Sir Alfred Austin. 1835. He ALFRED AUSTIN, poet, journalist, and pamphleteer, was born at Headingley, near Leeds, on May 30th, 1835. His father and mother were Catholics. He was educated at Stoneyhurst, and at St. Mary's College, Oscott, and in 1853 took a degree at the University of London. In 1854 he published "Randolph," a poem inspired by his life-long sympathy with Poland and hatred of Russia. studied for the law, and in 1857 was called to the bar, but he soon gave himself wholly to journalism and literature. In 1858 he published "Five Years of It," a clever, if a somewhat crude novel, showing markedly the influence of his favourites, Disraeli and Bulwer Lytton. "The Season: a Satire," appeared in 1861, and was attacked with extreme bitterness by a number of critics, to whom its author made a telling reply in "My Satire and its Censors." "Interludes' was published in 1862, as was likewise "The Human Tragedy," a work which was speedily recalled, and which was given to the world in an altered form in 1876. The tragedy of "Savonarola" appeared in 1881, and was followed by "Soliloquies" in 1882, "At the Gate of the Convent" in 1885, and the fine dramatic poem "Prince Lucifer" in 1887. Mr. Austin is one of the ablest of journalists. He has written for the Standard, the Quarterly Review, the Fortnightly Review, and the Contemporary Review, and has edited the National Review since 1883. A keen politician, he has twice contested a seat in the Conservative interest. He is the author of various political pamphlets, the most notable being a reply to Mr. Gladstone's "Bulgarian Horrors." He is a very dangerous antagonist, for he has eloquence and wit, and is master of an unusually vigorous and incisive style. He is a critic of no mean ability, and it is to be regretted that much of his work-as, for example, the delightful paper on the interpretation of Nature in poetry, which he contributed some years ago to the Contemporary Review-should remain interred in the back numbers of magazines. For he is never dull, always thoughtful and suggestive; and in his controversial moods he be-rates his opponents with a vivacity and pungency most refreshing to a reader who can enjoy hard-hitting in a literary scrimmage. As a poet Mr. Austin has set a commendable example to many of his contemporaries in the purity of his style. He writes sound, unaffected English; his meaning is always transparent. He has not sought to emulate Tennyson's exquisite elaboration of diction; his lines are seldom jewelled by "curious felicities." But they are always graceful, and sometimes admirably vigorous and hearty. He has succeeded in lyrical, in narrative, and in dramatic poetry. As a lyrist, he does not seek after novel forms and ingeniously woven harmonies. His measures are simple, and the music is sweet and sustained in its flow. In proof of his fine lyric gift it is enough to turn to the two contrasted poems here given as samples of his workmanship—the fiery battle poem, "The Last Redoubt," and the exquisite "Night in June"-a poem breathing the truest, tenderest sentiment, and bathed in the voluptuous beauty of a summer moonlight silvering leafage and flowers. Now and then he writes verses in which the manner of the Elizabethan song-writers is somewhat closely reproduced : "The crab, the bullace, and the sloe, And when the west wind melts the snow, But Death's at work in rind and root, When logs about the house are stacked, And next year's hose is knit, And tales are told and jokes are cracked, And faggots blaze and spit ; Death sits down in the ingle-nook, Sits down and does not speak : But he puts his arm round the maid that's warm, Death! Death! Death is master of lord and clown; Shovel the clay in, tread it down." One of the charms of his poetry lies in the freshness and vividness of his descriptions of Nature. He has dealt powerfully with the grandeurs of Alpine scenery, but his happiest pictures are of English fields and woods. He is one of the fieriest of patriots; love of England and hatred of despotism inspiring much of his strongest, most characteristic work-as witness the stirring verses "Is Life worth Living?" He has dramatic insight and the gift of creating character. His best play is, perhaps, "Prince Lucifer." The characters are highly idealised, but the breath of life is in each; and two of them, the Prince and the Count Abdiel, are admirably drawn and admirably contrasted figures. The dialogue is natural as well as highly poetical and pregnant with thought. The play is instinct with idyllic grace, and conveys a shrewd criticism of life. It likewise contains several of Mr. Austin's finest lyrics. But for all its beauties it labours under the disadvantages inevitable in the case of every closet drama; and it is by his lyrics that its author will be longest remembered. A collected edition of his poems was issued by Messrs. Macmillan in six volumes in 1892, to which other volumes have been added since. Mr. Alfred Austin was appointed Poet Laureate January, 1896. WALTER WHYTE. L A NIGHT IN JUNE. ALFRED AUSTIN. ADY! in this night of June, I am gazing on her now: Night hath been when thou and I Close our hands were linked then; What to me the starlight still, Or the moonbeams' splendour, If I do not feel the thrill Of thy fingers slender? Summer nights in vain are clear, Roses slumbering in their sheaths Round the gables of my home: |