These statements will be called sweeping4 by a certain school of critics, and I shall be asked to cast my eye round the English nest of singing-birds, and to answer and say whether Mr. So-and-so be not a poet, and Mr. So-and-so, and Mr. So-and-so, and Mr. So-and-so. I shall also be asked to say if I am prepared to deny that of Mr. So-and-so's last volume of verse three hundred copies were actually sold to the booksellers. For the propounders of such questions I have one answer—namely, it may be so.
In the meantime let us do our best to find an English poet who is worth the name, and who is prescriptively entitled to be mentioned in the category which begins with Chaucer and ends with Mr. Swinburne. Shall we try Mr. Rudyard Kipling? Tested by sales and the amount of dust he has managed to kick up, Mr. Kipling should be a poet of parts. He is still young, and, hap[Pg 105]pily, among the living; but it cannot be denied that as a poet he has already outlived his reputation. Two years ago he could set the English-speaking nations humming or reciting whatever he chose to put into metre. Some of his little things looked like lasting5. Already the majority of them are forgotten. To the next generation, if he be known at all, he will be known as the author of three pieces—Recessional, the L'Envoi appended to Life's Handicap, and Mandalay. What is to become of such verses as the following?
'Ave you 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor,
With a hairy gold crown on 'er 'ead?
She 'as ships on the foam6—she 'as millions at 'ome,
An' she pays us poor beggars in red.
('Ow poor beggars in red!)
There's 'er nick on the cavalry7 'orses,
There's 'er mark on the medical stores—
An' 'er troopers you'll find with a fair wind be'ind
That takes us to various wars.
(Poor beggars! barbarious wars!)
Then 'ere's to the Widow at Windsor,
An' 'ere's to the stores and the guns,
The men an' the 'orses what makes up the forces
O' Missis Victorier's sons.
(Poor beggars! Victorier's sons!)
[Pg 106]
At the time of their appearance these lines and the like of them were vastly admired; everybody read them, most people praised them. They were supposed to stir the English blood like a blast of martial8 trumpets9. Here at length was the poet England had been waiting for. There could be no mistake about him; he had the authentic10 voice, the incommunicable fire, the master-touch. He had come to stay. At the present moment the bulk of his metrical work is just about as dead and forgotten as the coster-songs of yesteryear. He has not even made a cult3; nobody quotes him, nobody believes in him as a poetical11 master, nobody wants to hear any more of him. His imitators have all gone back to the imitation of better men. If a copy of verses have a flavour of Kipling about it nowadays, editors drop it as they would drop a hot coal. So much for the poet of empire, the poet of the people, the metrical patron of Thomas Atkins, Esq.
Another poet of empire—Mr. W.E. Henley—has fared very little better. "What[Pg 107] can I do for England?" is, I believe, still in request among the makers12 of a certain class of anthology; but English poetry in the bulk is just the same as if Mr. Henley had never been. Even the balderdash about "my indomitable soul" has fallen out of the usus loquendi of young men's Christian13 associations and young men's debating societies. The Song of the Sword is sung no longer; For England's Sake has gone the way of all truculent14 war-poetry; and out of Hawthorn15 and Lavender perhaps a couple of lyrics16 remain. Mr. Henley attacked Burns when Burns had been a century dead. Who will consider it worth while to attack Mr. Henley in, say, the year 2002?
Possibly the real, true English poet who will in due course put on the laurel of Mr. Austin is Mr. Stephen Phillips. Yet Mr. Stephen Phillips is a purveyor17 of metrical notions for the stage, and in his last great work—Ulysses—I find him writing as follows:
Athene. Father, whose oath in hollow hell is heard,
[Pg 108]Whose act is lightning after thunder-word,
A boon18! a boon! that I compassion19 find
For one, the most unhappy of mankind.
Zeus. How is he named?
Athene. Ulysses. He who planned
To take the towered city of Troy-land—
A mighty20 spearsman, and a seaman21 wise,
A hunter, and at need a lord of lies.
With woven wiles22 he stole the Trojan town
Which ten years' battle could not batter23 down:
Oft hath he made sweet sacrifice to thee.
Zeus (nodding benevolently). I mind me of the savoury smell.
Athene. Yet he,
When all the other captains had won home,
Was whirled about the wilderness24 of foam:
For the wind and the wave have driven him evermore,
Mocked by the green of some receding25 shore.
Yet over wind and wave he had his will,
Blistered26 and buffeted27, unbaffled still.
Ever the snare28 was set, ever in vain—
The Lotus Island and the Siren strain;
Through Scylla and Charybdis hath he run,
Sleeplessly29 plunging30 to the setting sun.
Who hath so suffered, or so far hath sailed,
So much encountered, and so little quailed31?
Which is exactly the kind of poetry one requires for the cavern32 scene of a New Year's pantomime.
Possibly, again, the real, true English poet is Mr. William Watson, with his tiresome33 mimicry34 of Wordsworth and his high-[Pg 109]and-dry style of lyrical architecture. Mr. Watson is believed to have done great things, but his r?le now appears to be one of austere35 silence; he is what the old writers would have termed a costive poet. And if his Collected Poems are to be the end of him, his end will not be long deferred36. Or, possibly, the one and only poet our England of to-day would wish to boast is Mr. Arthur Symons. Mr. Symons writes just the kind of poetry one might expect of a versifier who, in early youth, had loved a cigarette-smoking ballet-girl, and could never bring himself to repress his passion. Here is a sample of Mr. Arthur Symons at his choicest:
The feverish37 room and that white bed,
The tumbled skirts upon a chair,
The novel flung half open where
Hat, hair-pins, puffs38, and paints are spread.
And you, half dressed and half awake,
Your slant39 eyes strangely watching me;
And I, who watch you drowsily40,
With eyes that, having slept not, ache:
[Pg 110]
This (need one dread41? nay42, dare one hope?)
Will rise, a ghost of memory, if
Ever again my handkerchief
Is scented43 with White Heliotrope44.
No doubt, if the English continue to descend45 the moral Avernus at their present rate of speed, Mr. Symons will become, by sheer process of time, the representative poet of the nation. It is part of a poet's duty to look into the future, and Mr. Symons appears to have taken the next two or three generations of Englishmen by the forelock. May he have the reward which is his due!
For the rest, they all mean well, and they all aim high; but one is afraid that nothing will come of them. There are Francis Thompson, and Laurence Housman, and Henry Newbolt, and Laurence Binyon, and F.B. Money-Coutts, and Arthur Christopher Benson, and Victor Plarr—amiable performers all, but each a standing46 example of poetical shortcoming. Perhaps one ought not to mention Mr. John Davidson and Mr. W.B. Yeats, because Mr. Davidson is a Scot, and Mr. Yeats, putatively47, at any rate, an Irish[Pg 111]man. In some respects these twain may be considered the pick of the basket. I am constrained48 to admit, however, that neither of them has as yet fulfilled his earlier promise.
So that, on the whole, England is practically without poets of marked or extraordinary attainments49. The reason is not far to seek. She is losing the breed of noble bloods; her greed, her luxuriousness50, her excesses, her contempt for all but the material, are beginning to find her out. Her youths, who should be fired by the brightest emotions, are bidden not to be fools, and taught that the whole duty of man is to be washed and combed and financially successful. Consequently that section of English adolescence51 which, in the nature of things, begins with poetry and gladness very speedily throws up the sponge. Consecration52 to the muse53 is no longer thought of among Englishmen. They cannot be content to be published and take their chance. The dismal54 shibboleth55, "Poetry does not pay," wears them all down. What is the good of[Pg 112] writing verses which bring you neither reputation nor emolument56? One must live, and to live like a gentleman by honest toil57, and devote one's leisure instead of one's life to poetry, is the better part. Meanwhile, England jogs along quite comfortably. She can get Keats for a shilling, and Shakespeare for sixpence. Why should she worry herself for a moment with the new men?
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1
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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cult
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| n.异教，邪教；时尚，狂热的崇拜 | |
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4
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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6
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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7
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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8
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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9
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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10
authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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12
makers
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| n.制造者，制造商（maker的复数形式） | |
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13
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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14
truculent
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| adj.野蛮的，粗野的 | |
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15
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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16
lyrics
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| n.歌词 | |
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17
purveyor
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| n.承办商，伙食承办商 | |
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18
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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19
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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20
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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21
seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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22
wiles
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| n.（旨在欺骗或吸引人的）诡计，花招；欺骗，欺诈( wile的名词复数 ) | |
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23
batter
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| v.接连重击；磨损；n.牛奶面糊；击球员 | |
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24
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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25
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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26
blistered
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| adj.水疮状的，泡状的v.（使）起水泡( blister的过去式和过去分词 )；（使表皮等）涨破，爆裂 | |
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27
buffeted
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| 反复敲打( buffet的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续猛击； 打来打去； 推来搡去 | |
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28
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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29
sleeplessly
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| adv.失眠地 | |
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30
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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31
quailed
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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33
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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34
mimicry
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| n.（生物）拟态，模仿 | |
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35
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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36
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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37
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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38
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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39
slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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40
drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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41
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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42
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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43
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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44
heliotrope
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| n.天芥菜；淡紫色 | |
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45
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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46
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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47
putatively
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| adv.推定地 | |
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48
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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49
attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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50
luxuriousness
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51
adolescence
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| n.青春期，青少年 | |
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52
consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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53
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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54
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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55
shibboleth
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| n.陈规陋习；口令；暗语 | |
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56
emolument
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| n.报酬，薪水 | |
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57
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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