Part 11 (1/2)

THE POETRY OF GERARD HOPKINS

That Gerard Hopkins is to-day little known, even among rhymers, is an inevitable result of his manner of life and work. He was a priest of the Catholic Church and a member of the Society of Jesus. His faith was the source of his poetry, but his arduous labors in its service left him little time for celebrating it in verse, and made him so indifferent to applause that he never published. Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch put his ”The Starlight Night” in the ”Oxford Book of Victorian Verse,” and he is represented in Orby s.h.i.+pley's ”Carmina Mariana” and H. C. Beeching's ”Lyra Sacra.” Several of his poems are included in Volume VIII of ”Poets and Poetry of the Century” with a critique by his friend Robert Bridges, and Miss Katherine Bregy has made him the subject of an illuminative essay in her admirable book ”The Poet's Chantry.” A scant bibliography indeed for a genuinely inspired poet, the most scrupulous word-artist of the nineteenth century!

The world is charged with the grandeur of G.o.d.

It will flame out like s.h.i.+ning from shook foil.

These opening lines of a sonnet ill.u.s.trate clearly Gerard Hopkins'

spirit and method. Like that other Jesuit, Robert Southwell, he was a Catholic poet: for him to write a poem on a secular theme was difficult, almost impossible. He sang ”the grandeur of G.o.d,” and for his song he used a language which in its curious perfection is exclusively his own.

One may search his writings in vain for a figure that is not novel and true. He took from his own experience those comparisons that are the material of poetry, and rejected, it seems, such of them as already bore marks of use. For him, the grandeur of G.o.d flames out from the world not like light from stars, but like ”s.h.i.+ning from shook foil.” He writes not of soft hands, nor of velvety hands, but of ”feel-of-primrose hands.” He writes not that thrush's eggs are blue as the sky, but that they ”look little low heavens.” The starry skies of a winter night are ”the dim woods quick with diamond wells,” or ”the gray lawns cold where quaking gold-dew lies.” In Spring ”the blue is all in a rush with richness,” and Summer ”plashes amid the billowy apple-trees his l.u.s.ty hands.”

Now, it may be that these exquisite figures would not ent.i.tle their maker to high praise if they were isolated bits of splendor, if (like the economical verse-makers of our own day) he had made each one the excuse for a poem. But they come in bewildering profusion. Gerard Hopkins' poems are successions of lovely images, each a poem in itself.

This statement may give its reader the idea that of Gerard Hopkins'

poetry may be said, as Charles Ricketts said of Charles Conder's pictures, ”There are too many roses.” No one who reads his poems, however, will make this criticism. The roses are there of right--all of them. They are, it may be said, necessary roses. They are the cunningly placed elements of an elaborate pattern, a pattern of which roses are the appropriate material. And the red and white of their petals come from the blood and tears that nourished their roots.

It is the overwhelming greatness of this theme that justifies the lavishness of his method. The word ”mystic” is nowadays applied so wantonly to every gossiper about things supernatural that it is to most people meaningless. For the benefit of those who know the difference between Saint Theresa and Miss Evelyn Underhill, however, it may be stated that Gerard Hopkins was more nearly a true mystic than either Francis Thompson or Lionel Johnson. The desire, at any rate, for the mystical union with G.o.d is evident in every line he wrote, and even more than his friend Coventry Patmore he knew the ”dark night of the soul.”

This being the case, his theme being G.o.d and his writing being an act of adoration, it is profitless to criticize him, as Mr. Robert Bridges has done, for ”sacrificing simplicity” and violating those mysterious things, the ”canons of taste.” A sane editor of a popular magazine would reject everything he wrote. A verse-writer who does not know that ”The Habit of Perfection” is true poetry is not a poet. Here it is:

Elected Silence, sing to me And beat upon my whorled ear; Pipe me to pastures still, and be The music that I care to hear.

Shape nothing, lips; be lovely-dumb: It is the shut, the curfew sent From there where all surrenders come Which only makes you eloquent.

Be sh.e.l.led, eyes, with double dark, And find the uncreated light: This ruck and reel which you remark Coils, keeps, and teases simple sight.

Palate, the hutch of tasty l.u.s.t, Desire not to be rinsed with wine: The can must be so sweet, the crust So fresh that come in fasts divine!

Nostrils, your careless breath that spend Upon the stir and keep of pride, What relish shall the censers send Along the sanctuary side!

O feel-of-primrose hands, O feet That want the yield of plushy sward, But you shall walk the golden street, And you unhouse and house the Lord.

And, Poverty, be thou the bride And now the marriage feast begun, And lily-colored clothes provide Your spouse, not labored-at, nor spun.

Walter Pater, Gerard Hopkins' tutor at Balliol, had no keener sensitivity to the color and music of language. Gerard Hopkins'

purpose--a purpose impossible of fulfillment but not therefore less worth the effort--was ”to arrange words like so many separate gems to compose a whole expression of thought, in which the force of grammar and the beauty of rhythm absolutely correspond.”

There will always be those who dislike the wealth of imagery which characterizes Gerard Hopkins' poetry, because they do not understand his mental and spiritual att.i.tude. Perhaps for some critics an altar cloth may be too richly embroidered and a chalice too golden. Ointment of spikenard is ”very costly.”

PHILOSOPHICAL TENDENCIES IN ENGLISH LITERATURE

Why do people write poems, stories and plays? The obvious and cynical answer is that people write because they are paid for their writing; the poet makes a poem for the same reason that the carpenter makes a bench, and the dramatist has no motive other than that of the bootmaker. There is some truth in this; if people do not begin to write because they consider writing a means of livelihood they often continue to write for that reason. Certainly it is easy to think of contemporary authors of whom it may safely be said that they have no inspiration save the desire for money.

But the existence of literature is not thus easily to be explained.

There are so many trades and professions easier and more profitable than that of letters that he would be a very stupid person indeed who selected it with nothing to influence him in that direction but the desire to make money. There is something else beside the perfectly legitimate desire to make a livelihood in the mind of the writer; there is something that makes him undergo poverty and other tribulations for the sake of his craft.

What is this influence? What is it that makes writers write? It is no one thing. The will to write is related to nearly all the pa.s.sions, ambitions and desires of mankind; it is the result of instincts immemorial and unchanging. There are those who hold a peculiar inspirational theory about writing, who believe that an author is merely the instrument used by some creative power. In so far as this theory coincides with the truth that G.o.d is the source of all energy it is, of course, sound. But those who hold it generally base it on some fantastic idea of genius as a magic, unknowable power, irresponsibly wandering through the world and selecting at random the men and women who are to be through its mysterious spell creative artists. It is a fascinating theory, but untrue, being supported only by the citation of numerous particular cases, which cannot in logic establish a general rule.

A careful examination of the nature of genius would here be out of place. It is sufficient for our purposes to consider genius as extraordinary talent, and to know that it is by no means the inevitable companion of the will to write. The great majority of writers, those who are without skill and those who produce some interesting and even important work, are without genius. Yet they have the will to write. And there have been instances of men and women of undoubted genius so lazy that they seemed absolutely to lack the creative urge present in the minds of their less gifted brothers and sisters.

There would be writers if there were no such thing as genius just as there would be writers if it were impossible to make money by writing.