Text: Leigh Hunt, “American Poetry,” North British Review (Edinburgh, UK), vol. XVII, no. 2, whole no. 34, August 1852, pp. 394-421

[page 394:]

ART. IV. — 1. Poems, Lyrical and Dramatic. By HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW; with an Introductory Essay, by GEORGE GILFILLAN. Liverpool, 1848.

2. Poems. By THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. Illustrated by KENNY MEADOWS. 12mo. London, 1852.

3. Poems. By EDGAR ALLAN POE. Edited, with an Essay on his Life and Genius, by JAMES HANNAY. 8vo. London, 1852.

4. The Poetical Works of WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 3 vols. London, 1850.

IT is the unhappy error of nearly all recent criticism of art — of poetry especially — that its judgments have been formed without reference to any high or very distinct standard of what it is desirable and right that poetry should be. A poem is praised because it is well finished, or because it has been dashed off in a masterly way, or because it is “original,” “pathetic,” or “lyrical,” or “well constructed;” or on account of some other properly secondary quality, quite compatible with general worthlessness or positive demerit. We cannot help thinking that a sounder tone of criticism would produce, indirectly, a sounder tone of art than that which at present prevails. It is certain that no artist, — poet or otherwise, — will ever be made or marred by reading good criticism; but it is equally certain that the weeds which flourish under the encouragement of a lax critical system, do discourage and tend to choke the flower of true art; and that these might, in a great measure, be uprooted and done away with, if we would ascertain and ruthlessly declare their worthless and noxious character.

In the art and criticism of America we generally behold the errors of our own art and criticism exaggerated. Happily for the hopes of the world, America has a filial — almost more than filial — affection and reverence for Britain and the “Britishers.” But this attachment is not without its disadvantages: affection and reverence beget imitation; and the imitator is always more or less blind, and, most often, is found to copy the deformities of his model first. In commenting upon the shortcomings of American poetry and criticism of poetry, let us adopt a tone of self-reproval; for, if we have taught errors by our example, we should set the example of repentance. In endeavouring, therefore, to heighten, as far as we can, the common estimate of what poetry ought to be, and in pronouncing American poetry, generally, to be an example of what poetry ought not to be, we would have it understood that we have no intention of implying a favourable contrast upon the side of our own modern writers. [page 395:]

We have placed at the head of this Article the names of the four poets who seem to us to be the most notable, as yet, produced by America. Two of them, Bryant and Longfellow, have won a considerable reputation on this side of the Atlantic; the other two, Read and Poe, are not so well known here, although, to our thinking, they are quite as well worth knowing as the others are.

We regret that we cannot fully join in the popular applause of Mr. Longfellow's poems. In what we are about to say of them, it must be understood that we dwell more upon the faults of these poems than we should have done were it not that their merits have already enjoyed more than a fair share of public attention.

In criticizing Mr. Longfellow, we have a part to play that requires some boldness, — we must speak ill of his model, Goethe, who, by a most strange injustice, has of late been permitted to usurp a throne in the seventh heaven of fame, with Shakespeare, Dante, and Homer.

Goethe was probably the greatest critic that ever lived; but we are convinced that the next generation will be astonished at the admiration with which his poetry has come to be regarded by us. In our opinion, Goethe's poetry is always more or less heartless. His minor poems are full of warm fancy, exquisitely expressed; but there is more heart in half a dozen of Burns's songs than in all Goethe's minor poems put together. Faust, we venture to think, is immensely overrated. Everybody praises it, and calls it profound, because there is much of it that nobody understands, or was intended to understand. It abounds with deep lines and picturesque passages, but it has no claim to be regarded as the great symbolical poem which it pretends to be. This is proved by what we know of its history. Large portions are unmodified transcriptions of literal, stories: the track of light that follows the wake of the black dog turns out to be an optical fact which had been observed by Goethe. Other incidents are anecdotes of the poet's youth; and in the “Intermezzo” there are numerous allusions of a personal and temporary character, confessedly to be understood only by those who were in the secrets of a narrow literary coterie. Goethe felt this, but had not the boldness to undeceive his numerous admirers. At an early stage of the composition of “Faust,” he saw the prudence of postponing the discovery of its essential defects by allowing it always to remain as a fragment. Of the wickedness and vulgarity for which Coleridge has condemned this poem, we do not speak, for Mr. Longfellow has not so much imitated these, its worst qualities, as its lighter sins of false pretension and charlatanism. [page 396:]

“Hermann and Dorothea” is a charming work, full of profound and simple wisdom, and of clear and sweet descriptive power; but in reading it we are somehow made to think much more of the skilful author than of the hero and heroine. The warmth is always of the fancy, never of the heart.

Judging from Mr. Longfellow's works, “The Golden Legend,” “Evangeline,” and his miscellaneous verses, we feel pretty well convinced that his ideal of a great poet is Goethe, and that the poems of Goethe that we have named are his favourite models. If so, he has perfectly succeeded in copying many of their faults, though he has seldom attained to their merits of admirable finish and most delicate sensual perception.

We have space to notice, in detail, only a few minor pieces of Mr. Longfellow's, together with his best known poem, “ Evangeline,” which would certainly have been a notable work had “Hermann and Dorothea” never been written.

“Evangeline” is evidently an ambitious work, and its great popularity has perhaps persuaded Mr. Longfellow that he has succeeded in his attempt to write a great poem. We have, however, to bring against it a few complaints which will probably smite Mr. Longfellow's artistical conscience with a sense of their truth; for we have much respect for this gentleman's understanding, although we decidedly dissent from the public voice, which would place him, we sincerely believe, against his own cool estimate of himself, in the rank of the great abiding poets. As “Evangeline” is commonly, perhaps justly, regarded as being, on the whole, the most notable work in verse hitherto produced by an American, we shall make a somewhat detailed inquiry into its merits and demerits. The subject is decidedly a fine one, and was probably fixed upon by Mr. Longfellow in consequence of the outcry which had been raised by critics in England and America for a poem that should be truly American in subject and scenery. The historical foundations of the poem are these facts: — In 1713, before Great Britain had established her great colonial empire in North America, Acadia, the province now called Nova Scotia, was ceded to her by France. The inhabitants, who seem to have been little studied throughout the whole transaction, were soon induced to swear allegiance to their new masters, upon the sole condition that they should be exempt from bearing arms against either the French or Indians, in defence of the province; the former being, as it were, their countrymen, and the latter connected with them by alliances and by the private bonds of friendship. The English Government objected to this condition, but though some alteration was intended to be made no new oath was administered, and the old oath, therefore, remained valid. Before the termination of the “war of succession,” when [page 397:] Acadia was annexed to the British settlements, and the English extended their possessions in that quarter by the capture of Fort Beau Séjour, the Acadians were accused of having forfeited their neutrality by supplying intelligence, provisions, and quarters, to the French and Indians at Beau Séjour. It is by no means certain how far this charge was just. It was, however, followed by a severe chastisement upon the simple-minded Acadians. The punishment was delayed, and any announcement of its nature avoided, till the harvests were gathered in, that the British army might seize on the grain. The villagers were then called, on a particular day, into the church of Grand Pré, to hear the orders of their new governor, the king of England. It was then announced that all the lands, tenements, herds, grain, and other effects, except money and household goods, of the people, were forfeited to the crown, and themselves to be removed to distant colonies. This precaution of distributing the Acadians among English settlers was taken to prevent the possibility of their joining with the French against their new masters, whom they had now so little cause to love. Ships and soldiers were on the spot to execute this abominable decree. The whole number of persons collected together at Grand Pré on this occasion was somewhat under two thousand, and these were hurried on shipboard with the most cruel confusion, and disastrous and life-long separations of child from parent, husband from wife, and lover from lover. A disaster of the last kind furnishes the story. Evangeline is about to be married to Gabriel Lajeunesse. In the hurry of deportation they are separated by hundreds of miles, and have no means of discovering each other's destination. Gabriel takes to the wandering life of a huntsman in prairie and mountain. Evangeline lives on, moving, according to opportunity, from one place to another, in the hope of finding him. At one moment he passes her on the river, but she is sleeping, and does not hear of his having done so till it is too late to overtake him. She does, however, follow him, and is on his track for months and years. Finally, she gives up the search in despair; and in the last scene we find her an old woman, tending the sick in an hospital, to which an old man, Gabriel, is brought to die. They recognise each other, and he expires in trying to pronounce her name.

“Evangeline” is written in hexameters, or at least in lines that are intended to pass for hexameters, for real hexameters are next to impossible in a language like ours, which owes nearly all its capacity for versification to accent, and not to quantity; while, however, true hexameters are almost impossible in English, pseudohexameters, like those of Mr. Clough and Mr. Longfellow, are so easy that they entirely miss the great end of metre, namely, [page 398:] that of imposing a severe external law upon the otherwise rank exuberance of poetical feeling and expression. Such hexameters are, indeed, nothing more than the revival of the “ measured prose” which was thought so much of in the days of our grandmothers, and which chiefly consisted in the recurrence, at intervals, of from fourteen to eighteen syllables, of the monotonous cadence that alone distinguishes Mr. Longfellow's verses from ordinary prose.

We commence our extracts from “Evangeline” with the description of the heroine.

“Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers.

This damsel had of course many wooers, but

The evening of the lover's formal betrothal is ushered in by some extremely pleasing description, —

The scenery of village, forest, and prairie, are given with breadth and distinctness enough to please, though with none of that more than scientific accuracy of observation and description which is characteristic of the great poet. The author is profuse in illustrations, which, although they are often striking, are seldom harmonious, or in keeping with the feeling of the passage into which they are introduced. The following lines afford one out of scores of examples which we could bring forward to prove the fault in question: —

Here is a piece of singularly good description quite ruined, as far as regards unity of feeling, by the last half-line. What in the world have “shields of armies” to do with a farmer's cosy kitchen in Acadia? a place which probably never saw a soldier till the day upon which a small detachment arrived to put an end to the quiet little commonwealth which had established [page 400:] itself there. Mr. Longfellow seems to think that an illustration from the Bible will make up in sacredness for any degree of inaptitude. The following are a few instances of this mistake. Evangeline was looking at the evening sky, —

Again, when Evangeline, on learning that her lover passed her on the river while she was sleeping, sets out with the blacksmith in pursuit of him; the “priest,” by way, we suppose, of keeping up his sacerdotal character, bids Basil farewell, exclaiming,”See that you bring back the prodigal son from his fasting and famine, And, too, the foolish virgin, who slept when the bridegroom was coming.”

Now there is nothing whatever in Gabriel's behaviour or position to assimilate him to “the prodigal son;” and the inaptness of the allusion in the second line is only surpassed by its irreverence. At another time the villagers were assembled on the beach, waiting for the embarkation of themselves and their goods; and among them wandered the faithful priest, consoling, and blessing, and cheering,

“Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-strand.”

But not more like unto Paul on that occasion than any other religious person, walking on any other sea-coast, and under any circumstances whatever, would have been. In another place,

Our last example of this painfully mistaken kind of illustration is from the death-bed of Gabriel, —

This, if it can be called an illustration at all, is an illustration “ by contraries,” seing that, in this instance, the angel of death did not pass over, and that the flushed lips were a sign rather of Gabriel's being a fit victim for the destroyer, than one who was free from his power. Another effect of Mr. Longfellow's want of true poetical sincerity is seen in a class of similes which, by the conspicuous position given to them, are evidently favourites with him, but which seem to us to be conceits often of scarcely a first-rate album rank. The stars, for example, are called “the forget-me-nots of the angels.”

Mr. Longfellow, we believe, makes no secret of his being a [page 401:] Socinian; but we should have guessed him to be such from the air of unreality about all the portions of “Evangeline” in which the life and doctrines of Christianity are brought in for artistical effect. The inhabitants of Grand Pré are a great deal too good. They “lack gall to make oppression bitter,” and are robbed of their most sacred rights, for which they were bound, as good Christians, to fight to the death, as easily as a flock of sheep are brought to the slaughter. There are occasions when Christians, as members of a community, are bound to do their very best towards confounding and slaying their fellow-creatures by whom they are attacked. Such an occasion was that which is represented by Mr. Longfellow as having happened to the inhabitants of Acadia. Let any Christian, English, Scottish, or Irish, fancy that the news had reached him one fine morning, that a French army had taken steps towards “deporting” him and his from their rightful soil, and assuming possession of his property-wife and daughters perhaps included: would his wrath be calmed, and his resistance stopped by such words as Father Felician's address to the simple Acadians?

If any preacher were foolish enough thus to address good Christians so situated, we trust that he would get well laughed at for his pains, and duly censured by his authorities, for his gross misinterpretation and mis-application of Scriptural precepts: but [page 402:] the foolish Acadians repented them forthwith of their righteous wrath and impulse to resistance, and

Our pity for Gabriel, the betrothed of the fair maiden, Evangeline, is certainly much diminished by knowing that he is one of this congregation of spoonies.

From the extracts we have given, our readers will see that the language of “Evangeline” is very far from answering to Coleridge's standard of poetical phraseology-” the best words in the best places.” Mr. Longfellow's words are commonly about as well chosen as those of a first-rate novel writer. The true poet's invincible determination to hunt up from the recesses of his memory, the word or words which absolutely express his thought or feeling, is nowhere visible. He would, no doubt, think it great fastidiousness and loss of time, to spend half a day in getting a stanza quite right, which he has worked up to a “passable” point in half an hour. He has no sufficient feeling of the fact, that a poem is like the mirror of a telescope in this — that it is the last rub which polishes it, and makes it capable of reflecting the heavens. Many are the poets who have nearly scaled Parnassus, and who might have won to themselves enduring names, but that, discouraged by finding the mountain-side barren of laurels, they have refused the labour of the few additional steps which would have brought them to its verdant top.

But Mr. Longfellow's words are not only not the best words, they are not even in the best places. This is an inexcusable fault in a metre so extremely easy as that of “Evangeline.” Inversions merely for the sake of getting the long and short syllables into due order, are never allowable, except in highly polished verse, where this, and other apparent carelessnesses, may be introduced with good effect to take off the appearance of laborious finish. Inversions are always allowable for rhythmical effect, which is quite a different thing from mere metrical regularity. No one can wish that Cleopatra, in her wilful passion, should have exclaimed,

instead of

Or that the waves and winds that did omit [page 403:] Longfellow's Minor Poems.

should have flowed, in Shakespeare's verse, with more regulalarity; but Mr. Longfellow's inversions are seldom if ever of this character; he rarely becomes sufficiently rhythmical, and never sufficiently polished, in his writings, to justify inversions upon either of the foregoing pleas.

Notwithstanding all these, and other complaints which we might justly make against this poem, we gladly allow that it possesses very considerable merit as a versified romance. The numerous descriptions combine breadth with minuteness of detail very happily, and the story, which is decidedly a fine one, is told so as to work upon the feelings, and to elevate them. We say again that, in these remarks, we have laid disproportionate emphasis upon the blame deserved by the poem, because we consider that the praise which it has obtained has been out of all proportion to its deserts.

Mr. Longfellow has written a very poor drama, called “The Spanish Student.” We cannot find in it any passages worth placing before our readers; but there is one stage-direction which gives so amusing an example of American “notions” of European manners, that we must quote it. The heroine, Preciosa, is a Spanish gipsy-girl, a famous danseuse; the Archbishop of Toledo has taken it into his head to put down the ballet in his diocese, and by way of ascertaining the full odiousness of the abuse to be extirpated, the Archbishop summons Preciosa to dance before him at his palace: —

“She lays aside her mantilla. The music of the cachucha is played, and the dance begins. The Archbishop and the Cardinal look on with gravity and an occasional frown; then make signs to each other; and, as the dance continues, become more and more pleased and excited, and at length rise from their seats, throw their caps in the air, and applaud vehemently as the scene closes.”

“The Golden Legend” is a long poem of the worn-out Faust type, in which the devil is laid under contribution for a certain amount of theatrical effect, worldly wisdom, and would-be bitter sarcasm. There are, however, in this poem, two or three very beautiful passages, which we would willingly quote had we space; but we must hasten to close this notice of Mr. Longfellow with a few extracts from and comments upon his minor poems. These pieces, upon the whole, do not deserve anything like the degree of popularity which they have obtained; indeed, the great reputation which two or three of these poems enjoy, is a most melancholy sign of the poverty of the intellectual, and still more of the spiritual culture, of a very large portion of the [page 404:] “reading public.” The following verses, entitled “ A Psalm of Life: what the heart of the young man said to the Psalmist,” have come to be quoted in our English House of Commons — a place not yet penetrated, if we remember rightly, by Tennyson, or even, except for ridicule, by Wordsworth.

A certain Frenchman, not being quite master of our language, is reported to have exclaimed, in a rapture of admiration at something or other, “superbe! magnifique! in short, pretty well!” This exclamation expresses the sort of feeling one has [page 405:] upon reading verses like the above for the first time. It is flattering to find that one's most commonplace opinions are thought worthy of being expressed with such astounding emphasis; and we experience, upon reading them, much the same sort of self-complacency as was felt by the bourgeois gentilhomme upon discovering, for the first time, that he had been talking prose all his life. But when the first glow of self-love has subsided, we begin to be ashamed of ourselves, for having been duped by such a bundle of loud-tongued and “ unimproved” commonplaces; and if we are very good-humoured and not very critical, we shall hush up the business with an “in short, pretty well.” But we — the intelligent critics of the North British Review — cannot reconcile our consciences to any such amiable concealment of the real truth, which, in regard to the above verses, and many others like them in Mr. Longfellow's volume, is simply this, that they are, for the most part, pretentious, unprofitable, anti-Christian trash. What an unconscionable puppy the “young man” must have been — in the moment at least when his “heart” set up this “Psalm” in opposition to the words of the Psalmist! How the “man after God's own heart” would have quailed beneath this “sprightly Juvenal's” reproof! How much wholesome doctrine he lost by living so many centuries before this magnificent discovery of Mr. Longfellow's, that —

We could be very funny at Mr. Longfellow's expense, had we space to enter into a philosophical analysis of this “Psalm of Life;” but we have to quote another famous effusion called

“EXCELSIOR.

From the prevailing tone of Mr. Longfellow's works, we are justified in assuming, that the example of the young man whose progress is delineated in these spirited verses, is intended for our guidance, or rather for our reverent admiration, and not for our warning. All that we can say is, that we believe the intended moral to be the false one. Give the story its true moral, — the madness of any ambition which is found to be incompatible with homely joys, female love, and unpretentious Christian religion, and we have an undeniably meritorious little poem, notwithstanding the evident “greenness” of the youth's enthusiasm, and his “clarion voice,” and “bright blue eye,” which do not add to his manliness.

Bryant is the Rogers of America. “Thanatopsis” is the most finished proceeded from the American press. Probably his poem called piece of verse which has We believe that it is regarded [page 407:] by the Americans themselves as their most classical production; and, as such, it has a right to a place in this notice:

THANATOPSIS.

In this Mr. Bryant has only just missed writing a fine poem; yet, alas! “a miss is as good as a mile.” It is not a fine poem; for a fine poem ought to contain something unprecedented, in music or in meaning, and “Thanatopsis” contains nothing new at all. It has beautiful movements of verse, as, for example, —

It has admirable touches of imaginative description, as that of, —

Yet somewhere or other, in Wordsworth, or Shakespeare, or Young, or some one else, we have met with the same movements of verse, and nearly the same descriptive touches.

It must nevertheless be granted that such a poem as the above is incomparably preferable to many which have obtained a name for originality, but which, in truth, are merely insane endeavours after originality. “Originality,” says Mr. Ruskin, “ is never to be sought for its own sake, otherwise ise it it will be mere aberration; it should arise naturally out of hard, independent study of nature.” Mr. Bryant's study of nature may have been hard, but unfortunately it has not been independent. He has paced through field, forest, and city, observing many things; but it has always been with a volume of the English poets in his hand. He has, however, the high negative merit of not pretending to a greater degree of independence than he has a just claim to. He is manly, accomplished, sensitive in heart, eye, and ear; but he is not, and does not pretend to be “original.”

Mr. Thomas Buchanan Read, as we learn from the publisher's preface to his volume, which is published in England, is “one among the youngest of America's poets.” This being the case, we do not hesitate to declare our opinion that he is the most promising of the living transatlantic poets. We know of no other American, with the doubtful exception of Edgar Poe, having so much real feeling as is shewn in some of Mr. Read's verses. His feeling is not very profound or masculine, but it is real; and it presents a refreshing contrast with the cold and clever manufactures, which most of his cotemporaries would impose upon us as expressions of feeling. Bloomfield's description of a storm, beginning —

is not more hearty and homely than Mr. Read's “Summer Shower.”

Mr. Read has a very high sense of natural beauty; this kind of description is his forte, although he does not seem to know it, for the most elaborate pieces in his volume are somewhat ineffective attempts at the delineation of human passion — for which he has scarcely sufficient depth and strength. As, notwithstanding its unusual merit, Mr. Read's volume is not likely to fall into the hands of the majority of our readers, we offer no apology for quoting the following exquisite poem, called the “Closing Scene,” at length: —

This is unquestionably the best American poem we have met with; indeed it is, with one or two exceptions, the only American poem we have read, or could have read, over and over again. It It is an addition to the permanent stock of poetry in the English language, and is worth a whole album of “Excelsiors,” “ Psalms of Life,” and other such drum-and-trumpet moralities which are so abundantly supplied to an applauding public on this and on the other side of the Atlantic. There are faults in this little poem which greatly diminish its value as compared with what it ought to have been, and might have been, under the diligent and discerning polish of Mr. Read.

are a sad interruption to the tone of peaceful melancholy which is otherwise admirably sustained throughout the poem; and the image is, moreover, in itself, good for little or nothing. The five concluding stanzas are not nearly up to the mark of the preceding portion of the piece, which, as far as regards general construction and form, is almost spoilt by them. But the first thirteen stanzas, taken by themselves, constitute a truly inspired little poem. Tennyson himself, the great modern master of that kind of description which employs the objects of outward nature as a language for human feeling, has scarcely surpassed, in its way, this passage, which, in our opinion, merits the fame that Gray's celebrated “Elegy” has obtained, without deserving it nearly so well. The feeling of the three opening stanzas — the only unexceptionable passage of more than two or three lines in Gray's poem — is here sustained to a far greater length, and with much simpler language and imagery. Mr. Read's volume affords other equally remarkable instances of perception and polish; but in no other instance does he seem to us to have arrived at such depth of poetical feeling. We would willingly quote the whole of “Love's Gallery,” but for want of space must confine ourselves to two of its beautifully-finished portraits.

BERTHA.

AURELIA.

We regret that we are compelled to add, that in Mr. Read's volume, as in the volumes of nearly all young poets who have [page 414:] ever written, there is much that the world will willingly let die.

Edgar Poe is more generally known among us for his prose tales than for his poetry, of which he has written very little. He has produced one poem which will be remembered and read when nine-tenths of the popular poets of the day shall be forgotten.

Our readers will thank us for adorning our pages with this piece, which is called “The Raven,” in its integrity.

Our readers will all agree with us in pronouncing this poem to be one of unquestionable merit. It exhibits a truly extraordinary mastery over most of the difficulties of verse. The power of rhyme displayed in it has not been surpassed or even equalled in our time, except by the late Thomas Hood. The metre is, in the abstract, a very fine one; like all very fine metres, its movement once heard can never be forgotten; and it has the additional merit of being perfectly adapted to the subject; the cadence at the end of each stanza is, by itself, expressive of the calm and settled, and almost careless sorrow conveyed by the words. The phraseology is extremely colloquial, without being at all undignified; and the prevailing sentiment, though deeply mournful, and verging upon despair, is never unmanly in its tone. We have endeavoured, in our extracts, to take the high-water marks [page 417:] of American poetry in its different kinds; and as in Mr. Read's “Closing Scene” we have the best example we could find of the passive or feminine phase of poetical feeling, so here we have the highest example which America has yet produced of that manliness of passion which will rather relieve itself by laughter than by tears. Nothing can be better in its way than the mechanism of this poem. The expression of the sentiment upon which the poem is founded is most elaborately wrought out; and no poetical cal aid that could have been thought of is wanting. Mr. Poe has written other poems, but none of them, in our opinion, is comparable to this. He has also published a number of tales, which are of a very extraordinary character. They deal mainly in the simply horrible and marvellous; but these common elements of effect are managed with such unusual power, and in such a peculiar manner, that they cease to be vulgar. In the recent death of this young poet and romancist America has suffered a loss which will be more appreciated fifty years hence than it is now.

We have now placed before our readers the very best blossoms out of the garden — a very wide one — of American verse. The number of “respectable” versifiers who have come into existence in America, during the last few years, is surprising. The fertility of the New World in the production of mediocre poets exceeds even that of our own land. Indeed, almost every American seems to be possessed of the “accomplishment of verse” to some considerable degree. But that American poets are deficient in the “faculty divine,” which shews us thoughts, and feelings, and facts from a totally new point of view, and spiritually enriches us with the revelation of an individuality quite different from our own or any other with which we have hitherto become acquainted, must be abundantly manifest to those of our readers who possess the amount of originality which is requisite to enable them to recognise true originality in others. Unquestionable as is the merit of each of the four writers whom we have selected as being, to our mind, the best of the American poets, we must confess that it never rises to a higher mark than this-that their poetry equals first-class modern English poetry in its own way: that is to say, they have succeeded in producing repetitions-which are not necessarily imitations of firstrate original poetry; but have never attained to the production of first-rate original poetry themselves.

In conclusion, let us throw together a few recommendations which it seems especially desirable that American poets should follow, if they would ever rise above their present mediocrity, which is not tolerable to “gods or men,” although, unfortunately [page 418:] for the poets themselves, it is tolerated by women, and therefore by “columns.”

Follow, in poetry, the artistic law of architecture, which adopts, perfects, and displays, with the utmost degree of ostentation, the essential, but nothing else. Unsuperfluousness is the invariable effect and the most powerful means of expressing real passion; and it can never be too often repeated that, in a good poem, all the words must be the words; for true feeling, if it is able to express itself at all, does so with perfect accuracy and eloquence.

Do not write in metres that you do not understand. It is difficult to do full justice even to the simplest metres; but we find now-a-days the merest novices in verse attempting to dance in fetters which could hardly be worn gracefully by the mightiest poets.

In choosing your subject, and in deciding upon your method of treating it, remember that simple nature is full of endless significance and symbolism; meaning within meaning, like

and that the great difficulty in art is not to infuse nature with significance; but to apprehend and express the significance of nature. To do this properly, demands that your imagination should have received the highest religious culture; otherwise you will fall foul either of Pietism or Pantheism-extremes which are equally fatal to the poet.

Bear in mind the vast responsibility of public utterance. It is bad to become, like Milton's devil, “ a liar in four hundred mouths,” or more, by speaking without regard to the truth of the universe, in the most ephemeral magazine or newspaper; but how greatly aggravated is the crime of him who, in hope at least, is writing for all time, and raising, for aught he cares, a standing miracle of iniquity for such is the proper designation of certain “works of art” which we could name, but will not, lest we should be charged with bigotry.

In intellect, no less than in action, the way of life is narrow, and in intellect, far more than in action, the temptation to pursue “the broad way and the green” is mighty. But heavenly truth, like heavenly life, is found to be “exceeding broad” when we are once really in the fruition of it. “He that hath my word, let him speak my word faithfully; what is the chaff to the wheat? saith the Lord.” We know the things that truly concern us, and in what Book they are to be sought; and “if any man shall add to these things, God shall add to him the plagues that are written in this Book; and if any man shall take away from the words of the Book of this prophecy, God shall [page 419:] take away his part out of the Book of Life.” Again, “The words of the Lord are pure words, as silver tried in a furnace of earth, purified seven times.” Such should be, such must be the true poet's words; for, bear well in mind, that finish in art is not a question of surface, but of essence; finished expression is nothing more nor less than perfectly true expression; and all want of finish is simply want of truth. “How forcible are right words!” exclaims Job; and he might, alas! have exclaimed, with almost equal justice, “How forcible are wrong words!”

Do not, however, fancy that the execution is the only stage of your work at which you are to pray for inspiration. The greatest labour and the deepest inspiration of a large work must come before what is commonly called its execution. It is far better that the execution of your idea should be imperfect, than that the idea itself should lack worth and adequate general development.

Beware of the modern tendency to be unartistically explicit. Be as explicit as you can consistently with that primary demand of your art, extreme condensation and pregnancy; but remember that poetical language is representative and suggestive, and not, like prosaic, or “scientific” language, arbitrary and exhaustive. In Swedenborg's “Heaven and Hell,” where he describes the language of the angels, there are some passages which come nearer than any we have ever met with to a description of what poetical language ought to be: —

“This language is not learned artificially, but is inherent in every one; for it flows direct from their affection and thought. The sound of their speech corresponds to their affection, and the articulations of sound composing the words correspond to the ideas of their thought proceeding from their affection: and as their language corresponds to these, it likewise is spiritual, being in reality audible affection and speaking thought. Whoever attends to the subject may be aware that all thought proceeds from affection, and that the ideas of thought are various forms into which the common affection is distributed; for no thought or idea can possibly exist without affection, it being from this that it derives its soul and life. The angelic tongue has nothing in common with human [prosaic] languages, except with certain words, the sound of which is derived from some affection. Since the speech of the angels corresponds to their affection, which belongs to their love, and the love that prevails in heaven is love to the Lord, and love towards the neighbour, it is evident how elegant and pleasing must be their discourse; for it not only affects the ears, but also the interiors of the minds of those who hear it. There was a certain spirit, remarkable for hardness of heart, with whom an angel was speaking, and who at length burst into tears: he said that he could not help it, for what he heard was love itself speaking; and that he had never wept before. The speech of the angels is also full [page 420:] of wisdom, because it proceeds from their interior thought, and their interior thought is wisdom, as their interior affection is love. In their speech their love and wisdom are united, whence it is so full of wisdom that they are able to express by a single word what man cannot in a thousand.” — Heaven and Hell, translated by S. Noble, pp. 94-96.

Above all things, let the modern poet take the commonplace warning to beware of self-conceit, which, if allowed to get possession of him, will stop the development of his faculties, and destroy the powers to the use of which he has already attained. This is the age of the priestcraft of the intellect. We have cast off the bondage of those who would have influenced us unduly, in the name of God; but we have assumed the chains of a worse servitude in humbling ourselves before men who preach in their own names, for their own glory. This is not the place for an appeal to the self-degrading worshippers of the “intellect” — a class of persons who are only less miserable than those who treat superior faculty and information with disrespect. Our word is to the “men of intellect” themselves; particularly to the men of that kind of intellect which owes its power to health and vigour of imagination. To these we say, Do not be led astray by the adulation of your foolish worshippers; take your populalarity to pieces, and see what it is really worth. True fame must come from men who are your equals, or superiors, in gifts of mind; and these do not make their voices heard, until popularity which comes from those who are lower in the scale of intellect than yourself, has done with its loud and fitful blasts. To beseech you, with many arguments, to remember that he is the greatest who is, in heart as well as in work, the servant of all, would be to trespass upon the office of the Christian pastor; but there is one humiliating fact which we may here impress upon those who, justly or not, think themselves to be great among the teachers of others, and the glorifiers in verse, or otherwise, of the works of God. It is certain that the sense of truth and loveliness which makes you eloquent, is inferior in force to the sense of the same truth and loveliness which makes others silent. Hear the sentence of the most inspired man of modern times: —