Agreeing with Davenant in condemning the greater part of my juvenile pieces, it is only as crudities that I condemn them; for in all that I have written, whether in prose or verse, there has never been a line which, for any compunctious reason, living or dying, I could wish to blot. Davenant had not changed his opinion of his own youthful productions so as to overlook in his age the defects which he had once clearly perceived: but he knew that pieces, which it would indeed have been presumptuous to reproduce on the score of their merit, might yet be deemed worthy of preservation on other grounds; that to his family and friends, and to those who might take any interest in English poetry hereafter, they would possess peculiar value, as characteristic memorials of one who had held no inconsiderable place in the literature of his own times. Feeling, too, that he was not likely to be forgotten by posterity, he thought, that, after the specimen which he had produced in his "Gondibert," of a great and elaborate poem, his early attempts would be regarded with curiosity by such of his successors as should, like him, study poetry as an art; for as an art it must be studied by those who would excel in it, though excellence in it is not attainable by art alone. The cases are very few in which any thing more can be inferred from juvenile poetry than that the aspirant possesses imitative talent, and the power of versifying; for which, as for music, there must be a certain natural aptitude. It is not merely because "they have lacked culture, and the inspiring aid of books," that so many poets, who have been "sown by Nature," have "wanted the accomplishment of verse," and brought forth no fruit after their kind. Men of the highest culture, of whose poetical temperament no doubt can be entertained, and who had "taken to the height the measure of themselves," have yet failed in their endeavor to become poets, for want of that accomplishment. It is frequently possessed without any other qualification, or any capacity for improvement; but then the innate and incurable defect that renders it abortive is at once apparent. The state of literature in this kingdom during the last fifty *Wordsworth. years has produced the same effect upon poetry that academies produce upon painting: in both arts, every possible assistance is afforded to imitative talents, and in both they are carried as far as the talent of imitation can reach. But there is one respect in which poetry differs widely from the sister arts. Its fairest promise frequently proves deceitful; whereas, both in painting and music, the early indications of genius are unequivocal. The children who were called musical prodigies have become great musicians; and great painters, as far as their history is known, have displayed in childhood that accuracy of eye, and dexterity of hand, and shaping faculty, which are the prime requisites for their calling. But it is often found that young poets, of whom great expectations were formed, have made no progress, and have even fallen short of their first performances. It may be said that this is because men apply themselves to music and to painting as their professions, but that no one makes poetry the business of his life. This, however, is not the only reason: the indications, as has already been observed, are far less certain; and the circumstances of society are far less favorable for the moral and intellectual culture which is required of all the higher branches of poetry,— all, indeed, that deserves the name. My advice, as to publishing, has often been asked by young poets, who suppose that experience has qualified me to give it, and who have not yet learnt how seldom advice is taken, and how little therefore it is worth. As a general rule, it may be said that one, who is not deceived in the estimate which he has formed of his own powers, can neither write too much in his youth, nor publish too little. It cannot, however, be needful to caution the present race of poetical adventurers against hurrying with their productions to the press, for there are obstacles enough in the way of publication. Looking back upon my own career, and acknowledging my imprudence in this respect, I have, nevertheless, no cause to wish that I had pursued a different course. In this, as in other circumstances of my life, I have reason to be thankful to that merciful Providence which shaped the ends that I had roughly hewn for myself. KESWICK, Sept. 30, 1887. TO EDITH SOUTHEY. WITH way-worn feet, a traveller woe-begone, And sometimes, unreflecting as a child, rosemary weaves And rudely garlanded; yet scorn not thou BRISTOL, 1796. TO MARY WOLSTONCRAFT. THE lily cheek, the "purple light of love,” ROBERT SOUTHEY BRISTOL, 1795. |