A NEW STOCKTAKING OF OLD POETS.

Dominion, Volume 5, Issue 1366, 17 February 1912, Page 16

A NEW STOCKTAKING OF OLD POETS.

r— —— Mr. Henry Nowbolt, a most charming man of letters, sets for himself and his readers a most interesting task in tho January issue of the "English Review." lie is going to weigh up afresh and tako fresh stock o£ our English poetry. Hero is his own statement:—

In tho life of this generation, as in that of others, there is much that is materialistic, argumentative, prosaic; but for spiritual depth and intensify, as for rhythmical beauty, its • poetry is unsurpassed. It is truo that though tho poetry is groat, there are no 'great poots,' but who would think that if peerages were abolished nobility would ceaeo? It i» merely a confusion of thought. "And if this is an age of confusion, I believe it is only because it is an aee of rebuilding; science, religion, philosophy, and social life are all under scaffolding; no wonder tho poets arc not so visible as they were. But thore are somo of us who feel that criticism should bo rebuilding, too; that a revaluation of English poetry might now be welcomo, in which no allowance should bo made for antiquity, reputation, resemblanco to great literary ancestors, place in evolution, 6crrice6 to Church or State, learning,, intellectual brilliancy, impeachable or unimpeachable morals, or any other extraneous merits; but in which tho work of every poet, living or dead, should bo judged by one and the same criterion."

Mr. Newbolt hope 3 his criterion of poetry may be so applied as "to produce a new study of English poetry. This will appear in future issues of tho "Eeview."

"It docs concern us vitally to know whether great poetry is still written and valued among us." says Mr. Ncwbolt; "whether it is still, as in the past, tho effect and tho cause of vigour in our nar tional life; or whether, on tho contrary, it lingers only as a plaything for the few, or perhaps as a kind of waste product thrown off by a machinery not yet completely readjusted. It docs concern us, if possible, to bring about recognition between the poets and the public. "It has also been held by a large proportion of our fellow-countrymen that poetry is at best a more decorativo form of speech, an elegance, a kind of ceremony appropriate to certain occasions, pleasing to cortain temperaments, but always otiose and generally esoteric. At tho worst, it is thought to bo a 6ort of Bugary nonsense, a mummery which impedes the progress of business, an obsolete form of sentimentality, the defeated but obstinate enemy of scientific truth. It is clear that if this is tho right account, then tho strongest and subtlest spirits among men have been the most subject to an unworhhy delusion; tho human lamp at its brightest has burned with a strangely smoky flame.

"What, then, is poetry? What is its value? Is it loved for its own sake or for its effects? What has it to do with Life? What is its relation to Science, and to the other Arts: to Religion and to Morality? Is tho essential part of it the subject, the diction, the versification, or somo peculiar quality of emotion? What distinguishes good poetry from bad? Ie the highest poetry personal or impersonal, 6ubjectivo or objective, the product of experience or invention? What ar« the possible forms of poetry, and is there any natural limitation <w them?

"These are eomo of the preliminary points in our inquiry. Let us begin with, the examination of a simple and ccmorally familiar example. "Let us imagine ourselves to bo standing on a quiet September evening in a country churchyard, overlooking a characteristic stretch of English landscape. From our place behind the yew troo we can overhear the remarks of those who pass within a few yards of us along the churchyard path. Tlark! boll!'. says a child to his mother as the curfow begins to sound, and ho exclaims again as he catches sight of the herd of cows winding slowly back to the farm, and the ploughman plodding wearily towards the village. 7es,' replies the mother, 'time you were in bed, my eon.' "The farmer passes with his wife. Ho pints to his cattle. 'Some jjood straight backs there,' ho says. She is looking at the old bent ploughman. Ton can't say as much for poor Giles; but come, 'tis nearly dark.' When they are gone there is hut one figure left in the churchyard; wo hear in the gathering dusk this fragment of monologue,' murmured in a voice which seems almost a natural part of the solitude npon which thoso other voices had for a moment intruded.— The curfew tolls tho knell of parting day, The lowing herd wild slowly o'er ths lea, The ploughman homeward plodr ids weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to mo.

Thare is something different here; every man can feel that. What the other voices said we may forget, probably we have already forgotton; but tho very words of this voice and tho very tone of it we shall long romcmber. Yet the difference would appear, when you look into it, to bo a very slight one. Each ono of the speakers expressed the perception of oertain facts; somo of them heard tho bell, some noticed the cattle, some saw lie tired ploughman, Bomo obsorved the approach of darkness. It is trno that ono only was conscious of all these impressions, though all tho speakers were equally in a position to receive them.

"Wo aro reminded, than, that &n impression or sensation is something offered to us by the external world, Which wo may accept or not accept. There is no mero_ passivity in the mat.tor. If an impression is really impressed trpon u», if a oensatron is really fott, it is becauso by our activity of the spirit we rcize upon it, and represent it as an imogo, tacitly erpresa it as an intuition, to our conscious eolf. This, when wo aro children, we very readily do, and there nw eomo who always robiin tho childlike power of accepting impressions with simplicity. But this is not common; the course of practical life is against it. For nosthetic, for perception, most of ua need what may be called re-oducation."