin; The wheat-ear soon ull bring the willow-wren, And then the fust fond nightingale ull follow, A-callin Come, dear, to his laggin hen Still out at sea, the spring is in our glen; Come, darlin, wi the comin o the swallow.

And she wur gone! And then I read the words In mornin twilight wot you rote to me; They made the Christmas sing with summer birds, And spring-leaves shine on every frozen tree; And when the dawnin kindled Rington spire, And curdlin winter-clouds burnt gold and red lollo Round the dear sun, wot seemed a yolk o fire, Another night, I sez, has brought him nigher; He s comin wi the comin o the swallow.

And soon the bull-pups found me on the Pool- You know the way they barks to see me slide- But when the skatin bors o Rington scool Comed on, it turned my head to see em glide.

I seemed to see you twirlin on your skates, And somethin made me clap my hans and hollo; It s him, I sez, achinnin o them 8s. cutting But when I woke-like-Im the gal wot waits Alone, I sez, the comin o the swallow.

Comin seemed ringin in the Christmas-chime; Comin seemed rit on everything I seed, In beads o frost along the nets o rime, Sparklin on every frozen rush and reed; And when the pups began to bark and play, And frisk and scrabble and bite my frock and wallow Among the snow and fling it up like spray, I says to them, You know who rote to say He s comin wi the comin o the swallow.

The thought on t makes the snow-drifts o December Shine gold, I sez, like daffodils o spring Wot wait beneath: hes comin, pups, remember; If not-for me no singin birds ull sing: No choring chiriklo ull hold the gale cuckoo Wi Cuckoo, cuckoo, {404} over hill and hollow: Therell be no crakin o the meadow-rail, Therell be no Jug-jug o the nightingale, For her wot waits the comin o the swallow.

Come back, minaw, and you may kiss your mine own han To that fine rawni rowin on the river; lady I ll never call that lady a chovihan witch Nor yit a mumply gorgie-I'll forgive miserable Gentile her.

Come back, minaw: I wur to be your wife.

Come back-or, say the word, and I will follow Your footfalls round the world: Ill leave this life (Ive flung away a-ready that ere knife)- I m dyin for the comin o the swallow.

Percy returns to England and reaches Gypsy Dell at the very moment when 'the Schollard,' maddened by the discovery that Rhona is to meet Percy that night, has drawn his knife upon the girl under the starlight by the river-bank. Percy on one side of the river witnesses the death-struggle on the other side without being able to go to Rhona's a.s.sistance. But the girl hurls her antagonist into the water, and he is drowned. There are other witnesses-the stars, whose reflected light, according to a gypsy superst.i.tion, writes in the water, just above where the drowned man sank, mysterious runes, telling the story of the deed. For a Romany woman who marries a Gorgio the penalty is death. Nevertheless, Rhona marries Percy. I will quote the sonnets describing Rhona as she wakes in the tent at dawn:-

The young light peeps through yonder trembling c.h.i.n.k The tent's mouth makes in answer to a breeze; The rooks outside are stirring in the trees Through which I see the deepening bars of pink.

I hear the earliest anvil's tingling clink From Jasper's forge; the cattle on the leas Begin to low. She's waking by degrees: Sleep's rosy fetters melt, but link by link.

What dream is hers? Her eyelids shake with tears; The fond eyes open now like flowers in dew: She sobs I know not what of pa.s.sionate fears: "You'll never leave me now? There is but you; I dreamt a voice was whispering in my ears, 'The Dukkeripen o' stars comes ever true.'"

She rises, startled by a wandering bee Buzzing around her brow to greet the girl: She draws the tent wide open with a swirl, And, as she stands to breathe the fragrancy Beneath the branches of the hawthorn tree- Whose dews fall on her head like beads of pearl, Or drops of sunshine firing tress and curl- The Spirit of the Sunrise speaks to me, And says, 'This bride of yours, I know her well, And so do all the birds in all the bowers Who mix their music with the breath of flowers When greetings rise from river, heath and dell.

See, on the curtain of the morning haze The Future's finger writes of happy days.'

Rhona, half-hidden by 'the branches of the hawthorn tree,' stretches up to kiss the white and green May buds overhanging the bridal tent, while Percy Aylwin stands at the tent's mouth and looks at her:-

Can this be she, who, on that fateful day When Romany knives leapt out at me like stings Hurled back the men, who shrank like stricken things From Rhona's eyes, whose lightnings seemed to slay?

Can this be she, half-hidden in the may, Kissing the buds for 'luck o' love' it brings, While from the dingle gra.s.s the skylark springs And merle and mavis answer finch and jay?

[He goes up to the hawthorn, pulls the branches apart, and clasps her in his arms.

Can she here, covering with her childish kisses These pearly buds-can she so soft, so tender, So shaped for clasping-dowered of all love-blisses- Be my fierce girl whose love for me would send her, An angel storming h.e.l.l, through death's abysses, Where never a sight could fright or power could bend her?

But Rhona is haunted by forebodings, and one night when the lovers are on the river she reads the scripture of the stars. I must give here the sonnet quoted on page 29:-

The mirrored stars lit all the bulrush-spears, And all the flags and broad-leaved lily-isles; The ripples shook the stars to golden smiles, Then smoothed them back to happy golden spheres.

We rowed-we sang; her voice seemed in mine ears An angel's, yet with woman's dearer wiles; But shadows fell from gathering cloudy piles And ripples shook the stars to fiery tears.

What shaped those shadows like another boat Where Rhona sat and he Love made a liar?

There, where the Scollard sank, I saw it float, While ripples shook the stars to symbols dire; We wept-we kissed-while starry fingers wrote, And ripples shook the stars to a snake of fire.

The most tragically dramatic scene in the poem is that in which Percy confronts the cosmic mystery, defying its menace. The stars write in the river:-

Falsehold can never shield her: Truth is strong.

Percy reads the rune and answers:-

I read your rune: is there no pity, then, In Heav'n that wove this net of life for men?

Have only h.e.l.l and Falsehood heart for ruth?

Show me, ye mirrored stars, this tyrant Truth- King that can do no wrong!

Ah! Night seems opening! There, above the skies, Who sits upon that central sun for throne Round which a golden sand of worlds is strown, Stretching right onward to an endless ocean, Far, far away, of living, dazzling motion?

Hearken, King Truth, with pictures in thine eyes Mirrored from gates beyond the furthest portal Of infinite light, 'tis Love that stands immortal, The King of Kings.

The gypsies read the starry rune, and, discovering Rhona's secret, secretly slay her. Percy, having returned to Gypsy Dell, vainly tries to find her grave. Then he flies from the dingle, lest the memory of Rhona should drive him mad, and lives alone in the Alps, where he pa.s.ses into the strange ecstasy, described in the sonnet called 'Natura Maligna,'

which has been much discussed by the critics:-