The Advance of English Poetry in the Twentieth Century Part 6

I should like to find some one who, without much familiarity with the fixed stars in English literature, had read _The Daffodil Fields_, and then ask him to guess who wrote the following stanzas:

A gentle answer did the old Man make, In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew; And him with further words I thus bespake, "What occupation do you there pursue?

This is a lonesome place for one like you."

Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes.

"This will break Michael's heart," he said at length.

"Poor Michael," she replied; "they wasted hours.

He loved his father so. G.o.d give him strength.

This is a cruel thing this life of ours."

The windy woodland glimmered with shut flowers, White wood anemones that the wind blew down.

The valley opened wide beyond the starry town.

And I think he would reply with some confidence, "John Masefield." He would he right concerning the second stanza; but the first is, as every one ought to know and does not, from _Resolution and Independence_, by William Wordsworth. It is significant that this is one of the six poems excepted by Mr. Masefield from the ma.s.s of Wordsworthian mediocrity. It is, of course, a great poem, although when it was published (1807, written in 1802), it seemed by conventional standards no poem at all. Shortly after its appearance, some one read it aloud to an intelligent woman; she sobbed unrestrainedly; then, recovering herself, said shamefacedly, "After all, it isn't poetry." The reason, I suppose, why she thought it could not be poetry was because it was so much nearer life than "art." The simplicity of the scene; the naturalness of the dialogue; the homeliness of the old leech-gatherer; these all seemed to be outside the realm of the heroic, the elevated, the sublime,--the particular business of poetry, as she mistakenly thought. The reason why John Masefield admires this poem is because of its vitality, its naturalness, its easy dialogue--main characteristics of his own work.

In writing _The Daffodil Fields_, he consciously or unconsciously selected the same metre, introduced plenty of conversation, as he loves to do in all his narrative poetry, and set his tragedy on a rural stage.

It is important here to repeat the last few phrases already quoted from Wordsworth's famous Preface: "The manners of rural life germinate from those elementary feelings, and, from the necessary character of rural occupations, are more easily comprehended, and are more durable; and, lastly, because in that condition the pa.s.sions of men are incorporated with the beautiful and permanent forms of nature." If Mr.

Masefield had written this preface for _The Daffodil Fields_, he could not have more accurately expressed both the artistic aim of his poem and its natural atmosphere. "The pa.s.sions of men are incorporated with the beautiful and permanent forms of nature." In this work, each one of the seven sections ends with the daffodils; so that no matter how base and truculent are the revealed pa.s.sions of man, the final impression at the close of each stage is the unchanging loveliness of the delicate golden flowers. Indeed, the daffodils not only fill the whole poem with their fluttering beauty, they play the part of the old Greek chorus. At the end of each act in this steadily growing tragedy, they comment in their own incomparable way on the sorrows of man.

So the night pa.s.sed; the noisy wind went down; The half-burnt moon her starry trackway rode.

Then the first Are was lighted in the town, And the first carter stacked his early load.

Upon the farm's drawn blinds the morning glowed; And down the valley, with little clucks and rills, The dancing waters danced by dancing daffodils.

But if, consciously or unconsciously, Mr. Masefield in the composition of _The Daffodil Fields_ followed the metre and the manner of Wordsworth in _Resolution and Independence_, in the story itself he challenges Tennyson's _Enoch Arden_. Whether he meant to challenge it, I do not know; but the comparison is unescapable.

Tennyson did not invent the story, and any poet has the right to use the material in his own fas.h.i.+on. Knowing Mr. Masefield from _The Everlasting Mercy_ and _The Widow in the Bye Street_, it would have been safe to prophesy in advance that his own Enoch would not show the self-restraint practised by the Tennysonian hero. Reserve and restraint were the trump cards of the Typical Victorian, just as the annihilation of all reserve is a characteristic of the twentieth-century artist. In the _Idylls of the King_, the parting of Guinevere and Arthur was what interested Tennyson; the poets of today would of course centre attention on the parting of Guinevere and Lancelot, and like so many "advances," they would in truth be only going back to old Malory.

"Neither in the design nor in the telling did, or could, _Enoch Arden_ come near the artistic truth of _The Daffodil Fields_,"

says Professor Quiller-Couch, of Cambridge. I am not entirely sure of the truth of this very positive statement. Each is a rural poem; the characters are simple; the poetic accompaniment supplied by the daffodils in one poem is supplied in the other by the sea. And yet, despite this latter fact, if one reads _Enoch Arden_ immediately after _The Daffodil Fields_, it seems to be without salt. It lacks flavour, and is almost tasteless compared with the biting condiments of the other poem, prepared as it was for the sharper demands of twentieth-century palates. We like, as Browning thought Macready would like "stabbing, drabbing, _et autres gentillesses_," and Mr. Masefield knows how to supply them. Yet I am not sure that the self-denial of Enoch and the timid patience of Philip do not both indicate a certain strength absent in Mr.

Masefield's wildly exciting tale. Of course Tennyson's trio are all "good" people, and he meant to make them so. In the other work Michael is a selfish scoundrel, Lion is a murderer, and Mary an adulteress; and we are meant to sympathize with all three, as Mr. Galsworthy wishes us to sympathize with those who follow their instincts rather than their consciences. One poem celebrates the strength of character, the other the strength of pa.s.sion. But there can be no doubt that Enoch (and perhaps Philip) loved Annie more than either Michael or Lion loved Mary--which is perhaps creditable; for Mary is more attractive.

One should remember also that in these two poems--so interesting to compare in so many different ways--Tennyson tried to elevate a homely theme into "poetry"; whereas Mr. Masefield finds the truest poetry in the bare facts of life and feeling. Tennyson is at his best outside of drama, wherever he has an opportunity to adorn and embellish; Mr.

Masefield is at his best in the fierce conflict of human wills. Thus _Enoch Arden_ is not one of Tennyson's best poems, and the best parts of it are the purely descriptive pa.s.sages; whereas in _The Daffodil Fields_ Mr. Masefield has a subject made to his hand, and can let himself go with impressive power. In the introduction of conversation into a poem--a special gift with Mr. Masefield--Tennyson is usually weak, which ought to have taught him never to venture into drama. Nothing is worse in _Enoch Arden_ than pa.s.sages like these:

"Annie, this voyage by the grace of G.o.d Will bring fair weather yet to all of us.

Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me, For I'll be back, my girl, before you know it."

Then lightly rocking baby's cradle, "and he, This pretty, puny, weakly little one,-- Nay--for I love him all the better for it-- G.o.d bless him, he shall sit upon my knees And I will tell him tales of foreign parts, And make him merry, when I come home again.

Come, Annie, come, cheer up before I go."

One of the reasons why twentieth-century readers are so impatient with _Enoch Arden,_ is because Tennyson refused to satisfy the all but universal love of a fight. The conditions for a terrific "mix-up" were all there, and just when the spectator is looking for an explosion of wrath and blood, the poet turns away into the more heroic but less thrilling scene of self-conquest. Mr. Masefield may be trusted never to disappoint his readers in such fas.h.i.+on. It might be urged that whereas Tennyson gave a picture of man as he ought to be, Mr.

Masefield painted him as he really is.

But _The Daffodil Fields_ is not melodrama. It is a poem of extraordinary beauty. Every time I read it I see in it some "stray beauty-beam" that I missed before. It would be impossible to translate it into prose; it would lose half its interest, and all of its charm.

It would be easier to translate Tennyson's _Dora_ into prose than _The Daffodil Fields._ In fact, I have often thought that if the story of _Dora_ were told in concise prose, in the manner of Guy de Maupa.s.sant, it would distinctly gain in force.

No poet, with any claim to the name, can be accurately labelled by an adjective or a phrase. You may think you know his "manner," and he suddenly develops a different one; this you call his "later" manner, and he disconcerts you by harking back to the "earlier," or trying something, that if you must have labels, you are forced to call his "latest," knowing now that it is subject to change without notice. Mr.

Masefield published _The Everlasting Mercy_ in 1911; _The Widow in the Bye Street_ in 1912; _Dauber_ in 1912; _The Daffodil Fields_ in 1913. We had him cla.s.sified. He was a writer of sustained narrative, unscrupulous in the use of language, bursting with vitality, sacrificing anything and everything that stood in the way of his effect. This was "red blood" verse raised to poetry by sheer inspiration, backed by remarkable skill in the use of rime. We looked for more of the same thing from him, knowing that in this particular field he had no rival.

Then came the war. As every soldier drew his sword, every poet drew his pen. And of all the poems published in the early days of the struggle, none equalled in high excellence _August 1914,_ by John Masefield. And its tone was precisely the opposite of what his most famous efforts had led us to expect. It was not a lurid picture of wholesale murder, nor a bottle of vitriol thrown in the face of the Kaiser. After the thunder and the lightning, came the still small voice. It is a poem in the metre and manner of Gray, with the same silver tones of twilit peace--heartrending by contrast with the Continental scene.

How still this quiet cornfield is to-night; By an intenser glow the evening falls, Bringing, not darkness, but a deeper light; Among the stocks a partridge covey calls.

The windows glitter on the distant hill; Beyond the hedge the sheep-bells in the fold Stumble on sudden music and are still; The forlorn pinewoods droop above the wold.

An endless quiet valley reaches out Past the blue hills into the evening sky; Over the stubble, cawing, goes a rout Of rooks from harvest, flagging as they fly.

So beautiful it is I never saw So great a beauty on these English fields Touched, by the twilight's coming, into awe, Ripe to the soul and rich with summer's yields.

The fields are inhabited with the ghosts of ploughmen of old who gave themselves for England, even as the faithful farmers now leave scenes inexpressibly dear. For the aim of our poet is to magnify the lives of the humble and the obscure, whether on land or sea. In the beautiful _Consecration_ that he prefixed to _Salt-Water Ballads,_ he expressly turns his back on Commanders, on Rulers, on Princes and Prelates, in order to sing of the stokers and chantymen, yes, even of the dust and sc.u.m of the earth. They work, and others get the praise.

They are inarticulate, but have found a spokesman and a champion in the poet. His sea-poems in this respect resemble Conrad's sea-novels.

This is perhaps one of the chief functions of the man of letters, whether he be poet, novelist or dramatist--never to let us forget the anonymous army of toilers. For, as Clyde Fitch used to say, the great things do not happen to the great writers; the great things happen to the little people they describe.

Although Mr. Masefield's reputation depends mainly on his narrative poems, he has earned a high place among lyrical poets. These poems, at least many of them, are as purely subjective as _The Everlasting Mercy_ was purely objective. Rarely does a poem unfurl with more loveliness than this:

I have seen dawn and sunset on moors and windy hills Coming in solemn beauty like slow old tunes of Spain; I have seen the lady April bringing the daffodils, Bringing the springing gra.s.s and the soft warm April rain.

In _Tewkesbury Road_ and in _Sea Fever_ the poet expresses the urge of his own heart. In _Biography_ he quite properly adopts a style exactly the opposite of the biographical dictionary.

Dates and events are excluded. But the various moments when life was most intense in actual experience, sights of mountains on sea and land, long walks and talks with an intimate friend, the frantically fierce endeavour in the racing cutter, quiet scenes of beauty in the peaceful countryside. "The days that make us happy make us wise."

As Mr. Masefield's narratives take us back to Chaucer, so his _Sonnets_ (1916) take us back to the great Elizabethan sequences.

Whether or not Shakespeare unlocked his heart in his sonnets is impossible to determine. Wordsworth thought he did, Browning thought quite otherwise. But these sonnets of our poet are undoubtedly subjective; no one without the necessary information would guess them to come from the author of _The Everlasting Mercy._ They reveal what has always been--through moving accidents by flood and field--the master pa.s.sion of his mind and heart, the wors.h.i.+p of Beauty. The entire series ill.u.s.trates a tribute to Beauty expressed in the first one--"Delight in her made trouble in my mind." This mental disturbance is here the spur to composition. They are experiments in relative, meditative, speculative poetry; and while they contain some memorable lines, and heighten one's respect for the dignity and sincerity of their author's temperament, they are surely not so successful as his other work. They are not clearly articulate. Instead of the perfect expression of perfect thoughts--a gift enjoyed only by Shakespeare--they reveal the extreme difficulty of metrically voicing his "trouble." It is in a way like the music of the _Liebestod_.

He is struggling to say what is in his mind, he approaches it, falls away comes near again, only to be finally baffled.

In 1918 Mr. Masefield returned to battle, murder and sudden death in the romantic poem _Rosas_. This is an exciting tale told in over a hundred stanzas, and it is safe to say that any one who reads the first six lines will read to the end without moving in his chair.

Although this is the latest in publication of our poet's works, it sounds as if it were written years ago, before he had attained the mastery so evident in _The Widow in the Bye Street_. It will add little to the author's reputation.

I do not think Mr. Masefield has received sufficient credit for his prose fiction. In 1905 he published _A Mainsail Haul_, which contained a number of short stories and sketches, many of which had appeared in the Manchester _Guardian_. It is interesting to recall his connection with that famous journal. These are the results partly of his experiences, partly of his reading. It is plain that he has turned over hundreds of old volumes of buccaneer lore. And humour is as abundant here as it is absent from his best novels, _Captain Margaret_ and _Mult.i.tude and Solitude_. These two books, recently republished in America, met with a chilling reception from the critics. For my part, I not only enjoyed reading them, I think every student of Mr. Masefield's poetry might read them with profitable pleasure. They are romances that only a poet could have written. It would be easier to turn them into verse than it would be to turn his verse-narratives into prose, and less would be lost in the transfer. In _Mult.i.tude and Solitude_, the author has given us more of the results of his own thinking than can be found in most of the poems. Whole pages are filled with the pith of meditative thought.

In _Captain Margaret_, we have a remarkable combination of the love of romance and the romance of love.

In response to a question asked him by the _Tribune_ interviewer, as to the guiding motive in his writing, Mr. Masefield replied: "I desire to interpret life both by reflecting it as it appears and by portraying its outcome. Great art must contain these two attributes.

Examine any of the dramas of Shakespeare, and you will find that their action is the result of a destruction of balance in the beginning. It is like a cartful of apples which is overturned. All the apples are spilled in the street. But you will notice that Shakespeare piles them up again in his incomparable manner, many bruised, broken, and maybe a few lost." This is certainly an interesting way of putting the doctrine of a.n.a.lysis and synthesis as applied to art.

What has Mr. Masefield done then for the advance of poetry? One of his notable services is to have made it so interesting that thousands look forward to a new poem from him as readers look for a new story by a great novelist. He has helped to take away poetry from its conventional "elevation" and bring it everywhere poignantly in contact with throbbing life. Thus he is emphatically apart from so-called traditional poets who brilliantly follow the Tennysonian tradition, and give us another kind of enjoyment. But although Mr. Masefield is a twentieth century poet, it would be a mistake to suppose that he has _originated_ the doctrine that the poet should speak in a natural voice about natural things, and not cultivate a "diction." Browning spent his whole life fighting for that doctrine, and went to his grave covered with honourable scars. Wordsworth successfully rebelled against the conventional garments of the Muse. Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Browning are the poets who took human nature as they found it; who thought life itself was more interesting than any theory about it; who made language appropriate to the time, the place, and the man, regardless of the opinion of those who thought the Muse ought to wear a uniform. The aim of our best twentieth century poets is not really to write something new and strange, it is to get back to those poets who lived up to their conviction that the business of poetry is to chronicle the stages of all life. This is not the only kind of poetry, but it is the kind high in favour during these present years. The fountain-head of poetry is human nature, and our poets are trying to get back to it, just as many of the so-called advances in religious thought are really attempts to get back to the Founder of Christianity, before the theologians built their stockade around Him.

Mr. Masefield is a mighty force in the renewal of poetry; in the art of dramatic narrative he goes back to the sincerity and catholicity of Chaucer. For his language, he has carried Wordsworth's idea of "naturalness" to its extreme limits. For his material, he finds nothing common or unclean. But all his virility, candour, and sympathy, backed by all his astonis.h.i.+ng range of experience, would not have made him a poet, had he not possessed imagination, and the power to express his vision of life, the power, as he puts it, of getting the apples back into the cart.

CHAPTER IV

GIBSON AND HODGSON

Two Northumberland poets--Wilfrid Wilson Gibson--his early failures--his studies of low life--his collected poems--his short dramas of pastoral experiences--_Daily Bread_--lack of melody--uncanny imagination--whimsies--poems of the Great War--their contrast to conventional sentimental ditties--the accusation--his contribution to the advance of poetry.--Ralph Hodgson--his shyness--his slender output--his fastidious self-criticism--his quiet facing of the known facts in nature and in humanity--his love of books--his humour--his respect for wild and tame animals--the high percentage of artistic excellence in his work.--Lascelles Abercrombie.

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson--a horrible mouthful--was born in Hexham, Northumberland, in 1878. Like Walt Whitman's, his early poetry was orthodox, well groomed, and uninteresting. It produced no effect on the public, but it produced upon its author a mental condition of acute discontent--the necessary conviction of sin preceding regeneration. Whether he could ever succeed in bringing his verse down to earth, he did not then know; but so far as he was concerned, he not only got down to earth, but got under it. He made subterranean expeditions with the miners, he followed his nose into slums, he talked long hours with the uncla.s.sed, and listened sympathetically to the lamentations of sea-made widows. His nature--extraordinarily delicate and sensitive--received deep wounds, the scars of which appeared in his subsequent poetry. Now he lives where John Masefield was born, and like him, speaks for the inarticulate poor.

In 1917 Mr. Gibson collected his poems in one thick volume of some five hundred and fifty pages. This is convenient for reference, but desperately hard to read, on account of the soggy weight of the book.

Here we have, however, everything that he has thus far written which he thinks worth preserving. The first piece, _Akra the Slave_ (1904), is a romantic monologue in free verse. Although rather short, it is much too long, and few persons will have the courage to read it through. It is incoherent, spineless, consistent only in dulness.

Possibly it is worth keeping as a curiosity. Then comes _Stonefolds_ (1906), a series of bitter bucolics. This is pastoral poetry of a new and refres.h.i.+ng kind--as unlike to the conventional shepherd-shepherdess mincing, intolerable dialogue as could well be imagined. For, among all the groups of verse, in which, for sacred order's sake, we arrange English literature, pastoral poetry easily takes first place in empty, tinkling artificiality. In _Stonefolds_, we have six tiny plays, never containing more than four characters, and usually less, which represent, in a rasping style, the unending daily struggle of generation after generation with the relentless forces of nature. It is surprising to see how, in four or five pages, the author gives a clear view of the monotonous life of seventy years; in this particular art, Strindberg himself has done no better. The experience of age is contrasted with the hope of youth.

Perhaps the most impressive of them all is _The Bridal_ where, in the presence of the newly wedded pair, the man's old, bed-ridden mother speaks of the chronic misery of her married life, intimates that the son is just like his dead father, and that therefore the bride has nothing ahead of her but tragedy. Then comes the conclusion, which reminds one somewhat of the close of Ibsen's _Lady from the Sea_. The young husband throws wide the door, and addresses his wife as follows: