For I am shamed by that which I bring forth; What poem could be more purely poetical, and at the same time more totally destitute of imagery? Unless the seventh line can be said to present an image, which I doubt, or at least one that deserves the name. The poetry of it all lies in the sentiment-in its excessive tenderness. The simplest and least figurative expression of thought is generally the most poetical and the best. Who questions but what the words "Wilt thou remember me ?" are more poetical than "Wilt thou preserve me in thy memory's shrine ?" Yet they contain no figure: they are the simplest and most direct and intense expression of the thought. It would be absurd to deny that figures greatly improve some poetry. In fact, they may constitute the poetry. All I contend for is, that there is a certain tenderness of sentiment so delicate and pure and impassioned in its meaning, that simple and abstract forms of expression may render it better than figurative language. Songs are nearly always the direct expression of thought; and though by reason of the subject they generally present images to the mind, those images are not illustrations, but the simple objects referred to in Nature. For instance: "Under the greenwood tree, Who loves to lie with me," &c. Now here are the works of Mr. Percinet: several charming small volumes of charming small poetry. It strikes me that Mr. Percinet has a wrong notion of his art, although some of his verses are very elegant, and show a beautiful and sensitive mind. His system is apparently to note down all the poetical facts he meets with, either in books or life, and then to dish them up, with abundant reflections, by way of garniture, in the shape of sonnets and ballads. If an ingenious thought occurs to him, he must write a poem in order to bring it in. He makes a drawing an inch square, and pastes it on an acre of paper. Sometimes, however, we can easily forgive his expansions in favour of the amiable feeling they display. And if his creations are called up like bubbles from the tiniest possible element, and consist of the thinnest possible material, and are inflated to the utmost possible degree, we must admit that the slight toy wears some beautiful colours. His poems really are charming, but they have all this fault in common they are little essays written on poetical subjects; so that frequently the whole poetry of the piece is exhausted in the heading. Take an instance: "To my Wife, on her wishing for some leaves of the walnuttrees by the Rhine, under which we walked every evening during the first month of our marriage.” Well, what can Percinet say more? All the poetry is already out. But he will make a poem about it, because the subject is so poetical ! In the poem itself there is not a single idea introduced that is not necessarily called up in the mind of the reader by perusing the title. But if Percinet be not destined to live, I will fling a rosebud in his tomb. His style is correct; his versification liquid; he has tenderness, yet never becomes ludicrous. I feel less kindly disposed towards another poet, who stands before me in his green singing robes, and frowning, methinks, somewhat arrogantly. Yes, Mr. Phlegeros, there is a good deal of power in what you do; but it is all so writhing, gasping, starting, staring, that I should be rather glad if it were altogether folly, not worth the pains of reading, instead of tempting me on by the allurements of certain merits-a flower or two of imagination, here and there, among a prickly wilderness of scrub. You are always straining in the least matters; always overlaying the veriest trifle with ponderous similes, as though you should hang a hundredweight to the tendrils of a vine. And this writhing, gnashing contortion is the antipodes of grace, which consists in the magic ease, the clear flow; like a dancer's bound, or the walk of a race-horse. I know a French word that expresses your kind of intellect, Mr. Phlegeros, rabougri, stunted; a knotted shrunken stem. There was once a celebrated lawyer and legislator, who had certain faculties in perfection, but whose nature I am inclined to believe lacked love and music. Whose talent for writing history was first-rate; who had sound views of policy, immense reading, marvellous memory, some appreciation of character, an eye for dramatic effect, and a most clear forcible style. A certain hardness, a dogmatic firmness, not without considerable partisanship, made him rather rough to the palate. I find his noble prose-writing not without a slight odour of vanity; and I make bold to say I don't like his poetry. In truth there seems to me a kind of audacity in trolling out verses about old Rome in that jinglejangle metre. A lack of good taste not compensated for by very much originality, or very many touches of genius. Surely this was a great man who could make grand speeches, but not a poem. After all, how few verses, comparatively with the number produced, are more than mere echoes; mere plaster-of-Paris casts, and not moulded on the body of the original thought with good vigorous native clay! And mere verse is worse than worthless. It is the unobserved, unconscious working of this truth that makes people in general turn away from a page the instant they see the lines begin with capitals, and end at irregular distances. They expect something weak and stale, and in nine hundred and ninety-nine instances out of a thousand this expectation is verified by fact. The mechanical attention to rhythm, and rhyme, commonly impairs the vigour of expression of which unshackled and many-cadenced prose is capable. Prose is a more powerful instrument of music than verse can be; and the infinite variety of its modulations, adapts itself spontaneously to all moods. Jean Paul Richter if I may dare judge with my imperfect knowledge of his language was a great poet, though he never wrote a line of verse. I should think his prose had finer harmonies than almost any verse. So has Jeremy Taylor's. Many write most vigorously in prose, who become weak and flimsy the instant they attempt verse. But there is no instance, that I remember, of a true poet who could not write, prose of excellent quality. This proves that the ear of a poet detects better than others the latent and less ordered harmonics of prose, and consequently the fitness of prose for the poet's mind, mint to mila sit id no at guid just to fosed-1!! 66 11 The reason we meet with so many persons figuring as poets, on the strength of a power of versification, lies in the common blunder of those good people of confounding such a plentiful accomplishment with the vision and the faculty divine;" which are the fruit of the very rarest combination of gifts and accidents, and quite independent of any trick of rhyme.com в ofif gwelt nobo oli par organ silt in lato k nim Most of us remember our lives by chapters, not verses; and, this, makes the recollection a matter of feeling too vague for poetry. A word-painting, to be worth, much, must be a picture dashed-in with all those impassioned touches of light, and shade, and, colour, with which the momentary vision of some particular scene asks to be thrown off B Recollections of places stamp themselves with a burning vividness on the poet's mind. Nature impresses the poet's soul as sunlight prints a. landscape on the sensitive silver of the daguerreotype To Ho The poet's memory pounces down on some scrap of the past, like an eagle on a kid, and soars off with it in its talons, to discuss at leisure, in its eyrie, to mobo Mila a moitia jon qaitry-9-ong oldon -id The poet tears, open little window-holes in that, blind cocoon, of the present, with which we walk concealed, and hooded, and looks out for one moment on the past.... It is to snatch pearls out of the deep.olam Hey, te zabuot 7 7197 10 gjilangno and gulooga bierg odant blucoɔ difu mwa Jory 8 anu dilt ylomě humble remarks 1904 8 Joll his dictation [Pythias, having listened to the unfriendly expression of countenance, the following - ArmBT-to-193487 9196 : 2501b9 975l medi 91HI 91 97lish zoroary boog die nignodt Isai,,ino ft to ybod out no boblom ‚iornedom alt si Advice to Poet-worshippers: 92197 91m bež. 17ob has requested me to add frather an to, enidow goi-nos Never read a poet's poems in Ms., with all the alterations and amendments, ready for press. Avoid it as you would avoid the tuning of fiddles. It is disillusionising: it might seriously shake your faith. You would see a great deal more than it is pleasant to see of the imperfections of the great instrument. Oh the picking and choosing of words that must have gone on VOL. XI. MM before even the first fair copy was produced! Now all that has a little look. It is like an ill-assured touch in painting-like niggling. The expression of language is, in fact, too idiomatic to be thought out. Happy hits are made at once. If a thing is ill said, I doubt if all the teasing in the world will make it better. If it is well said, better leave well alone. I doubt if there is any need to touch-up the indifferent parts of a work with the same aim at petty perfection which makes young ladies pull out their bows, and settle their rufflings, before they walk into a ballroom. Better, to my thinking, a little natural negligence in the smaller features of a work than the least betrayal of effort. Hardly should any artist admit, by after-thought improvements, the possibility of error in his inspiration. And the step of a poet on Parnassus should be free, and assured, as of one born on the mountain. City Intelligence. WHEN I read, as it is my delight to do daily, of a "quietude which characterised the markets of stocks and shares;" or that "caution has been evinced by time operators;" or that the shadows cast by some coming event caused "but little activity to be manifested in the early hours, though towards afternoon greater strength was exhibited;" or that "the favourable state of the weather, and the situation of politics, has resulted in an extension of speculative engagements,"I am invariably lost in wonder and admiration. The diurnal treat never palls; its novelty is always fresh; and let the other portions of my newspaper be as dull as a wet Sunday at a country inn, I invariably discover in its City article recondite passages, which have for me the interest of a lovestory, and the gentle excitement of a clever conundrum. I never know, nor wish to know, why "prices rallied;" or wherefore "the demand for discount was moderate;" or the reason for "open market transactions" being "fractionally below the Bank rate;" or the occult motives of the "Don Sancho del Panza (Quixotic) Mining Company" in announcing ten per-cent profit; or why "Bartered Indians" decline, and "South Diddlesexes" improve. It is enough for me to know that they all relate to แ "Great Mammon!-greatest god below the sky;" and that these apparently innocent announcements inspire with hope, depress with care, render happy or miserable, thousands upon thousands of my fellow readers, who take up my favourite column, not as I do, in a half-careless, dilettante spirit, but with a fierce eagerness to learn the best or worst; to ascertain whether the proud port and the free hand may be maintained; or whether life is to be recommenced, or, worse still, to be henceforth one protracted confession of failure and defeat. In that admirable song of Tom Hood's, so often erroneously attributed to Dibdin, you remember how Barney Buntline, having "turned his quid," remarks to his friend and messmate Mr. Bowling "A strong nor-wester's blowing, Bill; Unhappy folks on shore now!" And it may be in some such spirit as his that I commiserate the people whose calm and critical enjoyment of a City article is marred by a personal interest in the doings it details. Real appreciation of its hidden beauties is impossible to such as these. What do they know of the fair girls whose long engagements have been shortened; or the gallant young fellows whose dearest hopes are realised; or the clouds which roll away from the father's brow; or the widow's thanksgiving for her escape from imminent peril,-wherewith my dream-land is peopled, |