What is Poetry? *

Literatur: anonym
Literatur: The Mercersburg Review


[382] In our college days we enjoyed the rare privilege of attending a course of lectures on Æsthetics by Dr. Rauch, first President of Marshall College, who, whilst he devoted his attention principally to the philosophy of Mind and Morals, demonstrated by these lectures that he was equally at home in the philosophy of Art. The impression which they produced on those who heard them, and on many who heard of them, will not be soon erased. They were, perhaps, the first strictly scientific course of lectures on the philosophy of the Fine Arts ever delivered before an American College. They were, certainly, the means of introducing his students into an entirely new world of ideas, to which, at the time, there was no access in the current English literature. With the desire of assisting in promoting the interest in aesthetical studies, which has been on the increase in this country and England for the last ten or fifteen years, it is proposed in this article to enlarge upon, and to reproduce, in a free way, some of the views advanced by our honored teacher, now no more, on this interesting department of science. In doing so, we are happy in saying that [383] any want of distinct recollection on our part respecting what we heard, now eighteen years ago, has in a great measure been provided against by more or less reflection on the general subject, as well as by a careful study of standard German writers, who have treated the science of Æsthetics in the same spirit and stood in the same school with Rauch.

In the present paper we design to take a view of poetry in some of its more general relations, and, if possible, to show something of its nature and mission.

In order to arrive at a proper idea of poetry, or to answer the oft repeated, but seldom answered question, what is poetry, it is necessary for us, in the first place, to inquire into the nature and meaning of Art, inasmuch as poetry is one of the Fine Arts, and carries with it the nature of art in general.

It is very common to hear individuals speak of Nature and Art in the way of contrast, or of opposition to each other, as though they were entirely different spheres of life or thought. Thus the hacknied question, which are the most beautiful, the works of nature or art, hinges upon this supposed antithesis, and continues to be debated, without any hope, as it would seem, of a satisfactory solution. The popular view leans decidedly in favor of the works of nature, because, according to the common argument, God is the author of nature, whilst man is the author of art. But is it true that God works only in the natural world, whilst the sphere of art is left to the wisdom and ingenuity of man? We reply that there is nothing less philosophical than such a supposition. It is true that nature is simply the development of the divine will, which penetrates and animates those laws, by which its frame-work is held together. But it is certainly an error to suppose that the divine power breaks off abruptly with the irrational world, and has nothing to do with the productions of human intelligence. The works of art are produced by the free development of the human imagination, but the laws, by which they are evolved, are as much the expression of the [384] divine will as those that give form to the various productions either of the vegetable or mineral world. The same power, that forms the icicle, the dew-drop, or the rose, reigns as law just as supremely, in the evolution of works of poetry, sculpture or painting. It is true, art is penetrated with hunian consciousness, whilst nature is not, and this at once elevates it into a higher sphere than that of the blind productions of nature. But this is simply a distinction, and not such a difference as emancipates it from the power of divine and eternal laws. Art stands in nature, and is properly a part of it, but its constant tendency is to rise above and beyond it, by taking up into it its, diversified forms, and then refining them and filling them with a clearer and more distinct meaning, until it approaches in the way of type, shadow, or prophecy, the great infinite and eternal Beyond, in which the universe itself finds its truth and significance. As thus related; nature and art form a living unity, and they should not be abstractly sundered. Art without nature, becomes fantastic and meaningless, whilst, on the other hand, nature without art is deprived of her legitimate exponent and is shorn of her beauty.

Art, however, has its proper antithesis, and this it finds in the idea of Science. In order to orient ourselves more fully in regard to the subject before us, it will be of service to us, if we consider somewhat in detail the difference, or as the Germans say, the Gegensatz, involved in the case. Science commences with the particular, that is, with single events, facts or phenomena, but only with the view of arriving at the general principles, which animate them, and give them their particular form or subsistence. This remark applies, of course, to science in its rise and progress, and not its consummation; for when its end has been reached, that is, when general laws and principles have been eliminated, the process is reversed, and science, from her imperial throne sways a more than regal sceptre over the realms of facts or phenomena, holds them under her power by the omnipotence of law, and proceeds to extend her dominions [385] by subjecting new facts and phenomena to her authority, When, however, science thus becomes organized, the particular is lost in the general, and, though individuals may be preserved for the purpose of confirming deductions already made, or of being admired as matters of taste, they possess only a subordinate interest.

Art, on the other hand, takes its rise in the ideal world, and is, first and foremost, exclusively concerned with the general or the universal. The artist has as keen an eye as the philosopher to penetrate the inner nature and truth of things, which he does by a species of inspiration or intuition, and not by the hard study, and tedious experiments of the man of science. But when he has attained to such a vision of the inner soul of things, he is not satisfied, as the mere theorizer would be, nor has he attained to the end of art. He has formed an ideal, which exists within him as a germ, involving a power that cannot lie dormant, when the proper conditions for its evolution are at hand. It is still without form and void, but, in accordance with a law of life, that is supreme every where, it seeks to embody itself, and as far as possible to become tangible to the outer senses of man. It exists in the mind, not as an abstraction, but as a living power. Igneus est ollis vigor et coelestis origo seminibus. The material for its embodyment, is ever at hand in the external world, in nature, in history, in man, and it is the mission of the artist, guided by a genial imagination and the laws of taste, to shape and transform the rude material until it is best adapted to represent the particular thought or idea, which has been fermenting in his mind. This involves an inward union of thought and form, of the ideal and the real, of the invisible and the visible, and of the infinite and the finite, in a word, a concrete unity unfolding itself in diversity. When this coalescing process is completed, we have a work of art, "a thing of beauty", a which is admired by all, not because it is useful, not because it is a means, to some other end, or on account of the skill it displays, but simply because it is beautiful.

Thus it will be perceived that whilst science proceeds [386] from the particular to the general, and then rests from its labors on the etherial summit which it has reached; art, on the other hand, proceeds from the general to the particular, and when it has succeeded in uniting the two, it rests and enjoys its sabbath also. The philosopher lias discovered the true, the object of his search; the artist has found the beautiful, and this is the end af his labours.

But whilst art and science are thus antipodes, it must not be supposed that they have nothing in common, or that they do not gravitate towards a common centre. This were contrary to all analogy, and to the well established truth, that nothing in the universe can stand in a state of isolation. All spheres of life and activity have a mutual connection, or basis of support. Truth, as already said, is the object and end of all science and philosophy, whilst Beauty is the end of art. But these ideas, the True and the Beautiful, though divergent, are nevertheless in God, their source, one and the same, for He is the absolute Truth and at the same time the absolute Beauty. Beauty, according to Plato, is the reflection of Truth. It is simply the embodiment of truth in the various forms of art, which it animates and through which it emits the mild radiance of its divine original. There are, however, two different methods of representing truth to the contemplation of the mind. In the one case, it is presented under its naked or its abstract form, with as little assistance from the senses as possible. This is the mission of science; in the other case, it appears under concrete and sensible forms in accordance with laws of taste. This is art.

Now as there can be no science where there is no truth as its basis, so there is no art in the sphere of error, falsehood, or deceit. When the artist, accordingly, panders to a corrupt public opinion, attempts to varnish over vice, or to give expression to his subjective lust or infidelity, he has lost his polar star, profaned the name of art, and forfeited his niche in the temple of the muses. His works may enjoy an ephemeral popularity; they may bring money into his pocket, whilst he, Voltaire-like, enjoys for a time [387] the acclamations of an adoring throng. But when the next wave of human progress makes its appearance, they are swept away and forgotten. Think of the fecundity of ancient art. Its productions are now for the most part buried amid the ruins of the past, as many of them doubtless deserved to be. Yet they have not all of them been overtaken by a like disastrous fate. The works of Homer, of Sophocles, and of Phidias, remain with us, and are still the admiration of the civilized world. It is true they were produced in the midst of heathenism and abounding errors of every kind. But the civilization of the ancient heathen was not a mass of unadulterated error; there were rays of light and truth mingled with their superstition, of which the artist freely availed himself, and by which ae was inspired to embody in immortal forms his ideals of truth and beauty. Art, of course, varies its character with the age or the land in which it is produced. Thus we have Egyptian, Grecian, or Assyrian art. We have also a Heathen or Mohammedan art, and under the light of Christianity, we have a Christian art. Its character depends entirely upon the soil in which it grows, and its intrinsic value will vary with the amount of truth which is involved in a given form of civilization. But in the midst of all these variations, there is that which is immutable and eternal. The outward form may lose its value and interest, but. the soul, which it enshrines, strikes a sympathetic cord wherever truth finds an adherent or a worshipper. Hence, true Christianity is never hostile to the art of any nation or age, except as it is misapplied or untrue to itself, and the Christian, who stands on the loftiest eminence on the plain of the world's history, admires the works of ancient genius, is himself ennobled by their study, and freely permits them to operate as an element in shaping the general cnlture of his times.

Thus far we have discussed the nature of art in general, but in these remarks, we have, at the same time, also been discussing the general nature of each particular art, They, however, find a fuller illustration, and a more extensive [388] application in poetry than in any other of its sister arts, for poetry is the most expressive and the most universal of them all. Architecture, Sculpture, Painting and Music are all more or less circumscribed in their range, and, from their very nature, they can afford only particular glances into the ideal world. This is owing toof ideas, such as marble, color, or sound. Poetry, on the the character of the material, which, of necessity, they are constrained to use for the expression other hand, has no limits of this kind. The "boundless universe is hers." Human speech is the flexible and etherial material, which she shapes for her use, and converts into every possible form of beauty. The word, instinct with life, is the most energetic and universal of all other symbols. Under the wand of genius, it may, like the marble or the canvass, be made to reflect all the of beauty in nature, or, penetrating the world of consciousness, to depict the feelings and sentiments of the human breast with more life and power than either Painting or Music. Poetry, with this mode of expression, and with such a talisman, takes her flight into still higher regions, whither the other arts never ascend. She expresses pure thought, divested of its sensuous covering, and in ite most refined form.

If, now we consider poetry as one of the arts, its specific character will be best understood, by distinguishing it from that sphere of activity, to which it sustains a polar relation. Poetry and prose constitute the antagonism. This is so evident, that, as we all know, they are not unfrequently brought into unhappy collision. In the hands of the uninitiated they even make offensive inroads upon each other's provinces, and seriously interfere with each other's particular vocation. It is not seldom the case, that the veriest prose imaginable, dressed up in verse, or jingling with discordant rhyme, is made to pass off as the genuine article of poetry, and the sober facts of prose-life are painted in all the colors of the rainbow, so that the reader, if he is not inclined to be critical, might be led to suppose he was reading the latest attempt at producing a national [389] epic. As a consequence, we meet with poetic prose or prosy poetry, just as one or the other element predominates. They are incongruities, truly, in the sphere of the arts. They involve a palpable confusion of ideas which are distinct, and, whose boundaries, though contiguous, are nevertheless clearly marked and should be sacredly observed. By this allusion to a rather numerous company at the foot of Parnassus, we of course mean no disparagement to what is sometimes regarded as the humbler taste of writing plain prose. To do the latter successfully, requires art and cultivation of the highest kind. But poetry is a province distinct and has given rise to a different branch of art.

Prose varies in its character. It may be either deseriptive, narrative, argumentative or speculative, but in all cases itis simply reproductive, and faithfulness, to the objective world, which it describes or investigates, is essentially necessary. The historian is expected to narrate events just as they occurred, and is not allowed to omit any of the facts on the one hand, nor on the other, to give too much significance, or too high a coloring to those which he details. He penetrates the meaning of his materials and unfolds the laws of human progress. It is his office to discover what is, not to invent, and he is, therefore, no poet or maker. Oratory seeks to persuade and convince, and this is accomplished, when the orator has proved, that a particular case belongs to a general principle, truth or rule. He, as well as the historian, adorns his productions with flowers culled in the garden of poetry, but these are kept in proper subordinate relation to the ultimate effect, which is to be produced. It is a sad mistake, therefore, in an oration, when it is so constructed, that the audience forget the particular point, which is to be established, and are thrown into an ecstacy of admiration at the gorgeous imagery under which it is concealed. Oratory, like history and science in general, creates nothing; it simply reveals what already has an existence in the natural order of things.

Poetry, on the one hand, is inventive, creative, productive. The poet must have as strict regard for truth as the prose-[390]writer, but in his representation of it he is not bound by the objective order in which events or phenomena have taken place in the real world. He is perfectly free to select, omit facts, or to create, just as it may best suit his purpose. In this respect he is altogether an eclectic. With poetic instinct, peculiarly his own, he gathers such material as may be necessary for his work, from the broad fields of nature or history, and with plastic power, gives them such a form, as will be best adapted to reflect his thoughts. To Homer it was quite immaterial whether the siege of Troy was what he describes it, or simply a piratical excursion of the early Greeks. With the few facts, handed down by history, he created a siege of his own, which, though it were entirely fictitious, has concentrated, as it were, into one of the focal points of history, the rich heroic life of ancient Greece, and with more effect than the historian, with his materials, could have done. Virgil, following in his footsteps, describes the result of that memorable siege, the Trojan horse, the horrors of burning Troy, with its midnight fires lighting up the neighboring coast. It is, of course, the creation of the poet, but what of that? The whole scene finds its meaning in the virtue and filial piety of his hero Æneas, escaping from the ruins of an oid order of things, with his aged father on his shoulders, and carrying with him the paternal gods and the elements of a future magnificent empire in the west.

But again, prose differs from poetry, not only in the fact that, in the one case, the external material is taken exclusively from the real world, whilst, in the other, it is the free product of the imagination. The external and the internal are brought together and united differently. Poetry is older than prose, hence, though its contents may be the same as that of prose, yet the connection between the form and its contents is not the same. In poetry the general and the particular, the law and its phenomenon, are not separated, as they are in prose by critical reflection. They flow together and into each other, so much so, that they form a unity, a single concrete existence. Such is the interpene[391]tration of form and contents, of spirit and outward manifestation, that we behold a work of sculpture, or read a poem, without any desireto separate them. This is indeed impossible, as the connection is an organic one, and the poetic spirit will not permit us to do it. What Winkelman, as quoted by Cousin, * says of a master piece of Grecian sculpture, will illustrate what has here been said. – "Of all the antique statues that have escaped the fury of barbarians and the destructive hand of time, the statue of Apollo, is, without contradiction, the most sublime. One would suppose that the artist composed a figure purely ideal, and employed matter only beeause it was necessary for him to execute and represent his idea. Its height is above that of man, and its altitude proclaims the divine grandeur with which it is filled. A perennial spring time, like that which reigns in the happy fields of Elysium, clothes with loveable youth the beautiful body, and shines with sweetness over the noble structure of the limbs." So much for the Apollo Belvidere, but the same language, the terms being changed, may be applied with equal truth to Homer's description of the Grecian god, from whom Phidias most probably derived his ideal.

If now we examine the inner constitution of prose-works, we find ourselves in an entireiy different world. Here the critical judgment has been sadly at work, and analysis has sharply drawn the line of demarkation between the soul and body, the spirit and the letter, between law and phenomenon, between cause and effect, between means and end. The separation has subserved the best interests of man; it has removed the precious metal from the alloy, in which it is found in its natural state, and therefore involves an advance in human existence; but the process has been the destruction of all true poetry, certainly as the dissecting knife in the hand of the anatomist, destroys the beauty that still lingers on the lineaments of the human form, ere its vital powers have left it. The transition from the region of poetry into that of prose, is as great as a passage from a [392] champaign country, where perfumed breezes forever sport with shrub and flower, into some gorgeous hall, illuminated with a thousand sparkling lamps, but otherwise filled with innumerable skeletons left behind by the hand of science.

Other points of difference between works of poetry and prose might. be pointed out. Differing as they do in their inner spirit, as might be expected, they show the difference in their outer form and structure. Poetry is best embodied in verse or rhyme, and employs a language and a mode of expression, which is peculiarly its own, and readily distinguishable from that of ordinary prose. But upon these external marks of distinction, as well as others, we can not enlarge, inasmuch as these remarks are designed to be general, rather than specific, suggestive and not exhaustive.

Poetry, if considered in its relation to itself, must have as its animating soul something general, such as an action, a purpose, or a fact, that has a central significanee, with a union in itself and in its different parts or utterances. This generality must not be something separated from the real world; it has nothing about it that is abstract or lifeless, but is in the fullest sense concrete and real, in which the parts that go to coustitute the totality or union, have an internal connection. The scene must be placed somewhere in the human world, for, though Poetry, as the universal art, is not confined to any particular rank of beauty, now soars to the regions of eternal light and lays its garland before the throne of God, now walks the green earth and infuses beauty into the. humblest flower, it makes its home with man, and sings a human song, which, if it ascend to Heaven and resounds through Nature, is still made up of human affections, human sympathies and human thoughts. In the Iliad, the wrath of Achilles is the central point, from which is evolved with wonderful velocity, and yet with wonderful ease, the heroic life of Greece, bringing before the reader panoramic views of her social, political, military and religions life, her virtues and her vices, her [393] glory and her shame. What, in the natural cotrse of events, it required centuries to develope, here in Homer's song is concentrated and developed on the plains of Troy a second tinie; in less than a period of two months. Critics have not discovered the same unity, nor the same diversity, nor the same completeness of parts in Virgil or Milton, and hence, whatever may be their merits, as it regards beauty or maguificence of diction; and other respects, they fall below Homer in their works as well as in their genius.

All philosophic themes, such as virtue, happiness, honor, or religion, as well as theological dogmas, are not poetic, and to one who possesses true taste, the very announcement of a theme of this description, has a singular effect upon the mind; before the poem itself is read. Qur poetic feelings are chilled, the imagination loses its elasticity, and we sit down with our reasoning powers aroused, to grasp a philosophical disquisition or a learned essay. We wish ourselves, however, to be understood. The subjects just named, are not beyond the reach of the muses, for though their realms are infinite, they do not extend their walks into the regions of abstractions, nor commune with airy nothings, that have neither flesh, muscle, vein or artery about them. When these subjects appear in the concrete relations of life and walk as realities under the blue heavens and on the green earth, in the living purpose of man or woman, they are poetic and admit of poetic representation. Then the muse can sing of faith, love, piety; and religion; with more enthusiasm, and quite as much truthfulness, as the moralist or the philosopher can speculate on these sublime subjects. Didactic poetry as such, that is poetry whose professed: object is to teach or instruct, of which we have a considerable amount in our English language, so often recommended by those who have the interests of religion and morality at heart, but, doubtless, recommended, not so much because they are works of art, as because they inculcate true views and sentiments, is not pure poetry, or at least not in its higher form, It is either the incipient effort of a nation's muse, endeavoring [394] to clothe the sayings of its wise men in poetic language, or it is the product of a later age of reflection, of a period of transition, when the poetic life is gradually giving way to a life of sober, earnest prose. Didactic poetry, however, has its place, – and that is when it serves as an accompaniment. In an epic poem or a drama, an actor is expected to give utterance to noble thoughts or purposes, provided he does so without constraint or hypocrisy, and, in such connection, the didactic element is not only in place, but in an eminent degree poetical. There the lesson falls on the human ear like the voice of ancient seer or prophet. The value, and indeed the artistic excellence of a poem, depends on its being so constructed, that it shall give a free expression to the best, the profoundest and holiest thoughts of the human breast, of the age or country. The poems of the Greek tragedians, Æschylus, Sophocles and Euripides, are remarkable for the pure and exalted sentiments which glitter in their classic pages, like gems on the brow of peerless beauty. In this respect they present a favorable contrast by the side of dramas that have been produced under more favorable circumstances. The wisdom, which is thus embodied in the creations of poetry, presents us with examples of the highest beauty – the moral and spiritual. It is a word fitly spoken, like apples of gold in pictures of silver. But it is quite otherwise when didactic poetry separates itself from the drama or the epos, and aims at establishing itself as an independent branch of the art. It then becomes what the German critics call an "Unding," that is, something that is neither the one thing nor the other, neither poetry or prose. Some have collected the wisdom of the poets and formed books of Poetical Quotations out of their sayings. In regard to them it is sufficient to say, that the wisdom selected has been rudely dragged from its living connections, whilst the beauty and poetry have been marred or left behind. Who ever could form the remotest idea of Shakspeare'sgenius by reading volumes of his best sayings. These remarks, respecting didactic poetry, may be made, we think, without detracting from the real [395] merit of our English didactic poets, and especially from Young's Night Thoughts, a much esteemed acquaintance of many serious persons. Even though we deny him the character of a true poet, we may read him with interest and profit by day as well as by night, just as often as we fall into his semi-poetical, semi-religious, and semi-philosophical sentimentalism.

A similar criticism may be made of the poetry, which takes as its theme some aspect of nature, or its varied aspects as they come before us in the seasons of the year. Here we have descriptive poetry, which, as a mere painting of the face of nature, has no unity, and, of course, is wanting in the animating soul of poetry. Here the theme is not an abstract generality, but a series of particular things, that stand in no connection with some central point of unity, or some general idea or purpose of man. Nature finds its true meaning in man, who is the centre and vanishing point of ail her productions. Without man it is meaningless; eit has neither sound, nor variation of color, and such must be the nature of all poetisings, that does not make man occupy a prominent position in the foreground. Descriptive, like didactic poetry, when separated from epic, dramatic, or lyric, is in a false position, and loses the aroma, which it exhales when in its proper relation, as something subordinate to the development of a truly human activity. Description is called for in poetry of every kind, but the true poet employs it only as it may serve to embody or to embellish thoughts that are struggling for expression in his breast. There is all the difference in the world between a professedly descriptive poem, and the descriptions which we have of nature, as they come forward in the Iliad, in the plays of Shakspeare, or in the better parts of Lord Byron's poetry. In the latter case, nature is made an organic part of the poem or play; it is the back ground of the scene in which men are actors, and from its hidden retreats, it seems to sympathize with the passions of men, or else to give omens of dark, frowning disapproval. In Goethe's Faust natural scenery stands in [396] intimate connection with the evolution of the deep problems of human life, whilst the landscape painting of Thompson's Seasons carries with it no such an earnest meaning.

Next to poetic themes, evolution, embodiment, or representation, claims the attention of the poet and illustrates his art. He carries within himself a unity, that must unfold itself in multiplicity, and this in accordance with inherent laws, The material which he employs in the process must, of course, be taken from the country or latitude in which he was born and educated, for he is as much the product of his age or country as its flora or its fauni. If he sings in the cold regions of the north, the poem though pervaded with warmth of feeling, has in its external aspect, something dreary, something akin to the appearance of northern scenery. It has nothing gorgeous about it; only here and there a flower, that has not been bitten by the northern biast, makes its appearance. If he sings in a more favored zone, where nature appears in her most diversified forms of beauty, where flowers bloom profusely, and a luxuriant foliage is vocal with the music of singing birds, he catches the spirit that animates the world around him, that slumbers on the hill-side, the river bank, or the hidden retreats of natare, and infuses it into his song. If he have genius, like Homer or Shakspeare, every appearance of nature, from the zephyr, blooming softly over gardens of roses, to the wild uproar of the tempest, is woven into his poem, stereotyped there, and consecrated for ever to the spirit of beauty. Natural scenery is thus rendered classic, and continues to excite local emotions in the mind of the traveller in a distant age, when temple and monument raised by the hand of arf, lie in ruins around him. Who now needs make a yoyage across the ocean, to form an idea of the scenery and the varied aspects of nature in Greece, her islands, and seas? Have they not beet daguerreotyped on tablets more durable than brass? Are they not written in the chronicles of her poets?

Again, the poet constructs his song out of materials drawn from history and human experience in its widest [397] it should be viewed. As a branch of art, it seeks to unfold the beautiful to our contemplation. This gives it a spiritual value, tends to raise it above nature and connects it with that world of purity, of truth and beauty, in which the troubled spirit of man looks for its eternal rest, when the toils and labors of this our sensuous life shall have come to an end. Natural, intellectual, or moral heauty, is an adumbration of that supernatural beauty, which emanates from God, and is reflected by happy spirits in their redeemed state. Here all art and science, and philosophy, which are given to us by our Creator, that they may serve as mute prophecies of his existence and glory find their vanishing point. Viewed in this light, art culminates in praise and divine worship, just as science finds its end in Theology, the knowledge cf the true God. But viewed in any other light, the magnificent creations of the most gifted son of genius are merely phenominal, only gilded baubles on the ocean of life, or as one, who by experience, had realized the emptiness of earth, said:

                       like poppies spread;
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed,
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white – then melts forever;
Or like the borealis race,
That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the rainbow's lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm,

      T. A.

    Franklin and Marshall College,
                       Lancaster, Pa.



[Die Anmerkungen stehen als Fußnoten auf den in eckigen Klammern bezeichneten Seiten]

[382] * Notes of Lectures on Æsthetics by Dr. F. A. Rauch, President of Marshall College. Delivered to the Junior Class, 1841. In Manuscript.
    Solger's Vorlesungen ueber Aesthetik. Leipzig, 1829.
    Algemeine Aesthetik in Akademischen Lehrvorträgen von Friedrich Thiersch. Berlin, 1846. A good Hand Book.
    Aesthetik oder Wissenschaft der Schönen, von Dr. Friedrich Theodor Vischer, 1847. This work is in four octavo volumes, and is pronounced by competent judges the best on the subject that has yet made its appearance.   zurück

[391] * Lectures on the True, the Beautiful, and the Good.   zurück





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Literatur: anonym

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Literatur: The Mercersburg Review

Evans, William B.: A Companion to the Mercersburg Theology. Evangelical Catholicism in the Mid-Nineteenth Century. Eugene, Oregon 2019.

Mott, Frank L.: A History of American Magazines 1850-1865. 4. Aufl. Cambridge, Mass. 1970, S. 380-382.



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