In all ages there has existed an anti-poetical party. This faction
consists of those frigid intellects incapable of that glowing expansion
so necessary to feel the charms of an art, which only addresses itself
to the imagination; or of writers who, having proved unsuccessful in
their court to the muses, revenge themselves by reviling them; and also
of those religious minds who consider the ardent effusions of poetry as
dangerous to the morals and peace of society.
Plato, amongst the ancients, is the model of those moderns who profess
themselves to be ANTI-POETICAL.
This writer, in his ideal republic, characterises a man who occupies
himself with composing verses as a very dangerous member of society,
from the inflammatory tendency of his writings. It is by arguing from
its abuse, that he decries this enchanting talent. At the same time it
is to be recollected, that no head was more finely organised for the
visions of the muse than Plato's: he was a true poet, and had addicted
himself in his prime of life to the cultivation of the art, but
perceiving that he could not surpass his inimitable original, Homer, he
employed this insidious manner of depreciating his works. In the Phædon
he describes the feelings of a genuine Poet. To become such, he says, it
will never be sufficient to be guided by the rules of art, unless we
also feel the ecstasies of that _furor_, almost divine, which in this
kind of composition is the most palpable and least ambiguous character
of a true inspiration. Cold minds, ever tranquil and ever in possession
of themselves, are incapable of producing exalted poetry; their verses
must always be feeble, diffusive, and leave no impression; the verses of
those who are endowed with a strong and lively imagination, and who,
like Homer's personification of Discord, have their heads incessantly in
the skies, and their feet on the earth, will agitate you, burn in your
heart, and drag you along with them; breaking like an impetuous torrent,
and swelling your breast with that enthusiasm with which they are
themselves possessed.
Such is the character of a _poet_ in a _poetical age_!--The tuneful race
have many corporate bodies of mechanics; Pontypool manufacturers,
inlayers, burnishers, gilders, and filers!
Men of taste are sometimes disgusted in turning over the works of the
anti-poetical, by meeting with gross railleries and false judgments
concerning poetry and poets. Locke has expressed a marked contempt of
poets; but we see what ideas he formed of poetry by his warm panegyric
of one of Blackmore's epics! and besides he was himself a most unhappy
poet! Selden, a scholar of profound erudition, has given us _his_
opinion concerning poets. "It is ridiculous for a _lord_ to print
verses; he may make them to please himself. If a man in a private
chamber twirls his band-strings, or plays with a rush to please himself,
it is well enough; but if he should go into Fleet-street, and sit upon a
stall and twirl a band-string, or play with a rush, then all the boys in
the street would laugh at him."--As if "the sublime and the beautiful"
can endure a comparison with the twirling of a band-string or playing
with a rush!--A poet, related to an illustrious family, and who did not
write unpoetically, entertained a far different notion concerning poets.
So persuaded was he that to be a true poet required an elevated mind,
that it was a maxim with him that no writer could be an excellent poet
who was not descended from a noble family. This opinion is as absurd as
that of Selden:--but when one party will not grant enough, the other
always assumes too much. The great Pascal, whose extraordinary genius
was discovered in the sciences, knew little of the nature of poetical
beauty. He said "Poetry has no settled object." This was the decision of
a geometrician, not of a poet. "Why should he speak of what he did not
understand?" asked the lively Voltaire. Poetry is not an object which
comes under the cognizance of philosophy or wit.
Longuerue had profound erudition; but he decided on poetry in the same
manner as those learned men. Nothing so strongly characterises such
literary men as the following observations in the Longueruana, p. 170.
"There are two _books on Homer_, which I prefer to _Homer himself_. The
first is _Antiquitates Homericæ_ of Feithius, where he has extracted
everything relative to the usages and customs of the Greeks; the other
is, _Homeri Gnomologia per Duportum_, printed at Cambridge. In these two
books is found everything valuable in Homer, without being obliged to
get through his _Contes à dormir debout_!" Thus men of _science_ decide
on men of _taste_! There are who study Homer and Virgil as the blind
travel through a fine country, merely to get to the end of their
journey. It was observed at the death of Longuerue that in his immense
library not a volume of poetry was to be found. He had formerly read
poetry, for indeed he had read everything. Racine tells us, that when
young he paid him a visit; the conversation turned on _poets_; our
_erudit_ reviewed them all with the most ineffable contempt of the
poetical talent, from which he said we learn nothing. He seemed a little
charitable towards Ariosto.--"As for that _madman_," said he, "he has
amused me sometimes." Dacier, a poetical pedant after all, was asked who
was the greater poet, Homer or Virgil? he honestly answered, "Homer by a
thousand years!"
But it is mortifying to find among the _anti-poetical_ even _poets_
themselves! Malherbe, the first poet in France in his day, appears
little to have esteemed the art. He used to say that "a good poet was
not more useful to the state than a skilful player of nine-pins!"
Malherbe wrote with costive labour. When a poem was shown to him which
had been highly commended, he sarcastically asked if it would "lower the
price of bread?" In these instances he maliciously confounded the
_useful_ with the _agreeable_ arts. Be it remembered, that Malherbe had
a cynical heart, cold and unfeeling; his character may be traced in his
poetry; labour and correctness, without one ray of enthusiasm.
Le Clerc was a scholar not entirely unworthy to be ranked amongst the
Lockes, the Seldens, and the Longuerues; and his opinions are as just
concerning poets. In the Parhasiana he has written a treatise on poets
in a very unpoetical manner. I shall notice his coarse railleries
relating to what he calls "the personal defects of poets." In vol. i. p.
33, he says, "In the Scaligerana we have Joseph Scaliger's opinion
concerning poets. 'There never was a man who was a poet, or addicted to
the study of poetry, but his heart was puffed up with his
greatness.'--This is very true. The poetical enthusiasm persuades those
gentlemen that they have something in them superior to others, because
they employ a language peculiar to themselves. When the poetic furor
seizes them, its traces frequently remain on their faces, which make
connoisseurs say with Horace,
Aut insanit homo, ant versus facit.
There goes a madman or a bard!
"Their thoughtful air and melancholy gait make them appear insane; for,
accustomed to versify while they walk, and to bite their nails in
apparent agonies, their steps are measured and slow, and they look as if
they were reflecting on something of consequence, although they are only
thinking, as the phrase runs, of nothing!" I have only transcribed the
above description of our jocular scholar, with an intention of
describing those exterior marks of that fine enthusiasm, of which the
poet is peculiarly susceptible, and which have exposed many an elevated
genius to the ridicule of the vulgar.
I find this admirably defended by Charpentier: "Men may ridicule as much
as they please those gesticulations and contortions which poets are apt
to make in the act of composing; it is certain, however, that they
greatly assist in putting the imagination into motion. These kinds of
agitation do not always show a mind which labours with its sterility;
they frequently proceed from a mind which excites and animates itself.
Quintilian has nobly compared them to those lashings of his tail which a
lion gives himself when he is preparing to combat. Persius, when he
would give us an idea of a cold and languishing oration, says that its
author did not strike his desk nor bite his nails."
Nec pluteum cædit, nec demorsos sapit ungues.
These exterior marks of enthusiasm may be illustrated by the following
curious anecdote:--Domenichino, the painter, was accustomed to act the
characters of all the figures he would represent on his canvas, and to
speak aloud whatever the passion he meant to describe could prompt.
Painting the martyrdom of St. Andrew, Carracci one day caught him in a
violent passion, speaking in a terrible and menacing tone. He was at
that moment employed on a soldier who was threatening the saint. When
this fit of enthusiastic abstraction had passed, Carracci ran and
embraced him, acknowledging that Domenichino had been that day his
master; and that he had learnt from him the true manner to succeed in
catching the expression--that great pride of the painter's art.
Thus different are the sentiments of the intelligent and the
unintelligent on the same subject. A Carracci embraced a kindred genius
for what a Le Clerc or a Selden would have ridiculed.
Poets, I confess, frequently indulge _reveries_, which, though they
offer no charms to their friends, are too delicious to forego. In the
ideal world, peopled with all its fairy inhabitants, and ever open to
their contemplation, they travel with an unwearied foot. Crebillon, the
celebrated tragic poet, was enamoured of solitude, that he might there
indulge, without interruption, in those fine romances with which his
imagination teemed. One day when he was in a deep reverie, a friend
entered hastily: "Don't disturb me," cried the poet; "I am enjoying a
moment of happiness: I am going to hang a villain of a minister, and
banish another who is an idiot."
Amongst the anti-poetical may be placed the father of the great monarch
of Prussia. George the Second was not more the avowed enemy of the
muses. Frederic would not suffer the prince to read verses; and when he
was desirous of study, or of the conversation of literary men, he was
obliged to do it secretly. Every poet was odious to his majesty. One
day, having observed some lines written on one of the doors of the
palace, he asked a courtier their signification. They were explained to
him; they were Latin verses composed by Wachter, a man of letters, then
resident at Berlin. The king immediately sent for the bard, who came
warm with the hope of receiving a reward for his ingenuity. He was
astonished, however, to hear the king, in a violent passion, accost him,
"I order you immediately to quit this city and my kingdom." Wachter
took refuge in Hanover. As little indeed was this anti-poetical monarch
a friend to philosophers. Two or three such kings might perhaps renovate
the ancient barbarism of Europe. Barratier, the celebrated child, was
presented to his majesty of Prussia as a prodigy of erudition; the king,
to mortify our ingenious youth, coldly asked him, "If he knew the law?"
The learned boy was constrained to acknowledge that he knew nothing of
the law. "Go," was the reply of this Augustus, "go, and study it before
you give yourself out as a scholar." Poor Barratier renounced for this
pursuit his other studies, and persevered with such ardour that he
became an excellent lawyer at the end of fifteen months; but his
exertions cost him at the same time his life!
Every monarch, however, has not proved so destitute of poetic
sensibility as this Prussian. Francis I. gave repeated marks of his
attachment to the favourites of the muses, by composing several
occasional sonnets, which are dedicated to their eulogy. Andrelin, a
French poet, enjoyed the happy fate of Oppian, to whom the emperor
Caracalla counted as many pieces of gold as there were verses in one of
his poems; and with great propriety they have been called "golden
verses." Andrelin, when he recited his poem on the Conquest of Naples
before Charles VIII., received a sack of silver coin, which with
difficulty he carried home. Charles IX., says Brantome, loved verses,
and recompensed poets, not indeed immediately, but gradually, that they
might always be stimulated to excel. He used to say, that poets
resembled race-horses, that must be fed but not fattened, for then they
were good for nothing. Marot was so much esteemed by kings, that he was
called the poet of princes, and the prince of poets.
In the early state of poetry what honours were paid to its votaries!
Ronsard, the French Chaucer, was the first who carried away the prize at
the Floral Games. This meed of poetic honour was an eglantine composed
of silver. The reward did not appear equal to the merit of the work and
the reputation of the poet; and on this occasion the city of Toulouse
had a Minerva of solid silver struck, of considerable value. This image
was sent to Ronsard, accompanied by a decree, in which he was declared,
by way of eminence, "The French Poet."
It is a curious anecdote to add, that when, at a later period, a similar
Minerva was adjudged to Maynard for his verses, the Capitouls, of
Toulouse, who were the executors of the Floral gifts, to their shame,
out of covetousness, never obeyed the decision of the poetical judges.
This circumstance is noticed by Maynard in an epigram, which bears this
title: _On a Minerva of silver, promised but not given_.
The anecdote of Margaret of Scotland, wife of the Dauphin of France, and
Alain the poet, is generally known. Who is not charmed with that fine
expression of her poetical sensibility? The person of Alain was
repulsive, but his poetry had attracted her affections. Passing through
one of the halls of the palace, she saw him sleeping on a bench; she
approached and kissed him. Some of her attendants could not conceal
their astonishment that she should press with her lips those of a man so
frightfully ugly. The amiable princess answered, smiling, "I did not
kiss the man, but the mouth which has uttered so many fine things."
The great Colbert paid a pretty compliment to Boileau and Racine. This
minister, at his villa, was enjoying the conversation of our two poets,
when the arrival of a prelate was announced: turning quickly to the
servant, he said, "Let him be shown everything except myself!"
To such attentions from this great minister, Boileau alludes in these
verses:--
Plus d'un grand m'aima jusqnes à la tendresse;
Et ma vue à Colbert inspiroit l'allégresse.
Several pious persons have considered it as highly meritable to abstain
from the reading of poetry! A good father, in his account of the last
hours of Madame Racine, the lady of the celebrated tragic poet, pays
high compliments to her religious disposition, which, he says, was so
austere, that she would not allow herself to read poetry, as she
considered it to be a dangerous pleasure; and he highly commends her for
never having read the tragedies of her husband! Arnauld, though so
intimately connected with Racine for many years, had not read his
compositions. When at length he was persuaded to read Phædra, he
declared himself to be delighted, but complained that the poet had set a
dangerous example, in making the manly Hippolytus dwindle to an
effeminate lover. As a critic, Arnauld was right; but Racine had his
nation to please. Such persons entertain notions of poetry similar to
that of an ancient father, who calls poetry the wine of Satan; or to
that of the religious and austere Nicole, who was so ably answered by
Racine: he said, that dramatic poets were public poisoners, not of
bodies, but of souls.
Poets, it is acknowledged, have foibles peculiar to themselves. They
sometimes act in the daily commerce of life as if every one was
concerned in the success of their productions. Poets are too frequently
merely poets. Segrais has recorded that the following maxim of
Rochefoucault was occasioned by reflecting on the characters of Boileau
and Racine. "It displays," he writes, "a great poverty of mind to have
only one kind of genius." On this Segrais observes, and Segrais knew
them intimately, that their conversation only turned on poetry; take
them from that, and they knew nothing. It was thus with one Du Perrier,
a good poet, but very poor. When he was introduced to Pelisson, who
wished to be serviceable to him, the minister said, "In what can he be
employed? He is only occupied by his verses."
All these complaints are not unfounded; yet, perhaps, it is unjust to
expect from an excelling artist all the petty accomplishments of
frivolous persons, who have studied no art but that of practising on the
weaknesses of their friends. The enthusiastic votary, who devotes his
days and nights to meditations on his favourite art, will rarely be
found that despicable thing, a mere man of the world. Du Bos has justly
observed, that men of genius, born for a particular profession, appear
inferior to others when they apply themselves to other occupations. That
absence of mind which arises from their continued attention to their
ideas, renders them awkward in their manners. Such defects are even a
proof of the activity of genius.
It is a common foible with poets to read their verses to friends.
Segrais has ingeniously observed, to use his own words, "When young I
used to please myself in reciting my verses indifferently to all
persons; but I perceived when Scarron, who was my intimate friend, used
to take his portfolio and read his verses to me, although they were
good, I frequently became weary. I then reflected, that those to whom I
read mine, and who, for the greater part, had no taste for poetry, must
experience the same disagreeable sensation. I resolved for the future to
read my verses only to those who entreated me, and to read but a few at
a time. We flatter ourselves too much; we conclude that what please us
must please others. We will have persons indulgent to us, and frequently
we will have no indulgence for those who are in want of it." An
excellent hint for young poets, and for those old ones who carry odes
and elegies in their pockets, to inflict the pains of the torture on
their friends.
The affection which a poet feels for his verses has been frequently
extravagant. Bayle, ridiculing that parental tenderness which writers
evince for their poetical compositions, tells us, that many having
written epitaphs on friends whom they believed on report to have died,
could not determine to keep them in their closet, but suffered them to
appear in the lifetime of those very friends whose death they
celebrated. In another place he says, such is their infatuation for
their productions, that they prefer giving to the public their
panegyrics of persons whom afterwards they satirized, rather than
suppress the verses which contain those panegyrics. We have many
examples of this in the poems, and even in the epistolary correspondence
of modern writers. It is customary with most authors, when they quarrel
with a person after the first edition of their work, to cancel his
eulogies in the next. But poets and letter-writers frequently do not do
this; because they are so charmed with the happy turn of their
expressions, and other elegancies of composition, that they perfer the
praise which they may acquire for their style to the censure which may
follow from their inconsistency.
After having given a hint to _young_ poets, I shall offer one to
_veterans_. It is a common defect with them that they do not know when
to quit the muses in their advanced age. Bayle says, "Poets and orators
should be mindful to retire from their occupations, which so peculiarly
require the fire of imagination; yet it is but too common to see them in
their career, even in the decline of life. It seems as if they would
condemn the public to drink even the lees of their nectar." Afer and
Daurat were both poets who had acquired considerable reputation, but
which they overturned when they persisted to write in their old age
without vigour and without fancy.
What crowds of these impenitently bold,
In sounds and jingling syllables grown old,
They run on poets, in a raging rein,
E'en to the dregs and squeezings of the brain:
Strain out the last dull droppings of their sense,
And rhyme with all the rage of impotence.