VOL. XXXI., No. 5

Do National Events Inspire Poetry?

The Toronto Evening Telegram thinks that

The apparent opportunities offered to the poet in the dramatic death of the President of the United States were not accepted. But American poetic genius failed to materialize under far more remarkable conditions. The great Civil War was unfruitful of poetic achievement. The struggle between the North and South marked a national and a continental epoch. It awakened all the passions which are the stimulus to the grandest triumphs of verse. The great moment did not produce a poet probably for the reason offered by an eminent historian that the essentially commercial character of the American people is not capable of bursting into poetic fire. From a people who failed to produce a poet when the nation was stirred with the deepest human passions from North to South, when armies met in some of the fiercest contests which history records, nothing could be expected in the way of poetic achievement on a theme like the death of President William McKinley.

To the discussion, the Editor desires to contribute merely the remark that the verse which appears on page 545 of this issue was selected after careful reading of probably the entire production occasioned by the sad event. The average merit is probably higher than the best written after the assassination of Mr. Garfield, and as good as most brought forth by Lincoln's deathexcepting Walt Whitman's work, for not only is My Captain a stirring and noble dirge, but When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed is a threnody than which nothing of more enduring poetic quality has appeared in our literature. What lines are these:

Come, lovely and soothing Death,

Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,

In the day, in the night, to all, to each,
Sooner or later, delicate Death.

Praised be the fathomless universe,

For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious,

NOV., 1901

And for love, sweet love-but praise! praise! praise!

For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding Death.

Dark Mother, always gliding near with soft feet, Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?

Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all, I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly.

From me to thee glad serenades, Dances for thee, I propose, saluting thee, adornments and feastings for thee;

And the sights of the open landscape and highspread sky are fitting.

And life and the fields, and the huge and the thoughtful night

The night in silence under many a star, The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know,

And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well-veiled Death,

And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.

Over the tree-tops I float thee a song, Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the prairies wide,

Over the dense-packed cities all and the teeming wharves and ways

I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, O Death.

We quote these lines in intimation of a not entire acquiescence in the following thoughtful observations of the Rochester Post-Express:

The argument of the Toronto paper that a great tragedy like the assasination of the President, or a great war like that against the Confederacy, should bring forth a national epic, is one of those theories dear to the heart of the school-boy; but one would search literary history in vain for evidence to make it good. No doubt eras of revolution, whether in religion, philosophy, science, or society, tend to the quickening of the human intel

lect, and so indirectly to literary creation; and no doubt a great poet represents the spirit and the movement of his time; but the important historic event is seldom the theme of a national poem. The Iliad was Grecian in its tone, but it dealt with a legendary siege of Troy; the Eneid was designed to strengthen Roman patriotism and yet smooth the way from republicanism to imperialism, but it was woven out of myth, not history; Tasso sang of no Italian theme, but of the deliverance of Jerusalem; Dante pictured hell, purgatory, and heaven, and contented himself with enlivening the Divine Comedy by a mixture of Ghibelline politics; Camoens chose a recent event as the subject of the Portuguese epic, the discovery of the Southern passage to India by Vasco de Gama, and he interwove with the story every legend and incident of national heroism, along with much incongruous romance. but his success is the exception, not the rule; Chaucer's noblest verse is on classic themes, and his vilest on stories of English life; Milton's poems on contemporary English politics are poor enough, and his epic has heaven, paradise, and hell for a setting; Shakespeare made many dramas out of English chronicles; but the highest are classic, foreign, or based on British or Scottish legends, like Lear, Macbeth and Cymbeline.

There are many stirring lyrics about incidents in English history; but formal poems on actual and important events seldom have permanent value, and the student of literature cannot always read them without laughing. Addison's "Campaign" was notable in its day; but the only passage generally quoted now is mentioned to be turned into ridicule. Dryden's poetical account of sea fights with the Dutch, and the great fire in London, is dear to us for the sake of its modishness and its mannerisms; but, though there are fine passages in it, and though it is the work of a man of genius, one smiles often as he reads, where the poet was manifestly in sad earnest. Volumes of English verse have been written about the battle of Waterloo; but nearly all of it is so bad that the reader of experience shies away from a poem in which the name of the Belgian village is mentioned. Even Scott, who wrote battle pieces-such as the description of Flodden Field in "Marmion" -that rank with Homer's tales of the combats on the plains of Troy, became insufferably dull when he wrote of Waterloo. And so when a great man dies, or a man merely prominent, like a president or king, it does not follow that it is easy to write a noble poem on the matter. It is an occasion for sermons and orations; but poetry is not for the presentation of facts or the discussion of events, but for imaginative presentation. The very clear

ness and certainty of each incident leave little for song. Tennyson's ode on the Duke of Wellington's death is commonly regarded as an exception; but it is safe to say that English poets have seldom touched the highest strain in elegies save when singing of some one unknown to fame, or dear to their own hearts, though little regarded by the crowd.

The Popular Song

Prof. George Saintsbury, the eminent critic and philos

opher, once when traveling in America was much interested in the judgment passed by a lad upon his lunch-in which evidently he was disappointed. Dropping his fork in disgust, the youngster exclaimed: "I don't call this very popular pie.” Professor Saintsbury's sage deductions were concerning the instinctive and entire readiness with which in a democracy we identify popularity with merit.

Whether it may be that this amiable disposition is failing us in general, or that sadly but with determination we must abandon it in a single, grim and desperate necessity, it is certain that few among us would longer admit the connotation in the case of the "popular" song. Popularity "Anne Moore," "Everybody Has a Whistle Like Me," "When Mr. Shakespeare Comes to Town" and "Go 'Way Back and Sit Down" unquestionably have somehow achieved; their merit, an aggrieved, a suffering, though tolerant, people firmly decline to concede or discuss. We even acclaim the resolute action of a New Orleans justice who recently fined four young men $2.50 each with an alternative penalty of twenty days in the workhouse for singing in a vacant lot in that city, "When the Harvest Days Are Over, Jessie Dear." Technically the punishment was imposed for disturbing the peace of a conservative and self-respecting neighborhood, but the judge made it plain in fact that the offense was much aggravating by the character of the song.

The Kansas City Star writes thus feelingly on the subject:

People who write, sell or sing the so-called "popular songs" get the false impression that these sentimental or silly effusions have an irresistible call on public favor. The truth is that they appeal to but a limited part of the public when they are new and pall upon about ninety per cent. of the people when they are a month old. But because they have at first met the approval of that shallow element that likes banal sentiment dished up in mawkish melodies, the purveyors must needs persist in offending the great majority with their drivel. As a result the so-called "popular songs"

are often the most unpopular that could be selected. It is well for the singers that there is a patient tolerance among the playgoers of this country. If adverse sentiment were commonly expressed with the same freedom that approval is manifested, "Dolly Gray," "Jessie Dear," and "Goo Goo Eyes" wouldn't last over night, and the sillylooking men and women who come before the audiences with their chests full of cry and tell harrowing tales of self-sacrifice and waywardness in ballad form would have a rude awakening. Not everything that is tolerated is popular.

The cold-blooded pertinacity Le Propre de l'Homme with which the psychologists, the ethnologists and other men of science are destroying the proud fancy that civilized man is of a clay different to that of barbarians, is the subject of the following editorial in the New York Sun:

When the minor physical distinctions failed to establish a solid barrier between the superior man and the savage we used to have recourse to mental distinctions of more or less importance, and an effort was frequently made to discover some definite sense or quality as the test of superiority, in the same way as the existence of a soul, according to old-fashioned notions, served as the characteristic property of men as opposed to beasts.

For a while we were allowed to enjoy several conceits tending to increase the feeling of selfsatisfaction, until the inquisitive psychologist began to probe them, and since then the supposed barriers have fallen one by one, so that to-day we seem to be nearer to the savage than ever before. One of the safest presumptions of superiority was supposed to lie in what Hobbes calls the "passion that hath no name," the sign of which is "that distortion of the countenance which we call laughter;" but in the current International Monthly Mr. James Sully completely demolishes the belief that the savage differs widely from us in this particular. The seeming safety of the old belief consisted in the facility of modifying it by delicate distinctions; thus, though we could not all agree with the dictum of one of Peacock's characters, quoted by Mr. Sully, that "the savage never laughs," yet we might perhaps be able to point out peculiarities denoting the inferior nature of his merriment and of the objects that provoked it. Mr. Sully does his work so well, however, as to confirm beyond a doubt the identity of the savage and civilized laugh, in every particular.

The only vestige of hope in the whole article is found in the following anecdote: "A public meet

ing was held in some native village in Africa. An Englishman who was present got up on the trunk of a tree, which is used as a seat in native villages. The log rolled and the Englishman fell heavily. Yet the whole meeting looked as grave as if the accident had been a part of the program." According to Mr. Sully, the silence of the savages was simply a proof of great self-restraint. Most civilized men will, however, be more inclined to accept it as evidence of inferior understanding, for where in the civilized world would so humorous an incident be received so quietly? Nevertheless this is the only comforting story that Mr. Sully tells, and of many others nearly all indicate the presence in the savage of humor exactly similar in quality to our own. Like ours, despite the anecdote just quoted, nine-tenths of it seems to consist in the discomfiture of others and pleasant hints of the superiority of self. It is evident then that there is no savage so low but he can find some object worthy of ridicule. It wounds our vanity to hear that we superior people are sometimes the object, because this is a clear proof of supposed inferiority. For it is manifest that reminders of selfinferiority never provoke laughter; a man may laugh at past follies, but in that case he really laughs at the subtle reminder of present superiority. Congreve, one of the greatest wits of his day, confessed that he could not look long upon a monkey without very mortifying reflections, because it encouraged him to entertain a low opinion of his own nature. In laughing at us, however, the savage displays that very quality of humor that marks the average civilized man, a keen eye for the absurdity of everything that does not conform with his own notions, the notions of his country, his particular brand of civilization, etc., and a magnanimous contempt for the benighted foreigner. We are told, for instance, that when Europeans first came among the Fuegians "the sight of a man washing his face seemed to them so irresistibly ludicrous that they burst into shrieks of laughter," that the Tasmanians "often laugh most heartily" at hearing a stranger trying to pronounce their words, and that one of them was forced to retire from a class room, where his teacher was trying to explain the doctrine of immortality. that he might indulge in a "fit of laughter at the absurdity 'of a man's living without arms, legs, or mouth to eat.'"

In some particulars then, the savage is not so far removed from the civilized man as we are accustomed to think. But in others he approaches us nearly. Of the Eskimos of Greenland we learn that "after a repast they got up, one after the other, each exhibiting his artistic resources by

beating a drum and singing, and accompanying his performance by making comical gestures and playing ridiculous tricks with his face, head and limbs," and another authority says that the wives of a certain African king "expressed their delight at European works of art by repeated loud bursts of laughter." It is evident, then, that even among so low a people as the Eskimo we may find an exact equivalent of our own after-dinner buffoon and speechmaker, and surely the laughter of the African ladies at a novel and unfamiliar art shows, if it shows anything, that the rudest of races is familiar with the game of art criticism. Let us be humble then in our imaginary superiority, and if possible let us cultivate the resigned self-knowledge shown in Scrub's speech in the "Beaux's Stratagem": "I believe they talked of me, for they laughed consumedly."

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A Piece of Chinese Sar- The Chinese, for example, have been described as a people without a sense of humor. That they not only appreciate and possess it, but that it takes a form perfectly familiar to the Western world, may be seen from the subjoined editorial translated from a Chinese paper. It is evident that the editor has been the recipient of much goodly admonition respecting the conduct of his paper. He has been guilty of printing the news; he has even commented on current affairs, and apparently has not been careful to conceal his opinions in ambiguous euphonisms. He has, therefore, become the harassed victim of that pertinacious enmity which live journalism any where is likely to meet, and so, at last, tired of all this for restful death he cries, with exquisite and titillative sarcasm:

In future nothing which may be described as new will appear in these columns and thereby prevent people's understandings from being enlightened. None but bigoted members of the conceited literati will ever be called to assist upon the editorial staff. We shall confine ourselves to the affairs of the last dynasty, carefully avoiding all reference to the family that now rules China. We shall give our special attention to fortune-telling, witchcraft, and kindred subjects. A place of supreme importance will be given to the revered teachings of geomancy, and we shall show that a man's good luck or misfortune is controlled by the stars. We shall respectfully beg his majesty to observe the old customs, and that the mandarins follow their excellent and time-honored methods of transacting busiWe shall resist with all our strength every attempt to introduce reforms, and lest we should be tempted to record any current events, we re

ness.

solve from this time forward to dispense with the service of all reporters as a useless waste of money. We hope in this way to earn the good will and support of all our readers, firmly believing that if we faithfully do according to this honest and admirable advice the benefit will be manifested to all.

The Poster Nuisance

One of the first steps in the great movement toward making beautiful our cities and our country must be the arousing of public sentiment to an appreciation of the public's right to be delivered from the impudent affronts to taste which are now permitted to outrage the people at every turn. The Independent warmly discusses one of these:

We have spent one hundred years in recklessly destroying the forests of the continent, and in placarding the glories of nature with the announcements of our enterprise. Is it not time to insist with emphasis that will be understood, and law that can be enforced, that public property shall be left as beautiful as nature made it? Is utility the only possible aim of the united people? Our highways stretch from the Atlantic to the Pacific, in continuous interlacings. They are public property; but everywhere at present they are the dumping grounds of private individuals-breeding places. of noxious weeds. Fences are pasted and placarded by patent medicine venders; and the bordering lands, as far as the eye can read, are suborned to a blaze of advertising. One may travel three thousand miles across the continent, and rarely be out of sight of a billboard, while many of the States still permit the defacement of rocks and trees. We have become so used to being ordered to smoke Roscoe Conkling cigars, or give Castoria to our children, that we forget the whole thing is an impertinence of the grossest sort. The poetry of life is turned into prosaic push, and God's landscapes compelled to repeat the slang of trade. The bargain store has gone far enough when it monopolizes a whole page of our daily paper; it is too much to demand of the public to tolerate its pretentious advertisements at every quarter mile.

The nuisance might be abated by a general agreement not to trade with those people whose wares are offensively advertised. When such announcements do not pay they will cease of their own accord. State law should regulate and restrict advertising within reasonable limits. No man has a natural right to be offensive. He has a right to make known his skill as a manufacturer, and his enterprise as a trader. From this standpoint a good deal may be granted. There might be an advertising area, outside of each city, so located