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Poets of the Younger Generation
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Hardcover
First published January 1, 1902
About the author
William Archer
656 books10 followersWilliam Archer was a Scottish writer and theatre critic, based, for most of his career, in London. He was an early advocate of the plays of Henrik Ibsen, and an early friend and supporter of George Bernard Shaw.
In 1878, in accordance with his father's wishes, he moved to London to train as a barrister. He was uninterested in the law, and was by now fascinated with the theatre. He qualified for the bar in 1883, but never practised. He supported himself by working as dramatic critic of The London Figaro, and after he finished his legal studies he moved to The World, where he remained from 1884 to 1906. In London he soon took a prominent literary place and exercised much influence.
In 1878, in accordance with his father's wishes, he moved to London to train as a barrister. He was uninterested in the law, and was by now fascinated with the theatre. He qualified for the bar in 1883, but never practised. He supported himself by working as dramatic critic of The London Figaro, and after he finished his legal studies he moved to The World, where he remained from 1884 to 1906. In London he soon took a prominent literary place and exercised much influence.
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April 4, 2022(notes)
A fascinating task would be to follow the process of Mr. Santayana's thought from sonnet to sonnet; but it must not be attempted here.
That the normal ear is offended by such a line as:
“O all fresh out of beautiful sunlight”,
Mr. Phillips can scarcely doubt.
And when a line hurts me, physically hurts me, like a fly in my eye or a nail in my shoe—I cannot help crying out..
I think Mr. Phillips would do well to consider whether it is my nerves or his that are singular, and whether, in such lines as the one I have chosen for an example, he is not, in obedience to a personal whim, inflicting needless pain on the great majority of educated and sensitive readers.
Oh, and his verbs and substantives, are all interchangeable!
That Herod might quite as well have conceived in gold, imagined in silver, thought in marble, and dreamt in bronze-indicates an unmistakable weakness.
×. . . . ×. . . . .. ×.
I am no naturalist, and should doubtless reveal startling depths of ignorance if I attempted to discuss the birds and flowers of transatlantic poets.
,,,,,,, ,,,,,, ,,,,,,
Perhaps, when a great Australian poet shall, in the fulness of time, arise, we may be able to discern why his coming has been delayed so long.
÷. .. .×, , , . ÷
By the mere process of dwelling upon it, I am becoming almost reconciled to the line:
"Agamemnon bowed over, and from his wheel."
If there be not in writing such as this a very peculiar delicacy and suavity, I am the more deceived.
We all know how quickly a thing encysts itself in the mind... as a bullet does in the body.
The fact is simply that the two initial trochees, which formerly set all my nerves ajar, have now hammered for themselves, as it were, a little indentation or socket in my mind, into which they slip easily, and with a sort of click.
I claim no special consideration for my nerves.
''''' ''''. ''''''::; ''''':
Metrical specialists, if I
may call them so, begin by ignoring the facts and assuming the absolute infallibility of Milton; and then, by long poring over the abnormal lines in Milton they come at last to think them the most beautiful he ever wrote.
Why has Canada three or four such specialists, and Australia, so far as I can discover, not one?
I ask myself in vain why this should be.
.... .... ...... ... ,,,,,, ...
To Mrs. Shorter the unseen world of semi-malignant elemental beings is quite as real as the tangible world of her five senses.
To be quite frank, one cannot but note that there are a good many passages in her work in which she seems to be manufacturing verse without inspiration..
Such a passage is the following:
And so you smiled, as though 'twas to your mind,
Saying belief sat well on womankind,
Fed their emotions, sentiments, and so
You loved a woman to a church to go,
But as I did not mind, you would remain
To write your book till I came home again.
If Mrs. Shorter be suffered, without protest, to rhyme "ideal ” with "steal," and to talk of “standing into a room” and “giving a want,” other poetesses may plead the sanction of her talent for similar slovenlinesses, to the gradual blurring of the boundary-line between good and bad English.
"""" , , . '. '. . .. ,
"A crying of dead prophets from their tombs,
A singing of dead poets from their graves."
These lines are undeniably beautiful; but to make them satisfying there ought to be some special reason why prophets should rest in tombs, poets, in graves.
This collocation of "tomb” and “grave” is to the mind what an identical rhyme (two lines ending with the same word) is to the ear. It jarred on me even when I first heard the speech spoken from the stage, on that memorable evening of October 31, 1900.
from Mrs. Shorter's THE FAIRY CHANGELING
Dermod O'Byrne of Omah town
In his garden strode up and down;
He pulled his beard, and he beat his breast;
And this is his trouble and woe confessed :
" The good-folk came in the night, and they
Have stolen my bonny wean away;
Have put in his place a changeling,
A weashy, weakly, wizen thing!
“From the speckled hen nine eggs I stole,
And lighting a fire of a glowing coal,
I fried the shells, and I split the yolk ;
But never a word the stranger spoke:
" A bar of metal I heated red
To frighten the fairy from its bed,
To put in the place of this fretting wean
My own bright, beautiful boy again.
" But my wife had hidden it in her arms,
And cried · For shame!' on my fairy charms;
She sobs, with the strange child on her breast :
• I love the weak, wee babe the best !"
To Dermod O'Byrne's, the tale to hear,
The neighbours came from far and near :
Outside his gate, in the long boreen,
They crossed themselves, and said between
Their muttered prayers, "He has no luck!
For sure the woman is fairy-struck,
To leave her child a fairy guest,
And love the weak, wee wean the best!"
A fascinating task would be to follow the process of Mr. Santayana's thought from sonnet to sonnet; but it must not be attempted here.
That the normal ear is offended by such a line as:
“O all fresh out of beautiful sunlight”,
Mr. Phillips can scarcely doubt.
And when a line hurts me, physically hurts me, like a fly in my eye or a nail in my shoe—I cannot help crying out..
I think Mr. Phillips would do well to consider whether it is my nerves or his that are singular, and whether, in such lines as the one I have chosen for an example, he is not, in obedience to a personal whim, inflicting needless pain on the great majority of educated and sensitive readers.
Oh, and his verbs and substantives, are all interchangeable!
That Herod might quite as well have conceived in gold, imagined in silver, thought in marble, and dreamt in bronze-indicates an unmistakable weakness.
×. . . . ×. . . . .. ×.
I am no naturalist, and should doubtless reveal startling depths of ignorance if I attempted to discuss the birds and flowers of transatlantic poets.
,,,,,,, ,,,,,, ,,,,,,
Perhaps, when a great Australian poet shall, in the fulness of time, arise, we may be able to discern why his coming has been delayed so long.
÷. .. .×, , , . ÷
By the mere process of dwelling upon it, I am becoming almost reconciled to the line:
"Agamemnon bowed over, and from his wheel."
If there be not in writing such as this a very peculiar delicacy and suavity, I am the more deceived.
We all know how quickly a thing encysts itself in the mind... as a bullet does in the body.
The fact is simply that the two initial trochees, which formerly set all my nerves ajar, have now hammered for themselves, as it were, a little indentation or socket in my mind, into which they slip easily, and with a sort of click.
I claim no special consideration for my nerves.
''''' ''''. ''''''::; ''''':
Metrical specialists, if I
may call them so, begin by ignoring the facts and assuming the absolute infallibility of Milton; and then, by long poring over the abnormal lines in Milton they come at last to think them the most beautiful he ever wrote.
Why has Canada three or four such specialists, and Australia, so far as I can discover, not one?
I ask myself in vain why this should be.
.... .... ...... ... ,,,,,, ...
To Mrs. Shorter the unseen world of semi-malignant elemental beings is quite as real as the tangible world of her five senses.
To be quite frank, one cannot but note that there are a good many passages in her work in which she seems to be manufacturing verse without inspiration..
Such a passage is the following:
And so you smiled, as though 'twas to your mind,
Saying belief sat well on womankind,
Fed their emotions, sentiments, and so
You loved a woman to a church to go,
But as I did not mind, you would remain
To write your book till I came home again.
If Mrs. Shorter be suffered, without protest, to rhyme "ideal ” with "steal," and to talk of “standing into a room” and “giving a want,” other poetesses may plead the sanction of her talent for similar slovenlinesses, to the gradual blurring of the boundary-line between good and bad English.
"""" , , . '. '. . .. ,
"A crying of dead prophets from their tombs,
A singing of dead poets from their graves."
These lines are undeniably beautiful; but to make them satisfying there ought to be some special reason why prophets should rest in tombs, poets, in graves.
This collocation of "tomb” and “grave” is to the mind what an identical rhyme (two lines ending with the same word) is to the ear. It jarred on me even when I first heard the speech spoken from the stage, on that memorable evening of October 31, 1900.
from Mrs. Shorter's THE FAIRY CHANGELING
Dermod O'Byrne of Omah town
In his garden strode up and down;
He pulled his beard, and he beat his breast;
And this is his trouble and woe confessed :
" The good-folk came in the night, and they
Have stolen my bonny wean away;
Have put in his place a changeling,
A weashy, weakly, wizen thing!
“From the speckled hen nine eggs I stole,
And lighting a fire of a glowing coal,
I fried the shells, and I split the yolk ;
But never a word the stranger spoke:
" A bar of metal I heated red
To frighten the fairy from its bed,
To put in the place of this fretting wean
My own bright, beautiful boy again.
" But my wife had hidden it in her arms,
And cried · For shame!' on my fairy charms;
She sobs, with the strange child on her breast :
• I love the weak, wee babe the best !"
To Dermod O'Byrne's, the tale to hear,
The neighbours came from far and near :
Outside his gate, in the long boreen,
They crossed themselves, and said between
Their muttered prayers, "He has no luck!
For sure the woman is fairy-struck,
To leave her child a fairy guest,
And love the weak, wee wean the best!"
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