No More Learning

The 'wit' of
Donne did not apparently include invention, for many of the episodes
seem pointless as well as disgusting, and indeed in no poem is the
least attractive side of Donne's mind so clearly revealed, that aspect
of his wit which to some readers is more repellent, more fatal to
his claim to be a poet, than too subtle ingenuity or misplaced
erudition--the vein of sheer ugliness which runs through his work,
presenting details that seem merely and wantonly repulsive. The same
vein is apparent in the work of Chapman, of Jonson, and even in places
of Spenser, and the imagery of _Hamlet_ and the tragedies owes some of
its dramatic vividness and power to the same quality. The ugly has its
place in art, and it would not be difficult to find it in every phase
of Renaissance art, marked like the beautiful in that art by the
same evidence of power. Decadence brought with it not ugliness but
prettiness.

The reflective, philosophic, somewhat melancholy strain of the poems
I have been touching on reappears in the letters addressed to noble
ladies. Here, however, it is softened, less sardonic in tone, while
it blends with or gives place to another strain, that of absurd and
extravagant but fanciful and subtle compliment. Donne cannot write to
a lady without his heart and fancy taking wing in their own passionate
and erudite fashion. Scholastic theology is made the instrument
of courtly compliment and pious flirtation. He blends in the
same disturbing fashion as in some of the songs and elegies that
depreciation of woman in general, which he owes less to classical
poetry than to his over-acquaintance with the Fathers, with an
adoration of her charms in the individual which passes into the
transcendental. He tells the Countess of Huntingdon that active
goodness in a woman is a miracle; but it is clear that she and the
Countess of Bedford and Mrs. Herbert and Lady Carey and the Countess
of Salisbury are all examples of such miracle--ladies whose beauty
itself is virtue, while their virtues are a mystery revealable only to
the initiated.

The highest place is held by Lady Bedford and Mrs. Herbert. Nothing
could surpass the strain of intellectual and etherealized compliment
in which he addresses the Countess. If lines like the following are
not pure poetry, they haunt some quaint borderland of poetry to which
the polished felicities of Pope's compliments are a stranger.
If not
pure fancy, they are not mere ingenuity, being too intellectual and
argumentative for the one, too winged and ardent for the other:

Should I say I liv'd darker then were true,
Your radiation can all clouds subdue;
But one, 'tis best light to contemplate you.

You, for whose body God made better clay,
Or tooke Soules stuffe such as shall late decay,
Or such as needs small change at the last day.

This, as an Amber drop enwraps a Bee,
Covering discovers your quicke Soule; that we
May in your through-shine front your hearts thoughts see.

You teach (though wee learne not) a thing unknowne
To our late times, the use of specular stone,
Through which all things within without were shown.

Of such were Temples; so and such you are;
_Beeing_ and _seeming_ is your equall care,
And _vertues_ whole _summe_ is but _know_ and _dare_.

The long poem dedicated to the same lady's beauty,

You have refin'd me

is in a like dazzling and subtle vein. Those addressed to Mrs.
Herbert, notably the letter

Mad paper stay,

and the beautiful _Elegie_

No Spring, nor Summer Beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one Autumnall face,

are less transcendental in tone but bespeak an even warmer admiration.
Indeed it is clear to any careful reader that in the poems addressed
to both these ladies there is blended with the respectful flattery of
the dependant not a little of the tone of warmer feeling permitted to
the 'servant' by Troubadour convention. And I suspect that some poems,
the tone of which is still more frankly and ardently lover-like, were
addressed to Lady Bedford and Mrs. Herbert, though they have come to
us without positive indication.

The title of the subtle, passionate, sonorous lyric _Twicknam Garden_,

Blasted with sighs, and surrounded with teares,

points to the person addressed, for Twickenham Park was the residence
of Lady Bedford from 1607 to 1618, and Donne's intimacy with her seems
to have begun in or about 1608. There can, I think, be little doubt
that it is to her, and neither to his wife nor the mistresses of his
earlier, wandering fancy, that these lines, conventional in theme
but given an amazing _timbre_ by the impulse of Donne's subtle and
passionate mind, were addressed. But if _Twicknam Garden_ was written
to Lady Bedford, so also, one is tempted to think, must have been _A
Nocturnall upon S. Lucies Day_, for Lucy was the Countess's name,
and the thought, feeling, and rhythm of the two poems are strikingly
similar.

But the _Nocturnall_ is a sincerer and profounder poem than _Twicknam
Garden_, and it is more difficult to imagine it the expression of a
conventional sentiment.