No More Learning

This great work, in fact, is to be regarded as poetical,
only when, losing sight of that vital requisite in all works of Art,
Unity, we view it merely as a series of minor poems. If, to preserve
its Unity--its totality of effect or impression--we read it (as would be
necessary) at a single sitting, the result is but a constant alternation
of excitement and depression. After a passage of what we feel to be
true poetry, there follows, inevitably, a passage of platitude which no
critical prejudgment can force us to admire; but if, upon completing
the work, we read it again, omitting the first book--that is to say,
commencing with the second--we shall be surprised at now finding
that admirable which we before condemned--that damnable which we had
previously so much admired. It follows from all this that the ultimate,
aggregate, or absolute effect of even the best epic under the sun, is a
nullity:--and this is precisely the fact.

In regard to the Iliad, we have, if not positive proof, at least very
good reason for believing it intended as a series of lyrics; but,
granting the epic intention, I can say only that the work is based in an
imperfect sense of art. The modern epic is, of the supposititious ancient
model, but an inconsiderate and blindfold imitation. But the day of
these artistic anomalies is over. If, at any time, any very long poem
_were _popular in reality, which I doubt, it is at least clear that no
very long poem will ever be popular again.

That the extent of a poetical work is, _ceteris paribus, _the measure
of its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we thus state it, a proposition
sufficiently absurd--yet we are indebted for it to the Quarterly
Reviews. Surely there can be nothing in mere _size, _abstractly
considered--there can be nothing in mere _bulk, so _far as a volume
is concerned, which has so continuously elicited admiration from these
saturnine pamphlets! A mountain, to be sure, by the mere sentiment of
physical magnitude which it conveys, _does _impress us with a sense
of the sublime--but no man is impressed after _this _fashion by the
material grandeur of even "The Columbiad. " Even the Quarterlies have
not instructed us to be so impressed by it. As _yet, _they have not
_insisted _on our estimating "Lamar" tine by the cubic foot, or Pollock
by the pound--but what else are we to _infer _from their continual
plating about "sustained effort"? If, by "sustained effort," any little
gentleman has accomplished an epic, let us frankly commend him for the
effort--if this indeed be a thing conk mendable--but let us forbear
praising the epic on the effort's account. It is to be hoped that common
sense, in the time to come, will prefer deciding upon a work of Art
rather by the impression it makes--by the effect it produces--than by
the time it took to impress the effect, or by the amount of "sustained
effort" which had been found necessary in effecting the impression.
The
fact is, that perseverance is one thing and genius quite another--nor
can all the Quarterlies in Christendom confound them. By and by, this
proposition, with many which I have been just urging, will be received
as self-evident. In the meantime, by being generally condemned as
falsities, they will not be essentially damaged as truths.

On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief.
Undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A very short poem,
while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces a
profound or enduring effect. There must be the steady pressing down
of the stamp upon the wax. De Beranger has wrought innumerable
things, pungent and spirit-stirring, but in general they have been too
imponderous to stamp themselves deeply into the public attention, and
thus, as so many feathers of fancy, have been blown aloft only to be
whistled down the wind.

A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in depressing
a poem, in keeping it out of the popular view, is afforded by the
following exquisite little Serenade--

I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright.
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Has led me--who knows how? --
To thy chamber-window, sweet!

The wandering airs they faint
On the dark the silent stream--
The champak odors fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart,
As I must die on shine,
O, beloved as thou art!

O, lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!