The Gregariousness of the Minor Poets

BY natural disposition and by habit of life a poet is the least gregarious of human creatures. He flourishes in what Milton describes as ‘a pleasing solitariness.’ Novelists and historians must be, in some sort, men of the world. They must frequent courts and drawing-rooms and all sorts of public gatherings in order to collect material for their work. They are traffickers in other men’s ideas, and they must be good mixers.

But when the poet, is ‘hidden in the light of thought,’ it is his own thought. If it is different from other men’s thought, all the better. It adds to the fascinating mystery of his personality. The highest praise we can give him is the acknowledgment that he has had some gift that was all his own. ‘His soul was like a star and dwelt apart.’ It is possible for him to do his best work while dwelling apart, for his business is not to interpret other men’s moods, but his own.

Clergymen are inclined, when they have opportunity, to flock together in presbyteries and conferences, associations and convocations. After preaching to their congregations on Sunday they frequent ministers’ meetings on Monday, where they address one another. Theodore Parker used to lament this habit, to which he ascribed some of the faults of his brethren. Ministers, he declared, are like cabbages: they do not head well when they are planted too close together. But though clerical gregariousness may be carried to an excess, a certain amount of it is necessary to the successful carrying on of the profession. Among the higher clergy the solitary habit would be obviously impracticable. When Lord Westbury was asked what were the duties of an archdeacon he answered, ‘The duties of an archdeacon consist in the performance of arch-diaconal functions.’ Now it is evident that these arch-diaconal functions cannot be performed except in connection with an ecclesiastical body. No one, however gifted, could be an archdeacon on his own hook.

So a lawyer must be a member of the bar in order to practice his profession. The physician must be in good standing in the Medical Society. A plumber cannot act as a mere individual. He does not appear like the solitary horseman in the romances. He is a recognized duality. When we send for a plumber we expect to see two. A pleasing solitariness is not allowed in his working hours.

But a poet does not need other poets to bear him company or to complete his work. He does not need a congregation to inspire him. He comes alone to his chosen reader. It is a case where two is company and three is a crowd.

The transitory nature of his inspiration adds to this tendency to solitariness on the part of the poet. It is not easy for him to keep business hours, or make contracts for work to be finished at a given time. His productive energy is inconstant. The product of industry can be counted upon and can be delivered when promised. But the poetry which is the product of industry is worthless. All the value is that which comes from some unpredictable felicity of mood. Now and then a poetical thought comes, and under the impulse of the moment he puts it into words that are really much better than he could have contrived if he had labored for them. There is a sudden snatch of real song, a phrase or two that are unforgettable. No one seems able to do these things every day. It is a great good fortune to be able to do them sometimes. A person who is subject to such accidents we call a poet.

Sometimes the poet attempts to meet the man of affairs on his own ground, and do business according to the accepted rules. He is usually mortified by his inability to ‘deliver the goods.’ In the Book of Numbers there is an illuminating story of such an attempt to control poetic inspiration. The poet Balaam had gained a considerable reputation among the Moabitish tribes for his fine flow of maledictory verse. When Balak had become alarmed over the progress of the invading Israelites he bethought him of Balaam and his gifts. ‘And Balak offered oxen and sheep and sent to Balaam.’

But when Balak waited for the outburst of rhythmical invective which he had paid for, he was disappointed. Instead of curses Balaam’s words turned out to be blessings of no value whatever to his employer. Instead of living up to his contract, Balaam ‘went not as at the other times to seek for enchantments, but he set his face toward the wilderness.’ It was the wild nature of the poet asserting itself.

Balaam sang his song in his own way without regard to his contract, and no wonder Balak was indignant. ‘Balak’s anger was kindled against Balaam and he smote his hands together; and Balak said unto Balaam: I called thee to curse mine enemies and behold thou hast altogether blessed them these three times. Therefore now flee thou to thy place. I thought to promote thee unto great honor, but lo, the Lord hath kept thee back from honor.’

The story of the parting of the man of affairs and the poet has been repeated many times. ‘And Balaam rose up and went and returned to his place; and Balak also went his way.’

In his natural state the poet accepts the situation cheerfully. He sets his face toward the wilderness which he loves, and is content with the inspiration which may come. But now and then among the minor poets there comes a change of temper that is most remarkable. The minor poet forgets his individuality and becomes gregarious. He is no longer content with casual inspiration and intermittent illuminations. He must be up and doing. He must coöperate. He must find those whose spiritual impulses synchronize with his own. He must choose a name which shall designate those who belong to his school. Above all he must educate the general public to appreciate the product of coöperative genius.

In indicating that this sudden gregarious tendency is most observable among minor poets, no disparagement is intended. The term minor poet, like that of minor prophet, refers to the quantity rather than the quality of the work done. Amos was not less a prophet than Ezekiel. His book is not so large, that is all. This in a literary man may sometimes be an added claim to our regard. Gold is gold, whether found in the mother lode or in a slender vein. Some of the best poetry is the work of minor poets who left no complete poetical works. They have not created much, but they have given some words which are priceless. Who does not know the slender little volume that comes unheralded? It is so modest that it makes little demands upon time or shelf-room. And yet many a bulky volume has less worth. It is the individual offering of the minor poet in his unsophisticated days. Later on, a bit of his work might slip into a place in the anthologies. That is a post-mortem honor.

But when the minor poet becomes class-conscious he is ambitious to make his first appearance in an anthology. He will not go alone up a footpath to Parnassus, if he can climb into an omnibus with his mates. The more the merrier. When the gregarious instinct is in control we no longer are conscious of the appeal of a single person. A company of new poets appear in a body and insist on the right of collective bargaining for our admiration. We must accept the New Poetry that bears the Union label, or face the consequences.

Now in joining the union, and merging himself with a group, however excellent, the new poet is, I think, ill-advised. There are some things which cannot be done coöperatively, and poetry is one of them. It cannot bo standardized or promoted. In fact, there is very little that can be done about it except enjoy it when it comes.

There is nothing more delightful than the discovery of a new poet, unless it is the recovery of an old one. We are eager to hear a fresh, unspoiled voice and to be cheered by a variation on familiar themes. That in which he distinctly differs from those who preceded him is his peculiar merit. He comes with the dew of the morning upon him.

If it should happen that at about the same time another new poet should turn up, that would be a happy coincidence. There is always room in the upper story for such rare visitants. Half a dozen new poets appearing simultaneously would awaken surprise. Still it would not be miraculous. Such things have happened. But the point is that each newcomer must stand on his own feet and do his work in his own way. His welcome must be all his own. The fact that he appears at the same time with others is only an accident.

The new poet is at his best before he has been sophisticated by too much intercourse with men of his own craft. We love to watch him going his carefree way, unmindful of the Duties of the Hour or the Idols of the Tribe. He is like the shepherd in Lycidas who, when he had sung his song,

It was the quick gesture of one conscious of the need neither of audience nor of collaborators.

It is a sad day for the new poet when he hears the call of his kind and becomes conscious that he has a duty to perform for his fellow poets in explaining and defending their innovations. In dedicating his talents to the service of the group he is guilty of futile selfsacrifice. He loses his first sense of irresponsible freedom, and after a few years he becomes a conscientious copyist of his own early manner, and an apologist for the manner of his coevals. The murderer who revisits the scene of his crime has at least the salutary experience of remorse. But the poet who continually revisits the scene of his early success has no spiritual gain; and he is kept away from fresh woods.

The gang spirit has its uses, but there are spheres in which it does not make for the highest excellency. A single saiNt is admirable, but who would not flee from a gang of saints, eager to impose their peculiar type of piety upon the community? I read of a mediæval saint who, when he was invited to a rich man’s table, united courtesy and asceticism by partaking of the food set before him, but at the same time unostentatiously sprinkling the rich viands with ashes. This was admirable. But if I were a rich man I should not like to entertain a dozen saints who should bring their ash-shakers to my table. I should find their mannerism offensive.

The Hebrew prophets whose words have come down to us were thorough individualists. They were solitary in their habit and spoke their words whether men heard or whether they forbore. But there were bands who were called ‘ the sons of the prophets.’ These men made a profession of prophetism and wandered about prophesying collectively. We do not, however, hear of any great utterance coming from these organizations. It is the same with the sons of the poets who form schools and coteries, and who are dependent on mutual support. The coöperative effort seems to do little for the production of the kind of poetry which the world does ‘not willingly let die.’ It however produces a vast amount of the other kind.

Some individual breaks away from the conventions. Immediately he has a score of followers, who, by using his formula, produce what appear to be the same results. The fashion grows by a process of accretion till it becomes an old fashion and is suddenly dropped. There was a period when poetry was conceived of as the ‘Paradise of Dainty Devices.’ Poets vied with each other in the invention of quaint conceits. Words never ventured into print in their obvious meanings. They appeared in elaborate masquerade. Even religion hid behind a mask and claimed attention by pretending to be something else. This make-believe was considered the very essence of poetry. It was the criterion by which it could be distinguished from prose.

But these Dainty Devices would not have pleased the poet who a century ago from the American backwoods voiced his aspirations.

To the members of the school of the brazen-throated and adamantine-lunged all refinements were contemptible. They were all for strength.

Sometimes the bond of union between minor poets is educational. They feel that it is their duty to improve the mind, and they proceed to do it. I take up a volume entitled Fugitive Poems connected with Natural History and the Physical Sciences. It is unnecessary that this anthology should be dated: it obviously belongs to the middle of the nineteenth century. How pathetically these poetical fugitives flock together, seeking safety in numbers! Driven out of their dwellings by the advancing hordes of Science, they seek to obtain mercy by chanting the praise of their conquerors. We are reminded of the exiles by the rivers of Babylon from whom those who carried them away captive required a song. The poetic captives of science did their best to satisfy the demand, but soon gave up the effort and hung their harps on the willows.

It is another world which we enter when we take up The Nightingale or Polite Amatory Songster — A Selection of Delicate, Pathetic and Elegant Songs designed chiefly for Ladies. It was published in Boston in 1808. The principle of selection was stated: ‘This volume is presented to the public with no exclusive claims of patronage except those arising from the solicitude of the compiler to avoid every expression that might offend the delicacy of female modesty.’

The Amatory Songster was but one of a vast number of volumes which belonged to what we may call the Literature of Moral Solicitude. It seems to have occurred simultaneously to a multitude of prose-writers and poets, that, in taking their pen in hand, they should avoid every expression that might give offense. That any other virtue or grace besides that of avoidance was necessary did not occur to them. The taste of the day required a moral to be attached to every poem. An eighteenth-century critic complains that the Scribleriad by the well-known poet Richard Owen Cambridge was not as well received by the public as its merits deserved. ‘The composition of the Scribleriad is regular, spirited and poetic. There are few descriptions so happily imagined as the approach of an army of rebuses and acrostics.’ Now, rebuses and acrostics were in the mode; but the public was cool in its reception of the Scribleriad. The critic explains this by saying, ‘ It is to be regretted that the author determined to avoid moral reflections, which he could easily have furnished.’ This was just a little after the time when another critic speaks of ‘the usual anacreontics, the spirit of which was raging a few years ago among all the sweet singers of Great Britain.’ This epidemic of anacreontics probably explains the extravagant length to which moralizing was carried. Even writers who were capable of more positive and varied contributions to literature sought to answer the demand.

Oliver Goldsmith, in his collection of Poems for Young Ladies went beyond the Amatory Songster in his solicitude. He says, ‘Dr. Fordyce’s excellent sermons for Young Women in some measure gave rise to the following compilation. Care has been taken to select not only such poems as innocence may read aloud without a blush, but such as will even strengthen that innocence.’

Goldsmith was evidently ambitious. His collection should not merely represent the current ideal of innocence. It should be the latest word in SuperInnocence. He remarks: ‘Poetry is an art no young lady can or ought to be wholly ignorant of. The pleasure which it gives, and indeed the necessity of knowing enough to mix in modern conversation will evince the usefulness of my design.’

Now the cat is out of the bag. Poetry as a pleasure was one thing. But the more important thing was the assumed ‘necessity of knowing enough to mix in modern conversation.’ Here the gregarious motive comes in. Poetry for its own sake might be produced and enjoyed in blameless solitude. But the connection between poetry and conversation renders it necessary to put the emphasis upon timeliness. Poetry must approximate to journalism. It must have a distinct news-value, and be kept up to date. Nobody wants to talk about last year’s fashions.

It is obvious that as the fashions in modern conversation change there will be a demand for a corresponding change in the poetry that is to be talked about. Innocence having been talked out, conversation turns to a solemn knowingness. We see in our own time, among those who would be in the swim, an insistence that poets should choose themes that satisfy the serious-minded inquirer. The more unpleasant the subject is, the more meritorious. Indeed, in some circles it is assumed that the poet who would advance the cause of modernity must begin his campaign with a policy of deliberate frightfulness. Having shown his ability to hack his way through the sensibilities of his readers, he may afterwards yield to his native geniality. All this is a matter of fashion. But these modes have little to do with that which belongs to the inner life of poetry.

I once had a lesson which I took to heart. I had two friends, both of whom happened to be blind. It unluckily occurred to me that it would be a pleasure to them to be made acquainted. But when I suggested this to one of them he drew himself up with dignity and said, ‘I decline to make acquaintances on the basis of my infirmity.’

I think of this when I see the attempts to bring together poets on the ground of what seem to the prosaic mind common interests and conditions. It is assumed that those who belong to the same party or who live in the same place enjoy being put in the same category. Here is a volume entitled The Poets of Maine, a Collection of Spec imen Poems of a Hundred Verse-Makers of the Pine Tree State. The Poets of Iowa are as numerous, and the Poets of Michigan are as the leaves of the forest. Why is it that local loyalty and state pride seem to fail to furnish any real bond of union to these verse-makers? I do not think of Longfellow as a Poet of Maine.

A topographical term like the Lake Poets may be useful for conversation or lecturing, but it serves no other end. Because a certain number of gifted persons frequented the same lovely region, it does not follow that they had a great deal in common. The absurdity of classifications according to residence is seen when we remember that Keats was characterized by spiteful contemporaries as belonging to the Cockney School. Any one less of a cockney it would be hard to find. Keats walked the London streets, but his true citizenship was in the islands

There have been times not far remote when it was thought a laudable undertaking to bring together collections of verse under the title ‘Female Poetry.’ Why should the female poets be segregated? A careful scrutiny of their works reveals nothing which they might not have expressed with the utmost propriety in the presence of their gentleman friends. When I think of Sappho I think of her simply as a poet. That is the way I suppose that Sappho would like to be thought of.

Nor is the technique of their art a bond of union between true poets. Such a poet may find his most natural means of expression in the familiar forms of prosody. Or he may say with Chaucer’s pilgrim, —

He may be the freest of free versifiers, but if he has the poet’s gift he may take what liberties he will. It is a case in which the end justifies the means. But let him not think to make us receive all who abjure rhyme and familiar metres as belonging to his class. Because we admit the actuality of a horseless carriage, it does not follow that any carriage can be made to go by the simple device of shooting the horse. Nor should the new poets pride themselves on their newness in point of time. It will soon wear off. The bond that unites a poet to his contemporaries is very slight compared to that which unites him to kindred spirits in many generations. Poetry is the timeless art.

The greater poets have always proudly declared their independence of the passing hour. Mere chronological sequence has to them little significance. Shakespeare utters his defiance: —

Nor is this impression of timelessness characteristic only of the supreme poets. The minor poets when they are at their best have the same gift. They snatch from our working day some blessed moments of real insight. We see something that does not belong to the passing hour. It was true a thousand years ago and it is true still. These Robin Hoods rob time for the benefit of eternity. We cannot discipline them or organize them. But we are glad that there are these merry men.