No More Learning

The duke of Wellington
(as Rogers himself most frankly records in a note to the poem)
had told Rogers, with his usual plainness of speech and absence
7
E. L. XII.
CH. V.


## p. 98 (#122) #############################################

98
Lesser Poets, 1790—1837 [CH.
>
of pose, a striking story, how, when he went to sleep after the
great slaughter of Assaye,
whenever I woke, which I did continually through the night, it struck me
that I had lost all my friends : nor could I think otherwise till morning came
and, one by one, I saw those that were living.
We know vaguely what mighty use the poets, the real poets, from
Shakespeare (one might even say from Chaucer) to Shelley would
have made of this. If the comparison with these be thought
unfair, we can guess from isolated touches in poems like Lochiel
and Lord Ullin's Daughter what a contemporary, a companion in
Byron's group and, as we may say, a “schoolfellow' like Campbell
could have made of it. This is the commonplace and conventional
generality which it suggested to Rogers :
Where many an anxious, many a mournful thought,
Troubling, perplexing, on his heart and mind
Preyed, ere to arms the morning trumpet called.
With equal frankness it would be unkind to call it insensibility),
he wrote Italy partly in verse partly in prose ; and there must
have been some, perhaps many, to whom the illiberal but critical
thought must have suggested itself “Why not all in prose ? ' The
somewhat famous story of Ginevra would have lost little; and,
perhaps, only one piece, and that the best of all, “The Campagna
of Rome,' might be saved, in almost its own figure, by the lines
6
Once again
We look; and lo! the sea is white with sails
Innumerable, wafting to the shore
Treasures untold; the vale, the promontories
A dream of glory; temples, palaces,
Called up as by enchantment; aqueducts
Among the groves and glades, rolling along
Rivers on many an arch high overhead-
And in the centre, like a burning sun
The Imperial City.
Let us leave Rogers with that line and a half and with only a
historical, not a spiteful, reference to Paradise Regained; for
hardly anywhere else, in short poem or in long, has he come so near
the 'poetic moment,' even if he has come near, also, to Milton in
more senses than one.
Not thus ungraciously can any critic speak of Campbell ; but,
anyone who spoke of him with unmixed graciousness would hardly
be a critic. To him, the moment' just mentioned was no stranger;
a


## p. 99 (#123) #############################################

v]
Campbell
99
they met, and he made almost or quite the best of it, again and
again. He has the glorious distinction of being, in three different
pieces, nearer than any other poet among many to being a
perfect master of the great note of battle-poetry. Of these, one,
Ye Mariners of England, is, to some extent, an adaptation,
though an immense improvement on its original; and The Battle
of the Baltic has some singular spots on its sun. But Hohenlinden
is unique; subject and spirit, words and music make an indivisible
quaternity and, except in two or three passages of Homer and
Aeschylus, there is nothing anywhere that surpasses the last and
culminating stanza in poignant simplicity. Perhaps no other poem
of Campbell can be named with these three, as a whole, but most of
his earlier and shorter poems give flashes of undoubted poetry.
There is no space here for a miniature anthology of these blooms;
but some of them are universally known, and no one with an eye
and ear for poetry can read, without recognising it in them,
Lochiel's Warning, Lord Ullin's Daughter (the central jewel of
this, however hackneyed, must be excepted for quotation,
a
And in the scowl of Heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking),
the less known, but, in parts, extremely beautiful Lines on Re-
visiting a Scene in Argyllshire, The Soldier's Dream, The Last
Man and others. All these are of a tragic and, if not romantic,
romantesque cast; but Campbell has retained not a little of the
eighteenth century epigram in such lines as the other stock
quotation
The torrent's smoothness ere it dash below.
He had a bluff felicity, as in The Song of Hybrias the Cretan,
which is not too common at any time; and, in other songs, such as
Withdraw not yet those lips and fingers, or How delicious is the
winning, there are strange reminiscences of that seventeenth
century feeling to which he sometimes did justice in his critical
Specimens and which greater singers have not been able to
command in their actual verse.
So far so good; but, unfortunately, no historical account of
Campbell's poetry can be arrested at this point. He did not write
much verse in his fairly long life; not because he was prevented
by untoward circumstances (for, though he had some hackwork to
do, it was never oppressive or prohibitory), but, apparently, because
he did not feel inclined to write much. But, at a rough guess, he
SAY! !
7-2


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Іоо
[CH.
Lesser Poets, 1790—1837
wrote some six or seven thousand lines in all, and it is certain that
the poems referred to above, even taking the bad or indifferent
(which, in some, is the much larger) part with the good, do not
amount to anything like six or seven hundred. The long, or
comparatively long, Pleasures of Hope, which at once made his
fame and his fortune, is much better (though Byron did not think
80) than its companion and predecessor Memory, for, as has been
said, Campbell was a poet and Rogers, save by chance-medley, was
not. But, with less flatness, it has nearly as much artificiality;
it scarcely ever gets beyond metred rhetoric; and this rhetoric
itself, as in the tag
And Freedom shrieked when Kosciusko fell,
6
is not always firstrate. Freedom, whether she sits crowned upon
the heights or, for the time, dies fighting on the field, has something
else to do than to shriek. Of the other long poems, Gertrude of
Wyoming, perhaps, is the clumsiest caricature of the Spenserian
stanza ever achieved by a man of real poetic power; the comparison
with Thomson which has sometimes been made of it is an insult to
The Castle of Indolence; and it is even far below Beattie. As for
Theodoric and The Pilgrim of Glencoe, they have, from the first,
been carefully confessed and avoided' by Campbell's warmest
admirers when these had any taste at all. But, it may be said,
this long-poem practice was not his vein. The accidents of time
and other things had, in the dead season of 1799, made The
Pleasures of Hope a success, and he had to try to repeat it.
But he did not by any means confine himself to these long
poems; and it will have been noticed that, even in reference to
the shorter ones and the best of them, it was necessary to speak in
all but one instance with reservations. In his Specimens, Campbell
showed himself, though rather a limited, not a bad, critic, and,
though his dislikel to the prevailing romantic school (which yet he
followed in a sidelong and recalcitrant manner) made him take
a questionable part in the Bowles-Pope controversy, he was not
contemptible there. But, of self-criticism at least of such self-
criticism as prevents a man from publishing inferior work—he
seems to have had little or nothing. It would be dangerous to
take his asserted confession, at one moment, that The Pleasures of
Hope was 'trash,' as a serious utterance; besides, it is not exactly
1 It has been urged that, in 1842, he acknowledged the greatness of Wordsworth.
“'Tis somewhat late, as the voice said in Christmas Eve and Easter Day, but, no
doubt, better than never.


## p. 101 (#125) ############################################

v]
Campbell
IOI
that. Yet, he could deliberately publish, as a version of a chorus
in Medea, the following lines:
Hallowed Earth! with indignation
Mark! oh mark! the murderous deed-
Radiant eye of wide creation
Watch the accursed infanticide(ceed].
In the vales of placid gladness
Let no rueful maniac range;
Chase afar the fiend of madness,
Wrench the dagger from Revengeſvange).
a
a
Which looks like an attempt to match Pope's Song by a Person of
Quality in the serious blood-and-thunder vein. Nor, if he is
seldom quite so bad as this, does he avoid, in a very large number
of cases, coming only too near to it.
Cases of 'the poet dying young' (all Campbell's best work was
done when he was a little past thirty) and the man surviving are,
of course, common enough; and, in most of them, there is little or
no need to seek for a special and philosophical explanation. In
Campbell's, we may, perhaps, find a particular one beyond the
undoubted and obvious fact that the springs of his Helicon were
neither frequent nor full; and that it required a special stamp
of one breed of Pegasus to set them flowing. He probably suffered
not a little from being, in a rather peculiar manner, recalcitrant to
his time. He was younger than Wordsworth, Coleridge, Scott
and Southey, and, though he did not live to be a very old man,
Tennyson's Poems of 1842 and Browning's Bells and Pomegranates,
1841, were published before his death. But he withstood the
romantic grace, and yet he could not thoroughly rest and be
content with the older classical dispensation. It has been said
that Collins would probably have benefited unequivocally by the
chance of writing at the time when Campbell actually did write.
It is not too great a compliment to the author of Hohenlinden
to say that there are not a few touches in him which remind us of
Collins. But, if he did not exactly, in the language of his own
country, sin the mercies' that Collins did not receive, he made little
use of them. And so he remains an interesting example, both in
himself and to literary history, of the dangers of a transition period.
It can hardly be said that either Rogers or Campbell is a
difficult poet to criticise, for, though estimates of both may differ
considerably, the difference, as hinted already, will depend almost
entirely on the general attitude of the particular critic towards poetry


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102
[CH.
Lesser Poets, ,
1790—1837
-a thing which can be allowed for, and compensated, with almost
mathematical accuracy. No such process seems to be available in
the case of the third remaining member of Byron's selected group',
Moore. It is almost unnecessary to say that he was extraordinarily
popular in his own time; and this popularity had the most solid
results, running hard, in all material ways, that of Scott and Byron.
Not only did he receive three thousand pounds for the copyright
of Lalla Rookh, but the actual sale of the much shorter and vastly
inferior Loves of the Angels brought him in one thousand in the
first few months. Although not a few of the Irish Melodies are
masterpieces in their own kind, it would be interesting to know if
any other poet ever received, as Moore is said to have done, during
a great number of years, 'a hundred guineas apiece' or their
equivalent at the time, for each of more than a hundred and thirty
short songs? The Paradise Lost comparison, misleading as it
may be, certainly does come rather pat here. But the rebate of
posthumous criticism on this prodigal reward has been heavy.
For something like half a century it has been rare to find an
estimate of Moore which, if not positively contemptuous, has not
been at least apologetic. He is, perhaps, the best example existing
to prove that, in literature, an accumulation of venial sins is much
more dangerous than the commission of one capital sin or even
more; and that, to any but exceptionally critical judgments to that
manner happily born, and in that manner carefully bred, such an
accumulation will not be compensated by an accompanying ac-
cumulation of non-capital merits.
And yet, Moore's sins are but slight; in no case more than
defects, and, in some cases, capable of being vindicated from the
charge of being sins at all; while his merits are extremely numerous
and, in some cases, of a kind the reverse of vulgar. It is not true
that he was, in any bad sense, a toadeater, though, in certain ways,
like Kingsley's John Brimblecombe, he might appear to have 'a
gnathonical or parasitic spirit. ' He had, indeed, a catlike dis-
position to curl himself up near something or somebody comfortable;
1 We have—a trivial but not quite irrelevant fact—one record in Moore's own pleasant
words (Poems, 1. vol. edn, p. 432 and note) of a meeting of all this group except Scott,
with no one else present, at dinner in Campbell's house at Sydenham. Into further
biographical details, save those glanced at in the text, it is not necessary to enter in
the case of any of the three. All lived literary lives of the ordinary kind, varied, in
Rogers’s case, with a little business; in his, and in Moore's, with a great deal of
society; and in all with a certain amount of foreign travel. Campbell's domestic
life was rather exceptionally unhappy, by no one's fault; Moore's was very happy.
? Even if there is a mistake here, and the payment was 'a hundred guineas a part,'
of which there were ten and a supplement, it would have been handsome.


## p. 103 (#127) ############################################

v]
103
Moore
and it is amusing to find that, even in Paris, he was wretched till
he managed to find a new Mayfield or Sloperton, not at Lord
Moira's or Lord Lansdowne's door, but in 'a cottage belonging to
our kind Spanish friends the V. . . . . . Is, and a few steps from their
house. But it does not appear that Moore was any more in-
clined to put up with insulting treatment than the cat itself is.
Nobody ever doubted his courage, though the Jeffrey duel may
have had a touch of the ludicrous; his conduct in the difficulties
brought upon him by the fraud and flight of his deputy at Bermuda
presents a memorable contrast, refreshing on his side if saddening
on the other, to the conduct of Theodore Hook in almost precisely
similar circumstances; and, even with that rather difficult person
Byron, he seems to have maintained perfectly independent rela-
tions. For some time past, indeed, there has been a tendency to
affect disgust at his destruction of Byron's Memoirs. One would
like to be quite sure, considering the symptoms of public taste at
all times and certainly not least of late, whether resentment at the
loss of something supposed to be piquant and naughty has not
more to do with this than virtuous indignation at an imputed
breach of trust. At any rate, it is nearly certain that, putting
certain famous cruces aside, the Memoirs were much more likely
to show Byron's bad side than his good one; that they were left
to Moore in absolute property; and that their publication would
have brought him in far more money than the Life, good as it was
and handsomely as it was remunerated.
But someone may say 'Never mind his character or his life.
He shall be a not dishonourable little fellow if you like. But
there is a foible, if not a taint, all over his literature. He is almost
always trivial; and, even when he is not that, he is never intense.
He never reaches passion, but only sentiment; and that sentiment
is too often mawkish if not even rancid. He is almost purely
imitative—at least in poems of any pretension. He is a clever
craftsman, but never a real artist. He plays with patriotism,
with politics, with everything. His “prettiness" is only a mincing
artificial variety; and his “favour" was a thing of mere fashion,
not long out of date. ' That, one believes, is a pretty fair summary
of the unfavourable, which seems to have become also the general,
attitude to Moore; for nobody pays much attention now to the
schoolboy 'improprieties of the ‘Little' poems, which were never
very shocking, and of which, indeed, the poems have been purged
in all their legitimate editions for more than a century.
And, certainly, no person of sense will regard Moore as a serious


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104
[ch.
Lesser Poets, 1790—1837
'traitor. ' Indeed, it is a clause in the more savage indictments
that his nationalism was wholly insincere. The more moderate
charge suggested above can, perhaps, be best traversed by a counter
statement a little more in detaill.
There can be little doubt that Moore has suffered in more
ways than one from the extreme voluminousness of his writings.
The standard one-volume edition of his Poems, subtracting The
Epicurean (an exceedingly good piece of ornate prose), contains
nearly seven hundred double columned pages, which frequently
themselves contain from eighty to a hundred lines apiece. The
table of contents fills nearly twenty columns, with sometimes sixty
entries in each—the individual poems running from a distich to
a series of some thousands of lines. It does not suit the habits of
the present day to read all this; still less, to take the slight trouble
necessary to understand it; for much of it is 'occasional' and
requires commentary. And yet, it may be said unhesitatingly that,
unless the whole of it is read, or, at least, what seems to the present
writer an impossibly exhaustive selection of all its departments,
Moore will not be properly known.
For one remarkable point about him will otherwise escape
notice; and that is the curiously pervading and adequate character
of such goodness as he possesses. Moore may not meet the lofty
demands of lovers of “high seriousness, but he is never bad
except in his few and short serious satires, Corruption, Intolerance,
etc. , where he was trying something-and a very difficult thing-
for which he was not in the least fitted; and in the rant of the
'Phelim Connor' letters in The Fudge Family, which may itself
have been intended as satire of the kind which he could manage. He
may not soar very high, he may not dive very deep; but he skims
the surface with a curiously light, deft and variously fluttering wing.
Trivial he may be; mediocre, in a certain sense, he may be; but
one remembers the just protest of even the severe Boileau in
another case-Il n'est pas médiocrement gai; and some would
add and maintain pretty stoutly that, now and then, Il n'est pas
médiocrement tendre.
One thing no competent and fairminded enemy has ever
6
1 To bring compurgators' for Moore at any length here would be superfluous. But
Hazlitt's praise, though it has been discounted as due to political partisanship, must
not be neglected. And those who think it sufficient to dismiss Moore with the stock
ticket of 'tawdry' should, perhaps, be informed that Hartley Coleridge, a very con-
siderable critic and a man than whom it is hardly possible to imagine anyone
more unlike Moore in blood, temper, literary tastes and almost everything else, quite
seriously called the Irish poet's Pegasus 'a milk-white palfrey with rainbow wings. '


## p. 105 (#129) ############################################

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105
Moore
denied him—an almost unique faculty of marrying words to music
and music to words. Part of this skill, it may be said, has little or
nothing to do with poetical merit, but another part of it has; and
Moore has rarely received sufficient credit for the remarkable skill
with which he effects strictly prosodic variations. But the still
more purely poetical value, excluding even prosodic considerations,
of the best of his songs in Irish Melodies, in National Airs and
in half a dozen other collections has been strangely belittled by
some good judges. Grant that to transfer Ben Jonson's scorn
from prose to verse, some of the most popular, such as The Minstrel
Boy and The Last Rose of Summer, and a good many others are
somewhat 'flashy things,' only prejudice or that lack of freshness
of taste which transfers its own faults to the things distasted, or
sheer insensibility, can deny a true, if not the rarest or finest,
poetic touch to Oft in the stilly night (however little fond one may
be of forms like 'stilly'), At the mid hour of night when stars
are weeping (a wonderful rhythm), I saw from the beach and
others yet which might be named almost by dozens. The
notes to Lalla Rookh (which nobody need read) are said to bore
a generation which thinks it knows everything already; and the
verse-tale of this particular kind is wholly out of fashion. Yet,
there are some who, after knowing the poem almost by heart in
youth and reading it at different times later, have still found 'The
Veiled Prophet' a much more interesting person to read about
than some others of their youthful acquaintances; while, in the
way of light, sweet, meringue-like verse, 'Paradise and the Peri'
is still not easily to be beaten.
Moreover, even Moore's lightest verse can only be neglected
at no small loss. Our fathers well knew The Fudge Family
in their French and English experiences, and The Two-Penny
Post Bag and the cloud of minor satiric trifles; and scores of
delectable tags which enliven other peoples' work were borrowed
from them. The felicitous impertinence, neither ill-natured nor
ill-bred, which Moore had at command is, perhaps, nowhere better
shown than in the famous or should-be famous suggestion as to
Rokeby (put quite properly in a publisher's mouth) that Scott
Having quitted the Borders to seek new renown
Is coming by long quarto stages to town,
And beginning with Rokeby (the job's sure to pay)
Means to do all the gentlemen's seats by the way.
But there are a thousand examples of it nearly or quite as good,
and it attaches itself to matters political, social, ecclesiastical and


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106
[CH.
Lesser Poets, 1790—1837
miscellaneous in a way that ought to amuse, and could not
seriously annoy, anyone who has not a rather regrettable proportion
of the dunce or of the prig or of both in his composition. This
mediocrity, really not ungolden and not of the kind that the Latin
sentence blasts, is the note of all Moore's verse-sentimental or
jocular. If it offends exclusive lovers of the sublime, they must
be offended; but there is a fortunate possibility of being able
to appreciate Shakespeare or Shelley, Milton or Keats, at the
greatest perfection of any or all, and yet to find a pastime of
pleasure, now and then, in Moore's abundant store of sentiment
that, if sometimes more or less superficial, is never wholly insincere,
and in his satire which, if never lethal, is always piquant.
The three poets just discussed, while, in at least two cases, they
deserve their place at the head of this chapter by a certain com-
parative ‘majority'in real worth, and in all three by prescription,
have, also, an independent historical right to it. They all (it was
the reason of Byron's selection of them for his battle-royal of
poets) affected, in different ways, the older or classical school.
We may now turn from them to a larger and younger group who,
partly, no doubt, because of their being younger, belong decidedly
to the other school or division. They represent the generation
born between the birth-years of Keats and Tennyson ; and
it has sometimes been proposed to make of them a definite
batch or squad of intermediates between the first and definitely
Georgian romantic group from Wordsworth to Keats himself and
the definitely Victorian poetry (harbingered before strictly Vic-
torian times, but carried out in them) by Tennyson, the Brownings
and their followers. There is, perhaps, some better excuse for
this than a mere rage for classification. To exercised critical
judgments, a certain transitional character does certainly pervade
all or most of this company. They were not in a position, as
Tennyson and Browning were if they chose, to imbibe the influence
of all their great elders just mentioned, before they themselves
wrote, or at least published, anything. The strong places of
pedagogy and of criticism were still, in their youthful time, largely,
if not universally, occupied by what their own French contem-
poraries disrespectfully called perruques. If there had been any
man of absolutely firstrate genius among them, this state of things
might not merely have provoked revolt—which it did—but have
brought about the complete victories afterwards achieved by their
own juniors. But they all belonged to the new crusade, and, if


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v]
107
Hartley Coleridge
none of them quite reached Jerusalem, they did notable things
somewhere about Antioch.
We may list them alphabetically as follows: Beddoes, Hartley
Coleridge, Darley, Hood, Richard Henry (fantastically Hengist)
Horne, Praed, Sir Henry Taylor, Thomas Wade, C. J. Wells and
Charles Whitehead. Their births date from that of Darley, in the
same year with that of Keats, to Wade's, ten years later, and group
themselves symmetrically in a single decade, on either side of the
parting of the centuries. They have all felt strongly the literary
influences which helped to determine the work of the greater
group before them the recovery of older (especially Elizabethan)
English literature; the discovery of foreign; the subtle revival of
imagination that is not confined to “ideas furnished by the senses’;
the extension of interest in natural objects and the like. If
whatever influence may be assigned to the French revolution and
the great war is less immediate with them, it has, in their case,
the strength of retrospect and the fresh impetus of the unsettled
state of politics, society and thought, which the revolution and the
war left behind them. But there is still about them a great deal
a
that is undigested and incomplete; and no one of them has a genius,
or even a temperament, strong enough to wrest and wrench him
out of the transition stage.
Nearly the eldest, the most famous by birth and promise, but,
in a way, the most unfortunate, was Hartley Coleridge? There is
neither space nor necessity here to tell over again the pitiful story
of the promise of his youth, recorded not merely by his father but
by men so little given to mere sentimentalism as Southey and
Wordsworth, and of the lamentable failure of his manhood. It is
permissible to think that he was harshly and rather irrationally
treated at Oriel. If a probationer fellow disqualifies himself by
drunkenness, he does not deserve a solatium of £300, and, if he
deserves a solatium of £300, his fault can scarcely have been one
of a hopelessly disqualifying nature. But, however great may
have been the shock of disappointment at this disgrace, and at the
loss of the life of studious ease for which alone he was fitted, it
cannot have caused, though it may have determined and rendered
incurable, that fatal paralysis of will which he inherited from his
1 Anyone who wishes to appreciate Hartley should look at the generally neglected
fragment of his Prometheus, which, it is important to remember, preceded Shelley's
masterpiece. 8. T. C. 's adverse criticism (he was rather a Roman father in that
respect, if not in others) and, perhaps, the Oriel calamity arrested the composition.
It must have been, no doubt, in any case, & much lesser thing than Shelley's; but it
would have been not damagingly different, and it might have been good.
a


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108
[CH.
Lesser Poets, 1790—1837
father in an aggravated form. This not merely hampered him in
schoolmastering—that is not surprising—but stunted and made
abortive the poetical and critical genius which he certainly pos-
sessed. He did attain, by good luck, by kindness of friends and by
his own indifference to elaborate comfort, a life, if not of studious
ease, at least of almost entire, or very slightly taxed, leisure, with
considerable facility for poetic and other composition. On the
margins of books and even newspapers, as well as in a few finished
and published papers, he showed that he possessed a critical faculty
not much short, on individual points, of his father's or of Hazlitt's;
and he also wrote verse. But a fanciful eugenist might have
argued that Hartley only inherited that portion of poetical spirit
which his father had shown before the child's own birth. The
greater part of Hartley's poems certainly makes one think rather
of the Coleridge before 1797 than of the poet of The Ancient
Mariner and Kubla Khan and Christabel. He knew his limits
('I am one of the small poets '), though the beautiful and touching
piece Poietes Apoietes-
No hope have I to live a deathless name-
half contradicts its own assertion: and to it may be added the fine
sonnet to Shakespeare (which, with Matthew Arnold's companion
poem in verse and Dryden's short description in prose, may be
ranked for combined adequacy and brevity, on a thousand times'
attempted subject), the striking pair on Youth, A Medley, the
most Shakespearean of Shakespearean imitations,
When I review the course that I have run;
the Homer, almost as good as the Shakespeare, the sonnet on the
extraordinarily difficult subject Prayer and one or two others.
The 'sonnet's narrow ground' just suited Hartley; for, though the
far-brought fancies of his youth did not wholly desert his age, they
found no power in him to carry them further still, or shape them
into abiding and substantial form. Nor is it too charitable, too
fanciful, or too obvious, to assign part, at least, of his failure to his
time-a time with the old assisting convictions or conventions
broken down and the new not firmly set.
Thomas Hood and Winthrop Mackworth Praed, though moving
in very different spheres and, so far as one knows, strangers to
one another in life, are indissolubly associated in literature, owing
to the singular 'double arrangement of their combination of
serious and comic work, and of the character of at least the


## p. 109 (#133) ############################################

v]
Hood
109
comic work of both. This latter, in its more special aspect, may
be postponed for a little, so that we may group it further in a way
not unimportant or uninteresting to the historical student of
literature. It is sufficient here to dismiss as unprofitable and
unnecessary the question whether, in any case, serious or comic,
there was a debt owing on either side to the other. Mere partisans
have sometimes excited themselves over this question, but it is of
no real importance. Although they pair off in so remarkable a
manner, each, to eyes of any critical discernment, has a perfectly
sufficient idiosyncrasy. It was long the case, and it may be doubted
whether it has entirely ceased to be so, that the fame of Hood's
serious work was largely, if not completely, obscured by that of
his comic, with the exception of the two great popular-sentimental
favourites The Song of the Shirt and The Bridge of Sighs. It is
well known that Thackeray, in one of those impulsive outbursts
which have been often misinterpreted, expressed himself as rather
indignant at Hood's comic avocation from his real business. No
man's memory and reputation have been more cruelly overloaded
and overwhelmed by the publication of heaps of what is only not
sheer rubbish because it served once to win bread for a true poet
and an admirable man of letters, and because there is nothing in
it in the least disgraceful. But, apart even from the very best of
the comic work, which is to be noticed later, apart from the
'sensational pieces' The Song and The Bridge, which make their
appeal at once to all those who are likely to appreciate them,
Hood has to his credit a body of purely serious poetical work
neither aiming at mere popularity, nor deliberately eschewing it,
work to be taken at a purely poetic valuation and judged on
that, which (even though fifteen editions of it sold in as many
years after his death) is still far too often neglected, and, even
when not quite neglected, is far too seldom accorded its proper rank.
It was, perhaps, in the circumstances, a minor misfortune-
similar to the major one of the huge unsifted dust-heap of the
Works—that there were included in the collection of his Serious
Poems, made just after his death, even such in themselves excellent
things as Miss Kilmansegg and the Clapham Academy ode. For
public taste was, is and probably always will be, not merely a 'great-
sized monster of ingratitudes' but one of haste, indiscrimination
1 It turns very mainly on the other question of priority in the use of what has been
called 'antithetical punning. ' This, even as regards the bare chronology of the writings
of the two, is doubtful; and every one ought to know that there are much older examples,
which each might have taken as pattern, independently, if either wanted any pattern
at all.
6


## p. 110 (#134) ############################################

IIO
[CH.
Lesser Poets, 1790—1837
and other bad things. It had been accustomed to consider Hood
a mere joke-smith; and it was sure to fix on these and one or two
others as instances of his real vocation. All this serio-comic or
tragi-comic stuff were much better segregated, and the removal
would leave nearly three quarters of a volume of some four
hundred pages full of poetry pure and simple. Nothing in this is
rubbish; some of it is extraordinarily good. The Haunted House
is one of the minor, and not so very minor, marvels of English
poetry. The only objection that one can imagine as being brought
against it, by anyone who can appreciate it at all, is that the
craftsmanship is almost too unconcealedly and obtrusively perfect?
-the accumulation of the unusual, stately, mournful rhythm of
the stanza; the carefully constructed and diffused detail and the
atmosphere of decay, destruction and dread; the as careful selection
of language tending to the same object but never diverging into
extravagance or the disgusting; above all, the triumphant avoid-
ance of that slip into the ludicrous which these horror-plays
and poems constantly commit. The Elm Tree is nearly as good,
though, perhaps, it might have been shortened. The more popular
Eugene Aram and The Bridge of Sighs itself are not flawless,
but the grimness of the one and the pathos of the other could have
been attained by none save a true poet. The Plea of the Mid-
summer Fairies may be thought to need no praise after Lamb's;
yet, it may not be impertinent, and it is certainly not rash, to
pronounce it, after nearly a hundred years, the most charming poem
of some size and pretension which has missed its due meed of
general appreciation during the interval. It was rather unwise
to try Hero and Leander again; and the anapaestic metre of
Lycus the Centaur was ill chosen—the gallop of the centaur
probably suggested it. Yet, if anyone will read these two
poems patiently he will hardly think otherwise than nobly of
them.
But Hood was by no means only a master of the heavier plectrum.
He could write songs and shorter pieces generally, light, but not in
the least comic, with singular skill. Some of these, no doubt, have
been confounded, with Moore'sand others, under the generalcensure-
tickets tinkling,' 'trivial,'tawdry,' sentimental’ and what not.
Anyone who chooses may, of course, pin one or another, or several,
of these epithets to A Death Bed, and even to the great Farewel,
Life stanzas written on his own death-bed; to the ballad (It was
>
6
1 Wordsworth, it may be remembered, made no very different objection from this
to The Ancient Mariner itself.


## p. 111 (#135) ############################################

v]
III
Praed
not in the Winter) of the time of roses; to Fair Ines and A lake
and a Fairy boat and the bitter-sweet irony of Spring it is cheery
and the stateliness and fervour of Giver of glowing light and The
stars are with the Voyager. But a more catholic criticism will
simply disregard tickets or, perhaps, detach them and throw them
on the rubbish heap, their appointed place, saying, 'These things
are poetry: and this was a poet. '
Merely as a serious poet, Praed holds a far lower place than
Hood; in fact, with one doubtful exception, to be noticed
presently, he has nothing at all to compare with The Haunted
House or The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies, and not much to
show with the shorter poems. Arminius escapes the bad side of
mediocrity in one way and Josephine in another ; but the best
and, perhaps, the only distinguished thing Praed has done in this
kind is the strange and beautiful Time's Song,
O’er the level plains, where mountains meet me as I go,
unusual and effective alike in rhythm, in the phrase adroitly broken
to suit the rhythmical movement, and in the economy of con-
struction, detail and explanation, leading up to a kind of the rest
is silence. ' But he never repeated this in a short poem, or
expanded the method in a longer. The fact is that the ironic
.
and humourous impulse, partly, no doubt, determined by Byronic
influence at first, but diverging into ways not in the least like
Byron's, was generally omnipresent and omnipotent with him,
and almost invariably deflected his treatment into the sort of
mixed mode which Southey had started in things like The Old
Woman of Berkeley, and which Barham, a much older man than
Praed, was to practise with signal success a little later. Not
a few both of the Tales and of other pieces, from the schoolboy
Gog onwards, have this hybrid character. But it produced at least
one thing which is a masterpiece of its kind and which contrasts
again most curiously with Hood's tragi-comedy. In this latter,
The Desert Born, Miss Kilmansegg herself and the rest, the
comic (even where there is positively tragic matter) always has
the upper hand and, sometimes, burlesques the tragic itself. The
Red Fisherman bas, of course, a comic side or, rather, one may
say, a comic outside or jacket to it; and it is full of excursions in
themselves comical. But these are used almost in the manner in
which Shakespeare uses similar devices, sometimes to set off that
seriousness which, no doubt, is greater in him than in Praed.
With Hood, the “finish,' as wine-tasters say, the flavour that is


## p. 112 (#136) ############################################

II2
[CH.
Lesser Poets, 1790–1837
as he
left in the mouth, is always comic unless he is wholly serious.
The reader of The Red Fisherman, if he be a fit reader, laughs
passes at
The water was as dark and rank
As ever a Company pumped,
and at the corporation banquet and the political jibes. But what
he carries away with him, like the fisherman's hook in the actual
case, is the description of the pool, and the terrible angler, and
the death-gasps of the knight and the eyes of Mistress Shore. '
Even the battle of hook and crook which just saves the abbot,
though it is humorous, is not ludicrous; and these passionate
touches, with the whole effect they produce, taken with Time's
Song, help the more purely comic verse, which we shall notice
later, to show what a poet of the higher kind Praed might have
been in addition to the lighter and gayer singer that he was.
Henry (afterwards Sir Henry) Taylor offers one of the in-
teresting poetic idiosyncrasies which are pretty strongly marked
off from others, but which, somehow, fail to mark for themselves,
and in the circle of their own performances, a definite and en-
during achievement. That his main work was dramatic may partly,
but will not wholly, account for this. That the enormous influence
of the Elizabethan drama on the romantic revival should provoke
direct imitation of itself was almost a matter of course; and it
belongs to other divisions of this work to tell how all the poets-
from Wordsworth, the most undramatic of all great writers, to
Scott, the most dramatic of all men who have written bad dramas-
tried it and how almost all, except Shelley, who might have been
thought least likely to succeed, failed. But, with all of them,
drama, fortunately, was a bywork. With Taylor (for even his
remarkable lyrical faculty was essentially germane to the Eliza-
bethan school of drama), the dramatic form was all-per-
vading and all-powerful. People have forgotten most things of
his save Philip van Artevelde, which, to most, is now itself not
much more than a name; but Edwin the Fair and St Clements
Eve (if not, also, Isaac Comnenus) ought to be read, and will
hardly be read once only by those who can taste them at all.
Still, Philip van Artevelde, no doubt, is his diploma-piece and not
merely that. It failed on the stage; though, if the apparently
growing taste for psychological plays were some day to unite
itself with a taste for literature, the case might be altered. But,
for a time, it had great vogue with readers of worth ; and Taylor,
perhaps, may be thought to have been the most unfortunate of


## p. 113 (#137) ############################################

v]
113
Sir Henry Taylor
all these 'intermediates' in being pushed from his stool, almost
before he was fairly settled on it, by Tennyson, who used quite
different forms and methods, and by Browning, who partly used
the same, but added many others and wielded them with much
greater power. As a dramatic poem, Philip van Artevelde stands
very high. It is entirely free from the iciness which, being mis-
taken for something Greek (Greek tragedy cold! ), at first attracted
people in the almost exactly (though much more shortlived) con-
temporary Ion of Thomas, afterwards Sir Thomas, Noon Talfourd.
The part of Elena is, perhaps, nearer than that of any heroine
in any modern English play (putting Shelley's Beatrice aside) to
something great; and there are in it, as also in the other plays,
almost innumerable passages of real poetic thought expressed in
really poetic words. But Taylor had the fault-common to both
Wordsworth and Southey, of whom he was a kind of disciple-of
want of concentration in writing; he lacked action and narrative
power; and it was seldom that he either would or could give vent
to his lyric gift. The present writer has never seen an adequate
selection from Taylor, though one may exist. It would be as scrappy
as England's Parnassus itself; but it would certainly show the
author's right to a place on the sacred hill.
Some of Taylor's few but remarkable lyrics give evidence of a
sort of underground vein which was rarely tapped (and which
may be sought in vain in Talfourd). Such are the famous, or
should-be famous, 'Quoth tongue of neither maid nor wife,' in
Philip van Artevelde and the song of Thorbiorga in Edwin
the Fair and divers passages in the scanty, and now, perhaps,
rarely read, Minor Poems. They connect him with the rest of the
group mentioned above, and with one or two others who are all,
or almost all, more definitely lyrical in main substance, and who
strangely anticipate not merely Tennyson and Browning, but, even
still more, the spasmodics, the pre-Rapbaelites and other poets
such as the late John Davidson, who have touched the present day.
These are the men who, while feeling strongly the 'antecedent'
influences, as they may be termed—Elizabethan, German and
miscellaneous——though not, as yet, much touched by the purely
medieval, derive more directly from Coleridge, Shelley and Keats,
especially from the first two; men who showed already, though in a
crude and half embryonic form, the strong tendency of the nine-
teenth century towards occasional and, therefore, lyrical verse;
and who, while underlying all the objections (quantum valeant) of
Wordsworth to The Ancient Mariner, possess something of the
6
E. L. XII.
CH. v.
8


## p. 114 (#138) ############################################

I14
[CH.
Lesser Poets, 1790—1837
>
6
merits which even Wordsworth allowed to that exceptionable work
of his yokefellow.
Of these, the eldest was George Darley, who, as mentioned
above, anticipated the others by nearly a decade. Darley is a
poet ill to recommend to any but those who, either by nature or
by study or by both, are initiate in at least the outer mysteries
of poetry; and even some adepts cannot stomach his most
ambitious work, the plays Becket and Ethelstan. Some physical
and some mental disabilities seem to have combined to alloy and
hamper bis idiosyncrasy. He was an incurable stammerer, and
could not, like Lamb, turn this blemish to his own or other
people's favour. He was “a great arithmetician' and, though the
one kind of 'numbers' certainly does not interfere with the
enjoyment of the other, Mathesis, except under the mantle of
Urania, has not fostered many poets. Lastly, he was a consider-
able, and a rather harsh, critic after the ugly “strip-and-whip’
fashion of his time; and, though some may say that it would have
been better if he had criticised his own work more, there seems
to have been a conflict in him of the poetical and critical
natures. Even his lyrical gift, acknowledged by the best judges
among his contemporaries and successors to be extraordinary and
constantly shown in The Errors of Ecstacie, in the verse
scattered about the prose Labours of Idleness and elsewhere,
in the pastoral drama Sylvia and in the wonderful outburst
of his masterpiece Nepenthe, too seldom takes the clear, pure,
finished form which, sooner or later, assures a permanent place.
It is often, and in Nepenthe most of all, unintelligible to those
who demand a definite and fairly obvious meaning translatably
expressed; it sometimes (the crowning instance is the loathsome
rubbish, for one fears no softer phrase will do, of the Dwerga part in
Becket, on which the author obstinately prided himself) shows
gross lapses of taste; it has, more frequently still, ill-blended
sentiment and grotesque; and, sometimes, it suffers from that
rather fatal fluency which seems especially to beset Irish poets.
But, ever and anon, come splendid bursts. Those who can dive
in poetic whirlpools will find the gold cups oftenest in Nepenthe
itself and, sometimes, in The Errors of Ecstacie, which, while it
came long before Bailey's Festus and longer before Dobell's Balder
and Alexander Smith's Life Drama, contains something of the
essence of all three in five and thirty merciful pages. Those, on the
other hand, who want poetic sweetmeats all ready for consump-
tion in a separate and at once accessible form, have only to turn the


## p. 115 (#139) ############################################

v]
I15
Darley. Beddoes
pages of Sylvia, where the lyrics obligingly stand out, or to go
straight to the minor poems. The once immensely popular I've
been roaming may strike most people now as only a sample of the
‘Mooreish melody’; and, though pretty, is not supremely so. But
the equally wellknown It is not Beauty I demand (which, in
its Carolinity, deceived the very elect in the person of Francis
Turner Palgrave) is quite a different thing; The Enchanted
Lyre, The Maiden's Grave are not mere banjo music, and
Sylvia, though much of its main stuff is of very little worth,
is spangled all over with most delightful snatches of lyric.
At his very best, however, Darley never reached the astonish-
ing intensity and poignancy of poetic appeal which is found in
a few things of Thomas Lovell Beddoes, the youngest, as Darley
was the eldest, of the group, and which, if concentrated only in
these few, diffuses itself into a strange poetic atmosphere all over
his fantastic work. Beddoes was unquestionably mad when, just
before his death, he made repeated and, at last, successful
attempts at suicide ; this madness, beyond much question, had
developed itself in, at least, the latter half of his not very short
life; and it may be doubted whether he was ever entirely sane.
But, as has been remarked over and over again, madness will
neither make nor break a poet; and it is a chance whether it
stimulates or checks, colours or discolours, his work. Both the
bad and the good results are clear enough in the poems-dramatic,
after a fashion, and lyrical, after the best fashion—which we have
from Beddoes.
The main constituent of this work is a play entitled Death's
Jest Book or The Fool's Revenge, which was ready for publication
as early as the spring of 1829. It was referred by the author to
B. W. Procter and other timid critics, and pronounced by them,
perhaps naturally, but unfortunately, to require revision. Beddoes
submitted, and re-wrote it again and again, but never got it
finished. After his death, it was published, but with what regard
to the variants we do not know. He had earlier, at Oxford,
published two much slighter productions, The Bride's Tragedy and
The Improvisatore, and his remains furnished his friend Kelsall
(to whom they were left and who handed them over to Browning)
with some miscellaneous poems, which were increased when
Beddoes's work was reprinted by Edmund Gosse with Browning's
permission. Beddoes has been called a link between Shelley and
Browning himself. He was an avowed devotee of Shelley, and
took a warm interest in the task of bringing out that poet's
a
8-2


## p. 116 (#140) ############################################

116
[ch.
Lesser Poets, 1790–1837
a
posthumous poems. But there are also strong influences of
Keats in his poems (see, especially, Pygmalion and Letter from
Oxford), and, on the whole, the real filiation of his work, both
dramatic and lyric, goes straight back to the larger Elizabethan
time. Yet, though the influence of such writers as Tourneur and
Webster is obvious, it is a great mistake to take him, as has
been done, for a mere composer of Elizabethan pastiche, a word
for which we have unluckily no exact synonym in English, though
we have plentiful examples of the thing. Beddoes, in many
ways, is intensely and, indeed, prophetically modern ; he was a
trained physician and physiologist; there is not a little of modern
science in his thought, and his reader is often reminded of Ibsen
in his more poetical plays. It is not quite clear whether Death's
Jest Book, as we have it, is a made text out of the three distinct
versions which were said to exist, or merely one of them; and this
makes it very difficult to judge it as a whole. Of the frequent
greatness of the blank verse and of the still more exceptional great-
ness of the lyric found in it and outside it, there can be little
dispute among impartial judges. For some years, Dream-Pedlary
has even been near, if it has not actually incurred, that rare but
formidable danger which attends enthusiastic laudation by the
few, at first adopted by the many and then kicked against by
them. But the Dirge for Wolfram (“If thou wilt ease thine heart')
is fully its equal; and such a pair it will be almost impossible to
find in English outside the work of the very greatest of our poets.
The same touch, if not the same completeness of working, may
be found in many other places. There may be more doubt about
Beddoes's complete success anywhere in the line of grim humour
such as Old Adam, the carrion crow and the Song of the Stygian
Naiades. But, over these, as over all the rest, there hovers that
atmosphere of real, if seldom perfect, poetry referred to above. To
be content with this, or even to perceive it, is, no doubt, not for
everybody. It is easy to dismiss Beddoes as a mere producer of
Fantastic beauty, such as lurks
In some wild poet when he works
Without a conscience or an aim,
and of that not very often; it is easy to dismiss him as an Eliza-
bethan copyist; not least easy, perhaps, to obtain the credit of
wise moderation by this and that admission. But, historically,
,
1 Was Tennyson thinking of Beddoes ? In Memoriam and Death's Jest Book were
published in the same year, 1850. But, also, in that year, Miss Zoe King, Beddoes's
cousin, met Tennyson on bis wedding tour and lent him a copy of Beddoes, whom
he 'rated highly. '
9


## p. 117 (#141) ############################################

v]
117
Wells. Horne
6
Beddoes is an invaluable instance of that curious influence of
transition periods on which we may say something true if not new
at the close of this chapter. Personally and individually, he is an
instance of the kind of poet whom it would be more or less pre-
posterous to call a great poet, and who yet has produced things
which only the greatest poets can match.
The remaining members of this group, though sometimes in-
teresting both as persons and as poets, must be treated more
briefly, for they are rather 'curiosities of literature' than great
men of letters. More especially does this position belong to
Wells. In a long life (very little disturbed, it would seem, either
by the legal or the professorial business which, at times, he
attempted), he produced nothing but a few prose stories and
tales, and the remarkable closet-drama Joseph and his Brethren,
originally published, 1823—4, under a pseudonym. We are told
that three versions of Beddoes's chief play exist in manuscript :
and it appears not impossible that three different versions of
Wells's will some day exist in print. For he very considerably
altered the original in the reprint which, fifty years later, was
brought about by the enthusiasm of the poet Swinburne, and he is
said to have altered that reprint itself still more with manuscript
corrections and additions not yet made public. The drama, un-
doubtedly, is a remarkable production ; but it is probable that
the very high praise bestowed on it has been the cause of
a good deal of disappointment even to readers who were quite
prepared to admire. The character of Phraxanor (Potiphar's
wife) has a certain force and even original touches poetically
expressed ; but the enormous verbiage of her speeches drowns the
spirit of these. Wells is said to have burnt several volumes
of manuscript poetry and prose; and, although some fine things
might have been found in them, it is difficult to be very sorry.
For, at first, in all cases, he admittedly wrote with ostentatious
contempt of the most ordinary care; and, if the current version of
Joseph and his Brethren is a fair specimen of his attempts at
revision, care would probably have done very little good.
His friend, eulogist and very close contemporary Richard H.
Horne presented himself somewhat more seriously as a candidate
for distinction in letters, both prose and verse. He was a man
of many adventures in life as well as in literature, but a fanciful
moralist might have drawn evil prognostications, and might now
draw tragic warning, from the rather wellknown story of Horne
snow-balling Keats when the latter, as 'an old boy,' came to


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118
[CH.
Lesser Poets, 1790—1837
his Edmonton school, where Horne actually was a scholar.
Horne bombarded the temple or castle of the muses with many
balls of both verse and prose for many years; but they were apt
to be cold shot. His New Spirit of the Age, written, it is true,
in a sort of collaboration with Mrs Browning (then Miss Barrett),
contains, with a few better things, some of the most inept criticism
in English ; and what it is possible to know of his immense
journey-work does not seem to be much better. His tragedies,
from Cosmo de Medici and The Death of Marlowe (both of 1837)
to Laura Dibalzo, more than forty years later, are, as wholes,
rather indigestible, with really poetic passages here and there, but
not enough to season the rest. His own rather puerile and, at
first, at least, somewhat costly, jest of publishing his one poem
of merit, the quasi-epic Orion, at the price of one farthing,
though it may have attracted attention at first, has, probably,
done more harm than good in the long run by inviting cheap
epigram. Orion is worth a very considerable number of farthings,
and, provided that its reader goes no farther in its author's
work, he will probably think Horne a better poet than any
other of the group here immediately associated with him. It
is, no doubt, permeated by that dangerous notion about poetry
illustrating the growth of a poet's mind for which Wordsworth,
though he made atonement for it in his own case, was mainly
responsible, and its allegory has offended some who have forgotten
Hazlitt's final phrase on this subject—that allegory will bite
nobody if people will let it alone. In fact, the final passage,
as to the end of Akinetos (the “Great Unmoved'—the repre-
sentative of obstinate conservatism, who is literally petrified at
last), may commend itself, as really fine poetry, to persons who
rather sympathise with Akinetos himself. Nor does this stand alone.
It was, perhaps, not surprising that, in 1831, with the great
poets of the early nineteenth century all dead, silent or pro-
ducing things hardly worthy of them, and with Tennyson and
Browning but just visible to any, and actually seen by few, the
Spenserians of the third Whitehead's? Solitary should have
seemed to promise a poet. But, if the poem be examined care-
fully, it will be found to be little more than a clever mosaic of
variously borrowed fancy, phrase and cadence, super-excellent as
a prize poem, but, like most prize poems, possessing hardly any
6
1 After Paul and William, Charles. The difference of the minority' of his pre-
decessors and himself would make a fair text for a comparison of eighteenth and
nineteenth century poetry of the lesser kind.


## p. 119 (#143) ############################################

v]
119
Whitehead and Wade
>
symptomatic or germinal evidence in it. At any rate, though
before his dry-and wet-rot in the Bohemia of fancy and, latterly, the
Australia of fact, Whitehead wrote one successful play, The Cavalier,
one or two quasi-historical tales or novels of some merit (Jack
Ketch, Richard Savage) and some other work, even his eulogists have
only discovered in his later pieces a sonnet or two of distinction;
(As yonder Lamp in my Vacated Room is that usually quoted').
But sonnet-making itself gives a much higher place to the last
of this group, Thomas Wade. He was a friend of the Kembles and
was enabled by them to bring out three plays, the first two of which
were successful, and the third, The Jew of Arragon, damned, while a
fourth and fifth never saw the stage. He wrote various other things,
was a journalist for years and left much unpublished; but his fame
must rest on the curious volume-not very easy to obtain but quite
worth possessing by any lover of poetry-somewhat pretentiously
(as some, but not all, think) entitled Mundi et Cordis : de rebus
sempiternis et temporariis: Carmina, which appeared in 1835. The
'brevities,' as its author calls them, in the same deliberate quaintness
(it would be harsh to call it affectation, for Wade lives very fairly
up to his style and title), which the volume contains, are not
all sonnets (indeed, the book has an English sub-title Poems and
Sonnets) nor are some of the best of them. But Wade had an
admirable gift for this form, and wrote it, perhaps, as well as anyone,
between Wordsworth and the Rossettis, except Charles Tennyson
[Turner). He was much under the influence of Shelley among
his forerunners, and sometimes reminds one of Darley among his
contemporaries; but he has a more even taste, if a less fiery
imagination, than the author of Nepenthe. He has usually had
the least justice done to him of all the group; and he can never be
popular. But that atmosphere or aura of poetry which hangs about
most of them, and about the character, of which a few words should
be said later, are present in and round him in a vaguely diffused,
most unboisterous, faintly coloured and perfumed manner which is
worth the notice of the student of poetry.
The tendency of the group just discussed, with the notable
exceptions of Hood and Praed, was not, on the whole, towards
light or jocular verse; but, by those two exceptions and others,
1 And vacated,' here, is not exactly a felicity. Whitehead was a friend of Dickens ;
and, at least, thought himself to have passed on the composition of Pickwick to the
greater writer. He suggests himself as a possible original for the reflections on 'Horace
Kinch and the Dry-rot in Men'(The Uncommercial Traveller), though the circumstances
are artistically altered: and though Dickens, no doubt, had more than one painful
example in his mind.
6


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I 20
[CH.
Lesser Poets, 1790–1837
such verse was very well represented during the first thirty or
forty years of the nineteenth century. It would, indeed, have
been strange if things had been otherwise, for the eighteenth had
kept unbroken the traditions, and had even increased the means,
of this kind of poetry, with a positive extension of its varieties
and range; while the greater writers of the actual period, in not
a few cases, had shown no disinclination to be wisely foolish in
proper places. With Anstey, Williams and Stevenson leading the
way to the brilliant political lampooning of the Rolliad, of Wolcot
and of the Canning group; with Southey founding the macabre
ballad and Coleridge, occasionally, showing what he might have
done in that way; with Moore as agreeably effervescent in
grotesque as in sentiment; with Shelley capable, now and then,
of an uncertain and flickering but humourous or 'humouresque'
flash—there was no reason for anybody who had inclinations that
way to be ashamed of indulging them. Moreover, the names of
Swift and Prior were still, and justly, held great; and 'divine
Nonsensia' (in the good, not contemptuous, sense) had counted
most of the best English poets from Chaucer, through Shakespeare,
downwards as her occasional chaplains. Comparatively early, too,
not merely immediate popularity, but lasting and well-deserved
reputation, was won by James and Horace Smith, with the ever
welcome Rejected Addresses—a collection of parodies of Byron,
Scott, Southey and other famous writers of the day which, though
it may have been sometimes equalled, had, at its best, certainly
never been, and never has been, surpassed for appositeness, good
humour as well as humour positive and a lightness which, unlike
that of most such work, has never become heavy since.
Hood was thirteen and Praed was ten when Rejected Addresses
appeared; and both, therefore, were now at an age suitable for such
seed to fall into such soil. As was remarked above, in speaking
of their serious and half-serious poems, the difference of attitude
between them is very remarkable and interesting. That Hood had
the deeper and higher poetical genius there can be no doubt, and
it was probably not the mere necessities of hackwork which drove
him, by reaction, into more definite extravaganza, more horseplay in
word and verse, wilder acrobatics and pyrotechnics of punning and
the like, when he put himself in the comic vein. It is impossible that
a professional of this kind should not, in the actual language of the
ring, ‘miss his tip’sometimes; there are some people who (it may
be thought, unhappily) cannot relish verbal tumbling and metrical
fireworks at all; and there are others, less to be commiserated, who
>


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v] Comic Work of Hood and Praed I21
are soon satiated with either or both. The cruel kindness which,
as mentioned, has accumulated not merely the sweepings of Hood's
study, but the very rubbish of his literary dustbin more or less
pyramidically on his memory, puts him at special disadvantage
with all these classes of readers; perhaps with almost any reader
who has not a critical sieve under his arm, with which, at need, he
can sift away the slag and keep the metal. It is metal far from
unattractive to anyone who likes good fun; and there are few
places—that is to say books—where such an admirable 'pocket'
of it, already pretty well sifted, and varied, from verse to prose,
is to be found, as in Up the Rhine and in the cream of Hood's
comic poems. But the difference of taste above referred to may
always make it half needless and half useless to recommend this
part of him. The line which has been, perhaps justly, selected
as a test-
Rose knows those bows' woes
will always seem to some respectable people an enormous and
disgusting puerility. By them, Hood should be generally avoided.
Others, who can see in it not, indeed, one of the greatest achieve-
ments of human art - and genius, but a relishable trifle quite
capable of being enjoyed more than once or twice, should let them-
selves, not in the least pharisaically, say grace before and after it.
It was quite possible for Hood to avoid this style; and, without
using, as in some of his most famous poems, the contrast of
grimness or pathos, to do higher comedy, not farce at all, in verse.
The United Family is a good, though very far from the only,
instance of this. Nevertheless (for reasons which, no doubt, could
be plausibly explained, but which are pretty obvious and not,
after all, quite decisive), he is certainly surpassed by Praed in the
highest class of what is called 'verse of society,' and especially in
that kind of it which might be called pure high-comedy lyric.
Fortune of birth and breeding, scholarship, easy temperament and
circumstance; wide and, again, fortunate experience of the world;
and several other things may be thought to be necessary to this; they
certainly are found in company with it in Praed. Idiosyncrasy, in
the strictest sense of an often misused word, was present in him in
the highest degree; in a degree which could only be fully shown by
detailed, and here impossible, contrasts with, say, Prior, Thackeray
and the late Locker-Lampson. This idiosyncrasy was produced
or affected not merely by the personal essentials or accidents
noticed above, but by a curious convergence of the various poetical
motives of the time-romantic, satiric, lyrical, musical, technical


## p. 122 (#146) ############################################

I 22
[CH.
Lesser Poets, 1790—1837
and other. There is in Praed something of Scott, something of
Byron, something of Moore, something of Canning and something
of others; and, yet, the whole blend is Praed and nothing and
nobody else. He, in his turn, certainly taught something to
Thackeray; but, if there is less depth in his combination of
romance and humour than in his greatest pupil's, there is a certain
buoyancy and, at the same time, a calm, in the immortal Letter of
Advice, which is nowhere else to be found. The way in which
Praed picked out the stanza improved downwards from Gay and
others to Byron, perfected it still further and infused into it at
once the passion of I enter thy garden of Roses and the spirit and
zest of Molly Mog, is one of the pleasantest studies in poetical
technique and one of the most useful refutations of the fallacy
which would make of that subject an affair of 'chalk and blackboard. '
But, if anyone shudders at technicalities, let him pass them by and
content himself with the more exoteric charms of the poem just
mentioned, of The Vicar, of Twenty Eight and Twenty Nine and
Goodnight to the Season, of the first Letter from Teignmouth
and of a dozen others. Perhaps the already mentioned tender-cruel
mercy of reprinting has been exercised too freely even in this case;
but, to complain much of it would be to commit that sin which
Thackeray himself has stigmatised and to ask for a flounder that
was all back. '
The most remarkable book-as distinguished from scattered
pieces of comic or semi-comic verse—in the peculiar style which
Southey had almost originated and which Hood and Praed had
developed, was published, some of its parts having already, but
not long before, appeared, much later than the work of either of
the pair, by a man who, nevertheless, was as much Praed's elder
as he was Southey's junior. Richard Harris Barham was, indeed,
not a young man when, long before the beginning of The Ingoldsby
Legends, he wrote anonymously that famous parody of Wolfe’s
Corunna poem (see below) which was attributed to all sorts of
better known persons; and he was an active, and by no means
unclerical, parson, as well as a not very successful novelist, before,
at nearly fifty, he found the remarkable vocation which he obeyed,
without a sign of impoverishment or exhaustion for some decade
before his too early, but not very early, death. How little the
horse-collar was Barham's single vestment or instrument was
shown, once for all, by the beautiful lines, not in the least re-
quiring their Chattertonian pseudo-archaism of spelling, As I lay
a thynkynge, which are said to have been his last, and which, no
1
1


## p. 123 (#147) ############################################

v] The Ingoldsby Legends
123
doubt, supply the one and sufficient evidence of the undercurrent
of feeling necessary to keep fresh and in full flavour such humour
as his. For it is a most unfortunate mistake-though one which
has been constantly committed, sometimes with the quaintest
explosions of virtuous misunderstanding—to regard the fun of
The Ingoldsby Legends as merely 'high jinks. ' Its period was, of
course, the period of that curious institution, and there is the ‘high
jinks' quality in the Legends. Yet Barham, on the whole, belonged
not to the school of his friend Hook always, of Christopher North
too often and of Maginn, father Prout and some others, save on
the rarest occasions; but, rather, to that, just mentioned, of Hood,
Praed and Thackeray himself, who, by the way, imitated Ingoldsby
very early. High-principled but feeble-minded persons actually
regarded the Legends at the time, and have regarded them since,
as an infamous attempt to undermine the high church movement by
ridicule; as a defiling of romance; as a prostitution of art; as
a glorification of horseplay and brutality; as a perilous palliation
of drunkenness, irreverence, loose and improper conduct of all
sorts. With quite infinitely less than the provocation of Rabelais,
allegations and insinuations of faults not much less heinous than
those charged by anti-Pantagruelists were raised, while, for a
decade or two, more recently, has been added the sneer of the
superior person at 'fun out of fashion. ' On the other hand, it is
a simple fact that not a few fervent high-churchmen, medievalists,
men zealous for religion and devotees of romance, have been
among Ingoldsby's most faithful lovers. For they have seen that
.
'Love me and laugh at me’ is a motto not in the least self-
contradictory, and that the highest kind of laughter is impossible
without at least a little love, and a very high kind of love compatible
with at least a grain of laughter.
To go straight to the point, The Ingoldsby Legends are
examples of the style started by Southey in The Old Woman of
Berkeley and other pieces, raised to much higher power both of
humour and of poetry and carried out on an instrument of verse
which, though it owes a great deal to the poet laureate's principles
and practice, attempts variations of a far bolder, more intricate
and more symphonic kind. No one who has not studied the
Legends from this point of view knows how sure the artist is in
handling and fingering all his most complicated arabesques and
gambollings. The defects of taste which had been by no means
uncommon in the master and which are certainly a danger of
the kind, have been, as stated above, enormously magnified by


## p. 124 (#148) ############################################

I 24
[ch.
Lesser Poets, 1790–1837
Paper fer
objectors. They may, sometimes, exist; but they are never very
heinous, and they are, to a fairly catholic appreciation, carried off
by such a flood of fantastic humour, quaint miscellaneous erudition
(like Sterne’s and Southey's mixed), vivid picture, happy con-
versation (always a difficult thing to manage in verse), pointed
phrase, narrative felicity and refreshing medley of style and
subject, that only a critic deaf and blind to the merits can pay
much attention to the defects.
Not the least interesting feature of the present division is the
reappearance, in something like force, of poetesses. They had,
indeed, not been wanting since Lady Winchilsea, who, at her birth,
or soon afterwards, took, all unwitting, the torch from the hands
of 'Orinda' and handed it on in almost the same fashion to the
authoress of the Ode to Indifference? . There had been, more
recently, Anna Seward, that swan of Lichfield, who sang so much
and so long before her death that she has been entirely inaudible
since; and Hannah More that 'powerful versificatrix. At one
time, Anna Letitia Barbauld, by some extraordinary inspiration,
had uttered the wonderful last stanza of her 'Life' poem:
Life! we've been long together,
while, at other times, she had atoned partly for failing to under-
stand The Ancient Mariner by writing one of the best of the
many imitations of Collins's Evening, and some verses, more or
less ‘sacred,' which are not contemptible.