THE COSY CORNER CLUB.

Otago Witness, Issue 3100, 13 August 1913, Page 64

THE COSY CORNER CLUB.

TOPIC: POETRY OR PROSE? Which is the better form of literature? Which could the world least do without? Which do you prefer yourself? Please append to your paper one or two quotations from either prose or poetry that have et times served as an inspiration to you. Rearly every one of us has a few sheetanchors for times of difficulty, so even if you do not wish to write a paper, do send vour quotations. What has helped you may help others.

Tin's is not a very large meeting, and I hud expected a much bigger crop of “sheetanchors ” at any rate, though I was afraid the subject was rather wide to lend itself easily to discussion. Also I am afraid 1 unwittingly complicated it by not making it plain that it was only literature that I was thinking of. It certainly did not occur to me that anyone would think I was suggesting that war despatches and market reports and such like should be put into verso; but one does not always realise that what is perfectly clear to one’s own mind may not so appear to other people. This, of course, added to the difficulty of making a decision on such a question, most lovers of the beauty in poetry having to struggle with the sense of its impracticability for the ordinary concerns of life. The contribution sent by Alpha shows what a good discussion might have eventuated if all had treated the subject from the literary standpoint only. She favours poetry; Gabrielle and Eve, quite apart from practical considerations, give their votes to prose. Taffy, again, supports Alpha, while Scarlet Pimpernel, (Troon Tui, and Eex seem unable to make up their minds either one way or the other, though they would probably have found it easy if I had only made by meaning clearer. This leaves the opposing forces evenly divided, and therefore, as president, I have the casting vote, and—l give it in favour of poetry. Yes, I know we should miss a great deal if prose were no longer regarded as literature—those book friends of whom Gabrielle speaks and the list given by Eve, —yet the thought of a world without poetry, without file music of its rhythm and the beauty of its imagery, is to me unbearable. In fact, my ideas so exactly coincide with Alpha's that I shall say no more, but leave her to speak for both of us. Here is her paper.

Dear Elizabeth. —Possibly the question Could the world least do without poetry or prose? may seem puzzling- to some of your readers, because, however much they may admire poetry, they will think that prose is absolutely indispensable. But in this connection prose should refer only to literature —that is, composition intended to please, not merely to convey information. If wo were perforce compelled to dispense with prose literature, wo might still have our daily paper, our educational text-books, scientific treatises and so on. But wo should lose all prose fiction, prose essays and descriptive sketches, prose dramas, and such history, travel, and biography as is valued for its form apart from its substance. Here, as elsewhere, it would doubtless be difficult to draw the Hue—to decide between literature and, to use Charles lamb’s phrase, “books which are no books’’; but the principle is clear. I, if compelled to choose between poetry and prose, should choose poetry. It is the form of literature that has given mo throughout life the highest and keenest pleasure, and I think it would be a greater loss to the

world than such other writings as are not absolutely indispensable for teaching and ordinary intercourse. Poetry is the earliest form of composition. Rhythm and verbal music satisfey a deep-rooted aesthetic instinct, and the imagery of poetry is the natural way of expressing deep emotion. Before the invention of writing, poetical composition was naturally preferred to prose, from its being more easily committed to memory, apart from its aesthetic delight. And for us still poetry has the advantage of easy remembrance. A stanza or single line of verse will often be recalled and delight us by its beauty or sustain us by its noble thought, while the same idea expressed in prose would not cling to the memory. I have often been struck by finding how few people seem to have any genuine appreciation of poetry. The English people stand first in modern poetry, yet tne masses seem singularly unpoetical. Contrast the poetical language of a Maori orator with the bald, tamo verbiage of the ordinary British speaker. I think there is no doubt that as a whole the people of England were far more poetical in Elizabeth’s time than now. Colonials, as a rule, seem singularly prosaic and deficient in perception of verbal beauty. I think the deficiency is largely to bo changed to our modern system of education. X am afraid science is antagonistic to poetry. But this is not poetry’s fault; for poetry, though not concerned with fact as such, is the best medium for the conveyance of eternal truths. Much of the Old Testament was written in the form of poetry, and though Inis is disguised by translation we can still bo thrilled by the noble imagery of the Psalms, the Bock of Job. and the prophets. The poets I have found most helpful are Shakespeare. Wordsworth. Tennyson, and Browning. I could fill pages with favourite passages, but will confine myself to one or two that may not bo very commonly quoted.—Yours truly. ALPHA. (1) From the “Passing of Arthur”— passage beginning The old order changclh, yielding place to new. And God fulfils Himself in many ways, Lest on© good custom should corrupt the world (2) Matthew Arnold’s “ Morality ” We cannot kindle when we will The fire which in the heart resides; The spirit bloweth, and is still, In mystery our sold abides. But tasks in hours of insight willed Can be, through hours of gloom, fulfilled. (3) Wordsworth's ” Ode to Duty.” 1 quote one verse— Stern law-giver, yet thou dost wear The Godhead’s most benignant grace; Xor know we anything so fair As is the smile upon thy face Piowers laugh before thee on their beds, And fragrance on thy footing treads; Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong. And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong. (4) Browning’s “Abt Yogler” and “Rabbi Ben Ezra,” the two most inspiring and sustaining poems I know. (5) Aubrey de Voice beautiful eonnet “ Sorrow ” Count each affliction, whether light or grave. God's messenger sent down to thee; do thou With courtesy receive him, rise, and bow; And, ere his shadow pass thy threshold, crave Permission first his heavenly feet to lave; Then lay before him all thou hast, allow No cloud of passion to usurp thy brow. Or mar thy hospitality; no wave Of mortal tumult to obliterate The soul’s memorial calmness. Grief should bo Like joy—majestic, equable, sedate. Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free, Strong to consume small troubles, to commend Great thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts lasting to the end. You seem to bo the only one. Alpha, who looked at the subject from the point of view that I had in mind myself—that is, regarding the question purely as a literary one. 1 agree with you, though, that it would bo very difficult to draw the lino between what is literature and what is not. Yes, poetry has somewhat a hard time of it in this material age; but the instinct is still there, and very vigorous considering everything; do you not think so? Dear Elizabeth, —The idra of a world without poetry was exploited long ages ago, and found wanting. It arose out of a wordy battle between Osiris and Isis. To prove his independence of his wife’s existence, Osiris undertook to create a world and make n perfectly happy creature wholly and I solely without her self-appreciated aid. Iris ! smiled inwardly, but said nothinfi. She knew I her lord's limitations, and could afford to await. Osiris soon found it necessary to | add additional blessings for his creature’s comfort. He gave him colour. . . . . And all the flowers of the garden Bathed his shining feet with their tears and anointed his tresses With the delicious balm that (hey boro in their vases of crystal. Interest in that' lasted for a limited time; then sound was sent for his cheering. Then, from a neighbouring thicket, the mocking bird, the wildest of singers. Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o’er the water. Shook from his little throat such floods of delicious music That the whole air. and the woods, and the waves seemed silent to listen. When he again moped Osiris poured on him his one remaining gift, that of motion. O’er his ankles flowed the streamlet, Spouted through the chinks below him, Dashed upon the stor.es beneath him. From the bottom rose the beavers. Silently above the surface. Even that degree of poetry proved ineffectual. Isis. in gentle pity ro see the man pining almost unto death, added the note that has never since given him time to weary. She tossed her bundle of knitting at the forlorn one’s feet, and when he raised his eyes at the sound a woman was bending over him. It remained to Herrick to express the astonished man’s sentiments. When. as in silks my Julia goes. Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows That liquefaction of her clothes. Xex-t, when I cast my eyes and see That bravo vibration each way free, O how that glittering taketh mo! The fatal error in Osiris's experiment was in giving the man no work. With the woman’s advent work appeared also, and leisure for weariness of heart departed. Then was there less need of poetry. Modern harvest fields are cleared quite effectually without Evangeline to carry the home-brewed ale. The cows give as much milk if the byre is presided over by unpoetical boys. If either poetry or prose had

to be dispensed with, of course poetrv would have to go. Imagine war despatches sent in verse! Conceive a quotation for frozen mutton in rhyme ! Mine own fancy chooses poetry; but there will b© so many profound poets present that, instead of introducing any more wisdom, I ask a place for the gonial Punch. The lass I love, O rod’s her cheek, Her eyes are bits of heaven; The reason isn’t hard to seek — Her mother’s out of Devon. The lass I love, her plaits are black, Her tongue is soft and merry— Her granddad, got his peddler’s pack Among the hills o’ Kerry. The lass I love has thrift for three, For ’twas her mother’s granny That -doved a sailor from Dundee, Where all the folk are cannie. Xow naught o’ hers I’ve found to link Wi' the land of leek and daffy. And yet she’s thieved my heart (I’ll think), So there’s your touch o' TAFFY. True it is, Taffy, that the rosy-cheekcd milkmaid of poetry, with her bodice and kirtlo and her bare feet tripping over the dew. lias been replaced in this part of the world by the cowboy in dungarees and muddy boots. Yet, as you say, we got our milk all the same, ami I always did wonder how the milkmaid fared in winter! Dear Elizabeth. —At first glanee it seems that there should be nothing more simple, than to answer the questions which make for to-day’s topic such an interesting subject ; but I really wonder if you know what a difficulty you have sot before us all I That poetry is a bettor form of literature than prose would appear to he, the answer

to your first query, because of the greater difficulties that are experienced in composition, the rules that must be observed, and tin* intricacies that have to he overcome in the telling of a story in verse, which has to conform to all the laws of rhyme and metre. Yet [roots are born, not made, so that to the poet the writing of verse is a natural gift, which requires no more from him than does prose from the prose-writer. Take the masterpieces of prose and of verso and make comparison. T hey stand together, not apart, with no dividing link between them. To your second query I find a much readier answer. If you sit down quietly and in cold blood eliminate from the world cither poetry or prose, by all means banish the first-named. We would do it with much regret, I know, but we could certainly do least well without prose. I’roso represents the work of the world ; poetry, its recreation. We can do without the sweets of life, but bread is needful to us all. And a world without, prose i>s not to be thought of —it •would be a world run mad. Consider the prose of everyday—our books, our newspapers, our business letters, even the advertisements of the'things necessary to guide us to the satisfying of our common needs; consider all these turned to poetry: it is quite a horrifying state of affairs. In this state of existence wo might browse to our hearts’ content upon our favourite poets, hut we would find ourselves sadly hampered without our prose. In personal preference, too, I think my allegiance must go to prose, though in so saying I feel I must make it clear that I am also a true lover of good poetry. But the scope of prose-writing is so much greater than that of poetrv ; it embraces all subjects—travel, history, biography. essays, with many another subject that poetry cannot touch. Because of this wider scope prose represents to me the greater and more powerful of the two forms of literature. Possibly it may seem paradoxical. after my espousal of the cause of prose, to send you out. of three “ inspirations” two from the poet’s pen; yet so lias “inspiration” e.ome to mo. Nothing has helped rne more than these thre« inspirn t : ons to hope and courage. First come IVov.-ping's nob’e lines— One who never turned his back, but marched breast forward. Never doubted clouds would break, Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph,

Held wo fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, Sleep to wake. The verses of the second singer I quote from memory, and must ask for excuse if the words should not be quite accurate —- Be strong! Wo are not here to play, to dream, to drift; Wo have hard work to do, and loads to lift. Shun not the struggle, face it; ’tis God’s gift. Be strong! It matters not bow hard the day. how long; How fierce the battle rage, the too how strong. Fear not; fight on!—to-morrow comes the song. And Last of all a line or two of prose, full of tho help that js requisite for the life of every day:—“Remember, that though we cannot see the pattern which our lives: are weaving, we can go on bit by bit, remembering that there is a pattern, and that one day wo shall understand why tho dark shades and the long plain pieces and the bright glad colours were sent us.” EVE. Browning is full of inspirations, is lie not, my dear Eve? It seems strange that a man whose lines were—especially for a poet —cast in comparatively pleasant places should have written so much of encouragement to tho fighter. Your choice of poetical inspirations is not really so paradoxical as it seems, for it is, of course, owing to the fact that poetry sticks in the memory so much better than prose. A fragment of poetry will often flash unbidden into one's mind, while prose rarely does so. unless it is some particularly short and pithy sentence. I do hope that you will be able to comment on the papers sometimes, though you could not this time, and I hope other members will do the same. It makes the meetings so much more interesting.

Dear Elizabeth. —All the world over, I think, students of literature would answer your first question with the word “prose.” This is not decrying its beautiful sister art, whoso music throbs throng’ll ail the ages and in every land. To rob the earth of her poets would be sacrilege. Yet in truly good prose—the “best,” in the literal sense of the word -is there not. held all the elements of poetry?—the glow, the fire, the music, the strength of rich thought from the master-mind —and something added. Assuredly, where the brain of the writer knows not. only his matter, hut the words wherein to clothe it, prose is poetry, lacking only its rhyme. In running sequence we can add: the world without her poets would be lost ; the world without her prose is unthinkable. The one is thought itself, the other is its embroideries. Many poets have found theme for their finest works from legend or history; but those histories that they gleaned their harvest from could not have been given to us in verse. Then there is the imagination of the mighty world of fiction—that is the human note to which all respond. Who lias not hook-friends who are as real to them as though they had actually lived - whose joys are pleasure and whose griefs are woe? It opens too long a path. I will quote instead: “To be influenced by books is not to be moved by things dead and useless. It is to listen to voices, silent, yet ever living.” I admire poetry in all its beauty; but cast my vote for prose. From the former storehouse, however, I sort out those few bright lines from “Pippa Passes.” because tho last two hold that which we would fain remember, but too often forget - The year’s at the spring, And day’s at the morn ; Morning’s at seven The hillside’s dew-pearled ; The lark’s on the wing; Tho snail’s on the thorn; God's in His heaven All’s right with the world. Tho same thought is given to us.' but more grave]v—perhaps for a darker day.— by Gerald Massey when he writes of hope, and Bays —- For God is over all, and Heaven above thee. Wirh this I will close, only adding from prose that pithy sentence— We must climb before we can have our visions. GABRIELLE. You, too. have gone to Browning for your

inspiration, Gabriollo. Perhaps the reason that he appeals to so many people is the fact that some of his poetry is so like prose in its ruggedness, and therefore is not too far removed from the atmosphere of everyday life. If poetry is “embroidery,” then his is of such bold design that it seems part of the texture, not a carefully-applied mosaic, like Tc-nnvgou’s, for instance.

Dear Elizabeth, —The subject for the meeting this time is "whether you prefer poetry' or prose. For my part 1 have a warm love for them both. 1 have a friend who is an expert at combining them both, and 1 have listened to him preach and lecture for a great many years, and it has been one of the joys of life to sit hack in my scat and drink in all he says in the beautiful realm of prose and poetry. I think it would prove a happy union to marry Mr Prose to Miss Poetry, and I would watch the union with the happiest results. Bulwer Lytton, in “Eugene Aram,” says: “I do love poetry; it smooths a man's heart like «■ clothes brush, wipes away the dust and dirt, and sets all the nap right.” I think the world would prove to bo duller and more sad if we had no singing and poetry. To make a homely illustration, I think prose and poetry are like bread and jam; or, better still, like bread and honey.: you require both to sweeten life. “Poetry makes for personality inasmuch as it makes for ideality, and the truly great man amongst us is one who, having failed to realist' the idea! set up by our poets, can at last idealise the real. Poetry teaches us how the attainment of either of those blessed states can be accomplished. A knowledge of Shakespeare, Burns. Shelley, Kcates, Cowpor, or the other high priests of Nature is better than a superficial knowledge of a score. With those men we have something in common,

inasmuch as we are all human.” I like this little poem by Charles Kingsley. It was in this charming way that Kingsley wrote to his wife— The world goes up. and the world goes clown, And the sunshine follows the rain; And yesterday’s sneer and yesterday’s frown Can never come back again. Sweet wife. No, never come back again. | For woman is warm, though man be cold, And til© night will follow the day, Till the heart which at even was weary ai d cold Can rise in the morning, gay, Sweet wife. To its work in the morning, gay, 1 like this pros© extract, by Emerson, an address delivered before the Senior Class in Divinity College, Cambridge, Sunday evening, July 15, 1838; “In this refulgent summer it ban been a luxury to draw the breath of life. Tho grass grows, the buds hurst, the meadows are spotted with fire and gold in the tint of flowers. The air is full of birds and sweet with iho breath of life, of pine, the halm of Gilead, and the now hay. Night brings no gloom to tin' heart with its welcome shade. Through the transparent darkness the stars pour their almost spiritual rays. Man, under them, seems a young child, and his huge globe a toy. Tho cool night bathes the globe as with a river, and prepares his eyes again for the crimson dawn. Tho mystery of Nature was never displayed more happily. Ihe corn and tho wine have been freely dealt to all creatures, and the never-broken silence with which the oh! bounty goes forth has not yielded yet one word of explanation. One is constrained to respect the perfection of tin's world in wllicit our senses converse. How wide, how rich, what invitation from every property it gives to every faculty of man! 11l its fruitful soils, in its navigable rivers, and sea. In its mountains of metals and stone. In its forests, of all woods, in its animals. In its chemical ingredients. in its power and path of light and heat, attraction and life. it. is well worth the pith and heart of great men to subdue and enjoy it, the planters and mechanics, th© inventors, the astronomers, the builders of cities, and the captains history delights to honour.” LEX. Perhaps I should have counted you among the prose contingent, Lex, judging by your illustrations. Wo could, after all, live on bread without the honey, hut hardlv on honey without th© bread though it would in sooth be a dull meal

Dear Elizabeth, —What a fine subject we have to write on tins time. It has ai&o the quaiificati on of being humorous, which is saying a great deal for it. Before I begin, however, 1 should Uco to euy that I urn giving no prose quotations whatever, li any are required I think that there is quite enougn prose in this letter to satisfy the most fastidious, don’t you? I think that prose is sometimes very commonplace—very ! Still, sometimes some very beautiful thoughts are expressed in tin’s method. For myseit I am generally in favour of using this agency to express myself—or, rather, my ideas. I always have great trouble m getting the correct rhyme and rhythm. Anyway how docs this sound — My dear Mr Jones, lean tell by your tones -That your feelings arc a!! very sad.

■^-tux. I think 111 stick to prose after all. I am afraid that there are a great many people who profess to bo poets who turn out poetry ot a very questionable nature. I\ow, I think that there axe a groat man folk quite capable of doing worse, fio as 1 said before, stick to prose. Now a little for the other side. In poetry one sees sometimes the most beautiful thoughts ■ lake, for instance, Tennyson's I eats. Idle Tears.” In the last vers* especially this is evident, and I am quifo sure that no one, no matter how clever, could put the same thought ne beautifully in prose Another instance conies to my mind vlnch I will quote. Mere it ie-

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting, The sou! that rises with us, our life’s staj. Hath elsewhere had its setting, And conieth from afar, Xot iir entire forgetfulness. And not in utter nakedness

iJut trailing clouds of glory, do wo come From God, who is our Home.

M Ik) in prose could adequately praise ouch a piece of poetry, let alone express the thought itself through that medium? I arn afiatd the world could not- possibly dispense with cither prose or poetry, so for my part 1 will leave things os they are. not that I could do much myself, but still 1 should not like to say that the world must do I without cither of thorn. Fact of the matter is, it wouldn t. I hope my small exhibition of prose has interested you. If so, I'm satisfied; if • not —oh, well, if has! SCARLET PIMPER.NED. You will see that .1 have given you your old name of Scarlet Pimpernel. Do you really wish to change it? It has a fine dashing sound about it, and it is really not a bit too long; hut, of course, if you would rather have another 1 have nothing to say, except tnat 1 firmly refuse to have anything to do witn the olio you chose lor this time. It always suggests to mo one of those “ huffy ” sort of people who are my pet aversions, and I couldn't bear with one in the Cosy Corner Club really, if you must! have another, choose something else, “an you love me,” as tlu> poet* used to say. Dear Elizabeth, —Just a few linos of greeting to our new president of Cosy Corner Club, ft was good to see it started again* Greetings to all comrades. For practical purposes prose must appear as the better form of literalure, and could be least clone without by the world. For, if all cur splendid reading in books, papers, etc., had to he done m poetry (much as I love it), it would he tedious. Those who do not love poetry lose a great deal. I th,nk wo cannot dispense with eitner prose or poetry. For sheet anchors my quotations often debend on ihe mood. For most times the standard anchom are Trust no future, howe'er pleasant, Let the dead past burv its dead; Act. act, in the living present, Heart within a-nd God c'erliead. Whoso putteth his hand to the plough, let him not turn back. Don't cross a bridge until you coroe to It. What tho’ oov bum-el y fare wo dino, Wear hodden, grey, and n' that. The rank is but. the guinea stamp, Tho man’s ■ gowd for a’ that. GKKK\ TUT. That proverb of yours i.« a useful reminder in these worrying days, (Leon Tui. Many of us make as much fuse if we think there is a troublesome bridge in sighr, as if we had tumbled in and were drowning rapidly I Third meeting. September 57. Papers to he in by September 6, TOPIC: DOES MODERN EDUCATION! TEND TO DEVELOP CHARACTER? We all know that the character of a nation depends on the character of the individual* composing it. We ail know, too, that w« look upon education as one of the principal aids to national development. .But many people arc asking, people all over the world, whether tile present system of education does fulfil its true function of “ drawing out" the best that is in the individual. We can see the rising generation growing up around us. Tell ns what von think about it.