THE POETS AT PLAY
Addison in his Papers on Wit makes vigorous onslaught against “false wit.” “The first species of false wit which I have met with is venerable for its antiquity, and has produced several pieces which have lived very near as long as the Iliad itself; I mean those short poems printed among the minor Greek poets, which resemble the figure of an egg, a pair of wings, an axe, a shepherd’s pipe, and an altar.”
Further on, he says, referring to these conceits, “the poetry was to contract or dilate itself according to the mould in which it was cast. In a word, the verses were to be cramped or extended to the dimensions of the frame that was prepared for them, and to undergo the fate of those persons whom the tyrant Procustes used to lodge in his iron bed; if they were too short he stretched them on a rack; and if they were too long he chopped off a part of their legs, till they fitted the couch which he had prepared for them.”
Most people accept this dictum of Addison as a final pronouncement on the distinction between true and false wit; but on further consideration it may be found that “much can be said on the other side.” Addison asserts that the matter must suffer if it has to be squeezed into a certain shape. This may be so, but it need not be much more so in the forming of a pair of wings in verse, than in the construction of a sonnet. Every sonnet, no matter how inspired, must follow an artificial measure, every poem, be it never so soulful, must have a definite number of feet in each of its lines and a preconceived arrangement; yet, no one advances the opinion that Scott was wasting his sense of poetry by casting it in the form of octo-syllabic verse, or that Shakespeare had a difficulty in fitting his thoughts to the measure of his sonnets or the blank verse of his plays.
THE POETS ILLUSTRATED.
1.—“For, indeed, my father did something smack—.”—Merchant of Venice.
2.—“Take any shape but that!”—Macbeth.
3.—“Light only on the box.”—Bryant and May.
4.—“—sigh to think that he had found
4.—“His warmest welcome at an inn.”—Shenstone.
The most that can be advanced against those poetic conceits of the kind condemned by Addison is that they appeal in a greater degree to the eye than to the ear, and while we may be conscious of their artificial nature we should also be catholic enough to admit their ingenuity, and when they are sufficiently amusing to provoke laughter, or excite a smile, they should not be denied the attributes of wit; for, after all, when we free ourselves from the suspicion of affectation, do we not agree that the chief end of wit is to amuse?
NO! DON’T. (Period 1854.)
“So they are sending out books to amuse the poor fellows at Scutari—and very proper. I will send five-and-twenty copies of my last five-act tragedy of ‘The Roman Grandmother.’”
These remarks have been suggested to the writer by his discovering in one of his old scrap-books a little collection of curiosities of verse culled in Bookland byways “oompty” years ago. These do not consist of specimens of the minor Greek poets’ eccentricities, but in every case they are examples of what Addison would have unhesitatingly catalogued as “false wit”; and yet, not only are some of them genuinely amusing and others highly ingenious, but several display a painstaking which almost amounts to genius—if genius be “the capacity for taking pains.”
We can, for example, appreciate the immense industry of the author who set himself to compose a series, of verses in which the letter “e” should be entirely omitted, and the painstaking of the author will be yet further acknowledged when it is known that “e” is the most used letter in the English alphabet, the relative proportion of its use being 120 times to j 4, k 8, g 17, and i 40.
There are two such pieces among the writer’s literary curiosities and he regards them as, perhaps, the most unique. The first one is as follows—
John Knox was a man of wondrous might,
And his words ran high and shrill,
For bold and stout was his spirit bright,
And strong was his stalwart will.
Kings sought in vain his mind to chain,
And that giant brain to control,
But naught on plain or stormy main
Could daunt that mighty soul.
John would sit and sigh till morning cold
Its shining lamp put out,
For thoughts untold on his mind laid hold,
And brought but pain and doubt.
But light at last on his soul was cast,
Away sank pain and sorrow—
His soul is gay in a fair to-day
And looks for a bright to-morrow.
The first word in the second line of the third stanza is evidently a misprint. “Night’s” is most likely the word used by the author, meaning that the coming of the morn extinguished the stars—
Night’s shining lights put out.
Here is the other specimen, which is even more ingenious than that just quoted, each stanza containing every member of the alphabet except the letter “e”—
Bold Nassaw quits his caravan
A hazy mountain grot to scan;
Climbs jaggy rocks to spy his way,
Doth tax his sight, but far doth stray.
Not work of man nor sport of child
Finds Nassaw in that mazy wild;
Lax grow his joints, limbs toil in vain;
Poor wight, why didst thou quit that plain?
Vainly for succour Nassaw calls;
Know Zillah that thy Nassaw falls,
But prowling wolf and fox may joy
To quarry on thy Arab boy.
A happy thought is well worked out in the following quaint little jeu d’esprit which the writer came across in an old magazine many years ago. If you read it line after line you will find the author cheerfully contemplating the prospect of matrimony; but if you only read each alternate line you will discover him to be a confirmed old bachelor—
I always did intend
To take to me a wife,
Single my life to spend
Would grieve my very life.
It much delighteth me
To think upon a bride,
To live from woman free
I can’t be satisfied.
A female, to my mind,
The joy I can’t express,
I ne’er expect to find
So great in singleness.
A bachelor to live
I never would agree,
My mind I freely give
A married man to be.
A somewhat common form of poetic conceit is the arranging into one intelligent poem of lines from a number of well-known poets and thus forming what may be called a mosaic of verses. I here print one of the best examples of this kind that I have come across; the author, like those of the “e”-less verses, is unknown to fame—
I only knew she came and went, Powell.
Like troutlets in a pool; Hood.
She was a phantom of delight, Wordsworth.
And I was like a fool. Eastman.
“One kiss, dear maid,” I said, and sighed, Coleridge.
Out of those lips unshorn, Longfellow.
She shook her ringlets round her head Stoddard.
And laughed in merry scorn. Tennyson.
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, Tennyson.
You heard them, oh, my heart; Alice Cary.
’Tis twelve at night by the castle clock, Coleridge.
Beloved, we must part. Alice Cary.
“Come back, come back!” she cried in grief, Campbell.
My eyes are dim with tears Bayard Taylor.
How shall I live through all the days? Osgood.
All through a hundred years? T. S. Parry.
’Twas in the prime of summer time, Hood.
She blessed me with her hand; Hoyt.
We strayed together, deeply blest Edwards.
Into the dreaming land. Cornwall.
The laughing bridal roses blow, Patmore.
To dress her dark-brown hair; Bayard Taylor.
My heart is breaking with my woe, Tennyson.
Most beautiful! Most rare! Read.
I clasped it on her sweet, cold hand, Browning.
The precious golden link! Smith.
I calmed her fears, and she was calm, Coleridge.
Drink, pretty creature, drink!” Wordsworth.
And so I won my Genevieve, Coleridge.
And walked in Paradise; Hervey.
The fairest thing that ever grew Wordsworth.
Atween me and the skies! Osgood.
The composite poem thus formed may not be praised for beauty of thought, for absolute sequence of expression; but it is certainly a most ingenious composition and a monument of literary research.
The remarkable sibilance of the English language is cleverly exaggerated in the following lines, which are commended to the attention of those who lisp—
Susanna Snooks sings sad, sweet songs, she sees soft summer skies;
Strange sunset shades sift silently—she somewhat sadly sighs.
Soliloquizingly she strays, sweet songsters shyly sing.
She sees slim spruces’ slanting shades surround some sparkling spring.
Still southward silently she strays. She spies shy Simon Slade.
“Stop, Simon!” says Susanna Snooks. Still sifts sweet sunset’s shade.
Shy Simon six snug satisfying squeezes slyly stole;
Susanna snickered. Simon stayed. Sick, silly, spoony soul!
Susanna’s sire saw some shy, suspicious stranger stray.
Saw Susan say, “Stop, Simon Slade.” Saw simple Simon stay.
Stern sire sought some solid stick—serenely, slyly slipped.
Susanna saw. She shrilly shrieked, “Skip, Simon!” Simon skipped.
Needless to say these diverting lines were written and published originally beyond the westering wave.
THE POETS ILLUSTRATED.
1.—“Dip forward under starry light.”—Tennyson.
2.—“It sounds to him like her mother’s Weiss Singing——”—Longfellow.
3.—“Off with his head.”—Cibber.
4.—“A pouncet box which ever an I anon
4.—“He gave his nose, and took’t away again,
4.—“... and still he smiled.”—Shakespeare.
5.—“Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark
5.—“Our coming, and grow brighter when we come.”—Byron.
6.—“Lightly they’ll speak of the spirit that’s gone.”—Wolfe.
7.—“That we may call these delicate creatures ours—
7.—“But not their appetites.”—Shakespeare.
Country Critic (who the previous evening patronised “Muggins’ Travelling Theatre”). They poets just are clever chaps, and noa mistake! I see a thing last night as I never wishes to see not noa better. Darned if I doant thin’k that Mariar Martin, or the Red Baarn arn’t the best play as ever Muster Shakespeare wroat!—(Period 1865.)