Yes! there are Giants on the earth in these days; but it is their
great bulk, and the nearness of our view, which prevents us from
perceiving their grandeur. This is how it is that the glory of the
present is lost upon the contemporaries of the greatest men; and,
perhaps this was Swift's meaning, when he said that Gulliver could
not discover exactly what it was that strode among the corn-ridges in
the Brobdignagian field: thus, we lose the brightness of things of
our own time in consequence of their proximity.
It is of the development of our individual perceptions, and the
application thereof to a good use, that the writer humbly endeavours
to treat. We will for this purpose take as an example, that which may
be held to indicate the civilization of a period more than any thing
else; namely, the popular perception of the essentials of Poetry; and
endeavour to show that while the beauties of old writers are
acknowledged, (tho' not in proportion to the attention of each
individual in his works to nature alone) the modern school is
contemned and unconsidered; and also that much of the active poetry
of modern life is neglected by the majority of the writers
themselves.
There seems to be an opinion gaining ground fast, in spite of all the
shaking of conventional heads, that the Poets of the present day are
equal to all others, excepting one: however this may be, it is
certain we are not fair judges, because of the natural reason stated
before; and there is decidedly one great fault in the moderns, that
not only do they study models with which they can never become
intimately acquainted, but that they neglect, or rather reject as
worthless, that which they alone can carry on with perfect success: I
mean the knowledge of themselves, and the characteristics of their
own actual living. Thus, if a modern Poet or Artist (the latter much
more culpably errs) seeks a subject exemplifying charity, he rambles
into ancient Greece or Rome, awakening not one half the sympathy in
the spectator, as do such incidents as may be seen in the streets
every day. For instance; walking with a friend the other day, we met
an old woman, exceedingly dirty, restlessly pattering along the kerb
of a crowded thoroughfare, trying to cross: her eyes were always
wandering here and there, and her mouth was never still; her object
was evident, but for my own part, I must needs be fastidious and
prefer to allow her to take the risk of being run over, to overcoming
my own disgust. Not so my friend; he marched up manfully, and putting
his arm over the old woman's shoulder, led her across as carefully as
though she were a princess. Of course, I was ashamed: ashamed! I was
frightened; I expected to see the old woman change into a tall angel
and take him off to heaven, leaving me her original shape to repent
in. On recovering my thoughts, I was inclined to take up my friend
and carry him home in triumph, I felt so strong. Why should not this
thing be as poetical as any in the life of Saint Elizabeth of Hungary
or any one else? for, so we look at it with a pure thought, we shall
see about it the same light the Areopagite saw at Jerusalem surround
the Holy Virgin, and the same angels attending and guarding it.
And there is something else we miss; there is the poetry of the
things about us; our railways, factories, mines, roaring cities,
steam vessels, and the endless novelties and wonders produced every
day; which if they were found only in the Thousand and One Nights, or
in any poem classical or romantic, would be gloried over without end;
for as the majority of us know not a bit more about them, but merely
their names, we keep up the same mystery, the main thing required for
the surprise of the imagination.
Next to Poetry, Painting and Music have most power over the mind; and
how do you apply this influence? In what direction is it forced? Why,
for the last, you sit in your drawing-rooms, and listen to a quantity
of tinkling of brazen marches of going to war; but you never see
before your very eyes, the palpable victory of leading nature by her
own power, to a conquest of blessings; and when the music is over,
you turn to each other, and enthusiastically whisper, "How
fine!"--You point out to others, (as if they had no eyes) the
sentiment of a flowing river with the moon on it, as an emblem of the
after-peace, but you see not this in the long white cloud of steam,
the locomotive pours forth under the same moon, rushing on; the
perfect type of the same, with the presentment of the struggle
beforehand. The strong engine is never before you, sighing all night,
with the white cloud above the chimney-shaft, escaping like the
spirits Solomon put his seal upon, in the Arabian Tales; these
mightier spirits are bound in a faster vessel; and then let forth, as
of little worth, when their work is done.
The Earth shakes under you, from the footfall of the Genii man has
made, and you groan about the noise. Vast roads draw together the
Earth, and you say how they spoil the prospect, which you never cared
a farthing about before.
You revel in Geology: but in chemistry, the modern science,
possessing thousands of powers as great as any used yet, you see no
glory:--the only thought is so many Acids and Alkalies. You require a
metaphor for treachery, and of course you think of our puny old
friend the Viper; but the Alkaline, more searching and more unknown,
that may destroy you and your race, you have never heard of,--and yet
this possesses more of the very quality required, namely, mystery,
than any other that is in your hands.
The only ancient character you have retained in its proper force is
Love; but you seem never to see any light about the results of long
labour of mind, the most intense Love. Devotedness, magnanimity,
generosity, you seem to think have left the Earth since the Crusades.
In fact, you never go out into Life: living only in the past world,
you go on repeating in new combinations the same elements for the
same effect. You have taught an enlightened Public, that the province
of Poetry is to reproduce the Ancients; not as Keats did, with the
living heart of our own Life; but so as to cause the impression that
you are not aware that they had wives and families like yourselves,
and laboured and rested like us all.
The greatest, perhaps, of modern poets seeming to take refuge from
this, has looked into the heart of man, and shown you its pulsations,
fears, self-doubts, hates, goodness, devotedness, and noble
world-love; this is not done under pretty flowers of metaphor in the
lispings of a pet parson, or in the strong but uncertain fashion of
the American school; still less in the dry operose quackery of
professed doctors of psychology, mere chaff not studied from nature,
and therefore worthless, never felt, and therefore useless; but with
the firm knowing hand of the anatomist, demonstrating and making
clear to others, that the knowledge may be applied to purpose. All
this difficult task is achieved so that you may read till your own
soul is before you, and you know it; but the enervated public
complains that the work is obscure forsooth: so we are always looking
for green grass--verdant meads, tall pines, vineyards, etc., as the
essentials of poetry; these are all very pretty and very delicate,
the dust blows not in your eyes, but Chaucer has told us all this,
and while it was new, far better than any one else; why are we not to
have something besides? Let us see a little of the poetry of man's
own works,--"Visibly in his garden walketh God."
The great portion of the public take a morbid delight in such works
as Frankenstein, that "Poor, impossible monster abhorred," who would
be disgusting if he were not so extremely ludicrous: and all this
search after impossible mystery, such trumpery! growing into the
popular taste, is fed with garbage; doing more harm than all the
preachings and poundings of optimistic Reviews will be able to remedy
in an hundred years.
The study of such matters as these does other harm than merely
poisoning the mind in one direction; it renders us sceptical of
virtue in others, and we lose the power of pure perception. So
--reading the glorious tale of Griselda and looking about you, you
say there never was such a woman; your wise men say she was a fool;
are there no such fools round about you? pray look close:--so the
result of this is, you see no lesson in such things, or at least
cannot apply it, and therefore the powers of the author are thrown
away. Do you think God made Boccaccio and Chaucer to amuse you in
your idle hours, only that you might sit listening like crowned
idiots, and then debate concerning their faithfulness to truth? You
never can imagine but they knew more of nature than any of us, or
that they had less reverence for her.
In reference to Painting, the Public are taught to look with delight
upon murky old masters, with dismally demoniac trees, and dull waters
of lead, colourless and like ice; upon rocks that make geologists
wonder, their angles are so impossible, their fractures are so new.
Thousands are given for uncomfortable Dutch sun-lights; but if you
are shown a transcript of day itself, with the purple shadow upon the
mountains, and across the still lake, you know nothing of it because
your fathers never bought such: so you look for nothing in it; nay,
let me set you in the actual place, let the water damp your feet,
stand in the chill of the shadow itself, and you will never tell me
the colour on the hill, or where the last of the crows caught the
sinking sunlight. Letting observation sleep, what can you know of
nature? and you _are_ a judge of landscape indeed. So it is that the
world is taught to think of nature, as seen through other men's eyes,
without any reference to its own original powers of perception, and
much natural beauty is lost.