_LETTER TO MR. B--._
WEST POINT, 1831.
DEAR B......... Believing only a portion of my former volume to beworthy a second edition-that small portion I thought it as well toinclude in the present book as to republish by itself. I have thereforeherein combined 'Al Aaraaf' and 'Tamerlane' with other poems hithertounprinted. Nor have I hesitated to insert from the 'Minor Poems,' nowomitted, whole lines, and even passages, to the end that being placedin a fairer light, and the trash shaken from them in which they wereimbedded, they may have some chance of being seen by posterity.
It has been said that a good critique on a poem may be written byone who is no poet himself. This, according to your idea and _mine _ofpoetry, I feel to be false-the less poetical the critic, the less justthe critique, and the converse. On this account, and because there arebut few B-'s in the world, I would be as much ashamed of the world'sgood opinion as proud of your own. Another than yourself might hereobserve, 'Shakespeare is in possession of the world's good opinion, andyet Shakespeare is the greatest of poets. It appears then that the worldjudge 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 calledtheirs as a man would call a book his, having bought it; he did notwrite the book, but it is his; they did not originate the opinion, butit is theirs. A fool, for example, thinks Shakespeare a great poet-yetthe fool has never read Shakespeare. But the fool's neighbor, who is astep 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 orunderstood, but whose feet (by which I mean his everyday actions)are sufficiently near to be discerned, and by means of which thatsuperiority is ascertained, which but for them would never have beendiscovered-this neighbor asserts that Shakespeare is a great poet--thefool believes him, and it is henceforward his _opinion. _This neighbor'sown opinion has, in like manner, been adopted from one above him,and so, ascendingly, to a few gifted individuals who kneel around thesummit, beholding, face to face, the master spirit who stands upon thepinnacle.
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 witof the world. I say established; for it is with literature as with lawor empire-an established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne inpossession. Besides, one might suppose that books, like their authors,improve by travel-their having crossed the sea is, with us, so great adistinction. Our antiquaries abandon time for distance; our very fopsglance from the binding to the bottom of the title-page, where themystic characters which spell London, Paris, or Genoa, are precisely somany letters of recommendation.
I mentioned just now a vulgar error as regards criticism. I think thenotion that no poet can form a correct estimate of his own writings isanother. I remarked before that in proportion to the poetical talentwould be the justice of a critique upon poetry. Therefore a badpoet would, I grant, make a false critique, and his self-love wouldinfallibly bias his little judgment in his favor; but a poet, who isindeed a poet, could not, I think, fail of making-a just critique;whatever should be deducted on the score of self-love might be replacedon account of his intimate acquaintance with the subject; in short,we have more instances of false criticism than of just where one's ownwritings 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 greatexample of the contrary; but his opinion with respect to the'Paradise Regained' is by no means fairly ascertained. By what trivialcircumstances men are often led to assert what they do not reallybelieve! 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 men do not likeepics, whatever they may say to the contrary, and, reading those ofMilton in their natural order, are too much wearied with the first toderive 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 uponthe most singular heresy in its modern history-the heresy of what iscalled, very foolishly, the Lake School. Some years ago I might havebeen induced, by an occasion like the present, to attempt a formalrefutation of their doctrine; at present it would be a work ofsupererogation. The wise must bow to the wisdom of such men as Coleridgeand Southey, but, being wise, have laughed at poetical theories soprosaically exemplifled.
Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared poetry the mostphilosophical of all writings*-but it required a Wordsworth to pronounceit the most metaphysical. He seems to think that the end of poetryis, or should be, instruction; yet it is a truism that the end of ourexistence is happiness; if so, the end of every separate part of ourexistence, everything connected with our existence, should be stillhappiness. Therefore the end of instruction should be happiness; andhappiness is another name for pleasure;-therefore the end of instructionshould be pleasure: yet we see the above-mentioned opinion impliesprecisely the reverse.
To proceed: _ceteris paribus,_ he who pleases is of more importance tohis fellow-men than he who instructs, since utility is happiness, andpleasure is the end already obtained which instruction is merely themeans of obtaining.
I see no reason, then, why our metaphysical poets should plumethemselves so much on the utility of their works, unless indeed theyrefer to instruction with eternity in view; in which case, sincererespect for their piety would not allow me to express my contempt fortheir judgment; contempt which it would be difficult to conceal, sincetheir writings are professedly to be understood by the few, and it isthe many who stand in need of salvation. In such case I should no doubtbe tempted to think of the devil in 'Melmoth.' who labors indefatigably,through three octavo volumes, to accomplish the destruction of oneor two souls, while any common devil would have demolished one or twothousand.
Against the subtleties which would make poetry a study-not a passion-itbecomes the metaphysician to reason-but the poet to protest.Yet Wordsworth and Coleridge are men in years; the one imbued incontemplation from his childhood; the other a giant in intellect andlearning. The diffidence, then, with which I venture to dispute theirauthority would be overwhelming did I not feel, from the bottom of myheart, that learning has little to do with the imagination-intellectwith the passions-or age with poetry.
'Trifles, like straws, upon the surface flow; He who would search for pearls must dive below,'
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; Truthlies in the huge abysses where wisdom is sought-not in the palpablepalaces where she is found. The ancients were not always right inhiding--the goddess in a well; witness the light which Bacon has thrownupon philosophy; witness the principles of our divine faith--that moralmechanism by which the simplicity of a child may overbalance the wisdomof a man.
We see an instance of Coleridge's liability to err, in his 'BiographiaLiteraria'--professedly his literary life and opinions, but, in fact, atreatise _de omni scibili et quibusdam aliis. _He goes wrong by reasonof his very profundity, and of his error we have a natural type in thecontemplation 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 whosurveys it less inquisitively is conscious of all for which the star isuseful to us below-its brilliancy and its beauty.
As to Wordsworth, I have no faith in him. That he had in youth thefeelings of a poet I believe-for there are glimpses of extreme delicacyin his writings-(and delicacy is the poet's own kingdom-his _ElDorado)-but they _have the appearance of a better day recollected; andglimpses, at best, are little evidence of present poetic fire; we knowthat a few straggling flowers spring up daily in the crevices of theglacier.
He was to blame in wearing away his youth in contemplation with the endof poetizing in his manhood. With the increase of his judgment the lightwhich should make it apparent has faded away. His judgment consequentlyis too correct. This may not be understood-but the old Goths of Germanywould have understood it, who used to debate matters of importance totheir State twice, once when drunk, and once when sober-sober that theymight not be deficient in formality--drunk lest they should be destituteof vigor.
The long wordy discussions by which he tries to reason us intoadmiration of his poetry, speak very little in his favor: they arefull of such assertions as this (I have opened one of his volumes atrandom)--'Of genius the only proof is the act of doing well what isworthy to be done, and what was never done before;'-indeed? then itfollows that in doing what is unworthy to be done, or what _has _beendone before, no genius can be evinced; yet the picking of pockets is anunworthy act, pockets have been picked time immemorial, and Barrington,the pickpocket, in point of genius, would have thought hard of acomparison with William Wordsworth, the poet.
Again, in estimating the merit of certain poems, whether they beOssian's or Macpherson's can surely be of little consequence, yet, inorder to prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many pages inthe controversy. _Tantaene animis? _Can great minds descend to suchabsurdity? But worse still: that he may bear down every argument infavor of these poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage, in hisabomination with which he expects the reader to sympathize. It is thebeginning of the epic poem 'Temora.' 'The blue waves of Ullin roll inlight; the green hills are covered with day; trees shake their dustyheads in the breeze.' And this this gorgeous, yet simple imagery, whereall is alive and panting with immortality-this, William Wordsworth, theauthor of 'Peter Bell,' has _selected _for his contempt. We shall seewhat better he, in his own person, has to offer. Imprimis:
'And now she's at the pony's tail, And now she's at the pony's head, On that side now, and now on this; And, almost stifled with her bliss,
A few sad tears does Betty shed.... She pats the pony, where or when She knows not.... happy Betty Foy! Oh, Johnny, never mind the doctor!'
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 was near,--the lamb was all alone, And by a slender cord was-tether'd to a stone.'
Now, we have no doubt this is all true: we will believe it, indeed wewill, Mr. W. Is it sympathy for the sheep you wish to excite? I love asheep from the bottom of my heart.
But there are occasions, dear B-, there are occasions when evenWordsworth is reasonable. Even Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end,and the most unlucky blunders must come to a conclusion. Here is anextract from his preface:-
'Those who have been accustomed to the phraseology of modem writers, ifthey 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 inducedto inquire by what species of courtesy these attempts have beenpermitted to assume that title.' Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!
Yet, let not Mr. W. despair; he has given immortality to a wagon, andthe bee Sophocles has transmitted to eternity a sore toe, and dignifieda tragedy with a chorus of turkeys.
Of Coleridge, I can not speak but with reverence. His toweringintellect! his gigantic power! To use an author quoted by himself,_'Tai trouve souvent que la plupart des sectes ont raison dans une bonnepartie de ce qu'elles avancent, mais non pas en ce qu'elles nient,' and_to employ his own language, he has imprisoned his own conceptions bythe barrier he has erected against those of others. It is lamentable tothink that such a mind should be buried in metaphysics, and, like theNyctanthes, waste its perfume upon the night alone. In reading thatman's poetry, I tremble like one who stands upon a volcano, consciousfrom the very darkness bursting from the crater, of the fire and thelight that are weltering below.
What is poetry?--Poetry! that Proteus-like idea, with as manyappellations as the nine-titled Corcyra! 'Give me,' I demanded ofa scholar some time ago, 'give me a definition of poetry.'_'Tresvolontiers;' _and he proceeded to his library, brought me a Dr.Johnson, and overwhelmed me with a definition. Shade of the immortalShakespeare! I imagine to myself the scowl of your spiritual eye uponthe profanity of that scurrilous Ursa Major. Think of poetry, dear B-,think of poetry, and then think of Dr. Samuel Johnson! Think of all thatis 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, forits _immediate _object, pleasure, not truth; to romance, by having, forits object, an _indefinite _instead of a _definite _pleasure, beinga poem only so far as this object is attained; romance presentingperceptible images with definite, poetry with indefinite sensations,to which end music is an _essential, since _the comprehension of sweetsound is our most indefinite conception. Music, when combined with apleasurable idea, is poetry; music, without the idea, is simply music;the idea, wi thout the music, is prose, from its very definitiveness.
What was meant by the invective against him who had no music in hissoul?
To sum up this long rigmarole, I have, dear B--, what you, no doubt,perceive, for the metaphysical poets as poets, the most sovereigncontempt. That they have followers proves nothing-
'No Indian prince has to his palace More followers than a thief to the gallows.