letters on literature-第1章

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Letters　on　Literature



by　Andrew　Lang









Contents：



Introductory：　　Of　Modern　English　Poetry

Of　Modern　English　Poetry

Fielding

Longfellow

A　Friend　of　Keats

On　Virgil

Aucassin　and　Nicolette

Plotinus　（A。D。　200…262）

Lucretius

To　a　Young　American　Book…Hunter

Rochefoucauld

Of　Vers　de　Societe

On　Vers　de　Societe

Gerard　de　Nerval

On　Books　About　Red　Men

Appendix　I

Appendix　II







DEDICATION







Dear　Mr。　Way；



After　so　many　letters　to　people　who　never　existed；　may　I　venture　a

short　one；　to　a　person　very　real　to　me；　though　I　have　never　seen

him；　and　only　know　him　by　his　many　kindnesses？　　Perhaps　you　will　add

another　to　these　by　accepting　the　Dedication　of　a　little　work；　of　a

sort　experimental　in　English；　and　in　prose；　though　Horacein　Latin

and　in　versewas　successful　with　it　long　ago？



Very　sincerely　yours；



A。　LANG。



To　W。　J。　Way；　Esq。

Topeka；　Kansas。







PREFACE







These　Letters　were　originally　published　in　the　Independent　of　New

York。　　The　idea　of　writing　them　occurred　to　the　author　after　he　had

produced　〃Letters　to　Dead　Authors。〃　　That　kind　of　Epistle　was　open

to　the　objection　that　nobody　would　write　so　frankly　to　a

correspondent　about　his　own　work；　and　yet　it　seemed　that　the　form　of

Letters　might　be　attempted　again。　　The　Lettres　e　Emilie　sur　la

Mythologie　are　a　well…known　model；　but　Emilie　was　not　an　imaginary

correspondent。　　The　persons　addressed　here；　on　the　other　hand；　are

all　people　of　fancythe　name　of　Lady　Violet　Lebas　is　an　invention

of　Mr。　Thackeray's：　　gifted　Hopkins　is　the　minor　poet　in　Dr。　Oliver

Wendell　Holmes's　〃Guardian　Angel。〃　　The　author's　object　has　been　to

discuss　a　few　literary　topics　with　more　freedom　and　personal　bias

than　might　be　permitted　in　a　graver　kind　of　essay。　　The　Letter　on

Samuel　Richardson　is　by　a　lady　more　frequently　the　author's　critic

than　his　collaborator。







INTRODUCTORY：　　OF　MODERN　ENGLISH　POETRY







To　Mr。　Arthur　Wincott；　Topeka；　Kansas。



Dear　Wincott；You　write　to　me；　from　your　〃bright　home　in　the

setting　sun；〃　with　the　flattering　information　that　you　have　read　my

poor　〃Letters　to　Dead　Authors。〃　　You　are　kind　enough　to　say　that　you

wish　I　would　write　some　〃Letters　to　Living　Authors；〃　but　that；　I

fear；　is　out　of　the　question；for　me。



A　thoughtful　critic　in　the　Spectator　has　already　remarked　that　the

great　men　of　the　past　would　not　care　for　my　shadowy　epistlesif

they　could　read　them。　　Possibly　not；　but；　like　Prior；　〃I　may　write

till　they　can　spell〃an　exercise　of　which　ghosts　are　probably　as

incapable　as　was　Matt's　little　Mistress　of　Quality。　　But　Living

Authors　are　very　different　people；　and　it　would　be　perilous；　as　well

as　impertinent；　to　direct　one's　comments　on　them　literally；　in　the

French　phrase；　〃to　their　address。〃　　Yet　there　is　no　reason　why　a

critic　should　not　adopt　the　epistolary　form。



Our　old　English　essays；　the　papers　in　the　Tatler　and　Spectator；　were

originally　nothing　but　letters。　　The　vehicle　permits　a　touch　of

personal　taste；　perhaps　of　personal　prejudice。　　So　I　shall　write　my

〃Letters　on　Literature；〃　of　the　present　and　of　the　past；　English；

American；　ancient；　or　modern；　to　you；　in　your　distant　Kansas；　or　to

such　other　correspondents　as　are　kind　enough　to　read　these　notes。



Poetry　has　always　the　precedence　in　these　discussions。　　Poor　Poetry！

She　is　an　ancient　maiden　of　good　family；　and　is　led　out　first　at

banquets；　though　many　would　prefer　to　sit　next　some　livelier　and

younger　Muse；　the　lady　of　fiction；　or　even　the　chattering　soubrette

of　journalism。　　Seniores　priores：　　Poetry；　if　no　longer　very

popular；　is　a　dame　of　the　worthiest　lineage；　and　can　boast　a　long

train　of　gallant　admirers；　dead　and　gone。　　She　has　been　much　in

courts。　　The　old　Greek　tyrants　loved　her；　great　Rhamses　seated　her

at　his　right　hand；　every　prince　had　his　singers。　　Now　we　dwell　in　an

age　of　democracy；　and　Poetry　wins　but　a　feigned　respect；　more　out　of

courtesy；　and　for　old　friendship's　sake；　than　for　liking。　　Though　so

many　write　verse；　as　in　Juvenal's　time；　I　doubt　if　many　read　it。

〃None　but　minstrels　list　of　sonneting。〃　　The　purchasing　public；　for

poetry；　must　now　consist　chiefly　of　poets；　and　they　are　usually

poor。



Can　anything　speak　more　clearly　of　the　decadence　of　the　art　than　the

birth　of　so　many　poetical　〃societies〃？　　We　have　the　Browning

Society；　the　Shelley　Society；　the　Shakespeare　Society；　the

Wordsworth　Societylately　dead。　　They　all　demonstrate　that　people

have　not　the　courage　to　study　verse　in　solitude；　and　for　their

proper　pleasure；　men　and　women　need　confederates　in　this　adventure。

There　is　safety　in　numbers；　and；　by　dint　of　tea…parties；

recitations；　discussions；　quarrels　and　the　like；　Dr。　Furnivall　and

his　friends　keep　blowing　the　faint　embers　on　the　altar　of　Apollo。

They　cannot　raise　a　flame！



In　England　we　are　in　the　odd　position　of　having　several　undeniable

poets；　and　very　little　new　poetry　worthy　of　the　name。　　The　chief

singers　have　outlived；　if　not　their　genius；　at　all　events　its

flowering　time。　　Hard　it　is　to　estimate　poetry；　so　apt　we　are；　by

our　very　nature；　to　prefer　〃the　newest　songs；〃　as　Odysseus　says　men

did　even　during　the　war　of　Troy。　　Or；　following　another　ancient

example；　we　say；　like　the　rich　niggards　who　neglected　Theocritus；

〃Homer　is　enough　for　all。〃



Let　us　attempt　to　get　rid　of　every　bias；　and；　thinking　as

dispassionately　as　we　can；　we　still　seem　to　read　the　name　of

Tennyson　in　the　golden　book　of　English　poetry。　　I　cannot　think　that

he　will　ever　fall　to　a　lower　place；　or　be　among　those　whom　only

curious　students　pore　over；　like　Gower；　Drayton；　Donne；　and　the

rest。　　Lovers　of　poetry　will　always　read　him　as　they　will　read

Wordsworth；　Keats；　Milton；　Coleridge；　and　Chaucer。　　Look　his　defects

in　the　face；　throw　them　into　the　balance；　and　how　they　disappear

before　his　merits！　　He　is　the　last　and　youngest　of　the　mighty　race；

born；　as　it　were；　out　of　due　time；　late；　and　into　a　feebler

generation。



Let　it　be　admitted　that　the　gold　is　not　without　alloy；　that　he　has　a

touch　of　voluntary　affectation；　of　obscurity；　even　an　occasional

perversity；　a　mannerism；　a　set　of　favourite　epithets　（〃windy〃　and

〃happy〃）。　　There　is　a　momentary　echo　of　Donne；　of　Crashaw；　nay；　in

his　earliest　pieces；　even　a　touch　of　Leigh　Hunt。　　You　detect　it　in

pieces　like　〃Lilian〃　and　〃Eleanore；〃　and　the　others　of　that　kind　and

of　that　date。



Let　it　be　admitted　that　〃In　Memoriam〃　has　certain　lapses　in　all　that

meed　of　melodious　tears；　that　there　are　trivialities　which　might

deserve　（here　is　an　example）　〃to　line　a　box；〃　or　to　curl　some

maiden's　locks；　that　there　are　weaknesses　of　thought；　that　the　poet

now　speaks　of　himself　as　a　linnet；　singing　〃because　it　must；〃　now

dares　to　approach　questions　insoluble；　and　again　declines　their

solution。　　What　is　all　this　but　the　changeful　mood　of　grief？　　The

singing　linnet；　like　the　bird　in　the　old　English　heathen　apologue；

dashes　its　light　wings　painfully　against　the　walls　of　the　chamber

into　which　it　has　flown　out　of　the　blind　night　that　shall　again

receive　it。



I　do　not　care　to　dwell　on　the　imperfections　in　that　immortal　strain

of　sympathy　and　consolation；　that　enchanted　book　of　consecrated

regrets。　　It　is　an　easier　if　not　more　grateful　task　to　note　a

certain　peevish　egotism　of　tone　in　the　heroes　of　〃Locksley　Hall；〃　of

〃Maud；〃　of　〃Lady　Clara　Vere　de　Vere。〃　　〃You　can't　think　how　poor　a

figure　you　make　when　you　tell　that　story；　sir；〃　said　Dr。　Johnson　to

some　unlucky　gentleman　whose　〃figure〃　must　certainly　have　been　more

respectable　than　that　which　is　cut　by　these　whining　and　peevish

lovers　of　Maud　and　Cousin　Amy。



Let　it　be　admitted；　too；　that　King　Arthur；　of　the　〃Idylls；〃　is　like

an　Albert　in　blank　verse；　an　Albert　cursed　with　a　Guinevere　for　a

wife；　and　a　Lancelot　for　friend。　　The　〃Idylls；〃　with　all　their

beauties；　are　full　of　a　Victorian　resp