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heroes and hero worship-第19节

小说: heroes and hero worship 字数: 每页4000字

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or him a necessity of nature to live in the very fact of things。  A man once more; in earnest with the Universe; though all others were but toying with it。  He is a _Vates_; first of all; in virtue of being sincere。  So far Poet and Prophet; participators in the 〃open secret;〃 are one。

With respect to their distinction again:  The _Vates_ Prophet; we might say; has seized that sacred mystery rather on the moral side; as Good and Evil; Duty and Prohibition; the _Vates_ Poet on what the Germans call the aesthetic side; as Beautiful; and the like。  The one we may call a revealer of what we are to do; the other of what we are to love。  But indeed these two provinces run into one another; and cannot be disjoined。  The Prophet too has his eye on what we are to love:  how else shall he know what it is we are to do?  The highest Voice ever heard on this earth said withal; 〃Consider the lilies of the field; they toil not; neither do they spin: yet Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these。〃  A glance; that; into the deepest deep of Beauty。  〃The lilies of the field;〃dressed finer than earthly princes; springing up there in the humble furrow…field; a beautiful _eye_ looking out on you; from the great inner Sea of Beauty! How could the rude Earth make these; if her Essence; rugged as she looks and is; were not inwardly Beauty?  In this point of view; too; a saying of Goethe's; which has staggered several; may have meaning:  〃The Beautiful;〃 he intimates; 〃is higher than the Good; the Beautiful includes in it the Good。〃  The _true_ Beautiful; which however; I have said somewhere; 〃differs from the _false_ as Heaven does from Vauxhall!〃  So much for the distinction and identity of Poet and Prophet。

In ancient and also in modern periods we find a few Poets who are accounted perfect; whom it were a kind of treason to find fault with。  This is noteworthy; this is right:  yet in strictness it is only an illusion。  At bottom; clearly enough; there is no perfect Poet!  A vein of Poetry exists in the hearts of all men; no man is made altogether of Poetry。  We are all poets when we _read_ a poem well。  The 〃imagination that shudders at the Hell of Dante;〃 is not that the same faculty; weaker in degree; as Dante's own?  No one but Shakspeare can embody; out of _Saxo Grammaticus_; the story of _Hamlet_ as Shakspeare did:  but every one models some kind of story out of it; every one embodies it better or worse。  We need not spend time in defining。  Where there is no specific difference; as between round and square; all definition must be more or less arbitrary。  A man that has _so_ much more of the poetic element developed in him as to have become noticeable; will be called Poet by his neighbors。  World…Poets too; those whom we are to take for perfect Poets; are settled by critics in the same way。  One who rises _so_ far above the general level of Poets will; to such and such critics; seem a Universal Poet; as he ought to do。  And yet it is; and must be; an arbitrary distinction。  All Poets; all men; have some touches of the Universal; no man is wholly made of that。  Most Poets are very soon forgotten:  but not the noblest Shakspeare or Homer of them can be remembered _forever_;a day comes when he too is not!

Nevertheless; you will say; there must be a difference between true Poetry and true Speech not poetical:  what is the difference?  On this point many things have been written; especially by late German Critics; some of which are not very intelligible at first。  They say; for example; that the Poet has an _infinitude_ in him; communicates an _Unendlichkeit_; a certain character of 〃infinitude;〃 to whatsoever he delineates。  This; though not very precise; yet on so vague a matter is worth remembering:  if well meditated; some meaning will gradually be found in it。  For my own part; I find considerable meaning in the old vulgar distinction of Poetry being _metrical_; having music in it; being a Song。  Truly; if pressed to give a definition; one might say this as soon as anything else:  If your delineation be authentically _musical_; musical not in word only; but in heart and substance; in all the thoughts and utterances of it; in the whole conception of it; then it will be poetical; if not; not。Musical:  how much lies in that!  A _musical_ thought is one spoken by a mind that has penetrated into the inmost heart of the thing; detected the inmost mystery of it; namely the _melody_ that lies hidden in it; the inward harmony of coherence which is its soul; whereby it exists; and has a right to be; here in this world。  All inmost things; we may say; are melodious; naturally utter themselves in Song。  The meaning of Song goes deep。  Who is there that; in logical words; can express the effect music has on us?  A kind of inarticulate unfathomable speech; which leads us to the edge of the Infinite; and lets us for moments gaze into that!

Nay all speech; even the commonest speech; has something of song in it: not a parish in the world but has its parish…accent;the rhythm or _tune_ to which the people there _sing_ what they have to say!  Accent is a kind of chanting; all men have accent of their own;though they only _notice_ that of others。  Observe too how all passionate language does of itself become musical;with a finer music than the mere accent; the speech of a man even in zealous anger becomes a chant; a song。  All deep things are Song。  It seems somehow the very central essence of us; Song; as if all the rest were but wrappages and hulls!  The primal element of us; of us; and of all things。  The Greeks fabled of Sphere…Harmonies:  it was the feeling they had of the inner structure of Nature; that the soul of all her voices and utterances was perfect music。  Poetry; therefore; we will call _musical Thought_。  The Poet is he who _thinks_ in that manner。  At bottom; it turns still on power of intellect; it is a man's sincerity and depth of vision that makes him a Poet。  See deep enough; and you see musically; the heart of Nature _being_ everywhere music; if you can only reach it。

The _Vates_ Poet; with his melodious Apocalypse of Nature; seems to hold a poor rank among us; in comparison with the _Vates_ Prophet; his function; and our esteem of him for his function; alike slight。  The Hero taken as Divinity; the Hero taken as Prophet; then next the Hero taken only as Poet: does it not look as if our estimate of the Great Man; epoch after epoch; were continually diminishing?  We take him first for a god; then for one god…inspired; and now in the next stage of it; his most miraculous word gains from us only the recognition that he is a Poet; beautiful verse…maker; man of genius; or such like!It looks so; but I persuade myself that intrinsically it is not so。  If we consider well; it will perhaps appear that in man still there is the _same_ altogether peculiar admiration for the Heroic Gift; by what name soever called; that there at any time was。

I should say; if we do not now reckon a Great Man literally divine; it is that our notions of God; of the supreme unattainable Fountain of Splendor; Wisdom and Heroism; are ever rising _higher_; not altogether that our reverence for these qualities; as manifested in our like; is getting lower。 This is worth taking thought of。  Sceptical Dilettantism; the curse of these ages; a curse which will not last forever; does indeed in this the highest province of human things; as in all provinces; make sad work; and our reverence for great men; all crippled; blinded; paralytic as it is; comes out in poor plight; hardly recognizable。  Men worship the shows of great men; the most disbelieve that there is any reality of great men to worship。  The dreariest; fatalest faith; believing which; one would literally despair of human things。  Nevertheless look; for example; at Napoleon!  A Corsican lieutenant of artillery; that is the show of _him_: yet is he not obeyed; worshipped after his sort; as all the Tiaraed and Diademed of the world put together could not be?  High Duchesses; and ostlers of inns; gather round the Scottish rustic; Burns;a strange feeling dwelling in each that they never heard a man like this; that; on the whole; this is the man!  In the secret heart of these people it still dimly reveals itself; though there is no accredited way of uttering it at present; that this rustic; with his black brows and flashing sun…eyes; and strange words moving laughter and tears; is of a dignity far beyond all others; incommensurable with all others。  Do not we feel it so?  But now; were Dilettantism; Scepticism; Triviality; and all that sorrowful brood; cast out of us;as; by God's blessing; they shall one day be; were faith in the shows of things entirely swept out; replaced by clear faith in the _things_; so that a man acted on the impulse of that only; and counted the other non…extant; what a new livelier feeling towards this Burns were it!

Nay here in these ages; such as they are; have we not two mere Poets; if not deified; yet we may say beatified?  Shakspeare and Dante are Saints of Poetry; really; if we will think of it; _canonized_; so that it is impiety to meddle with them。  The unguided instinct of the world; working across all these perverse impediments; has arrived at such result。  Dante and S

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