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The unanimity of sorrow called
forth by the sudden death of the poet Richard
Hovey shows how widely his power was beginning
to make itself felt; but, with very few exceptions,
the sorrow has been expressed in a way that shows
a general sense of loss rather than a just appreciation
of Hovey’s genius. My object in this brief note
is to try to indicate the standing which, it seems
to me, must be allotted to his work by the most
dispassionate and guarded criticism of the future.
In making such a judgmen t I am keenly alive to
the perils of a friend’s prejudice, and am careful
to avoid all coloring from that source; but, granting
these allowances to be scrupulously made, it is
not unreasonable to claim that a friend, who has
known the poet’s aims and watched his progress
toward them step by step up to his sudden parting
from our visible activities, should be in a position
to take the measure of his achievement more immediately
than the world which stands far off.
Two things,
it seems to me, have tended to delay a right understanding
of Hovey’s position in the world of letters. One
of these is the fact that his first success in
catching the popular ear was gained through his
less serious work, a class of work which has since
served largely to label and characterize him in
the eyes of the reading public. In 1894, in collaboration
with Mr. Carman, he brought out a little book
of singularly spontaneous, fresh, and joyous verse,
called Songs from Vagabondia.
It was full of courage and comradeship, and large-hearted
mirth, and confident love. Readers were just then
rather tired of the plangencies of the minor key.
These lyrics, with their bold, resonant cadences
and their persistent major chords, found hearty
acceptance. The note was a new one, an assertive
one; and though there was nothing but internal
evidence (not very conclusive to the general reader
at any time) to distinguish the work of Hovey
from that of his collaborator, the more rollicking
and vagabondish verses fixed their flavor upon
Hovey’s fame, Mr. Carman having already made himself
known by work more serious. In consequence Hovey
found himself handicapped with a tenacious vogue
as the bard of vagabondia. When men get such virile,
singing verses as these:
"For
we’re all frank and twenty
When
the spring is in the air,
And
we’ve faith and hope a-plenty
And
we’ve life and love to spare;
And
it’s birds of a feather
When we all get together,
With a stein on the table and a heart without
a care.
"For
we know the world is glorious
And
the goal a golden thing,
And
that God is not censorious
When
His children have their fling;
And
life slips its tether
When
the boys get together,
With a stein on the table in the fellowship
of spring."
then
it is natural indeed that they should call for
more like them.
But
this is not Hovey. It represents but one side,
and by no means the most significant one, of his
many-sided genius.
The
second consideration to delay Hovey’s full acceptance
is the daring of his claim. By implication, and
at times by frank avowal, he repudiates the not
dishonorable rank of minor poet. He very early
decided to be a great poet. He was not content
to aim at less than the highest. His resolve was
to attack the weightiest subject in the largest
manner, and in this resolve he planned a series
of nine dramatic poems on the Arthurian legend,
wherein he saw still untouched possibilities for
presenting the problems of all time. When I have
heard him accused of not recognizing his limitations,
the obvious retort has seemed to be that they
were too far off to be seen easily. He was not
one of those who cultivate the ground complacently
within the fixed lines of their half-acre. Rather
he had the vision to see that his inheritance
was a kingdom, and confidently he set himself
to subdue it. He worked with diligence the fruitful
slopes, and the result we have,
but he was ready enough to go exploring the wastes
and barrens now and then, on the chance of unexpected
riches.
There
is, of course, no reason for complaint if the
world hesitates to acknowledge Hovey’s full significance.
The greater a poet’s claim, the more severely
should it be tested. Conservatism, academic suspicion
even, have their worth in such a case. Great poets,
great artists, do not drop in upon the world every
afternoon; and those who come professing greatness
ought to expect a time of coolness and a long
probation. The danger of this harsh attitude has
been bewailed to excess by sentimentalists, who
forget that the true inheritor of power will enforce
his prerogative in the end.
Hovey
has left to us the following published works—issued,
the first in 1889, the last in 1899:
The Laurel,an
Ode.
Lancelot and Guenevere.
Seaward, an Elegy.
Songs from Vagabondia (with
Bliss Carman).
The Marriage of Guenevere.
Mæterlink’s Plays, 2
vols. (translated).
More Songs from Vagabondia (with
Bliss Carman).
The Guest of Merlin.
The Birth of Galahad.
Along the Trail.
Taliesin.
Four
of these works, the two dramas, The Marriage
of Guenevere and The
Birth of Galahad, and
two masques, The Guest of Merlin and
Taliesin,
are all that he had completed of the nine which,
as I have said, were planned to present the Arthurian
cycle in its fullness. Besides these there remain
in the hands of his wife a number of unpublished
MSS.—several completed plays, some lyrics, and
a number of pregnant fragments.
Many
kindly reviewers speak of the dead poet’s wonderful
promise—but here is achievement so splendid that,
to those who have come face to face with it, all
talk of promise sounds idle. This bid for immortality
will be found sufficient. In Taliesin
his genius reaches a height of expression beyond
which he could hardly have hoped to go. Indeed,
some months ago, when he was full of hope, and
health, and large designs, I expressed this judgment
to him. He answered: "Yes, I doubt if I can
do anything better than Taliesin;
indeed, I may never do anything more as good!"
What
a height this is may be judged from the divine
rapture of the following passage from the Litany
chanted by King Evelac and the choristers in the
white choir of the Chapel of the Graal:
King Evelac:
As a stir in the air, when the aspens alone are
aware—
Choristers: We
have heard thee, Beloved.
King Evelac:As
a voice in a dream, as an echo of voice in a
dream—
Choristers: We
have heard thee, Beloved.
King Evelac: As
the birth of a rose, as the noise of an opening
rose—
Choristers: We
have heard thee, Beloved.
King Evelac:
As the song of the spheres, as the cry of the
lapse of
the years—
Choristers: We
have heard thee, Beloved.
King Evelac:
As a cloud in the sky, that dissolves ere it catches
the eye—
Choristers: We
have seen thee, Beloved.
King Evelac: As
a light in a face, that a moment sufficed to
efface—
Choristers: We
have seen thee, Beloved.
King Evelac:
As the breath of the moon in the lull of a midnight
in June—
Choristers: We
have seen thee, Beloved.
King Evelac:
As the vision supreme, when the prayer dies away
in the dream—
Choristers: We
have seen thee, Beloved.
King Evelac:
As the fingers that pass in the stir of the wind
in the
grass—
Choristers: We
have touched thee, Beloved.
King Evelac:
As a bird feels the air in its wings, to caress
and
upbear—
Choristers: We
have touched thee, Beloved.
King Evelac: As
the breadth of a lover is warm on the cheek of
his
love—
Choristers: We
have touched thee, Beloved.
King Evelac: As
the feel of the night and its spaces, about and
above—
Choristers: We
have touched thee, Beloved.
King Evelac: By
the cry of the heart in the darkness, to know
where thou art—
Choristers:
We beseech thee to hear us.
King Evelac:
By the grace thou hast shown, by the token and
touch we have known—
Choristers:
We beseech thee to hear us.
King Evelac: By
the vigil thou keepest about us, awake and
asleep—
Choristers:
We beseech thee to hear us.
King Evelac:
By thy coming at night, by the voice and the kiss
and the light—
Choristers:
We beseech thee to hear us.
King Evelac:
Listen to the fearfulness of our love.
Choristers:
And forgive us the unloveliness we have wrought.
The qualities
which seem to be most conspicuous in Hovey’s work
are these: Breadth and fullness of conception,
constructive power, robustness of imagination
and of passion, lofty idealism, capacity for dramatic
presentation of a theme, an astonishing mastery
of the technic of verse, and the cadence which
haunts and eludes. Some of these characteristics
are essential to all poetry worthy of the name.
If a singer has them all, he compels criticism
to admit him to the high and select companionship
of the poets who are called great. |
