MODERN POETRY.*
Mn. WALTER JERROLD in his preface to this new anthology of "living poets" combats the not uncommon statement "that there are no poets now," and declares that, on the contrary, "the truth of the matter is that the reverse is the case, for it may be doubted whether at any time there have been so many writers possessed of the rare power of expressing themselves in poetry." The extracts which make up his volume afford sufficient data for a decision upon the subject, for the writers from whose works they are selected form a numerous and representative body, though some well-known names—notably those of Mr. Meredith and Mr. Stephen Phillips—are not to be found among them. Whether Mr. Jerrold's contention is justified or not is perhaps rather a question of definition than of taste. What do we mean by poetry? That is the real crux of the matter. If poetry is primarily a means towards obtain- ing a certain kind of refined pleasure, if, as Cowley says, its main end is "to communicate delight," then the present volume is undoubtedly full of poetry, and the poetical character of our age is amply vindicated. For it would be bard to think of a more pleasant pastime for an idle afternoon than such an excursion among contem- porary lyrics as Mr. Jerrold's book affords. But there is another sense in which we speak of poetry,—a more pro- found and fundamental sense, carrying with it notions of high sublimity and passionate force. When we praise a poem for its "inspiration," we are praising it for some other quality than that of its power "to communicate delight"; we imply that its value lies in the noble intensity with which it suggests to us what is most beautiful and wise and good. This was the conception of poetry which Wordsworth had in his mind when he said that "to be incapable of a feeling for poetry, in my sense of the word, is to be without love of human nature and reverence for God." Such a dictum as that is perfectly applicable to the world's greatest poems. A man who was left unmoved by the most inspired passages of Shakespeare and Dante would, we feel, be in the parlous state which Wordsworth speaks of; but could the same be said of one who failed to appreciate the pieces in this volume ? Surely not. We might quarrel with his taste, but to declare that he was without love of human nature and reverence for God would be a monstrous exaggeration, for the simple reason that the present collection contains—with one or two excep- tions—nothing to which the name of poetry, in Words- worth's sense, could be applied. It is from this point of view, * The Book of Limo Poets. Edited by Walter Jerrold. London Aletou Rivera. [7s. Bd. net.1
then, that our age may be truly said to be unpoetical. Its poetry is not lacking in taste, or elegance, or skill, or any of those qualities which are indispensable to all verse which aims at communicating delight; but it does lack that deep signifi- cance and that overwhelming force which spring from an inward fire; in a word, it lacks inspiration.
Why this should be the case—why, amid so much that is promising in other departments of our literature, the art of poetry should languish for want of vital nourishment—is a question which could only be answered satisfactorily after a long investigation of complex causes, and perhaps could never be answered completely at all. Yet a few observations, which will probably suggest themselves to most readers of Mr. Jerrold's book and kindred collections of modern verse, may help to throw some light upon the subject. Certainly the most obvious characteristic of our poetry is the closeness of its adherence to that great literary tradition which came into being in England with Wordsworth and Coleridge, and was carried forward so successfully by Shelley and Keats. In the present volume, for instance, nothing can be more striking than the extent to which the work of Keats and Wordsworth dominates its pages. It is not that these writers are consciously imitated by the writers of to-day, but that their spirit, their outlook upon life, and their view of art have become a part of the air we breathe, so that it is well-nigh impossible to escape their influence. Thus when Mr. Watson tells us that "Nought nobler is. than to be free :
The stars of heaven are free because
In amplitude of liberty Their joy is to obey the laws ";
or when Mr. Gosse observes :—
"Nor seems it strange indeed To hold the happy creed That all fair things that bloom and die
Have conscious life as well as I";
or when Mr. Trench—one of the foremost of our younger poets—draws moral lessons from the consideration of a birch-tree in St. James's Park,—we cannot help feeling that we have already met with contemplations of precisely this nature, and even more finely expressed, in the pages of Wordsworth. Similarly, Mr. Binyon seems to be haunted by the ghost of Keats :— "Surely her feet a moment rested here!
Nerving her hand upon a pliant branch, She paused, she listened, and then glided on Half-turned in lovely fear; And her young shoulders shone Like moonbeams that wet sands, foam-bordered, blanch, A sight to stay the beating of the breast !"
These are charming lines, but, with all their charm, they remain merely echoes of the author of " Endymion." Indeed, to find originality we must look for it either among those writers who, like Mr. Austin Dobson and Mr. A. E. Housman, have deliberately narrowed their field and are content to reign supreme over a tiny kingdom, or we must go back to Mr. Swiuburne, two of whose lyrics—" The Forsaken Garden" and the opening Chorus in "Atalanta "—shine out strangely from among the surrounding contributions in Mr. JeiTold's book. Mr. Svrinburne's early work was the last wild flare of that romantic candle which was lighted by the "Lyrical Ballads" more than a hundred years ago, and still flickers on in our contemporary poetry. In many respects the poets of to-day occupy a position analogous to that of the writers who pre- ceded Wordsworth at the close of the eighteenth century. Like Hayley and Pye and Erasmus Darwin, they are the heirs of an effete tradition ; but where shall we find the new great poet who shall free us from the bondage of Wordsworth, just as Wordsworth himself freed his contemporaries from the bondage of Pope P Side by side with the lack of originality there is another obvious weakness in modern verse,—it is singularly out of touch with what may be called, for want of a better term, "real life," the life of the cultivated men and women to whom poetry makes its strongest appeal. Putting on one side love, which must always find its truest expression in lyrical poetry, what are the subjects which our "living poets" are most anxious to discuss? We turn over the pages of our anthology, and we find no reference to any of those matters with which
we are most habitually and most deeply concerned. We are told a great deal about sunsets, and magic, and dryads, and roses in the moonlight ; but how little of our daily interests and pursuits, of the problems that perplex us, and the recreations that delight us, and the human beings among whom we live !
"Here, in the fairy wood, between sea and sea,
I have heard the song of a fairy bird in a tree, And the peace that is not in the world has flown to me."
So writes Mr. Arthur Symons, and his lines are a summary of the attitude of the modern poet towards the functions of hi* art. So long as the poet remains lost in a fairy wood, and is content to spend his time listening to fairy birds, his art will continue to be a mere object of amusement, without any vital hold upon the deeper issues of life. It is remarkable that the only contemporary writer of verse whose genius is uncontest- able—Mr. Rudyard Kipling—has boldly discarded the con, ventional unrealities of romanticism, and has made use of an astonishing power of vivid and vernacular expression in the illustration of the thoughts and feelings of private soldiers and mechanics. His courage has been crowned with success ; but even the art of Mr. Kipling is something of an exotic:. To the majority of his readers the life which he describes can hardly be called "real life,"—it is almost as unfamiliar and romantic as the "fairy wood" of Mr. Arthur Symons. It is with the poet who can deal as easily and as poignantly with the society in which he lives as Mr. Kipling can deal with the society of the engine-room and the sergeants' mess that the future will assuredly lie.
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