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WHAT IS POETRY?
Leigh Hunt has just published a book, called Imagination and Fancy, or Selections from the English Poets, illustrative of those first requisites of the art, with markings of the best passages, critical notices of the writers, and an essay in answer to the question “What is Poetry?” He says in his preface, that “it is intended for all lovers of poetry, and most especially for the youngest and oldest.” He adds, that he has “often wished for such a book himself; and, as nobody will make it for him, he has made it for others.”
Now, we enriched the idleness of our New Year's Eve by lying on our back and reading this delicious book; and we assure our readers that we do not remember six happier hours. The book is the very essence of an old poet's innermost experience — unequalled for truth, curiousness and novelty. We give an extract or two from his “Essay,” informing the public that the Appletons’ are re-publishing the entire work: —
Poetry is the utterance of a passion for truth, beauty, and power, embodying and illustrating its conceptions by imagination and fancy, and modulating its language on the principle of variety in uniformity. Its means are whatever the universe contains; and its ends, pleasure and exaltation. Poetry stands between nature and convention, keeping alive among us the enjoyment of the external and spiritual world: it has constituted the most enduring fame of nations; and next to Love and Beauty, which are its parents, is the greatest proof to man of the pleasure to be found in all things, and of the probable riches of infinitude.
Poetry includes whatsoever of painting can be made visible to the mind's eye, and whatsoever of music can be conveyed by sound and proportion without singing or instrumentation. But it far surpasses those divine arts in suggestiveness, range, and intellectual wealth; — the first, in expression of thought, combination of images, and the triumph over space and time; — the second, in all that can be done by speech, apart front the tones and modulation of pure sound. Painting and music, however, include all those portions of the gift of poetry that can be expressed and heightened by the visible and melodious. Painting, in a certain apparent manner, is things themselves; music, in a certain audible manner, is their very emotion and grace. Music and painting are proud to be related to poetry, and poetry loves and is proud of them.
Poetry begins where matter of fact or of science ceases to be merely such, and to exhibit a further truth; that is to say, the connexion it has with the world of emotion, and its power to produce imaginative pleasure. Inquiring of a gardener, for instance, what flower it is we see yonder, he answers, “a lily.” This is a matter of fact. The botanist pronounces it to be of the order of “Hexandria Monogynia.” This is matter of science. It is the “lady” of the garden, says Spenser; and here we begin to have a poetical sense of its fairness and grace. It is
The plant and flower of light,
says Ben Jonson; and poetry then shows us the beauty of the flower in all its mystery and splendor.
But the poet is far from dealing only with these subtle and analogical truths. Truth of every kind belongs to him, provided it can bud into any kind of beauty, or is capable of being illustrated and impressed by the poetic faculty. Nay, the simplest truth is often so simple and impressive of itself, that one of the greatest proofs of his genius consists in his leaving it to stand alone, illustrated by nothing but the light of its own fears or smiles, its own wonder, might, or playfulness. Hence the complete effect of many a simple passage in our old English ballads and romances, and of the passionate sincerity in general of the greatest early poets, such as Homer and Chaucer, who flourished before the existence of a “literary world,” and were not perplexed by a heap of notions and opinions, or by doubts how emotion ought to be expressed. The greatest of their successors never write equally to the purpose, except when they can dismiss every thing from their minds but the like simple truth.
Every one knows the words of Lear, “most matter-of-fact, most melancholy.”
Pray do not mock me;
I am a very foolish fond old man,
Fourscore and upwards:
Not an hour more, nor less; and to deal plainly,
I fear I am not in my perfect mind.
It is thus, by exquisite pertinence, melody, and the implied power of writing with exuberance, if need be, that beauty and truth become identical in poetry, and that pleasure, or at the very worst, a balm in our tears, is drawn out of pain.
The happiest instance I remember of imaginative metaphor, is Shakspeare's moonlight “sleeping” on a bank; but half his poetry may be said to be made up of it, metaphor indeed being the common coin of discourse. Of imaginary creatures, none out of the pale of mythology and the East, are equal, perhaps, in point of invention, to Shakspeare's Ariel and Caliban.
(After a quotation from Homer)
O lovely and immortal privilege of genius! that can stretch its hand out of the wastes of time, thousands of years back, and touch our eyelids with tears! In these passages there is not a word which a man of the most matter-of-fact understanding might not have written, if he had thought of it. But in poetry, feeling and imagination are necessary to the perception and presentation even of matters of fact. They, and they only, see what is proper to be told, and what to be kept back; what is pertinent, affecting, and essential. Without feeling, there is a want of delicacy and distinction; without imagination, there is no true embodiment. In poets, even good of their kind, but without a genius for narration, the action would have been encumbered or diverted with ingenious mistakes. The over-contemplative would have given us too many remarks; the over-lyrical, a style too much carried away; the over-fanciful, conceits and too many similes; the unimaginative, the facts without the feeling, and not even those. We should have been told nothing of the “grey chin,” of the house hearing them as they moaned, or of Archilles gently putting the old man aside; much less of that yearning for his father, which made the hero tremble in every limb. Writers without the greatest passion and power do not feel in this way, nor are capable of expressing the feeling; though there is enough sensibility and imagination all over the world to enable mankind to be moved by it, when the poet strikes his truth into their hearts.
The reverse of imagination is exhibited in pure absence of ideas, in commonplaces, and, above all, in conventional metaphor, or such images and their phraseology as have become the common property of discourse and writing. Addison's Cato is full of them.
Whenever beauties are stolen by such a writer, they are sure to be spoilt: just as when a great writer borrows, he improves.
To come now to Fancy, — she is a younger sister of Imagination, without the other's weight of thought and feeling. Imagination, indeed, purely so called, is all feeling; the feeling of the subtlest and most affecting analogies; the perception of sympathies in the natures of things, or in their popular attributes. Fancy is a sporting with their resemblance, real or supposed, and with airy and fantastical creations.
— Rouse yourself; and the weak wanton Cupid
Shall front your neck unloose his amorous fold,
And, like a dew-drop front the lion's mane
Be shook to air.
Troilus and Cressida, Act iii. sc. 3.
That is imagination; — the strong mind sympathizing with the strong beast, and the weak love identified with the weak dew-drop.
Oh; — and I forsooth
In love! I that have been love's whip!
A very beadle to a humorous sigh! —
A domineering pedant o’er the boy, —
This whimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy,
This senior. junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid,
Regent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arms,
The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans, &c
Love's Labour Lost, Act iii. sc. 1.
That is fancy; — a combination of images not, in their nature connected, nor brought together by the feeling, but by the will and pleasure; and having just enough hold of analogy to betray it into the hands of its smiling subjector.
Silent icicles
Quietly shining to the quiet moon.
Coleridge's Frost at Midnight.
That, again, is imagination; — analogical sympathy; and exquisite of its kind it is.
“You are now sailed into the north of my lady's opinion; where you will hang like an icicle on a Dutchman's beard, unless you do redeem it by some laudable attempt.”
Twelfth Night, Act iii. sc. 2.
And that is fancy; — one image capriciously suggested by another, and but half connected with the subject of discourse; nay, half opposed to it; for in the gaiety of the speaker's animal spirits, the “Dutchman's beard” is made to represent the lady!
Imagination belongs to Tragedy, or the serious I muse; Fancy to the comic. Macbeth, Lear, Paradise Lost, the poem of Dante, are full of imagination: the Midsummer Night's Dream and the Rape of the Lock, of fancy : Romeo and Juliet, the Tempest, the Fairy Queen, and the Orlando Furioso, of both. The terms were formerly identical, or used as such; and neither is the beg that might be found. The- term Imagination is too confined: often too material. It presents too invariably the idea of a solid body; — of “images” in the sense of the plaster-cast cry about the streets. Fancy, on the other hand, while it , means nothing but a spiritual image or apparition, (phantasma, appearance, phantom,) has rarely that freedom from visibility which is one of the highest privileges of imagination. Viola, in Twelfth Night, speaking of some beautiful music, says: —
It gives a very echo to the seat,
Where Love is throned.
In this charming thought fancy and imagination are combined; yet the fancy, the assumption of Love's sitting on a throne, is the image of a solid body; while the imagination, the sense of sym. peaty between the passion of love and impassioned music, presents us no image at all. Some new term is wanting to express the more spiritual sympathies of what is called Imagination.
One of the teachers of Imagination is Melancholy; and like Melancholy, as Albert Durer has painted her, she looks out among the stars, and is busied with spiritual affinities and the mysteries of the universe. Fancy turns her sister's wizard instruments into toys. She takes a telescope in her hand, and puts a mimic star on her forehead, and sallies forth as an emblem of astronomy. Her tendency is to the child-like and sportive. She chases butterflies, while her sister takes flight with angels. She is the genius of fairies, of gallantries, of fashions; of whatever is quaint and light, showy and capricious; of the poetical part of wit. She adds wings and feelings to the images of wit; and delights as much to people nature with smiling ideal sympathies, as wit does to bring antipathies together, and make them strike light on absurdity. Fancy, however, is not incapable of sympathy with Imagination. She is often found in her company; always, in the case of the greatest poets; often in that of less, though with them she is the greater favorite. Spenser has great imagination and fancy too, but more of the latter; Milton both, also, the very greatest, but with imagination predominant; Chaucer, the strongest imagination of real life, beyond any writers but Homer, Dante, and Shakspeare, and in comic painting inferior to none; Pope has hardly any imagination, but he has a great deal of fancy; Coleridge little fancy, but imagination exquisite. Shakspeare, alone, of all poets that ever lived, enjoyed the regard of both in equal perfection. A whole fairy poem of his writing will be found in the present volume. See also his famous description of Queen Mab and her equippage, in Romeo and Juliet: —
Her waggon spokes made of long spinners’ legs;
The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers:
Her traces of the smallest spider's web;
Her collars of the moonshine's watery beams, &c.
That is Fancy, in its playful creativeness.
As a small but pretty rival specimen, legs known, take the description of a fairy palace from Drayton's Nymphidia: —
This place standeth in the air,
By necromancy placed there,
That it no tempest needs to fear,
Which way soe’er it blow it:
And somewhat southward tow’rd the noon,
Whence lies a way up to the moon,
And thence the Fairy can as soon
Pass to the earth below it.
Tee walls of spiders’ legs are made,
Well morticed and finely laid:
He was the master of his trade,
It curiously that builded:
The windows of the eyes of cats:
(because they see best at night)
And for the roof instead of slats
Is cover’d with the skins of bats
With moonshine that are gilded.
Here also is a fairy bed, very delicate, from the same poet's Muse's Elysium.
Of leaves of roses, white and red,
Shall be the covering of the bed;
The curtains, vallens, tester all,
Shall be the flower imperial;
And for the fringe it all along
With azure hare bells shall be hung.
Of lilies shall the pillows be
With down stufl of the butterfly.
(To be continued.)
January 7, vol. 1, no. 78, p. ?, col. ?
LEIGH HUNT’S NEW WORK.
(We continue our extracts from this exquisite attar of the subject of poetry.)
Of fancy, so full of gusto as to border on imagination, Sir John Suckling, in his “Ballad on a Wedding,” has given some of the most playful and charming specimens in the language. They glance like twinkles of the eye, or cherries bedewed: —
Her feet beneath her petticoat
Like mice stole in and out.
As if they fear’d the light:
But oh! she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter day
Is half so fine a sight.
It is very daring, and has a sort of playful grandeur, to compare a lady's dancing to the sun. But as the sun has it all to himself in the heavens, so she, in the blaze of her beauty, on earth. This is imagination fairly displacing fancy. The following has enchanted every body: —
Her lips were red, and one was thin
Compared with that was nest her chin,
Some bee had stung it newly.
Every reader has stolen a kiss at that lip, gay or grave.
Fitness and unfitness for song, or metrical excitement, just make all the difference between a poetical and prosaical subject; and the reason why verse is necessary to the form of poetry, is, that the perfection of poetical spirit demands it; — that the circle of its enthusiasm, beauty and power, is incomplete without it. I do not mean to say that a poet can never show himself a poet in prose; but that, being one, his desire and necessity will be to write in verse; and that, if he were unable to do so, he would not, and could not, deserve his title. Verse to the true poet is no clog. It is idly called a trammel and a difficulty. It is a help. It springs from the same enthusiasm as the rest of his impulses, and is necessary to their satisfaction and effect. Verse is no more a clog than the condition of rushing upward is a clog to fire, or than the roundness and order of the globe we live on is a clog to the freedom and variety that abound within its sphere. Verse is no dominator over the poet, except inasmuch as the bond is reciprocal. and the poet dominates over the verse. They are lovers, playfully challenging each other's rule, and delighted equally to rule and obey. Verse is the final proof to the poet that his mastery over the art is complete. It is the shutting up of his powers in “measure-ful content;” the answer of form to his spirit; of strength and ease to his guidance. It is the willing action, the proud and fiery happiness, of the winged steed on whose back he has vaulted,
To witch the world with wondrous horsemanship.
Verse, in short, is that finishing, and rounding, and “tuneful planetting” of the poet's creations, which is produced of necessity by the smooth tendencies of their energy or inward working, and the harmonious dance into which they are attracted round the orb of the beautiful. Poetry, in its complete sympathy with beauty, must, of necessity, leave no sense of the beautiful, and no power over its form, unmanifested; and verse flows as inevitably from this condition of its integrity, as other laws of proportion do from any other kind of embodiment of beauty (say that of the human figure,) however free and various the movements may be that play within their limits. What great poet ever wrote his poems in verse? or where is a good prose poem, of any length, to be found? The poetry of the Bible is understood to be in verse, in the original. Mr. Hazlitt has said a good word for those prose enlargements of some fine old songs, which are known by the name of Ossian; and in passages they deserve what he said; but he judiciously abstained from saying anything about the form. Is Gesner's Death of Abel a poem? or Hervey's Meditations? Progress had been called one; and, undoubtedly, Bunyan had a genius which tended to make him a poet, and one of no mean order : and yet it was of as ungenerous and low a sort as was compatible with so lofty an affinity; and this is the reason why it stopped where it did. He had a craving after the beautiful, but not enough of it in himself to echo to its music. On the other hand, the possession of the beautiful will not be sufficient without force to utter it. The author of Telemachus had a soul full of beauty and tenderness. He was not a man who, if lie had had a wife and children, would have run away from them, as Bunyan's hero did, to get a place by himself in heaven. He was “a little lower than the angels,” like our own Bishop Jeweils and Berkeleys; and yet he was no poet. He was too delicately, not to say feebly, absorbed in his devotions, to join in the energies of the seraphic choir.
Every poet, then is a versifier; every fine poet an excellent one; and he is the best whose verse exhibits the greatest amount of strength, sweetness, straightforwardness, unsuperfluousness, variety, and one-ness; — one-ness, that is to say, consistency, in the general impression, metrical and moral; and variety, or every pertinent diversity of tone and rhythm, in the process.
Sweetness, though not identical with smoothness, any more than feeling is with sound, always includes it; and smoothness is a thing so little to he regarded for its own sake, and indeed so worthless in poetry but for some taste of sweetness, that I have not thought necessary to mention it by itself; though such an all-in-all in versification was it regarded not a hundred years back, that Thomas Warton himself, an idolater of Spenser, ventured to wish the following line in the Fairy Queen,
And was admired much of fools, women, and boys —
altered to
And was admired much of women, fools, and boys —
thus destroying the fine scornful emphasis on the first syllable of “women!” (an ungallant intimation, by the way, against the fair sex, very startling in this no less woman-loving than great poet.) Any poetaster can be smooth. Smoothness abounds in all small poets, as sweetness does in the greater. Sweetness is the smoothness of grace and delicacy, — of the sympathy with the pleasing and lovely. Spenser is full of it, — Shakspeare — Beaumont and Fletcher — Coleridge. Of Spenser's and Coleridge's versification it is the prevailing characteristic. Its main secrets are a smooth progression between variety and sameness, and a voluptuous sense of the continuous, “linked sweetness long drawn out.”
When a superfluousness of words is not occasioned by overflowing animal spirits, as in Beaumont and Fletcher, or by the very genius of luxury, as in Spenser (in which cases it is enrichment as- well as overflow,) there is no worse sign for a poet altogether, except pure barrenness. Every word that could be taken away from a poem, un-referable to either of the above reasons for it, is a damage; and many such are death; for there is nothing that posterity seems so determined to resent as this want of respect for its time and trouble. The world is too rich in books to endure it. Even true poets have died of this writer's evil. Trifling ones have survived, with scarcely any pretensions but the terseness of their trifles. What hopes can remain for wordy mediocrity? Let the discerning reader take up any poem, pen in hand, for the purpose of discovering how many words he can strike out of it that give him no requisite ideas, no relevant ones that he cares for, and no reasons for the rhyme beyond its necessity, and he will seen what blot and havoc he will make in many an admired production of its day, — what marks of its inevitable fate. Bulky authors in particular, however safe they may think themselves, would do well to consider what parts of their cargo they might dispense with in their proposed voyage down the gulfs of time; for many a gallant vessel, though indestructible in its age, has perished; — many a load of words, expected to be in eternal demand, gone to join the wrecks of self-love, or rotted in the warehouses of change and vicissitude. I have said the more on this point, because in an age when the true inspiration has undoubtedly been re-awakened by Coleridge and his fellows, and we have so many new poets coming forward, it may be as well to give a general warning against that tendency to an accumulation and ostentation of thoughts, which is meant to be a refutation in full of the pretensions of all poetry less cogitabund, whatever may be the requirements of its class. Young writers should bear in mind that even some of the [page 2:] very best materials for poetry are not poetry built and that the smallest marble shrine, of exquisite workmanship, outvalues all that architect ever chipped away. Whatever can be so dispensed with is rubbish.
If a young reader should ask, after all, What is the quickest way of knowing bad poets from good, the best poets from the next best, and so on? the answer is, the only and two-fold way; first, the perusal of the best poets with the greatest attention; and, second, the cultivation of that love of truth and beauty which made them what they are. Every true reader of poetry partakes a more than ordinary portion of the poetic nature; and no one can be completely such, who does not love, or take an interest in, everything that interests the poet, from the firmament to the daisy, — from the highest heart of man to the most pitiable of the low. It is a good practice to read with pen in hand, marking what is liked or doubted. Itrivets the attention, realizes the greatest amount of enjoyment, and facilitates reference. It enables the reader, also, from time to time, to see what progress he makes with his own mind, and how it grows up towards the stature of its exalter.
It is to be borne in mind that the first poet of an inferior class may be superior to followers in the train of a higher one, though the superiority is by no means to be taken for granted; other. wise Pope would be superior to Fletcher, and Butler to Pope. Imagination, teeming with action and character, makes the greatest poets; feeling and thought the next; fancy (by itself) the next; wit the last. Thought by itself makes no poet at all; for the mere conclusion of the understanding can at best be only so many intellectual matters of fact. Feeling, even destitute of conscious thought, stands a far better poetical chance; feeling being a sort of thought without the process of thinking, — a grasper of the truth without seeing, it. And what is very remarkable, feeling seldom makes the blunders that thought does. An idle distinction has been made between taste and judgment. Taste is the very maker of judgment. Put an artificial fruit in your mouth, or only handle it, and you will soon perceive the difference between judging from taste or tact, and judging from the abstract figment called judgment. The latter does but throw you into guesses and doubts. Hence the conceits that astonish us in the gravest, and even subtlest thinkers, whose taste is not proportionate to their mental perceptions; men like Donne, for instance; who, apart from accidental personal impressions, seem to look at nothing as it really is, but only as to what may be thought of it.
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Notes:
This review was specifically rejected as being by Poe by W. D. Hull.
[[This is confusing because in the Evening Mirror, a third installment appears in January 10, 1845, p. 1, col. 6 — Fulton 328??, but that portion is merged with “Imagination and Fancy” in the Weekly Mirror.]]
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[S:0 - NYEM, 1844] - Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore - Works - Criticism - What is Poetry (Willis ?, 1844)