The Aerial View of Parnassus (Literature as Objective Knowledge)

Abstract

In I820, Thomas Love Peacock published a clever piece of literary paradox entitled Four Ages of Poetry, in which he contrived to work off his irritation some contemporary poets by arguing mocking plausibility with progress of reason and civilization, facts become more interesting than fiction' and for this reason poetry falls into desuetude and decay, its illusions dissipated by the sciences of morals and mind in their advance to perfection. We know, Peacock tells us, that there are no Dryads in Hyde-park nor Naiads in Regent's-canal,2 poetry must be remote from our ordinary perceptions and while historian and natural philosopher are advancing in, and accelerating, progress of knowledge, poet is wallowing in rubbish of departed ignorance, and raking up ashes of dead savages to find gewgaws and rattles for grown babies of age.3 An era of intellectual maturity (like nineteenth century) could broadmindedly allow poetry had been: the mental rattle awakened attention of intellect in infancy of civil society,4 but successive ages of increased enlightenment had made it clear 'intellectual power, or intellectual acquisition' had 'turned themselves into other and better channels'. Mathematicians, astronomers, chemists, moralists, metaphysicians, historians, politicians and political economists had built into upper air of intelligence a pyramid,5 from summit of which they could survey negligible modern Parnassus beneath them. Let me repeat in I820 this assault on poetry was ironic and flippant, just as praise accorded to science, philosophy and social science, all of which Peacock profoundly distrusted, was ironic and flippant. But I wonder how many modern readers, settling to read Four Ages of Poetry, would now be sensitive to its satire. As early as 1825 Macaulay was gravely asserting: We think as civilization advances poetry almost necessarily declines,6 and Spencer, Huxley and a host of earnest promoters of what Peacock had called solid and conducive studies succeeded in turning satirist's mockery into a solemn climate of opinion prevails to this day. A year or two ago, spell of Saint Valentine's Day took possession of a B.B.C. television team which went into streets of London to way-lay a sample of passers-by three questions: (I) What are poets like? (2) Can you name any poem? (3) Can you recite any lines of poetry? Vacuous 'don't knows' apart, there was some consensus poets had long hair and were either sickly or effeminate or both. Most of those interviewed could in fact give title of one poem; several could recite a line, or even two or three lines of verse (usually beginning of Wordsworth's 'Daffodils'), though no one was equal to any kind of sustained quotation. Clearly, man literally in street could hardly have known less or cared less about poetry, Saint Valentine's Day or not; and I suspect, without at all adopting severe standard of (say) Dr. Leavis as to what is acceptably to be called poetry, interviewers would not have fared conspicuously better if they'd concentrated on a cross-section of students in higher education.7