English Lands, Letters and Kings, vol. 4: The Later Georges to Victoria — John Shaqi
English Lands, Letters and Kings, vol. 4: The Later Georges to VictoriaMitchell, Donald Grant
History
English Lands, Letters and Kings, vol. 4: The Later Georges to Victoria
Mitchell, Donald Grant
English literature -- History and criticism; Great Britain -- Intellectual life
The truth is, Mr. Campbell was never strong in his natural history; he
does not scruple to put flamingoes and palm trees into the valley of
Wyoming. Another reason why the first poem of Campbell’s, written when he
was only twenty-one, came to such success, was the comparatively clear
field it had. The date of publication was at the end of the century. Byron
was in his boyhood; Scott had not published his _Lay of the Last Minstrel_
(1805); Southey had printed only his _Joan of Arc_ (1796), which few
people read; the same may be said of Landor’s _Gebir_, (1797); Cowper was
an old story; Rogers’s _Pleasures of Memory_ (1792), and Moore’s
translation of _Anacreon_ (1799-1800), were the more current things with
which people who loved fresh poetry could regale themselves. The _Lyrical
Ballads_ of Wordsworth and Coleridge had indeed been printed, perhaps a
year or two before, down in Bristol; but scarce any one read _these_; few
bought them;[20] and yet--in that copy of the _Lyrical Ballads_ was lying
_perdu_--almost unknown and uncared for--the “Rime of the Ancient
Mariner.”
_Gertrude of Wyoming_, a poem, written at Sydenham, near London, about
1807, and which, sixty years ago, every good American who was collecting
books thought it necessary to place upon his shelves, I rarely find there
now. It has not the rhetorical elaboration of Campbell’s first poem; never
won its success; there are bits of war in it, and of massacre, that are
gorgeously encrimsoned, and which are laced through and through with
sounds of fife and warwhoop; but the landscape is a disorderly
exaggeration (I have already hinted at its palm trees) and its love-tale
has only the ardors of a stage scene in it; we know where the tragedy is
coming in, and gather up our wraps so as to be ready when the curtain
falls.
He was a born actor--in need (for his best work) of the foot-lights, the
on-lookers, the trombone, the bass-drum. He never glided into victories of
the pen by natural inevitable movement of brain or heart; he stopped
always and everywhere to consider his _pose_.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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