We were now in imminent danger of being discomfited; but, as good luckwould have it, Doctor Ponnonner, having rallied, returned to our rescue,and inquired if the people of Egypt would seriously pretend to rival themoderns in the all--important particular of dress.
The Count, at this, glanced downward to the straps of his pantaloons,and then taking hold of the end of one of his coat-tails, held it upclose to his eyes for some minutes. Letting it fall, at last, his mouthextended itself very gradually from ear to ear; but I do not rememberthat he said any thing in the way of reply.
Hereupon we recovered our spirits, and the Doctor, approaching the Mummywith great dignity, desired it to say candidly, upon its honor asa gentleman, if the Egyptians had comprehended, at any period, themanufacture of either Ponnonner's lozenges or Brandreth's pills.
We looked, with profound anxiety, for an answer--but in vain. It wasnot forthcoming. The Egyptian blushed and hung down his head. Never wastriumph more consummate; never was defeat borne with so ill agrace. Indeed, I could not endure the spectacle of the poor Mummy'smortification. I reached my hat, bowed to him stiffly, and took leave.
Upon getting home I found it past four o'clock, and went immediatelyto bed. It is now ten A.M. I have been up since seven, penning thesememoranda for the benefit of my family and of mankind. The former Ishall behold no more. My wife is a shrew. The truth is, I am heartilysick of this life and of the nineteenth century in general. I amconvinced that every thing is going wrong. Besides, I am anxious toknow who will be President in 2045. As soon, therefore, as I shave andswallow a cup of coffee, I shall just step over to Ponnonner's and getembalmed for a couple of hundred years.
THE POETIC PRINCIPLE
IN speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be eitherthorough or profound. While discussing, very much at random, theessentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be tocite for consideration, some few of those minor English or Americanpoems which best suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, haveleft the most definite impression. By "minor poems" I mean, of course,poems of little length. And here, in the beginning, permit me to saya few words in regard to a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whetherrightfully or wrongfully, has always had its influence in my owncritical estimate of the poem. I hold that a long poem does not exist. Imaintain that the phrase, "a long poem," is simply a flat contradictionin terms.
I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch asit excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratioof this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through a psychalnecessity, transient. That degree of excitement which would entitlea poem to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout acomposition of any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at thevery utmost, it flags--fails--a revulsion ensues--and then the poem is,in effect, and in fact, no longer such.
There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty in reconcilingthe critical dictum that the "Paradise Lost" is to be devoutly admiredthroughout, with the absolute impossibility of maintaining for it,during perusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical dictumwould demand. This great work, in fact, is to be regarded as poetical,only when, losing sight of that vital requisite in all works of Art,Unity, we view it merely as a series of minor poems. If, to preserveits Unity--its totality of effect or impression--we read it (as would benecessary) at a single sitting, the result is but a constant alternationof excitement and depression. After a passage of what we feel to betrue poetry, there follows, inevitably, a passage of platitude which nocritical prejudgment can force us to admire; but if, upon completingthe work, we read it again, omitting the first book--that is to say,commencing with the second--we shall be surprised at now findingthat admirable which we before condemned--that damnable which we hadpreviously so much admired. It follows from all this that the ultimate,aggregate, or absolute effect of even the best epic under the sun, is anullity:--and this is precisely the fact.
In regard to the Iliad, we have, if not positive proof, at least verygood reason for believing it intended as a series of lyrics; but,granting the epic intention, I can say only that the work is based in animperfect sense of art. The modern epic is, of the supposititious ancientmodel, but an inconsiderate and blindfold imitation. But the day ofthese artistic anomalies is over. If, at any time, any very long poem_were _popular in reality, which I doubt, it is at least clear that novery long poem will ever be popular again.
That the extent of a poetical work is, _ceteris paribus, _the measureof its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we thus state it, a propositionsufficiently absurd--yet we are indebted for it to the QuarterlyReviews. Surely there can be nothing in mere _size, _abstractlyconsidered--there can be nothing in mere _bulk, so _far as a volumeis concerned, which has so continuously elicited admiration from thesesaturnine pamphlets! A mountain, to be sure, by the mere sentiment ofphysical magnitude which it conveys, _does _impress us with a senseof the sublime--but no man is impressed after _this _fashion by thematerial grandeur of even "The Columbiad." Even the Quarterlies havenot instructed us to be so impressed by it. As _yet, _they have not_insisted _on our estimating "Lamar" tine by the cubic foot, or Pollockby the pound--but what else are we to _infer _from their continualplating about "sustained effort"? If, by "sustained effort," any littlegentleman has accomplished an epic, let us frankly commend him for theeffort--if this indeed be a thing conk mendable--but let us forbearpraising the epic on the effort's account. It is to be hoped that commonsense, in the time to come, will prefer deciding upon a work of Artrather by the impression it makes--by the effect it produces--than bythe time it took to impress the effect, or by the amount of "sustainedeffort" which had been found necessary in effecting the impression. Thefact is, that perseverance is one thing and genius quite another--norcan all the Quarterlies in Christendom confound them. By and by, thisproposition, with many which I have been just urging, will be receivedas self-evident. In the meantime, by being generally condemned asfalsities, they will not be essentially damaged as truths.
On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief.Undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A very short poem,while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces aprofound or enduring effect. There must be the steady pressing downof the stamp upon the wax. De Beranger has wrought innumerablethings, pungent and spirit-stirring, but in general they have been tooimponderous to stamp themselves deeply into the public attention, andthus, as so many feathers of fancy, have been blown aloft only to bewhistled down the wind.
A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in depressinga poem, in keeping it out of the popular view, is afforded by thefollowing exquisite little Serenade--
I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright. I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Has led me--who knows how?-- To thy chamber-window, sweet!
The wandering airs they faint On the dark the silent stream-- The champak odors fail Like sweet thoughts in a dream; The nightingale's complaint, It dies upon her heart, As I must die on shine, O, beloved as thou art!
O, lift me from the grass! I die, I faint, I fail! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas! My heart beats loud and fast: O, press it close to shine again, Where it will break at last.
Very few perhaps are familiar with these lines--yet no less a poetthan Shelley is their author. Their warm, yet delicate and etherealimagination will be appreciated by all, but by none so thoroughly as byhim who has himself arisen from sweet dreams of one beloved to bathe inthe aromatic air of a southern midsummer night.
One of the finest poems by Willis--the very best in my opinion whichhe has ever written--has no doubt, through this same defect of unduebrevity, been kept back from its prop
er position, not less in the
The shadows lay along Broadway, 'Twas near the twilight-tide-- And slowly there a lady fair Was walking in her pride. Alone walk'd she; but, viewlessly, Walk'd spirits at her side.
Peace charm'd the street beneath her feet, And Honor charm'd the air; And all astir looked kind on her, And called her good as fair-- For all God ever gave to her She kept with chary care.
She kept with care her beauties rare From lovers warm and true-- For heart was cold to all but gold, And the rich came not to won, But honor'd well her charms to sell. If priests the selling do.
Now walking there was one more fair-- A slight girl, lily-pale; And she had unseen company To make the spirit quail-- 'Twixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn, And nothing could avail.
No mercy now can clear her brow From this world's peace to pray For as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, Her woman's heart gave way!-- But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven By man is cursed alway!
In this composition we find it difficult to recognize the Willis who haswritten so many mere "verses of society." The lines are not only richlyideal, but full of energy, while they breathe an earnestness, an evidentsincerity of sentiment, for which we look in vain throughout all theother works of this author.
While the epic mania, while the idea that to merit in poetry prolixityis indispensable, has for some years past been gradually dying out ofthe public mind, by mere dint of its own absurdity, we find it succeededby a heresy too palpably false to be long tolerated, but one which,in the brief period it has already endured, may be said to haveaccomplished more in the corruption of our Poetical Literature than allits other enemies combined. I allude to the heresy of _The Didactic. _Ithas been assumed, tacitly and avowedly, directly and indirectly, thatthe ultimate object of all Poetry is Truth. Every poem, it is said,should inculcate a morals and by this moral is the poetical merit of thework to be adjudged. We Americans especially have patronized this happyidea, and we Bostonians very especially have developed it in full. Wehave taken it into our heads that to write a poem simply for the poem'ssake, and to acknowledge such to have been our design, would be toconfess ourselves radically wanting in the true poetic dignity andforce:--but the simple fact is that would we but permit ourselves tolook into our own souls we should immediately there discover that underthe sun there neither exists nor _can _exist any work more thoroughlydignified, more supremely noble, than this very poem, this poem _per se,_this poem which is a poem and nothing more, this poem written solelyfor the poem's sake.
With as deep a reverence for the True as ever inspired the bosom of man,I would nevertheless limit, in some measure, its modes of inculcation.I would limit to enforce them. I would not enfeeble them by dissipation.The demands of Truth are severe. She has no sympathy with the myrtles.All _that _which is so indispensable in Song is precisely all _that_with which _she _has nothing whatever to do. It is but making her aflaunting paradox to wreathe her in gems and flowers. In enforcing atruth we need severity rather than efflorescence of language. We must besimple, precise, terse. We must be cool, calm, unimpassioned. In aword, we must be in that mood which, as nearly as possible, is theexact converse of the poetical. _He _must be blind indeed who does notperceive the radical and chasmal difference between the truthful and thepoetical modes of inculcation. He must be theory-mad beyond redemptionwho, in spite of these differences, shall still persist in attempting toreconcile the obstinate oils and waters of Poetry and Truth.
Dividing the world of mind into its three most immediately obviousdistinctions, we have the Pure Intellect, Taste, and the Moral Sense. Iplace Taste in the middle, because it is just this position which in themind it occupies. It holds intimate relations with either extreme;but from the Moral Sense is separated by so faint a difference thatAristotle has not hesitated to place some of its operations among thevirtues themselves. Nevertheless we find the _offices _of the triomarked with a sufficient distinction. Just as the Intellect concernsitself with Truth, so Taste informs us of the Beautiful, while the MoralSense is regardful of Duty. Of this latter, while Conscience teachesthe obligation, and Reason the expediency, Taste contents herself withdisplaying the charms:--waging war upon Vice solely on the ground ofher deformity--her disproportion--her animosity to the fitting, to theappropriate, to the harmonious--in a word, to Beauty.
An immortal instinct deep within the spirit of man is thus plainly asense of the Beautiful. This it is which administers to his delight inthe manifold forms, and sounds, and odors and sentiments amid which heexists. And just as the lily is repeated in the lake, or the eyes ofAmaryllis in the mirror, so is the mere oral or written repetitionof these forms, and sounds, and colors, and odors, and sentiments aduplicate source of the light. But this mere repetition is not poetry.He who shall simply sing, with however glowing enthusiasm, or withhowever vivid a truth of description, of the sights, and sounds, andodors, and colors, and sentiments which greet _him _in common with allmankind--he, I say, has yet failed to prove his divine title. There isstill a something in the distance which he has been unable to attain. Wehave still a thirst unquenchable, to allay which he has not shown us thecrystal springs. This thirst belongs to the immortality of Man. It is atonce a consequence and an indication of his perennial existence. It isthe desire of the moth for the star. It is no mere appreciation of theBeauty before us, but a wild effort to reach the Beauty above. Inspiredby an ecstatic prescience of the glories beyond the grave, we struggleby multiform combinations among the things and thoughts of Timeto attain a portion of that Loveliness whose very elements perhapsappertain to eternity alone. And thus when by Poetry, or when by Music,the most entrancing of the poetic moods, we find ourselves melted intotears, we weep then, not as the Abbate Gravina supposes, through excessof pleasure, but through a certain petulant, impatient sorrow at ourinability to grasp now, wholly, here on earth, at once and for ever,those divine and rapturous joys of which _through' _the poem, or_through _the music, we attain to but brief and indeterminate glimpses.
The struggle to apprehend the supernal Loveliness--this struggle, on thepart of souls fittingly constituted--has given to the world all _that_which it (the world) has ever been enabled at once to understand and_to feel _as poetic.
The Poetic Sentiment, of course, may develop itself in various modes--inPainting, in Sculpture, in Architecture, in the Dance--very especiallyin Music--and very peculiarly, and with a wide field, in the composition of the Landscape Garden. Our present theme, however, has regardonly to its manifestation in words. And here let me speak briefly on thetopic of rhythm. Contenting myself with the certainty that Music, inits various modes of metre, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so vast a momentin Poetry as never to be wisely rejected--is so vitally important anadjunct, that he is simply silly who declines its assistance, I will notnow pause to maintain its absolute essentiality. It is in Music perhapsthat the soul most nearly attains the great end for which, when inspiredby the Poetic Sentiment, it struggles--the creation of supernal Beauty.It _may _be, indeed, that here this sublime end is, now and then,attained in _fact. _We are often made to feel, with a shivering delight,that from an earthly harp are stricken notes which _cannot _have beenunfamiliar to the angels. And thus there can be little doubt that inthe union of Poetry with Music in its popular sense, we shall find thewidest field for the Poetic development. The old Bards and Minnesingershad advantages which we do not possess--and Thomas Moore, singing hisown songs, was, in the most legitimate manner, perfecting them as poems.
To recapitulate then:--I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words as_The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty. _Its sole arbiter is Taste. Withthe Intellect or with the Conscience it has only collateral relations.Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with Duty or withTruth.
A few words, however, in explanation. _That _pleasure which is at oncethe most pure, the
most elevating, and the most intense, is derived, Imaintain, from the contemplation of the Beautiful. In the contemplationof Beauty we alone find it possible to attain that pleasurableelevation, or excitement _of the soul, _which we recognize as the PoeticSentiment, and which is so easily distinguished from Truth, which is thesatisfaction of the Reason, or from Passion, which is the excitement ofthe heart. I make Beauty, therefore--using the word as inclusive of thesublime--I make Beauty the province of the poem, simply because it is anobvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring as directlyas possible from their causes:--no one as yet having been weak enough todeny that the peculiar elevation in question is at least _most readily_attainable in the poem. It by no means follows, however, that theincitements of Passion' or the precepts of Duty, or even the lessons ofTruth, may not be introduced into a poem, and with advantage; for theymay subserve incidentally, in various ways, the general purposes ofthe work: but the true artist will always contrive to tone them down inproper subjection to that _Beauty _which is the atmosphere and the realessence of the poem.
I cannot better introduce the few poems which I shall present foryour consideration, than by the citation of the Proem to Longfellow's"Waif":--
The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an Eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist;
The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 5 Page 12
