No More Learning

It was
not forthcoming. The Egyptian blushed and hung down his head. Never was
triumph more consummate; never was defeat borne with so ill a
grace. Indeed, I could not endure the spectacle of the poor Mummy's
mortification. I reached my hat, bowed to him stiffly, and took leave.

Upon getting home I found it past four o'clock, and went immediately
to bed. It is now ten A. M. I have been up since seven, penning these
memoranda for the benefit of my family and of mankind. The former I
shall behold no more. My wife is a shrew. The truth is, I am heartily
sick of this life and of the nineteenth century in general. I am
convinced that every thing is going wrong. Besides, I am anxious to
know who will be President in 2045. As soon, therefore, as I shave and
swallow a cup of coffee, I shall just step over to Ponnonner's and get
embalmed for a couple of hundred years.
THE POETIC PRINCIPLE

IN speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be either
thorough or profound. While discussing, very much at random, the
essentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be to
cite for consideration, some few of those minor English or American
poems which best suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, have
left the most definite impression. By "minor poems" I mean, of course,
poems of little length. And here, in the beginning, permit me to say
a few words in regard to a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whether
rightfully or wrongfully, has always had its influence in my own
critical estimate of the poem. I hold that a long poem does not exist. I
maintain that the phrase, "a long poem," is simply a flat contradiction
in terms.

I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch as
it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratio
of this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through a psychal
necessity, transient. That degree of excitement which would entitle
a poem to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout a
composition of any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at the
very utmost, it flags--fails--a revulsion ensues--and then the poem is,
in effect, and in fact, no longer such.

There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty in reconciling
the critical dictum that the "Paradise Lost" is to be devoutly admired
throughout, with the absolute impossibility of maintaining for it,
during perusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical dictum
would demand. 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.