“Whose lightest word would harrow up thy soul,”
has as strong a simile in it, through “harrow up,” as is contained in the
expression—
“Thy matted and combined locks to part …
Like quills upon a fretful porcupine.”
But the last is pure poetry; the other is dramatic poetry.
Of course, pure poetry has the highest quality of all; it is so sincere,
so convincing, that it requires no help to render it beautiful and
effective.
The whole address in _Hamlet_ delivered by the Ghost is free from
metaphor with few exceptions towards the end, as—
“Make thy two eyes like stars dart from their spheres;”
also—
“Like quills upon a fretful porcupine.”
These two lines are the only exceptions. They are mighty, and at the very
summit of human art, but in this respect do not actually reveal more than
may be set forth in a pure simplicity of diction.
This great truth of truths was known to David and Solomon. It came to
them as the only means through which the interests of a pure humanity
could be enlarged on, and made to reach the heart.
Moses enjoyed the art, as shown in his account of the creation; so
likewise did the authors of Esther, Ruth, and Job. It came to them
because their poetry was so human, and consisted not, as it did with the
Greeks, in exalting heroes and conquerors.
It is easy enough to use simple language in descriptive poetry or in
prose; not so easy to attain to sublimity by its means. To do this
demands genius of the first order. Shakespeare, the most gifted of men,
was not too great to employ it in his highest achievements. He was a
perfect master of simplicity; he knew that there was but one simple
thing, and that was truth.
“The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,”
and the lines that follow, are entirely free from metaphor, yet no purer
and nobler description ever found utterance. The more a writer deviates
from simplicity, the less sincere he appears. Let every man of genius
mark my words, that He who delivered the parables to the multitude was
Sincerity itself; that His teachings were allegories, but that metaphor
never crossed His lips. Take as examples those exquisite poems—for such
they are, unfettered by artificial metre—the parables of the Prodigal
Son, and of the Ten Virgins: a critical reading of them will readily
reveal that not a single metaphor exists in either, and yet what an
elevated poetry pervades them! After perusing them, turn at once to
Milton and read his account of Satan’s exaltation in hell—
“High on a throne of royal state which far
Outshone the wealth of Ormus, or of Ind,
Or where the gorgeous East, with richest hand,
Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold,
Satan exalted sat, by merit raised
To that bad eminence.”
This is great language, is marvellous, high-sounding, impressive, but is
it sincere? Would an angel sent from heaven to report on the proceedings
in hell, have brought back such a description as this of what he had
beheld?
It is grand, as is Homer’s exaltation of his heroes; but does it touch
the innermost heart?
This is said not to find fault; not to withdraw admiration from one of
the few who have made their country famous before all other lands, for
there is time for all things; for
“The pomp and circumstance of glorious war,”
and for sadness at the sufferings of humanity.
In writing about Shakespeare and Coleridge, I have showed that poems from
their hand, however short, had the three essentials of art—that is, the
three parallels, not more or less—namely, the statement of the subject,
the development of it in detail, and the climax. The bare statement
of the subject is the basis of the whole; the development employs the
retrospective imagination which embraces an acquaintance with all
nature and human life; finally, the climax involves the moral by means
of the prospective imagination or the circumspective, and rises into the
incommensurable.
An analysis of the parables shows that these three parallels are
invariably to be found in each. A poet who cares little or nothing for
nature uses the introspective imagination, substituting himself for the
universe, whence his climax often sinks into a mere reflection.