Homes and Haunts of the Most Eminent British Poets, Vol. 1 (of 2)Howitt, William
History
Homes and Haunts of the Most Eminent British Poets, Vol. 1 (of 2)
Howitt, William
Literary landmarks -- Great Britain; Poets, English -- Homes and haunts
No poet of the same pretensions has been so much known through his
residence as Shenstone. Without the Leasowes he would have been nothing.
His elegies and pastorals would have lain on the dustiest of
book-shelves, and his Schoolmistress, by far the best of his
productions, would hardly have retained vitality enough to make herself
noticeable in the crowd of poetical characters. The Leasowes was the
chief work of Shenstone's life, and it is the chief means of that
portion of immortality which he possesses. Into every quarter of the
kingdom the fame of this little domain has penetrated. Nature there
formed the grand sub-stratum of his art, and nature is always beautiful.
But I do confess, that in the Leasowes I have always found so much ado
about nothing; such a parade of miniature cascades, lakes, streams
conveyed hither and thither; surprises in the disposition of woods and
the turn of walks, with a seat placed here, and another there; with
inscriptions, Latin and English; and piping Fauns _fauning_ upon you in
half a dozen places, that I have heartily wished myself out upon a good
rough heath, with the winds blowing away the cobwebs of so many conceits
from my brain.
In the days of Shenstone there prevailed the falsest notions of life and
poetry. If poetry be indeed "the eloquence of truth," as Campbell
beautifully pronounced it--if great passions, great sentiments, great
wrestlings with our destinies, and conflicts for the good of others--if
these constitute the sublimity of duty, and give occasion for the
sublimity of poetry, how poor a delusion was that which led one to dream
and drone in some fantastic retirement; to whimper over petty troubles,
and waste the intellect on petty themes; exalting mole-hills into
mountains, and the stings of a morbid selfishness into picturesque
sorrows, when they should have been up and doing, dragging out to the
light of day, like Crabbe, all the wretchedness and the wrong of social
life, or breathing into the trumpet of a generous indignation the notes
that rouse the world to a higher tone and task.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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