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Page 23
But by no labour would M. de Puimorin achieve the first two lines of his
epigram. Then you remember what great allies came to his assistance. I almost
blush to think that M. Despre'aux, M. Racine, and M. de Molie're, the three
most renowned wits of the time, conspired to complete the poor jest, and
madden you. Well, bubble as your poetry was, you may be proud that it needed
all these sharpest of pens to prick the bubble. Other poets, as popular as
you, have been annihilated by an article. Macaulay puts forth his hand, and
'Satan Montgomery' was no more. It did not need a Macaulay, the laughter of a
mob of little critics was enough to blow into space; but you probably have met
Montgomery, and of contemporary failures or successes I do not speak.
I wonder, sometimes, whether the consensus of criticism ever made you doubt
for a moment whether, after all, you were not a false child of Apollo? Was
your complacency tortured, as the complacency of true poets has occasionally
been, by doubts? Did you expect posterity to reverse the verdict of the
satirists, and to do you justice? You answered your earliest assailant,
Linie're, and, by a few changes of words, turned his epigrams into flattery.
But I fancy, on the whole, you remained calm, unmoved, wrapped up in
admiration of yourself. According to M. de Marivaux, who reviewed, as I am
doing, the spirits of the mighty dead, you 'conceived, on the strength of your
reputation, a great and serious veneration for yourself and your genius.'
Probably you were protected by this invulnerable armour of an honest vanity,
probably you declared that mere jealousy dictates the lines of Boileau, and
that Chapelain's real fault was his popularity, and his pecuniary success,
Qu'il soit le mieux rente' de tous les beaux-esprits.
This, you would avow, was your offence, and perhaps you were not altogether
mistaken. Yet posterity declines to read a line of yours, and, as we think of
you, we are again set face to face with that eternal problem, how far is
popularity a test of poetry? Burns was a poet, and popular. Byron was a
popular poet, and the world agrees in the verdict of their own generation. But
Montgomery, though he sold so well, was no poet, nor, Sir, I fear, was your
verse made of the stuff of immortality. Criticism cannot hurt what is truly
great; the Cardinal and the Academy left Chime'ne as fair as ever, and as
adorable. It is only pinchbeck that perishes under the acids of satire: gold
defies them. Yet I sometimes ask myself, does the existence of popularity like
yours justify the malignity of satire, which blesses neither him who gives,
nor him who takes? Are poisoned arrows fair against a bad poet? I doubt it,
Sir, holding that, even unpricked, a poetic bubble must soon burst by its own
nature. Yet satire will assuredly be written so long as bad poets are
successful, and bad poets will assuredly reflect that their assailants are
merely envious, and, while their vogue lasts, that Prime Ministers and the
purchasing public are the only judges.
Monsieur,
Votre tre's humble serviteur,
Andrew Lang.
XI.
To Sir John Manndeville, Kt.
(Of the Ways Into Ynde.)
Sir John,--wit you well that men holden you but light, and some clepen you a
Liar. And they say that you never were born in Englond, in the town of Seynt
Albones, nor have seen and gone through manye diverse Londes. And there goeth
an old knight at arms, and one that connes Latyn, and hath been beyond the
sea, and hath seen Prester John's country. And he hath been in an Yle that men
clepen Burmah, and there bin women bearded. Now men call him Colonel Henry
Yule, and he hath writ of thee in his great booke, Sir John, and he holds thee
but lightly. For he saith that ye did pill your tales out of Odoric his book,
and that ye never saw snails with shells as big as houses, nor never met no
Devyls, but part of that ye say, ye took it out of William of Boldensele his
book, yet ye took not his wisdom, withal, but put in thine own foolishness.
Nevertheless, Sir John, for the frailty of Mankynde, ye are held a good
fellow, and a merry; so now, come, I shall tell you of the new ways into Ynde.
In that Lond they have a Queen that governeth all the Lond, and all they ben
obeyssant to her. And she is the Queen of Englond; for Englishmen have taken
all the Lond of Ynde. For they were right good werryoures of old, and wyse,
noble, and worthy. But of late hath risen a new sort of Englishman very puny
and fearful, and these men clepen Radicals. And they go ever in fear, and they
scream on high for dread in the streets and the houses, and they fain would
flee away from all that their fathers gat them with the sword. And this sort
men call Scuttleres, but the mean folk and certain of the womenkind hear them
gladly, and they say ever that Englishmen should flee out of Ynde. Fro England
men gon to Ynde by many dyverse Contreyes. For Englishmen ben very stirring
and nymble. For they ben in the seventh climate, that is of the Moon. And the
Moon (ye have said it yourself, Sir John, natheless, is it true) is of lightly
moving, for to go diverse ways, and see strange things, and other diversities
of the Worlde. Wherefore Englishmen be lightly moving, and far wandering. And
they gon to Ynde by the great Sea Ocean. First come they to Gibraltar, that
was the point of Spain, and builded upon a rock; and there ben apes, and it is
so strong that no man may take it. Natheless did Englishmen take it fro the
Spanyard, and all to hold the way to Ynde. For ye may sail all about Africa,
and past the Cape men clepen of Good Hope, but that way unto Ynde is long and
the sea is weary. Wherefore men rather go by the Midland sea, and Englishmen
have taken many Yles in that sea.
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