Letter to Mr. B--

"WEST POINT, 1831

"DEAR B--

...

Believing only a portion of my former volume to be worthy a second
edition--that small portion I thought it as well to include in the
present book as to republish by itself. I have therefore herein combined
'Al Aaraaf' and 'Tamerlane' with other poems hitherto unprinted. Nor
have I hesitated to insert from the 'Minor Poems,' now omitted, whole
lines, and even passages, to the end that being placed in a fairer
light, and the trash shaken from them in which they were imbedded, they
may have some chance of being seen by posterity.

"It has been said that a good critique on a poem may be written by one
who is no poet himself. This, according to _your_ idea and _mine_ of
poetry, I feel to be false--the less poetical the critic, the less just
the critique, and the converse. On this account, and because there are
but few B----s in the world, I would be as much ashamed of the world's
good opinion as proud of your own. Another than yourself might here
observe, 'Shakespeare is in possession of the world's good opinion, and
yet Shakespeare is the greatest of poets. It appears then that the world
judge correctly, why should you be ashamed of their favorable judgment?'
The difficulty lies in the interpretation of the word 'judgment' or
'opinion.' The opinion is the world's, truly, but it may be called
theirs as a man would call a book his, having bought it; he did not
write the book, but it is his; they did not originate the opinion, but
it is theirs. A fool, for example, thinks Shakespeare a great poet--yet
the fool has never read Shakespeare. But the fool's neighbor, who is a
step higher on the Andes of the mind, whose head (that is to say, his
more exalted thought) is too far above the fool to be seen or
understood, but whose feet (by which I mean his every-day actions) are
sufficiently near to be discerned, and by means of which that
superiority is ascertained, which _but_ for them would never have been
discovered--this neighbor asserts that Shakespeare is a great poet--the
fool believes him, and it is henceforward his _opinion_. This neighbor's
own opinion has, in like manner, been adopted from one above _him_, and
so, ascendingly, to a few gifted individuals who kneel around the
summit, beholding, face to face, the master spirit who stands upon the
pinnacle.

"You are aware of the great barrier in the path of an American writer.
He is read, if at all, in preference to the combined and established wit
of the world. I say established; for it is with literature as with law
or empire--an established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne in
possession. Besides, one might suppose that books, like their authors,
improve by travel--their having crossed the sea is, with us, so great a
distinction. Our antiquaries abandon time for distance; our very fops
glance from the binding to the bottom of the title-page, where the
mystic characters which spell London, Paris, or Genoa, are precisely so
many letters of recommendation.

"I mentioned just now a vulgar error as regards criticism. I think the
notion that no poet can form a correct estimate of his own writings is
another. I remarked before that in proportion to the poetical talent
would be the justice of a critique upon poetry. Therefore a bad poet
would, I grant, make a false critique, and his self-love would
infallibly bias his little judgment in his favor; but a poet, who is
indeed a poet, could not, I think, fail of making a just critique;
whatever should be deducted on the score of self-love might be replaced
on account of his intimate acquaintance with the subject; in short, we
have more instances of false criticism than of just where one's own
writings are the test, simply because we have more bad poets than good.
There are, of course, many objections to what I say: Milton is a great
example of the contrary; but his opinion with respect to the 'Paradise
Regained' is by no means fairly ascertained. By what trivial
circumstances men are often led to assert what they do not really
believe! Perhaps an inadvertent word has descended to posterity. But, in
fact, the 'Paradise Regained' is little, if at all, inferior to the
'Paradise Lost,' and is only supposed so to be because men do not like
epics, whatever they may say to the contrary, and reading those of
Milton in their natural order, are too much wearied with the first to
derive any pleasure from the second.

"I dare say Milton preferred 'Comus' to either--if so--justly.

"As I am speaking of poetry, it will not be amiss to touch slightly upon
the most singular heresy in its modern history--the heresy of what is
called, very foolishly, the Lake School. Some years ago I might have
been induced, by an occasion like the present, to attempt a formal
refutation of their doctrine; at present it would be a work of
supererogation. The wise must bow to the wisdom of such men as Coleridge
and Southey, but being wise, have laughed at poetical theories so
prosaically exemplified.

"Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared poetry the most
philosophical of all writings--but it required a Wordsworth to pronounce
it the most metaphysical. He seems to think that the end of poetry is,
or should be, instruction; yet it is a truism that the end of our
existence is happiness; if so, the end of every separate part of our
existence, everything connected with our existence, should be still
happiness. Therefore the end of instruction should be happiness; and
happiness is another name for pleasure;--therefore the end of
instruction should be pleasure: yet we see the above-mentioned opinion
implies precisely the reverse.

"To proceed: _ceteris paribus_, he who pleases is of more importance to
his fellow-men than he who instructs, since utility is happiness, and
pleasure is the end already obtained which instruction is merely the
means of obtaining.

"I see no reason, then, why our metaphysical poets should plume
themselves so much on the utility of their works, unless indeed they
refer to instruction with eternity in view; in which case, sincere
respect for their piety would not allow me to express my contempt for
their judgment; contempt which it would be difficult to conceal, since
their writings are professedly to be understood by the few, and it is
the many who stand in need of salvation. In such case I should no doubt
be tempted to think of the devil in 'Melmoth,' who labors indefatigably,
through three octavo volumes, to accomplish the destruction of one or
two souls, while any common devil would have demolished one or two
thousand.

"Against the subtleties which would make poetry a study--not a
passion--it becomes the metaphysician to reason--but the poet to
protest. Yet Wordsworth and Coleridge are men in years; the one imbued
in contemplation from his childhood; the other a giant in intellect and
learning. The diffidence, then, with which I venture to dispute their
authority would be overwhelming did I not feel, from the bottom of my
heart, that learning has little to do with the imagination--intellect
with the passions--or age with poetry.

  "'Trifles, like straws, upon the surface flow;
  He who would search for pearls must dive below,'

"are lines which have done much mischief. As regards the greater truths,
men oftener err by seeking them at the bottom than at the top; Truth
lies in the huge abysses where wisdom is sought--not in the palpable
palaces where she is found. The ancients were not always right in hiding
the goddess in a well; witness the light which Bacon has thrown upon
philosophy; witness the principles of our divine faith--that moral
mechanism by which the simplicity of a child may overbalance the wisdom
of a man.

"We see an instance of Coleridge's liability to err, in his 'Biographia
Literaria'--professedly his literary life and opinions, but, in fact, a
treatise 'de omni scibili et quibusdam aliis'. He goes wrong by reason
of his very profundity, and of his error we have a natural type in the
contemplation of a star. He who regards it directly and intensely sees,
it is true, the star, but it is the star without a ray--while he who
surveys it less inquisitively is conscious of all for which the star is
useful to us below--its brilliancy and its beauty.

"As to Wordsworth, I have no faith in him. That he had in youth the
feelings of a poet I believe--for there are glimpses of extreme delicacy
in his writings--(and delicacy is the poet's own kingdom--his 'El
Dorado')--but they have the appearance of a better day recollected; and
glimpses, at best, are little evidence of present poetic fire; we know
that a few straggling flowers spring up daily in the crevices of the
glacier.

"He was to blame in wearing away his youth in contemplation with the end
of poetizing in his manhood. With the increase of his judgment the light
which should make it apparent has faded away. His judgment consequently
is too correct. This may not be understood,--but the old Goths of
Germany would have understood it, who used to debate matters of
importance to their State twice, once when drunk, and once when
sober--sober that they might not be deficient in formality--drunk lest
they should be destitute of vigor.

"The long wordy discussions by which he tries to reason us into
admiration of his poetry, speak very little in his favor: they are full
of such assertions as this (I have opened one of his volumes at
random)--'Of genius the only proof is the act of doing well what is
worthy to be done, and what was never done before;'--indeed? then it
follows that in doing what is 'un'worthy to be done, or what 'has' been
done before, no genius can be evinced; yet the picking of pockets is an
unworthy act, pockets have been picked time immemorial, and Barrington,
the pick-pocket, in point of genius, would have thought hard of a
comparison with William Wordsworth, the poet.

"Again, in estimating the merit of certain poems, whether they be
Ossian's or Macpherson's can surely be of little consequence, yet, in
order to prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many pages in
the controversy. 'Tantæne animis?' Can great minds descend to such
absurdity? But worse still: that he may bear down every argument in
favor of these poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage, in his
abomination with which he expects the reader to sympathise. It is the
beginning of the epic poem 'Temora.' 'The blue waves of Ullin roll in
light; the green hills are covered with day; trees shake their dusty
heads in the breeze.' And this--this gorgeous, yet simple imagery, where
all is alive and panting with immortality--this, William Wordsworth, the
author of 'Peter Bell,' has 'selected' for his contempt. We shall see
what better he, in his own person, has to offer. Imprimis:

  "'And now she's at the pony's tail,
  And now she's at the pony's head,
  On that side now, and now on this;
  And, almost stifled with her bliss,
  A few sad tears does Betty shed....
  She pats the pony, where or when
  She knows not ... happy Betty Foy!
  Oh, Johnny, never mind the doctor!'

"Secondly:

  "'The dew was falling fast, the--stars began to blink;
  I heard a voice: it said,--"Drink, pretty creature, drink!"
  And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied
  A snow-white mountain lamb, with a maiden at its side.
  No other sheep was near, the lamb was all alone,
  And by a slender cord was tether'd to a stone.'

"Now, we have no doubt this is all true: we _will_ believe it,
indeed we will, Mr, W. Is it sympathy for the sheep you wish to excite?
I love a sheep from the bottom of my heart.

"But there are occasions, dear B----, there are occasions when even
Wordsworth is reasonable. Even Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end,
and the most unlucky blunders must come to a conclusion. Here is an
extract from his preface:

  "'Those who have been accustomed to the phraseology of modern writers,
  if they persist in reading this book to a conclusion (_impossible!_)
  will, no doubt, have to struggle with feelings of awkwardness; (ha!
  ha! ha!) they will look round for poetry (ha! ha! ha! ha!), and will
  be induced to inquire by what species of courtesy these attempts have
  been permitted to assume that title.' Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!

"Yet, let not Mr. W. despair; he has given immortality to a wagon, and
the bee Sophocles has transmitted to eternity a sore toe, and dignified
a tragedy with a chorus of turkeys.

"Of Coleridge, I cannot speak but with reverence. His towering
intellect! his gigantic power! To use an author quoted by himself,

  '_J'ai trouvé souvent que la plupart des sectes ont raison dans une
  bonne partie de ce qu'elles avancent, mais non pas en ce qu'elles
  nient_;'

and to employ his own language, he has imprisoned his own conceptions by
the barrier he has erected against those of others. It is lamentable to
think that such a mind should be buried in metaphysics, and, like the
Nyctanthes, waste its perfume upon the night alone. In reading that
man's poetry, I tremble like one who stands upon a volcano, conscious
from the very darkness bursting from the crater, of the fire and the
light that are weltering below.

"What is Poetry?--Poetry! that Proteus-like idea, with as many
appellations as the nine-titled Corcyra! 'Give me,' I demanded of a
scholar some time ago, 'give me a definition of poetry.'
'_Tres-volontiers;_' and he proceeded to his library, brought me a Dr.
Johnson, and overwhelmed me with a definition. Shade of the immortal
Shakespeare! I imagine to myself the scowl of your spiritual eye upon
the profanity of that scurrilous Ursa Major. Think of poetry, dear
B----, think of poetry, and then think of Dr. Samuel Johnson! Think of
all that is airy and fairy-like, and then of all that is hideous and
unwieldy; think of his huge bulk, the Elephant! and then--and then think
of the 'Tempest'--the 'Midsummer Night's Dream'--Prospero--Oberon--and
Titania!

"A poem, in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having, for
its _immediate_ object, pleasure, not truth; to romance, by having, for
its object, an _indefinite_ instead of a _definite_ pleasure, being a
poem only so far as this object is attained; romance presenting
perceptible images with definite, poetry with _in_definite sensations,
to which end music is an _essential_, since the comprehension of sweet
sound is our most indefinite conception. Music, when combined with a
pleasurable idea, is poetry; music, without the idea, is simply music;
the idea, without the music, is prose, from its very definitiveness.

"What was meant by the invective against him who had no music in his
soul?

"To sum up this long rigmarole, I have, dear B----, what you, no doubt,
perceive, for the metaphysical poets as poets, the most sovereign
contempt. That they have followers proves nothing:

  "'No Indian prince has to his palace
  More followers than a thief to the gallows.'"





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        Edgar Allan Poe