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[page 13, unnumbered:]
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LETTER TO MR. — ——.
————
West Point, —— 1831.
DEAR B——.
Believing only a portion of my
former volume to be
worthy a second edition — that small portion I thought it as well to
include
in the present book as to republish by itself. I have, therefore,
herein
combined Al Aaraaf and Tamerlane with other Poems hitherto unprinted.
Nor
have I hesitated to insert from the "Minor Poems," now omitted, whole
lines,
and even passages, to the end that being placed in a fairer light, and
the trash shaken from [page 14:] them in which
they
were imbedded, they may have some chance of being seen by posterity.
It has been
said, that a good
critique on a poem may be written by one who is no poet himself. This,
according to your idea and mine of poetry, I feel to be
false
— the less poetical the critic, the less just the critique, and the
converse.
On this account, and because there are but few B——s in the world, I
would
be as much ashamed of the world's good opinion as proud of your own.
Another
than yourself might here observe "Shakspeare is in possession of the
world's
good opinion, and yet Shakspeare is the greatest of poets. It appears
then
that the world judge correctly, why should you be ashamed of their
favorable
judgment?" The difficulty lies in the interpretation of the word
"judgment"
or "opinion." The opinion is the world's, truly, but it may be called
theirs
as a man would call a book his, having bought it; [page 15:]
he did not write the book, but it is his; they did not originate the
opinion,
but it is theirs. A fool, for example, thinks Shakspeare a great poet —
yet the fool has never read Shakspeare. But the fool's neighbor, who is
a step higher on the Andes of the mind, whose head (that is to say his
more exalted thought) is too far above the fool to be seen or
understood,
but whose feet (by which I mean his every day actions) are sufficiently
near to be discerned, and by means of which that superiority is
ascertained,
which but for them would never have been discovered — this
neighbor
asserts that Shakspeare is a great poet — the fool believes him, and it
is henceforward his opinion. This neighbor's own opinion has,
in
like manner, been adopted from one above him, and so,
ascendingly,
to a few gifted individuals, who kneel around the summit, beholding,
face
to face, the master spirit who stands upon the
pinnacle.
*
*
* * [page 16:]
You are aware of the great barrier
in the path of
an American writer. He is read, if at all, in preference to the
combined
and established wit of the world. I say established; for it is with
literature
as with law or empire — an established name is an estate in tenure, or
a throne in possession. Besides, one might suppose that books, like
their
authors, improve by travel — their having crossed the sea is, with us,
so great a distinction. Our antiquaries abandon time for distance; our
very fops glance from the binding to the bottom of the title-page,
where
the mystic characters which spell London, Paris, or Genoa, are
precisely
so many letters of recommendation.
I mentioned just now a vulgar error
as regards criticism.
I think the notion that no poet can form a correct estimate of his own
writings is another. I remarked before, that in proportion to the
poetical
talent, would be the justice of a [page 17:]
critique
upon poetry. Therefore, a bad poet would, I grant, make a false
critique,
and his self-love would infallibly bias his little judgment in his
favor;
but a poet, who is indeed a poet, could not, I think, fail of making a
just critique. Whatever should be deducted on the score of self-love,
might
be replaced on account of his intimate acquaintance with the subject;
in
short, we have more instances of false criticism than of just, where
one's
own writings are the test, simply because we have more bad poets than
good.
There are of course many objections to what I say: Milton is a great
example
of the contrary; but his opinion with respect to the Paradise Regained,
is by no means fairly ascertained. By what trivial circumstances men
are
often led to assert what they do not really believe! Perhaps an
inadvertent
word has descended to posterity. But, in fact, the Paradise Regained is
little, if at all, inferior to the Paradise Lost, and is only supposed
so to be, because [page 18:] men do not like
epics,
whatever they may say to the contrary, and reading those of Milton in
their
natural order, are too much wearied with the first to derive any
pleasure
from the second.
I dare say Milton preferred Comus
to either — if
so — justly.
*
* *
*
*
As I am speaking of poetry, it will
not be amiss
to touch slightly upon the most singular heresy in its modern history —
the heresy of what is called very foolishly, the Lake School. Some
years
ago I might have been induced, by an occasion like the present, to
attempt
a formal refutation of their doctrine; at present it would be a work of
supererogation. The wise must bow to the wisdom of such men as
Coleridge
and Southey, but being wise, have laughed at poetical theories so
prosaically
exemplified.
Aristotle, with singular assurance,
has declared
poetry the most philosophical of all writing* — [page
19:]
but it required a Wordsworth to pronounce it the most metaphysical. He
seems to think that the end of poetry is, or should be, instruction —
yet
it is a truism that the end of our existence is happiness; if so, the
end
of every separate part of our existence — every thing connected with
our
existence should be still happiness. Therefore the end of instruction
should
be happiness; and happiness is another name for pleasure; — therefore
the
end of instruction should be pleasure: yet we see the above mentioned
opinion
implies precisely the reverse.
To proceed: ceteris paribus, he who
pleases, is of
more importance to his fellow men than he who instructs, since utility
is happiness, and pleasure is the end already obtained which
instruction
is merely the means of obtaining.
I see no reason, then, why our
metaphysical poets
should plume themselves so much on the utility of their works, unless
indeed
they refer to instruction with eternity in view; in which case, [page
20:] sincere respect for their piety would not allow me to
express
my contempt for their judgment; contempt which it would be difficult to
conceal, since their writings are professedly to be understood by the
few,
and it is the many who stand in need of salvation. In such case I
should
no doubt be tempted to think of the devil in Melmoth, who labors
indefatigably
through three octavo volumes, to accomplish the destruction of one or
two
souls, while any common devil would have demolished one or two
thousand.
Against the subtleties which would
make poetry a
study — not a passion — it becomes the metaphysician to reason — but
the
poet to protest. Yet Wordsworth and Coleridge are men in years; the one
imbued in contemplation from his childhood, the other a giant in
intellect
and learning. The diffidence, then, with which I venture to dispute
their
authority, would be over-whelming, did I not feel, from the bottom of
my [page 21:] heart, that learning has
little to do with
the imagination — intellect with the passions — or age with poetry.
* * * *
"Trifles, like straws, upon
the surface flow,
He who would search for pearls must
dive below,"
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are lines which have done much mischief. As regards the greater truths,
men oftener err by seeking them at the bottom than at the top; the
depth
lies in the huge abysses where wisdom is sought — not in the palpable
palaces
where she is found. The ancients were not always right in hiding the
goddess
in a well: witness the light which Bacon has thrown upon philosophy;
witness
the principles of our divine faith — that moral mechanism by which the
simplicity of a child may overbalance the wisdom of a man.
Poetry, above all things, is a
beautiful painting
whose tints, to minute inspection, are confusion worse confounded, but
start boldly out to the cursory glance of the connoisseur. [page
22:]
We see an instance of Coleridge's
liability to err,
in his Biographia Literaria — professedly his literary life and
opinions,
but, in fact, a treatise de omni scibili et quibusdam aliis. He
goes wrong by reason of his very profundity, and of his error we have a
natural type in the contemplation of a star. He who regards it directly
and intensely sees, it is true, the star, but it is the star without a
ray — while he who surveys it less inquisitively is conscious of all
for
which the star is useful to us below — its brilliancy and its beauty.
As to Wordsworth, I have no faith
in him. That he
had, in youth, the feelings of a poet I believe — for there are
glimpses
of extreme delicacy in his writings — (and delicacy is the poet's own
kingdom
— his El Dorado) — but they have the appearance of a better day
recollected; and glimpses, at best, are little evidence of present
poetic
fire — we know that a [page 23:] few straggling
flowers
spring up daily in the crevices of the Avalanche.
He was to blame in wearing away his
youth in contemplation
with the end of poetizing in his manhood. With the increase of his
judgment
the light which should make it apparent has faded away. His judgment
consequently
is too correct. This may not be understood, but the old Goths of
Germany
would have understood it, who used to debate matters of importance to
their
State twice, once when drunk, and once when sober — sober that they
might
not be deficient in formality — drunk lest they should be destitute of
vigor.
The long wordy discussions by which
he tries to reason
us into admiration of his poetry, speak very little in his favor: they
are full of such assertions as this — (I have opened one of his volumes
at random) "Of genius the only proof is the act of doing well what is
worthy
to be done, and what was never done before" — indeed! [page
24:]
then it follows that in doing what is unworthy to be done, or
what has been done before, no genius can be evinced:
yet the picking
of pockets is an unworthy act, pockets have been picked time
immemorial,
and Barrington, the pick-pocket, in point of genius, would have thought
hard of a comparison with William Wordsworth, the poet.
Again — in estimating the merit of
certain poems,
whether they be Ossian's or M'Pherson's, can surely be of little
consequence,
yet, in order to prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many
pages
in the controversy. Tantæne animis? Can great minds
descend
to such absurdity? But worse still: that he may bear down every
argument
in favor of these poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage, in
his
abomination of which he expects the reader to sympathize. It is the
beginning
of the epic poem "Temora." "The blue waves of Ullin roll in
light;
the green hills are covered with [page 25:] day;
trees
shake their dusky heads in the breeze." And this — this gorgeous, yet
simple
imagery — where all is alive and panting with immortality — than which
earth has nothing more grand, nor paradise more beautiful — this —
William
Wordsworth, the author of Peter Bell, has selected to dignify
with
his imperial contempt. We shall see what better he, in his own person,
has to offer. Imprimis:
"And now she's at the poney's
head,
And now she's at the poney's tail,
On that side now, and now on this,
And almost stifled her with bliss —
A few sad tears does Betty shed,
She pats the poney where or when
She knows not: happy Betty Foy!
O Johnny! never mind the Doctor!"
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Secondly:
"The dew was falling fast, the
— stars began to
blink,
I heard a voice, it said —— drink,
pretty creature, drink;
And looking o'er the hedge, be — fore
me I espied
A snow-white mountain lamb with a —
maiden at its side,
No other sheep were near, the lamb was
all alone,
And by a slender cord was — tether 'd
to a stone." [page 26:]
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Now we have no doubt this is all
true; we will
believe it, indeed we will, Mr. W. Is it sympathy for the sheep you
wish
to excite? I love a sheep from the bottom of my heart.
But there are occasions,
dear B——, there are
occasions when even Wordsworth is reasonable. Even Stamboul, it is
said,
shall have an end, and the most unlucky blunders must come to a
conclusion.
Here is an extract from his preface.
"Those who have been accustomed to
the phraseology
of modern writers, if they persist in reading this book to a conclusion
(impossible!) will, no doubt, have to struggle with feelings of
awkwardness; (ha! ha! ha!) they will look round for poetry (ha! ha! ha!
ha!) and will be induced to inquire by what species of courtesy these
attempts
have been permitted to assume that title." Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!
Yet let not Mr. W. despair; he has
given [page
27:] immortality to a wagon, and the bee Sophocles has
eternalized a sore toe, and dignified a tragedy with a chorus of
turkeys.
Of Coleridge I cannot speak but
with reverence. His
towering intellect! his gigantic power! To use an author quoted by
himself,
"Jai trouve souvent que la plupart des sectes ont raison dans une bonne
partie de ce quelles avancent, mais non pas en ce quelles nient," and,
to employ his own language, he has imprisioned his own conceptions by
the
barrier he has erected against those of others. It is lamentable to
think
that such a mind should be buried in metaphysics, and, like the
Nyctanthes,
waste its perfume upon the night alone. In reading that man's poetry I
tremble,
like one who stands upon a volcano, conscious, from the very darkness
bursting
from the crater, of the fire and the light that are weltering below.
[page 28:]
What is Poetry? —
Poetry!
that Proteus-like
idea, with as many appellations as the nine-titled Corcyra! Give me, I
demanded of a scholar some time ago, give me a definition of poetry?
"Tres
volontiers," — and he proceeded to his library, brought me a Dr.
Johnson,
and overwhelmed me with a definition. Shade of the immortal Shakspeare!
I imagined to myself the scowl of your spiritual eye upon the profanity
of that scurrilous Ursa Major. Think of poetry, dear B——, think of
poetry,
and then think of — Dr. Samuel Johnson! Think of all that is airy and
fairy-like,
and then of all that is hideous and unwieldy; think of his huge bulk,
the
Elephant! and then — and then think of the Tempest — the Midsummer
Night's
Dream — Prospero — Oberon — and Titania!
A poem, in my opinion, is opposed
to a work of science
by having, for its immediate object, pleasure, not truth; to
romance,
by having for [page 29:] its object an indefinite
instead of a definite pleasure, being a poem only so far as
this
object is attained; romance presenting perceptible images with
definite,
poetry with indefinite sensations, to which end music is an essential,
since the comprehension of sweet sound is our most indefinite
conception.
Music, when combined with a pleasurable idea, is poetry; music without
the idea is simply music; the idea without the music is prose from its
very definitiveness.
What was meant by the invective
against him who had
no music in his soul?" [[sic]]
To sum up this long rigmarole, I
have, dear B——,
what you no doubt perceive, for the metaphysical poets, as
poets,
the most sovereign contempt. That they have followers proves nothing —
No Indian prince has to his
palace
More followers than a thief to the
gallows. |
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