Ponkapog Papers [19]
any frog (with its head on or its head off) which happened to make the per- sonal acquaintance of Professor Rutherford must have found him poor company. What benefit science may have derived from such association I am not qualified to pronounce upon. The lec- turer showed conclusively that the frog is a peculiarly sensitive and intelligent little batra- chian. I hope that the genial professor, in the years which followed, did not frequently con- sider it necessary to demonstrate the fact.
LEIGH HUNT AND BARRY CORNWALL
IT has recently become the fashion to speak disparagingly of Leigh Hunt as a poet, to class him as a sort of pursuivant or shield-bearer to Coleridge, Shelley, and Keats. Truth to tell, Hunt was not a Keats nor a Shelley nor a Cole- ridge, but he was a most excellent Hunt. He was a delightful essayist--quite unsurpassed, indeed, in his blithe, optimistic way--and as a poet deserves to rank high among the lesser singers of his time. I should place him far above Barry Cornwall, who has not half the freshness, variety, and originality of his com- peer. I instance Barry Cornwall because there has seemed a disposition since his death to praise him unduly. Barry Cornwall has always struck me as extremely artificial, especially in his dra- matic sketches. His verses in this line are mostly soft Elizabethan echoes. Of course a dramatist may find it to his profit to go out of his own age and atmosphere for inspiration; but in order successfully to do so he must be a dra- matist. Barry Cornwall fell short of filling the role; he got no further than the composing of brief disconnected scenes and scraps of solilo- quies, and a tragedy entitled Mirandola, for which the stage had no use. His chief claim to recognition lies in his lyrics. Here, as in the dramatic studies, his attitude is nearly always affected. He studiously strives to reproduce the form and spirit of the early poets. Being a Lon- doner, he naturally sings much of rural English life, but his England is the England of two or three centuries ago. He has a great deal to say about the "falcon," but the poor bird has the air of beating fatigued wings against the book- shelves of a well-furnished library! This well- furnished library was--if I may be pardoned a mixed image--the rock on which Barry Corn- wall split. He did not look into his own heart, and write: he looked into his books. A poet need not confine himself to his indi- vidual experiences; the world is all before him where to choose; but there are subjects which he had better not handle unless he have some personal knowledge of them. The sea is one of these. The man who sang,
The sea! the sea! the open sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
(a couplet which the Gifted Hopkins might have penned), should never have permitted himself to sing of the ocean. I am quoting from one of Barry Cornwall's most popular lyrics. When I first read this singularly vapid poem years ago, in mid-Atlantic, I wondered if the author had ever laid eyes on any piece of water wider than the Thames at Greenwich, and in looking over Barry Cornwall's "Life and Letters" I am not so much surprised as amused to learn that he was never out of sight of land in the whole course of his existence. It is to be said of him more positively than the captain of the Pinafore said it of himself, that he was hardly ever sick at sea. Imagine Byron or Shelley, who knew the ocean in all its protean moods, piping such thin feebleness as
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
To do that required a man whose acquaintance with the deep was limited to a view of it from an upper window at Margate or Scarborough. Even frequent dinners of turbot and whitebait at the sign of The Ship and Turtle will not en- able one to write sea poetry. Considering the actual facts, there is some- thing weird in the statement,
I 'm on the sea! I 'm on the sea! I am where I would ever be.
The words, to be sure, are placed in the mouth of an imagined sailor, but they are none
LEIGH HUNT AND BARRY CORNWALL
IT has recently become the fashion to speak disparagingly of Leigh Hunt as a poet, to class him as a sort of pursuivant or shield-bearer to Coleridge, Shelley, and Keats. Truth to tell, Hunt was not a Keats nor a Shelley nor a Cole- ridge, but he was a most excellent Hunt. He was a delightful essayist--quite unsurpassed, indeed, in his blithe, optimistic way--and as a poet deserves to rank high among the lesser singers of his time. I should place him far above Barry Cornwall, who has not half the freshness, variety, and originality of his com- peer. I instance Barry Cornwall because there has seemed a disposition since his death to praise him unduly. Barry Cornwall has always struck me as extremely artificial, especially in his dra- matic sketches. His verses in this line are mostly soft Elizabethan echoes. Of course a dramatist may find it to his profit to go out of his own age and atmosphere for inspiration; but in order successfully to do so he must be a dra- matist. Barry Cornwall fell short of filling the role; he got no further than the composing of brief disconnected scenes and scraps of solilo- quies, and a tragedy entitled Mirandola, for which the stage had no use. His chief claim to recognition lies in his lyrics. Here, as in the dramatic studies, his attitude is nearly always affected. He studiously strives to reproduce the form and spirit of the early poets. Being a Lon- doner, he naturally sings much of rural English life, but his England is the England of two or three centuries ago. He has a great deal to say about the "falcon," but the poor bird has the air of beating fatigued wings against the book- shelves of a well-furnished library! This well- furnished library was--if I may be pardoned a mixed image--the rock on which Barry Corn- wall split. He did not look into his own heart, and write: he looked into his books. A poet need not confine himself to his indi- vidual experiences; the world is all before him where to choose; but there are subjects which he had better not handle unless he have some personal knowledge of them. The sea is one of these. The man who sang,
The sea! the sea! the open sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
(a couplet which the Gifted Hopkins might have penned), should never have permitted himself to sing of the ocean. I am quoting from one of Barry Cornwall's most popular lyrics. When I first read this singularly vapid poem years ago, in mid-Atlantic, I wondered if the author had ever laid eyes on any piece of water wider than the Thames at Greenwich, and in looking over Barry Cornwall's "Life and Letters" I am not so much surprised as amused to learn that he was never out of sight of land in the whole course of his existence. It is to be said of him more positively than the captain of the Pinafore said it of himself, that he was hardly ever sick at sea. Imagine Byron or Shelley, who knew the ocean in all its protean moods, piping such thin feebleness as
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
To do that required a man whose acquaintance with the deep was limited to a view of it from an upper window at Margate or Scarborough. Even frequent dinners of turbot and whitebait at the sign of The Ship and Turtle will not en- able one to write sea poetry. Considering the actual facts, there is some- thing weird in the statement,
I 'm on the sea! I 'm on the sea! I am where I would ever be.
The words, to be sure, are placed in the mouth of an imagined sailor, but they are none