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Heroes and Hero Worship-Part12_Thomas Carlyle(1795-1881)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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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" target="_blank" title="ad.内向；独自地">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 specificdifference, 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 arbitrarydistinction. 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" target="_blank" title="a.理想化了的">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 vulgardistinction 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" target="_blank" title="a.理想化了的">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 inwardharmony 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




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