CHARLES KINGSLEY ON ALEXANDER
SMITH AND ALEXANDER POPE
[From _Fraser's Magazine_, October, 1853]
_Poems_, by ALEXANDER SMITH. London, Bogue. 1853
On reading this little book, and considering all the exaggerated praise
and exaggerated blame which have been lavished on it, we could not help
falling into many thoughts about the history of English poetry for the
last forty years, and about its future destiny. Great poets, even true
poets, are becoming more and more rare among us. There are those even
who say that we have none; an assertion which, as long as Mr. Tennyson
lives, we shall take the liberty of denying. But, were he, which Heaven
forbid, taken from us, whom have we to succeed him? And he, too, is
rather a poet of the sunset than of the dawn--of the autumn than of the
spring. His gorgeousness is that of the solemn and fading year; not of
its youth, full of hope, freshness, gay and unconscious life. Like some
stately hollyhock or dahlia of this month's gardens, he endures while
all other flowers are dying; but all around is winter--a mild one,
perhaps, wherein a few annuals or pretty field weeds still linger on;
but, like all mild winters, especially prolific in fungi, which, too,
are not without their gaudiness, even their beauty, although bred only
from the decay of higher organisms, the plagiarists of the vegetable
world....
"What matter, after all?" one says to oneself in despair, re-echoing Mr.
Carlyle. "Man was not sent into this world to write poetry. What we want
is truth--what we want is activity. Of the latter we have enough in all
conscience just now. Let the former need be provided for by honest and
righteous history, and as for poets, let the dead bury their dead." ...
And yet, after all, man will write poetry, in spite of Mr. Carlyle: nay,
beings who are not men, but mere forked radishes, will write it. Man is
a poetry-writing animal. Perhaps he was meant to be one. At all events,
he can no more be kept from it than from eating. It is better, with Mr.
Carlyle's leave, to believe that the existence of poetry indicates some
universal human hunger, whether after "the beautiful," or after "fame,"
or after the means of paying butchers' bills, and accepting it as a
necessary evil which must be committed, to see that it be committed as
well, or at least a little ill, as possible. In excuse of which we may
quote Mr. Carlyle against himself, reminding him of a saying in Goethe
once bepraised by him in print,--"we must take care of the beautiful for
the useful will take care of itself."
And never, certainly, since Pope wrote his _Dunciad_, did the beautiful
require more taking care of, or evince less capacity for taking care of
itself, and never, we must add, was less capacity for taking care of it
evinced by its accredited guardians of the press than at this present
time, if the reception given to Mr. Smith's poem is to be taken as a
fair expression of "the public taste."
Now, let it be fairly understood, Mr. Alexander Smith is not the object
of our reproaches: but Mr. Smith's models and flatterers. Against him we
have nothing whatever to say; for him, very much indeed....
What if he has often copied.... He does not more than all schools have
done, copy their own masters.... We by no means agree in the modern
outcry for "originality." ...
As for manner, he does sometimes, in imitating his models, out-Herod
Herod. But why not? If Herod be a worthy king, let him be by all means
out-Heroded, if any man can do it. One cannot have too much of a good
thing. If it be right to bedizen verses with metaphors and similes which
have no reference, either in tone or in subject, to the matter in hand,
let there be as many of them as possible. If a saddle is a proper place
for jewels, then let the seat be paved with diamonds and emeralds, and
Runjeet Singh's harness maker be considered as a lofty artist, for whose
barbaric splendour Mr. Peat and his Melton customers are to forswear
pigskin and severe simplicity--not to say utility, and comfort. If
poetic diction be different in species from plain English, then let us
have it as poetical as possible, as unlike English: as ungrammatical,
abrupt, insolved, transposed, as the clumsiness, carelessness, or
caprice of man can make it. If it be correct to express human thought by
writing whole pages of vague and bald abstract metaphyric, and then
trying to explain them by concrete concetti; which bear an entirely
accidental and mystical likeness to the notion which they are to
illustrate, then let the metaphysic be as abstract as possible, the
concetti as fanciful and far-fetched as possible. If Marino and Cowley
be greater poets than Ariosto and Milton, let young poets imitate the
former with might and main, and avoid spoiling their style by any
perusal of the too-intelligible common sense of the latter. If Byron's
moral (which used to be thought execrable) be really his great
excellence, his style (which used to be thought almost perfect) unworthy
of this age of progress, then let us have his moral without his style,
his matter without his form; or--that we may be sure of never falling
for a moment into his besetting sin of terseness, grace, and
completeness--without any form at all. If poetry, in order to be worthy
of the nineteenth century, ought to be as unlike as possible to Homer or
Sophocles, Virgil or Horace, Shakespeare or Spenser, Dante or Tasso, let
those too idolised names be rased henceforth from the calendar; let the
_Ars Poetica_, be consigned to flames by Mr. Calcraft, and Bartinus
Scriblerus's _Art of Sinking_ placed forthwith on the list of the
Committee of the Council for Education, that not a working man in
England may be ignorant that, whatsoever superstitions about art may
have haunted the benighted heathens who built the Parthenon, _nous avons
changés tout cela_. In one word, if it be best and most fitting to write
poetry in the style in which almost everyone has been trying to write it
since Pope and plain sense went out, and Shelley and the seventh heaven
came in; let it be so written: and let him who most perfectly so "sets
the age to music," be presented by the assembled guild of critics, not
with the obsolete and too classical laurel, but with an electro-plated
brass medal, bearing the due inscription, _Ars est nescire artem_. And
when, in twelve months' time, he finds himself forgotten, perhaps
descried, for the sake of the next aspirant, let him reconsider himself,
try whether, after all, the common sense of the many will not prove a
juster and a firmer standing-ground than the sentimentality and bad
taste of the few, and read Alexander Pope.
In Pope's writings, whatsoever he may not find, he will find the very
excellences after which our young poets strive in vain, produced by
their seeming opposites, which are now despised and discarded;
naturalness produced by studious art; daring sublimity by strict
self-restraint; depth by clear simplicity; pathos by easy grace; and a
morality infinitely more merciful, as well as more righteous, than the
one now in vogue among poetasters, by honest faith in God....
Yes, Pope knew, as well as Wordsworth and our "Naturalisti," that no
physical fact was so mean or coarse as to be below the dignity of
poetry--when in its right place. He could draw a pathos and sublimity
out of the dirty inn-chamber, such as Wordsworth never elicited from
tubs and daffodils--because he could use them according to the rules of
art, which are the rules of sound reason and of true taste....
The real cause of the modern vagueness is rather to be found in shallow
and unsound culture, and in that inability, or carelessness about seeing
any object clearly, which besets our poets just now; as the cause of
antique clearness lies in the nobler and healthier manhood, in the
severer and more methodic habits of thought, the sounder philosophic and
critical training which enabled Spenser and Milton to draw up a state
paper, or to discourse deep metaphysics, with the same manful possession
of their subject which gives grace and completeness to the _Penseroso_
or the _Epithalmion_. And if our poets have their doubts, they should
remember, that those to whom doubt and enquiry are real and stern, are
not inclined to sing about them till they can sing poems of triumph over
them. There has no temptation taken our modern poets save that which is
common to man--the temptation of wishing to make the laws of the
universe and of art fit them, as they do not feel inclined to make
themselves fit the laws, or care to find them out....
The "poetry of doubt," however pretty, would stand us in little stead if
we were threatened with a second Armada. It will conduce little to the
valour, "virtues," manhood of any Englishman to be informed by any poet,
even in the most melodious verse, illustrated by the most startling and
pan-cosmic metaphors, "See what a highly organised and peculiar
stomach-ache I have had! Does it not prove indisputably that I am not as
other men are?" What gospel there can be in such a message to any honest
man who has either to till the earth, plan a railroad, colonise Australia,
or fight the despots, is hard to discover. Hard indeed to discover how
this most practical, and therefore most epical of ages, is to be "set to
music," when all those who talk about so doing persist obstinately in
poring, with introverted eyes, over the state of their own digestion, or
creed.
What man wants, what art wants, perhaps what the maker of the both
wants, is a poet who shall begin by confessing that he is as other men
are, and sing about things which concern all men, in language which all
men can understand. This is the only road to that gift of prophecy which
most young poets are nowadays in such a hurry to arrogate to
themselves....
There is just now as wide a divorce between poetry and the commonsense
of all time, as there is between poetry and modern knowledge. Our poets
are not merely vague and confused, they are altogether fragmentary--
_disjecta membra poetarum_; they need some uniting idea. And what idea?
Our answer will probably be greeted with a laugh. Nevertheless we answer
simply. What our poets want is faith. There is little or no faith
nowadays. And without faith there can be no real art, for art is the
outward expression of firm, coherent belief....
In the meanwhile, poets write about poets, and poetry, and guiding the
age, and curbing the world, and waking it, and thrilling it, and making
it start, and weep, and tremble, and self-conceit only knows what else;
and yet the age is not guided, or the world curbed, or thrilled, or
waked, or anything else, by them. Why should it be? Curb and thrill the
world? The world is just now a most practical world; and these men are
utterly unpractical. The age is given up to physical science: these men
disregard and outrage it in every page by their false analogies....
Let the poets of the new school consider carefully Wolfe's "Sir John
Moore," Campbell's "Hohenlinden," "Mariners of England," and "Rule
Britannia," Hood's "Song of the Shirt" and "Bridge of Sighs," and then
ask themselves, as men who would be poets, were it not better to have
written any one of these glorious lyrics than all which John Keats has
left behind him; and let them be sure that, howsoever they may answer
the question to themselves, the sound heart of the English people has
already made its choice, and that when that beautiful "Hero and
Leander," in which Hood has outrivalled the conceit-mongers at their own
weapons, by virtue of that very terseness, clearness, and manliness
which they neglect, has been gathered to the limbo of the Crashawes and
Marines, his "Song of the Shirt" and his "Bridge of Sighs," will be
esteemed by great new English nations far beyond the seas, for what they
are--two of the most noble lyric poems ever written by an English pen.
If our poetasters talk with Wordsworth of the dignity and pathos of the
commonest human things, they will find them there in perfection; if they
talk about the cravings of the new time, they will find them there. If
they want the truly sublime and awful, they will find them there also.
But they will find none of their own favourite concetti; hardly even a
metaphor; no taint of this new poetic diction into which we have now
fallen, after all our abuse of the far more manly and sincere "poetic
diction" of the eighteenth century; they will find no loitering by the
way to argue and moralise, and grumble at Providence, and show off the
author's own genius and sensibility; they will find, in short, two real
works of art, earnest, melodious, self-forgetful, knowing clearly what
they want to say, saying it in the shortest, the simplest, the calmest,
the most finished words. Saying it--rather taught to say it. For if that
"divine inspiration of poets," of which the poetasters make such rash
and irreverent boastings, have, indeed, as all ages have held, any
reality corresponding to it, it will rather be bestowed on such works as
these, appeals from an unrighteous man to a righteous God, than on men
whose only claim to celestial help seems to be that mere passionate
sensibility, which our modern Draco once described when speaking of poor
John Keats, as "an infinite hunger after all manner of pleasant things,
crying to the universe, 'oh, that thou wert one great lump of sugar,
that I might suck thee!'"