The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX. No. 1023, August 5, 1899

is true of the poet. And does the utilising of Shakespeare as a class-book make him beloved by the young? We are afraid it does not. Yet do not throw notes aside—only remember—do remember!—they touch nothing but the form; the spirit of poetry eludes them altogether.

We may imagine two students of a poem brought into comparison. The one regards it as a task alone; she has conscientiously learnt by heart the notes of an erudite commentator, has looked up every allusion, can expatiate on “Grimm’s Law,” and give instances of its working. The other can do none of these things; she has found the volume in some library, has pored over the poem till it has become part of her inner life; its music rings in her ears; she loves it passionately, and it haunts her inner consciousness like sweet, strange music. If both girls are suddenly examined for the “Cambridge Local,” the latter will fail and the former will pass. Yet the latter is the one for whom the poem has really done its true work. We are not denying that she would be the better for the technical knowledge possessed by the other; but if one has to choose between them, she it is who really understands her poet.

Love and knowledge should go hand in hand, as Browning has taught us by his legend of Paracelsus and Aprile; but the modern tendency in much-examined young people is to dwell so largely on the knowledge that the love flies away.

Read and love poetry as much as you can. It will open and enlarge your mind; feed and enlighten your imagination; make life beautiful to you, and teach you of the greater things that lie beyond life.

One sometimes hears a girl remark in a self-satisfied voice, “Oh, I don’t care for poetry!” Dear young friend, are you aware that Goethe said:

“Wer der Dichtkunst Stimme nicht vernimmt, Ist ein Barbar, er sei auch wer er sei”?

(He who has no ear for the voice of poetry is a barbarian, be he who he may.) And there is considerable truth in the statement. No one would be proud of physical partial deafness and blindness; they constitute nothing to be elated about in the mental sphere. If you “do not care for poetry,” you had better at least give yourself a chance of caring for it by reading some poem on a subject which seems likely to appeal to you. In this way you may find out that you have an unsuspected capacity of being touched by this music. If you do not appreciate Milton, you may enjoy a simple poem by Coleridge; if Tennyson does not please you, Rudyard Kipling’s stirring words may cause your heart to throb and your eyes to melt; if Browning is too obscure, Tennyson’s melody may charm you; if Keats and Shelley are too mystical, Scott’s “Marmion,” or “Lady of the Lake,” may prove fascinating. In any case, give yourself every chance of entering into your immortal and divine heritage of “truth and pure delight.”

The greatest literature of all ages has a tendency to become poetry, as you will see if you consider the Hebrew Psalms, Homer, Æschylus, Sophocles, Virgil “lo buon maestro,” and Dante his pupil, Shakespeare, Goethe. Poetry is the language in which highest aspirations, loftiest truths, naturally clothe themselves. Coleridge’s definition in Table Talk is worth remembering.

“I wish,” he says, “our clever young poets would remember my homely definitions of prose and poetry: that is, prose—words in their best order; poetry—the best words in their best order.”

We must not, however, be led away into a disquisition on the extremely difficult question of the true nature and scope of poetry, but must give a few hints to the reader. Here much depends, and must always depend, on individual taste and habit of mind.

Dante, the great poet of the Middle Ages, should be read and studied by all who have the necessary time and capacity, but unfortunately no translation can render the poetry of the original. It is worth while to learn Italian in order to read the “Divine Comedy,” but if that is impossible, it is also worth while to read it in Dean Plumptre’s, Cary’s, or Longfellow’s translation. Longfellow’s is absolutely literal, but truth compels us to state it is often very unmusical. For “self-culture” the intelligent study of this great poet is a mighty instrument. To enter into Dante’s thought is to enter into the view of human life and human civilisation as it appeared to the greatest man of the time, and anyone who can understand the historical allusions of the “Divine Comedy” need not blush for her knowledge of history.

Do not take Shakespeare “as read.” That is even worse than concerning yourself principally with the notes on his plays! There are small editions of separate plays, such as Cassell’s sixpenny edition, too numerous to mention, which are small enough to slip into the pocket, and may form a companion on a wearisome journey. The Merchant of Venice, As You Like It, The Tempest, Richard II., may be quoted as good plays to begin with if your knowledge of the poet of poets is scanty. But you may study Shakespeare all your life without exhausting the wealth contained in his pages. Every succeeding generation sees more and more meaning in what he says, because he is true to the inner life of the human heart. The life is there. The lessons that can be drawn from the life are practically endless.

The constant issue of fresh cheap editions of the plays is a good sign. Perhaps Milton is not so much read nowadays; and yet you cannot afford to neglect him. If you are alarmed at the length of “Paradise Lost,” begin with some of his shorter poems and sonnets; and if you do not read right through Spenser’s “Faerie Queen,” you will find many beautiful scenes and thoughts here and there.

We have spoken of the great Florentine poet and the study of Italian; it will not perhaps be quite out of place to hint to students of German that a rich reward lies before them if they can master the language sufficiently to enjoy the lyric poems of Goethe, the higher flights of Schiller, and many others. The “Erl-König” (Erl King) by Goethe and the “Farewell of Joan of Arc to the Mountains” from Schiller’s play, The Maid of Orleans, were great favourites of the writer in her girlhood. German poetry is true music, whatever may be said to the contrary by those who only half know the language.

Space fails us to write in full of modern English poetry. Wordsworth, Scott, Longfellow, Tennyson, Browning, Mrs. Browning, Keats, Shelley, Matthew Arnold, Arthur Hugh Clough, William Morris, are names of varying fame, but each name brings unspeakable associations to those who know and love the poet through his work. Surely one of these may become to you a teacher who will help and inspire.

Wordsworth will transport you into the world of nature. How much those are to be pitied who live in the “stony-hearted” street, far from the sweet influences of wood and meadow, moor and mountain, lake and waterfall! These exiles from the true home of man may find solace in the poet of nature.

“Keep fresh the grass upon his grave, O Rotha, with thy living wave; Sing him thy best! for few or none Hears thy voice right, now he is gone.”

Thus Matthew Arnold apostrophises the little river that washes the Grasmere churchyard. The epitaph to Wordsworth in the Grasmere church so aptly describes his work that we cannot refrain from quoting it here.

“To the memory of William Wordsworth, a True Philosopher and Poet: who, by the special gift and calling of Almighty God, whether he discoursed of Man or Nature, failed not to lift up the heart to Holy Things: tired not of maintaining the cause of the Poor and Simple; and so in Perilous Times was raised up to be a Chief Minister, not only of noblest Poesy, but of high and sacred Truth.”

Robert Browning, unlike Wordsworth, is a dramatic poet at heart. We do not mean that his plays are his best work, but that he has unerring skill in reading the human heart and translating into poetry its loves, hates, fears, and ambitions. If you will try to understand him, do not be discouraged by obscurity, but begin by some of the shorter, simpler, and yet characteristic poems in the volume of Selections.

As for Tennyson, who sings alike of man and of nature, you will probably be more readily lured to his pages than to those of Wordsworth or Browning. If you are in sorrow, In Memoriam may prove a faithful comforter.

It is impossible, of course, to expatiate on all the poets named and many others who are not named; a volume would not be sufficient. All one can say is—read for yourself, and if you are ambitious for self-culture, remember that the reading of the best poetry will do more for you than can possibly be expressed by any words here.

There are two minor poets whose works you will probably much enjoy—Jean Ingelow and Coventry Patmore. The “Angel in the House” by the latter is greatly esteemed by Mr. Ruskin.

“Teach your children poetry,” says Lord Macaulay; “it opens the mind, lends grace to wisdom, and makes the heroic virtues hereditary.” And the rugged old philosopher, Carlyle, speaks thus of the influence of poetry on any living human creature—

“Tones of sphere-music and tidings from loftier worlds will flit round him if he can but listen, and visit him with holy influences, even in the thickest press of trivialities or the din of busiest life.”

(To be concluded.)

THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.

BY ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO, Author of “Other People’s Stairs,” “Her Object in Life,” etc.