Coleridge. "Mr. Coleridge," says the reviewer, "... seems to believe that
every tongue is wagging in his praise--that every ear is open to imbibe the
oracular breathings of his inspiration ... no sound is so sweet to him as
that of his own voice ... he seems to consider the mighty universe itself
as nothing better than a mirror in which, with a grinning and idiot
self-complacency, he may contemplate the physiognomy of Samuel Taylor
Coleridge.... Yet insignificant as he assuredly is, he cannot put pen to
paper without a feeling that millions of eyes are fixed upon him...."
Leigh Hunt, says Blackwood, "is a man of extravagant pretensions ...
exquisitely bad taste and extremely vulgar modes of thinking." His
"Rimini" "is so wretchedly written that one feels disgust at its pretense,
affectation and gaudiness, ignorance, vulgarity, irreverence, quackery,
glittering and rancid obscenities."
Blackwood's wrote of the "calm, settled, imperturbable, drivelling idiocy
of Endymion," and elsewhere of Keats' "prurient and vulgar lines, evidently
meant for some young lady east of Temple Bar.... It is a better and a wiser
thing," it commented, "to be a starved apothecary than a starved poet; so
back to the shop, Mr. John, back to 'plasters, pills and ointment
boxes.'" And even when Shelley wrote his "Adonais" on the death of Keats,
Blackwood's met it with a contemptible parody:
"Weep for my Tom cat! all ye Tabbies weep!"
Perhaps I have quoted enough. This is the parentage of our silken and
flattering criticism.
The pages of these old reviews rest yellow on the shelves. From them there
comes a smell of rotting leather, as though the infection spreads. The hour
grows late. Like the ghost of the elder Hamlet, I detect the morning to be
near.
The Pursuit of Fire
Reader, if by chance you have the habit of writing--whether they be sermons
to hurl across your pews, or sonnets in the Spring--doubtless you have
moments when you sit at your desk bare of thoughts. Mother Hubbard's
cupboard when she went to seek the bone was not more empty. In such plight
you chew your pencil as though it were stuff to feed your brain. Or if you
are of delicate taste, you fall upon your fingers. Or in the hope that
exercise will stir your wits, you pace up and down the room and press your
nose upon the window if perhaps the grocer's boy shall rouse you. Some
persons draw pictures on their pads or put pot-hooks on their letters--for
talent varies--or they roughen up their hair. I knew one gifted fellow
whose shoes presently would cramp him until he kicked them off, when at
once the juices of his intellect would flow. Genius, I am told, sometimes
locks its door and, if unrestrained, peels its outer wrappings. Or, in your
poverty, you run through the pages of a favorite volume, with a notebook
for a sly theft to start you off. In what dejection you have fallen! It is
best that you put on your hat and take your stupid self abroad.
Or maybe you think that your creative fire will blaze, if instead of
throwing in your wet raw thoughts, you feed it a few seasoned bits. You
open, therefore, the drawer of your desk where you keep your rejected and
broken fragments--for your past has not been prosperous--hopeful against
experience that you can recast one of these to your present mood. This
is mournful business. Certain paragraphs that came from you hot are now
patched and shivery. Their finer meaning has run out between the lines as
though these spaces were sluices for the proper drainage of the page. You
had best put on your hat. You will get no comfort from these stale papers.
One evening lately, being in this plight, I spread out before me certain
odds and ends. I had dug deeper than usual in the drawer and had brought up
a yellow stratum of a considerable age. I was poring upon these papers and
was wondering whether I could fit them to a newer measure, when I heard a
slight noise behind me. I glanced around and saw that a man had entered the
room and was now seated in a chair before the fire. In the common nature
of things this should have been startling, for the hour was late--twelve
o'clock had struck across the way--and I had thought that I was quite
alone. But there was something so friendly and easy in his attitude--he
was a young man, little more than a lanky boy--that instead of being
frightened, I swung calmly around for a better look. He sat with his legs
stretched before him and with his chin resting in his hand, as though in
thought. By the light that fell on him from the fire, I saw that he wore a
brown checked suit and that he was clean and respectable in appearance. His
face was in shadow.
"Good evening," I said, "you startled me."
"I am sorry," he replied. "I beg your pardon. I was going by and I saw your
light. I wished to make your acquaintance. But I saw at once that I was
intruding, so I sat here. You were quite absorbed. Would you mind if I
mended the fire?"
Without waiting for an answer, he took the poker and dealt the logs several
blows. It didn't greatly help the flame, but he poked with such enjoyment
that I smiled. I have myself rather a liking for stirring a fire. He set
another log in place. Then he drew from his pocket a handful of dried
orange peel. "I love to see it burn," he said. "It crackles and spits." He
ranged the peel upon the log where the flame would get it, and then settled
himself in the big chair.
"Perhaps you smoke?" I asked, pushing toward him a box of cigarettes.
He smiled. "I thought that you would know my habits. I don't smoke."
"So you were going by and came up to see me?" I asked.
"Yes. I was not sure that I would know you. You are a little older than I
thought, a little--stouter, but dear me, how you have lost your hair! But
you have quite forgotten me."
"My dear boy," I said, "you have the advantage of me. Where have I seen
you? There is something familiar about you and I am sure that I have seen
that brown suit before."
"We have never really known each other," the boy replied. "We met once, but
only for an instant. But I have thought of you since that meeting a great
many times. I lay this afternoon on a hilltop and wondered what you would
be like. But I hoped that sometimes you would think of me. Perhaps you have
forgotten that I used to collect railway maps and time-tables."
"Did you?" I replied. "So did I when I was a little younger than you are.
Perhaps if I might see your face, I would know you."
"It's nothing for show," he replied, and he kept it still in shadow. "Would
you mind," he said at length, "if I ate an apple?" He took one from his
pocket and broke it in his hands. "You eat half," he said.
I accepted the part he offered me. "Perhaps you would like a knife and
plate," I said. "I can find them in the pantry."
"Not for me," he replied. "I prefer to eat mine this way." He took an
enveloping bite.
"I myself care nothing for plates," I said. We ate in silence. Presently:
"You have my habit," I said, "of eating everything, skin, seeds and all."
"Everything but the stem," he replied.
By this time the orange peel was hissing and exploding.
"You are an odd boy," I said. "I used to put orange peel away to dry in
order to burn it. We seem to be as like as two peas."
"I wonder," he said, "if that is so." He turned in his chair and faced me,
although his face was still in shadow. "Doubtless, we are far different in
many things. Do you swallow grape seeds?"
"Hardly!" I cried. "I spit them out."
"I am glad of that." He paused. "It was a breezy hilltop where I lay. I
thought of you all afternoon. You are famous, of course?"
"Dear me, no!"
"Oh, I'm so sorry. I had hoped you might be. I had counted on it. It is
very disappointing. I was thinking about that as I lay on the hill. But
aren't you just on the point of doing something that will make you famous?"
"By no means."
"Dear me, I am so sorry. Do you happen to be married?"
"Yes."
"And would you mind telling me her name?"
I obliged him.
"I don't remember to have heard of her. I didn't think of that name once
as I lay upon the hill. Things don't turn out as one might expect. Now, I
would have thought--but it's no matter."
For a moment or so he was lost in thought, and then he spoke again: "You
were writing when I came into the room?"
"Nothing important."
The boy ran his fingers in his hair and threw out his arms impatiently.
"That's what I would like to do. I am in college, and I try for one of the
papers. But my stuff comes back. But this summer in the vacation, I am
working in an office. I run errands and when there is nothing else to do, I
study a big invoice book, so as to get the names of things that are bought.
There is a racket of drays and wagons outside the windows, and along in
the middle of the afternoon I get tired and thick in my head. But I write
Saturday afternoons and Sunday mornings."
The boy stopped and fixed his eyes on me. "I don't suppose that you happen
to be a poet?"
"Not at all," I replied. "But perhaps you are one. Tell me about it!"
The boy took a turn at the fire with the poker, but it was chiefly in
embarrassment. Presently he returned to his chair. He stretched his long
arms upward above his head.
"No, I'm not," he said. "And yet sometimes I think that I have a kind of
poetry in me. Only I can't get it into words. I lay thinking about that,
too, on the hillside. There was a wind above my head, and I thought that I
could almost put words to the tune. But I have never written a single poem.
Yet, goodness me, what thoughts I have! But they aren't real thoughts--what
you would regularly call thoughts. Things go racing and tingling in my
head, but I can never get them down. They are just feelings."
As he spoke, the boy gazed intently through the chimney bricks out into
another world. The fireplace was its portal and he seemed to wait for the
fires to cool before entering into its possession. It was several moments
before he spoke again.
"I don't want you to think me ridiculous, but so few understand. If only I
could master the tools! Perhaps my thoughts are old, but they come to me
with such freshness and they are so unexpected. Could I only solve the
frets and spaces inside me here, I could play what tune I chose. But my
feelings are cold and stale before I can get them into thoughts. I have no
doubt, however, that they are just as real as those other feelings that in
time, after much scratching, get into final form and become poetry. I
know of course that a man's reach should exceed his grasp--it's hackneyed
enough--but just for once I would like to pull down something when I have
been up on tiptoe for a while.
"Sometimes I get an impression of pity--a glance up a dark hallway--an old
woman with a shawl upon her head--a white face at a window--a blind fiddler
in the street--but the impression is gone in a moment. Or a touch of beauty
gets me. It may be nothing but a street organ in the spring. Perhaps you
like street organs, too?"
"I do, indeed!" I cried. "There was one today outside my window and my feet
kept wiggling to it."
The boy clapped his hands. "I knew that you would be like that. I hoped for
it on the hill. As for me, when I hear one, I'm so glad that I could cry
out. In its lilt there is the rhythm of life. It moves me more than a
hillside with its earliest flowers. Am I absurd? It is equal to the pipe of
birds, to shallow waters and the sound of wind to stir me to thoughts of
April. Today as I came downtown, I saw several merry fellows dancing on
the curb. There are tunes, too, upon the piano that send me off. I play a
little myself. I see you have a piano. Do you still play?"
"A little, rather sadly," I replied.
"That's too bad, but perhaps you sing?"
"Even worse."
"Dear me, that's too bad. I have rather a voice myself. Well, as I was
saying, when I hear those tunes, I curl up with the smoke and blow forth
from the chimney. If I walk upon the street when the wind is up, and see a
light fleece of smoke coming from a chimney top, I think that down below
someone is listening to music that he likes, and that his thoughts ride
upon the night, like those white streamers of smoke. And then I think of
castles and mountains and high places and the sounds of storm. Or in fancy
I see a tower that tapers to the moon with a silver gleam upon it."
The strange boy lay back and laughed. "Musicians think that they are the
only ones that can hear the finer sounds. If one of us common fellows cocks
his ear, they think that only the coarser thumps get inside. And artists
think that they alone know the glory of color. I was thinking of that, this
afternoon. And yet I have walked under the blue sky. I have seen twilights
that these men of paint would botch on canvas. But both musicians and
artists have a vision that is greater than their product. The soul of a man
can hardly be recorded in black and white keys. Nor can a little pigment
which you rub upon your thumb be the measure of an artist. So I suppose
that is the way also with poets. It is not to be expected that they can
express themselves fully in words that they have borrowed from the kitchen.
When their genius flames up, it is only the lesser sparks that fall upon
their writing pads. It consoles me that a man should be greater than his
achievement. I who have done so little would otherwise be so forlorn."
"It's odd," I said, when he had fallen into silence, "that I used to feel
exactly as you do. It stirs an old recollection. If I am not mistaken, I
once wrote a paper on the subject."
The boy smiled dreamily. "But if small persons like myself," he began, "can
have such frenzies, how must it be with those greater persons who have
amazed the world? I have wondered in what kind of exaltation Shakespeare
wrote his storm in 'Lear.' There must have been a first conception greater
even than his accomplishment. Did he look from his windows at a winter
tempest and see miserable old men and women running hard for shelter? Did
a flash of lightning bare his soul to the misery, the betrayal and the
madness of the world? His supreme moment was not when he flung the
completed manuscript aside, or when he heard the actors mouth his lines,
but in the flash and throb of creation--in the moment when he knew that he
had the power in him to write 'Lear.' What we read is the cold forging,
wonderful and enduring, but not to be compared to the producing furnace."
The boy had spoken so fast that he was out of breath.
"Hold a bit!" I cried. "What you have said sounds familiar. Where could I
have heard it before?"
There was something almost like a sneer on the boy's face. "What a memory
you have! And perhaps you recall this brown suit, too. It's ugly enough to
be remembered. Now please let me finish what came to me this afternoon on
the hill! Prometheus," he continued, "scaled the heavens and brought back
fire to mortals. And he, as the story goes, clutched at a lightning bolt
and caught but a spark. And even that, glorious. Mankind properly accredits
him with a marvellous achievement. It is for this reason that I comfort
myself although I have not yet written a single line of verse."
"My dear fellow," I said, "please tell me where I have read something like
what you have spoken?"
The boy's answer was irrelevant. "You first tell me what you did with a
brown checked suit you once owned."
"I never owned but one brown suit," I replied, "and that was when I was
still in college. I think that I gave it away before it was worn out."
The boy once more clapped his hands. "Oh, I knew it, I knew it. I'll give
mine tomorrow to the man who takes our ashes. Now, won't you please play
the piano for me?"
"Assuredly. Choose your tune!"
He fumbled a bit in the rack and passing some rather good music, he held up
a torn and yellow sheet. "This is what I want," he said.
I had not played it for many years. After a false start or so--for it was
villainously set in four sharps for which I have an aversion--I got through
it. On a second trial I did better.
The boy made no comment. He had sunk down in his chair until he was quite
out of sight. "Well," I said, "what next?"
There was no answer.
I arose from the bench and glanced in his direction. "Hello," I cried,
"what has become of you?"
The chair was empty. I turned on all the lights. He was nowhere in sight. I
shook the hangings. I looked under my desk, for perhaps the lad was hiding
from me in jest. It was unlikely that he could have passed me to gain the
door, but I listened at the sill for any sound upon the stairs. The hall
was silent. I called without response. Somewhat bewildered I came back to
the hearth. Only a few minutes before, as it seemed, there had been a brisk
fire with a row of orange peel upon the upper log. Now all trace of the
peel was gone and the logs had fallen to a white ash.
I was standing perplexed, when I observed that a little pile of papers lay
on the rug just off the end of my desk as by a careless elbow. At least,
I thought, this impolite fellow has forgotten some of his possessions. It
will serve him right if it is poetry that he wrote upon the hilltop.
I picked up the papers. They were yellow and soiled, and writing was
scrawled upon them. At the top was a date--but it was twenty years old.
I turned to the last sheet. At least I could learn the boy's name. To my
amazement, I saw at the bottom in an old but familiar writing, not the
boy's name, but my own.
I gazed at the chimney bricks and their substance seemed to part before my
eyes. I looked into a world beyond--a fabric of moonlight and hilltop and
the hot fret of youth. Perhaps the boy had only been waiting for the fire
upon the hearth to cool to enter this other world of his restless ambition
and desire.
Reader, if by chance you have the habit of writing--let us confine
ourselves now to sonnets and such airy matter as rides upon the
night--doubtless, you sit sometimes at your desk bare of thoughts. The
juices of your intellect are parched and dry. In such plight, I beg you
not to fall upon your fingers or to draw pictures on your sheet. But most
vehemently, and with such emphasis as I possess, I beg you not to rummage
among your rejected and broken fragments in the hope of recasting a
withered thought to a present mood. Rather, before you sour and curdle,
it is good to put on your hat and take your stupid self abroad.