“Poetry is a mere drug,” say the publishers; “bring us no more poetry,
it won’t sell.”
“Poetry is a terrible bore,” say a majority of the dear public; “it is
too high-flown; we can’t understand it.”
To all this, we are tempted to reply in the language of doctor Abernethy
to one of his patients. The good old lady, when the doctor entered the
room, raised her arm to her head, and drawing her face into a very
painful expression, exclaimed, “Oh, oh! O dear, Doctor, it almost kills
me to lift my arm up so; what shall I do?”
“Well, madam,” said the doctor, gravely, “then you must be a very great
fool to lift your arm up so.”
Leaving the reader to make the application, we hasten to deny the
premises assumed by the publishers and a portion of the public. What
they say, is not true of _poetry_; it is in direct contradiction to the
experience of the world in all ages and all nations, for thousands of
years. But it may be true, and _is_ true, of endless masses of words
that are poured forth from the press under the _name_ of poetry. But we
do not believe, that genuine poetry, that which is worthy of the name,
is either “a drug,” or “too high-flown” to be enjoyed and understood by
the mass of the reading public.
“The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.”
Poetry like that, will always find readers and admirers among all
classes, whether high or low, rich or poor, learned or unlearned. True
poetry is the unsophisticated language of nature--so plain and simple,
that he that runs may read. In proof of this, it is found, that among
the writings of popular authors, those poems most marked for simple and
natural language, other things being equal, are always the most popular.
There must be taste and judgment in the selection of subjects, for many
subjects are in their nature unsuited to the true spirit of poetry.
The author of Powhatan does not presume to claim for his production the
merit of good and genuine poetry; nor does he pretend to assign it a
place in the classes or forms into which poetry is divided. He has
chosen to call it a metrical romance, as a title of less pretension than
that of poem; and he is perfectly willing that others should call it by
whatever name they please. Whatever may be its faults, they must rest
solely upon the author. They cannot be chargeable to the subject, for
that is full of interest, and dignity, and poetry. Nor can they be
palliated by the plea of hasty composition; for he has had the work on
his hands at intervals for several years, though to be sure something
more than half of it has been written within the year past. Of one thing
the author feels confident; but whether it may be regarded as adding to,
or detracting from, the merit of the work, he knows not; he believes it
would be difficult to find a poem that embodies more truly the spirit of
history, or indeed that follows out more faithfully many of its details.
Of the justness of this remark, some evidence may be found in the notes
attached to the work.
Finally, with regard to its merits, the test by which the author desires
to be tried, is the common taste of _common readers_. If _they_ shall
read it with pleasure, and if the impression made by its perusal shall
induce them to recur to it again with renewed delight, he will care
little for the rules by which critics may judge it, but will find
satisfaction in the assurance that he has added something honorable to
the literature of his country.
_New York, January, 1841._