"THAT MASS OF DOLTS"
Mr. Pound's phrase in his poem _To Whistler, American_, has aroused more
or less resentment, some of it quite emphatic. Apparently we of "these
states" have no longing for an Ezekiel; our prophets must give us, not
the bitter medicine which possibly we need, but the sugar-and-water of
compliment which we can always swallow with a smile.
Perhaps we should examine our consciences a little, or at least step
down from our self-erected pedestals long enough to listen to this
accusation. What has become of our boasted sense of humor if we cannot
let our young poets rail, or our sense of justice if we cannot cease
smiling and weigh their words? In certain respects we Americans are a
"mass of dolts," and in none more than our huge stolid, fundamental
indifference to our own art. Mr. Pound is not the first American poet
who has stood with his back to the wall, and struck out blindly with
clenched fists in a fierce impulse to fight. Nor is he the first whom
we, by this same stolid and indifferent rejection, have forced into
exile and rebellion.
After a young poet has applied in vain to the whole list of American
publishers and editors, and learned that even though he were a genius of
the first magnitude they could not risk money or space on his poetry
because the public would not buy it--after a series of such rebuffs our
young aspirant goes abroad and succeeds in interesting some London
publisher. The English critics, let us say, praise his book, and echoes
of their praises reach our astonished ears. Thereupon the poet in exile
finds that he has thus gained a public, and editorial suffrages, in
America, and that the most effective way of increasing that public and
those suffrages is, to remain in exile and guard his foreign reputation.
Meantime it is quite probable that a serious poet will have grown weary
of such open and unashamed colonialism, that he will prefer to stay
among people who are seriously interested in aesthetics and who know
their own minds. For nothing is so hard to meet as indifference; blows
are easier for a live man to endure than neglect. The poet who cries out
his message against a stone wall will be silenced in the end, even
though he bear a seraph's wand and speak with the tongues of angels.
* * * * *
One phase of our colonialism in art, the singing of opera in foreign
languages, has been persistently opposed by Eleanor E. Freer, who has
set to music of rare distinction many of the finest English lyrics, old
and new. She writes:
In the Basilikon Doron, King James I of
England writes to his son: "And I would, also,
advise you to write in your own language; for
there is nothing left to be said in Greek and
Latin already--and besides that, it best becometh
a King to purify and make famous his own tongue."
Might we add, it best becometh the kings of art
in America and England to sing their own language
and thus aid in the progress of their national
music and poetry?
* * * * *
Messrs. Arthur Davison Ficke and Witter Bynner belong to the younger
group of American poets, both having been born since 1880, the former in
Davenport, Iowa, and the latter in Brooklyn. Both were graduated from
Harvard early in this century, after which Mr. Ficke was admitted to the
bar, and Mr. Bynner became assistant editor of McClure's.
Mr. Ficke has published _From the Isles_, _The Happy Princess_, _The
Earth Passion_ and _The Breaking of Bonds_; also _Mr. Faust_, a dramatic
poem, and a series of poems called _Twelve Japanese Painters_, will be
published this year. Mr. Bynner has published _An Ode to Harvard and
Other Poems_, and _An Immigrant_. His play, _His Father's House_, was
recently produced in California.
The March number of _Poetry_ will contain _The Silent House_, a one-act
play, by Agnes Lee, and poems by Alice Meynell, Alfred Noyes, Fannie
Stearns Davis and others.