Art. 10.-A NEW DEPARTURE IN ENGLISH POETRY. The Dynasts. A Drama of the Napoleonic Wars. Thomas Hardy. Three vols. London: Macmillan, 1904-1908. By IT is undeniable that nowadays we have no 'great poets,' no writers who can hope to draw an audience half as large as that which crowded to hear the chief Victorian singers, none who can secure a tenth part of their popularity and influence, or a hundredth of their pecuniary reward. From time to time the public, the new democratic public, with the natural uneasiness of the head that wears a crown which was never meant for it, insists upon asking, by the mouth of some such spokesman as a professor of English literature or an eminent lawyer out of office, why so lamentable a state of things has come about, and what it means. To this it has been replied, not altogether unreasonably, that it is for those who have asked the question to answer it if they can. The business of the poet is to make poetry; and the adequate reception of his work, the recognition of his value as singer or seer, is the business of the public. If high pedestals are out of fashion, let the buyers of statuary say why. For the sculptors that is a minor matter; they, at any rate, know what they are about; and it is even possible that they prefer the closer admiration of a few on their own level to the more vague and unintelligent worship of a mob below. To the critic, however, whether he be a cool scientific observer or an anxious lover of literature, or both at once, the question remains one of interest and importance. Is the poetry of to-day carrying on the great tradition? and if so, why is it not recognised and acclaimed ? In the quiet of a club-room, where the roar of the street is completely shut out, I hear this matter discussed from time to time between Mr Fondly, a great lover of the classics, and young Swiftsure, a journalist and man of letters, with many friends among the poets of the present day. The older gentleman is regretful but positive. The poets of to-day are minor poets; they have metrical skill and some facility; but they are not great. 'We find,' says he, 'in the poets of the past two things at Vol. 210.-No. 418, least a consistent vision which impresses us, and a E whose sound gratifies our expectation. The modern not impressive or satisfying in the same way, and ts this is plain proof of their inferiority.' Swiftsure is an intimate friend and pushes his cour attack to the verge of invective. No, the living writ work is not visible to you as a consistent whole beca it is not yet finished. His style is not satisfying to yo ear because its cadences are new. The finer sense d tinguishes at once; yours waits for the recommendatic of time and familiarity. It has always been so with the multitude of readers. The men they belittled in the thirties they magnified in the seventies and eighties, those are to-day your Tennysons and Brownings. There are others now writing who may live to conquer you yet, and certainly some who will fill high niches in the house of posterity, when they have been long enough dead Posterity will know their work as well as you know 'Paracelsus' or the 'Idylls of the King,' and will try to reject all that comes afterwards as you now reject any thing which dares to succeed your favourites witho copying them.' • Τὰ καλὰ πάλαι εὕρηται,' says Mr Fondly with untrouble complacency, 'but I am always glad to see new poetrywhen it is good.' 'Pardon me when it reminds you of the classics. The Athenians were ever seeking something new. The Boeotians, I am sure, wanted nothing but the old. In painting, music, poetry, you hate to be dragged an inch beyond your former pleasant experience. You forgetyou do not realise-what you are losing.' 'I realise what I am keeping,' says Mr Fondly. 'Oh yes; the 'Odes' of Horace and the Republic' of Plato; but it is not true that they are the sum of all poetry and all philosophy. Your Chaucer, your Milton, your Wordsworth, all went beyond them, though, if you had been their contemporary, you would have found each of the three as superfluous as you now find those who go beyond them in their turn.' And what is it to "go beyond," exactly?' Poetry,' says Swiftsure is a song of rainbows. It told the ancients of a few primitive colours; it tells us of a thousand tints in exquisite gradation. From the old poets you get certain feelings in great splendour, but er the feeling of your own generation, the very iches that could give you the most intense and intimate asure. Life has learnt much since Horace's time, both feeling and expression. In a sensitive anthology of glish lyrics, chosen for their fineness and not their sociations, the poems of the last fifty years would itnumber those of the previous five centuries.' 'Indeed?' says Mr Fondly. And will you tell me the ames of the great poets in your anthology-the living nes, I mean?' 'Not now,' replies Swiftsure; 'you must read them irst.' They go off, laughing together; and their audience is left to pick up and examine the foils they have been using. Upon reflection, Swiftsure's best weapon seems to be the argument from feeling, the most vital and distinguishing element in literature of any kind. There can be no doubt of the development wrought by modern science and philosophy in human feeling, or rather in that combination of thought and feeling which determines each man's view of the world. Coventry Patmore used to tell Mr Bridges that the only use of science is to provide fresh images for poetry. Certainly Milton did use scientific knowledge in this way; he tells us how Satan's shield 'Hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose orb Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands Rivers or mountains in her spotty globe.' It may be objected that here, as Dr Johnson pointed out, The Earth, that, sleeping 'neath her frozen stole, * 'Poetical Works of Robert Bridges,' vol. ii. November.' least a consistent vision which impresses us, and a music whose sound gratifies our expectation. The moderns are not impressive or satisfying in the same way, and to us this is plain proof of their inferiority.' Swiftsure is an intimate friend and pushes his counterattack to the verge of invective. No, the living writer's work is not visible to you as a consistent whole because it is not yet finished. His style is not satisfying to your ear because its cadences are new. The finer sense distinguishes at once; yours waits for the recommendation of time and familiarity. It has always been so with the multitude of readers. The men they belittled in the thirties they magnified in the seventies and eighties; those are to-day your Tennysons and Brownings. There are others now writing who may live to conquer you yet, and certainly some who will fill high niches in the house of posterity, when they have been long enough dead. Posterity will know their work as well as you know 'Paracelsus' or the 'Idylls of the King,' and will try to reject all that comes afterwards as you now reject anything which dares to succeed your favourites without copying them.' • Τὰ καλὰ πάλαι εὕρηται,' says Mr Fondly with untroubled complacency, but I am always glad to see new poetrywhen it is good.' The 'Pardon me when it reminds you of the classics. The Athenians were ever seeking something new. Boeotians, I am sure, wanted nothing but the old. In painting, music, poetry, you hate to be dragged an inch beyond your former pleasant experience. You forgetyou do not realise-what you are losing.' 'I realise what I am keeping,' says Mr Fondly. 'Oh yes; the 'Odes' of Horace and the Republic' of Plato; but it is not true that they are the sum of all poetry and all philosophy. Your Chaucer, your Milton, your Wordsworth, all went beyond them, though, if you had been their contemporary, you would have found each of the three as superfluous as you now find those who go beyond them in their turn.' 'And what is it to "go beyond," exactly?' 'Poetry,' says Swiftsure is a song of rainbows. It told the ancients of a few primitive colours; it tells us of a thousand tints in exquisite gradation. From the old poets you get certain feelings in great splendour, but never the feeling of your own generation, the very touches that could give you the most intense and intimate pleasure. Life has learnt much since Horace's time, both in feeling and expression. In a sensitive anthology of English lyrics, chosen for their fineness and not their associations, the poems of the last fifty years would outnumber those of the previous five centuries.' 'Indeed?' says Mr Fondly. And will you tell me the names of the great poets in your anthology—the living ones, I mean?' 'Not now,' replies Swiftsure; you must read them first.' They go off, laughing together; and their audience is left to pick up and examine the foils they have been using. Upon reflection, Swiftsure's best weapon seems to be the argument from feeling, the most vital and distinguishing element in literature of any kind. There can be no doubt of the development wrought by modern science and philosophy in human feeling, or rather in that combination of thought and feeling which determines each man's view of the world. Coventry Patmore used to tell Mr Bridges that the only use of science is to provide fresh images for poetry. Certainly Milton did. use scientific knowledge in this way; he tells us how Satan's shield 'Hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose orb Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands Rivers or mountains in her spotty globe.' It may be objected that here, as Dr Johnson pointed out, 'he expands the adventitious image beyond the dimensions which the occasion required.' No such charge can be brought against the best of the moderns. There is nothing adventitious about the knowledge of recent scientific theory which underlies such a passage as this, on the long dark night of winter, slowly lengthening, And soon to bury in snow The Earth, that, sleeping 'neath her frozen stole, * Poetical Works of Robert Bridges,' vol. ii. November.' |