Literary and General Lectures and Essays. Charles Kingsley

as symbols of his fancied difference from his human brothers.  All great poets, till Shelley and Byron, as far as we can discern, have been men especially free from eccentricities; careful not merely of the chivalries and the respectabilities, but also of the courtesies and the petty conventionalities, of the age in which they lived; altogether well-bred men of the world.  The answer, that they learnt the ways of courts, does not avail; for if they had had no innate good-breeding, reticence, respect for forms and customs, they would never have come near courts at all.  It is not a question of rank and fashion, but of good feeling, common sense, unselfishness.  Goethe, Milton, Spenser, Shakespeare, Rabelais, Ariosto, were none of them high-born men; several of them low-born; who only rose to the society of high-horn men because they were themselves innately high-bred, polished, complete, without exaggerations, affectations, deformities, weaknesses of mind and taste, whatever may have been their weaknesses on certain points of morals.  The man of all men most bepraised by the present generation of poets, is perhaps Wolfgang von Goethe.  Why is it, then, that of all men he is the one whom they strive to be most unlike?

      And if this be good counsel for the man who merely wishes—and no blame to him—to sing about beautiful things in a beautiful way, it applies with tenfold force to the poet who desires honestly to proclaim great truths.  If he has to offend the prejudices of the world in important things, that is all the more reason for his bowing to those prejudices in little things, and being content to be like his neighbours in outward matters, in order that he may make them like himself in inward ones.  Shall such a man dare to hinder his own message, to drive away the very hearers to whom he believes himself to be sent, for the sake of his own nerves, laziness, antipathies, much more of his own vanity and pride?  If he does so, he is unfaithful to that very genius on which he prides himself.  He denies its divinity, by treating it as his own possession, to be displayed or hidden as he chooses, for his own enjoyment, his own self-glorification.  Well for such a man if a day comes to him in which he will look back with shame and self-reproach, not merely on every scandal which he may have caused by breaking the moral and social laws of humanity, by neglecting to restrain his appetites, pay his bills, and keep his engagements; but also on every conceited word and look, every gaucherie and rudeness, every self-indulgent moroseness and fastidiousness, as sins against the sacred charge which has been committed to him; and determine with that Jew of old, who, to judge from his letter to Philemon, was one of the most perfect gentlemen of God’s making who ever walked this earth, to become “all things to all men, if by any means he may save some.”

      ALEXANDER SMITH AND ALEXANDER POPE

      On reading this little book,3 and considering all the exaggerated praise and exaggerated blame which have been lavished on it, we could not help falling into many thoughts about the history of English poetry for the last forty years, and about its future destiny.  Great poets, even true poets, are becoming more and more rare among us.  There are those even who say that we have none; an assertion which, as long as Mr. Tennyson lives, we shall take the liberty of denying.  But were he, which Heaven forbid, taken from us, whom have we to succeed him?  And he, too, is rather a poet of the sunset than of the dawn—of the autumn than of the spring.  His gorgeousness is that of the solemn and fading year; not of its youth, full of hope, freshness, gay and unconscious life.  Like some stately hollyhock or dahlia of this month’s gardens, he endures while all other flowers are dying; but all around is winter—a mild one, perhaps, wherein a few annuals or pretty field weeds still linger on; but, like all mild winters, especially prolific in fungi, which, too, are not without their gaudiness, even their beauty, although bred only from the decay of higher organisms, the plagiarists of the vegetable world.  Such is poetry in England; while in America the case is not much better.  What more enormous scope for new poetic thought than that which the New World gives?  Yet the American poets, even the best of them, look lingeringly and longingly back to Europe and her legends; to her models, and not to the best of them—to her criticism, and not to the best of that—and bestow but a very small portion of such genius as they have on America and her new forms of life.  If they be nearer to the spring than we, they are still deep enough in the winter.  A few early flowers may be budding among them, but the autumn crop is still in somewhat shabby and rain-bedrabbled bloom.  And for us, where are our spring flowers?  What sign of a new poetic school?  Still more, what sign of the healthy resuscitation of any old one?

      “What matter, after all?” one says to oneself in despair, re-echoing Mr. Carlyle.  “Man was not sent into the world to write poetry.  What we want is truth.  Of the former we have enough in all conscience just now.  Let the latter need be provided for by honest and righteous history, and as for poets, let the dead bury their dead.”  And yet, after all, man will write poetry, in spite of Mr. Carlyle: nay, beings who are not men, but mere forked radishes, will write it.  Man is a poetry-writing animal.  Perhaps he was meant to be one.  At all events, he can no more be kept from it than from eating.  It is better, with Mr. Carlyle’s leave, to believe that the existence of poetry indicates some universal human hunger, whether after “the beautiful,” or after “fame,” or after the means of paying butchers’ bills; and accepting it as a necessary evil which must be committed, to see that it be committed as well, or at least as little ill, as possible.  In excuse of which we may quote Mr. Carlyle against himself, reminding him of a saying of Goethe once bepraised by him in print: “We must take care of the beautiful, for the useful will take care of itself.”

      And never, certainly, since Pope wrote his Dunciad, did the beautiful require more taking care of, or evince less capacity for taking care of itself; and never, we must add, was less capacity for taking care of it evinced by its accredited guardians of the press than at this present time, if the reception given to Mr. Smith’s poems is to be taken as a fair expression of “the public taste.”

      Now, let it be fairly understood, Mr. Alexander Smith is not the object of our reproaches: but Mr. Alexander Smith’s models and flatterers.  Against him we have nothing whatsoever to say; for him, very much indeed.

      Very young, as is said, self-educated, drudging for his daily bread in some dreary Glasgow prison-house of brick and mortar, he has seen the sky, the sun and moon—and, moreover, the sea, report says, for one day in his whole life; and this is nearly the whole of his experience in natural objects.  And he has felt, too painfully for his peace of mind, the contrast between his environment and that of others—his means of culture and that of others—and, still more painfully, the contrast between his environment and culture, and that sense of beauty and power of melody which he does not deny that he has found in himself, and which no one can deny who reads his poems fairly; who reads even merely the opening page and key-note of the whole:

      For as a torrid sunset burns with gold

      Up to the zenith, fierce within my soul

      A passion burns from basement unto cope.

      Poesy, poesy, I’d give to thee

      As passionately my rich laden years,

      My bubble pleasures, and my awful joys,

      As Hero gave her trembling sighs to find

      Delicious death on wet Leander’s lip.

      Bare, bald, and tawdry, as a fingered moth

      Is my poor life; but with one smile thou canst

      Clothe me with kingdoms.  Wilt thou smile on me?

      Wilt bid me die for thee?  Oh fair and cold!

      As well may some wild maiden waste her love

      Upon the calm front of a marble Jove.

      Now this scrap is by no menus a fair average specimen of Mr. Smith’s verse.  But is not the self-educated man who could teach himself, amid Glasgow smoke and noise, to write such a distich as that exquisite one which we have given in italics, to be judged lovingly and hopefully?

      What if he has often copied?  What if, in this very scrap, chosen almost at random, there should be a touch from Tennyson’s “Two Voices?”  And what if imitations, nay, caricatures, be found in almost every page?  Is not the explanation simple enough, and rather creditable than discreditable to Mr. Smith?  He takes as his models Shelley, Keats,

3

“Poems,” by Alexander Smith.  London: Bogue.  1853.  Fraser’s Magazine, October, 1853.