Ford Madox Hueffer



Modern Poetry.


Literatur: Hueffer
Literatur: The Living Age


We make, I think, a mistake in looking too eagerly for the figure of the great poet as the one necessity of a poetical school. And when we lament to-day that we have neither a Tennyson nor a Browning, we lament too early and too casually. Let us consider for a moment the case of poetry rather than the case of the poet. It is possibly true that, at the present time, we have among us no figure that is very monumental. I say this with some diffidence, for at any moment a giant may loom upon the horizon. But if, at the present moment, we have no very great figure, this would only go to show that now – as should be the case – the art of poetry is in sympathy with the spirit of the age. If we have no great figure in poetry we have no great figure anywhere. And, with the exception of one or two very old men, the survivors of a time when the great figure flourished as never before, there are few to be found in the whole world. This may be because we have lost the sense of reverence. There may, that is to say, be amongst us half a dozen poets as great as Tennyson. I am sure there are a dozen whom personally I like better. There may be half a dozen, and we may simply have lost the power to appreciate them. And it must be remembered that the great figure flourished and expanded not so much on account of his technical qualities as on account of his moral worth. The great figure was, as a rule, a long-bearded person of a wind-blown aspect. He commanded respect – he insisted upon it – not because he was going to give pleasure by the beauty of his words or the music of his periods, but because he was a sort of moral alchemist. He cared comparatively little whether or not he gave our fathers pleasure: he was going to solve the riddle of the universe. Upon the whole [177] he was a rather disagreeable man, and, if I am glad that I came into contact with such in some numbers during my early years, I am quite certain that I am very much more glad that they no longer exist. There is, that is to say, no longer any necessity for me (or for any one else) to stand nervous and trembling, like a schoolboy in the presence of his headmaster, before some enormous creature with an outline resembllng that of a snow-mountain, and in my heart a terrible tear of precipitating a torrent of moral indignation upon my head by praising some rival. For in the days of our fathers the moral note was always to the fore. If one great figure fulminated against another, it was not because his work was had, but because it showed vicious tendencies. Thus Mr. Ruskin would abuse a painter who had injured him, not because his drawing was faulty, but because his line showed evidence of a corrupt mind. In an almost similar vein Count Tolstoi declared that the music of Wagner was unclean and that Maupassant's prose defiled the ear. We have, I think, got beyond that stage, at any rate as far as poetry in England is concerned. On the other hand, there is no doubt that the poet has altogether lost the ear of the public. This is inevitable, because the public in England, being exclusively utilitarian, demands of all the Arts that they shall either render the individual a better shopkeeper by adding to his knowledge, or that they shall improve his chances of getting to heaven and his feeling of self-righteousness.

A great many things have gone to the abolition of the moral standpoint as a factor in modern verse. For one thing, the poet having developed a sense of humor, no longer takes himself with a seriousness altogether preposterous. For another, the poet has become more sincere: he writes, that is to say, along the lines of his own personality, and of his own personal experience. He does very much less generalizing from the works of contemporary Scientists, Divines, and Social Reformers. Great poetry – poetry with the note of greatness – would seem to demand a simplicity of outlook upon a life not very complex. The poet is a creature of his emotions. and seldom or never is his intellect very powerful or very steady. For there can be no doubt that the more emotional play there is demanded of a man's brain, the less rigidity will it have for the following of logical thought-trains. Thus, the last really great poet working in a really complex age may be said to have been Lucretius. To Dante the digesting of all the knowledge in the world was a comparatively simple matter. And having assimilated it he could write fearlessly, with assurance, and with composure. With the food of new knowledges let loose upon the world by the Renaissance, and with the rendering of these knowledges accessible by means of the printing press, the task of mastering all that could be known grew appreciably more difficult, and Shakespeare was probably the last of the great poets to work in a day when wisdom was a really practicable matter. For to be wise – or rather, to write with the assurance that he is so, and with the determination and the skill to convince the reader of his wisdom – a poet must have the comfortable belief either that he knows everything, or that he knows where to go easily to gain this information. And gallant or obtuse souls who imagined that at least they were potentially all wise have remained with us through the ages until the passing away of the last Victorian great figure, until nearly the end of the first decade of the present century. Until then the poet regarded himself as the philosopher, as the theologian, as the counsellor of humanity. Shelley was the poet of athe[178]ism, Montgomery Smith chanted the Christian virtues, Longfellow was the bard of Puritan perfections. Tennyson in his poems sought to give us a theory of constructive Pantheism, Sir Lewis Morris sang of Hell, Sir Edwin Arnold was a Buddhist. These, of course, are ill-assorted names, but they go to show how from the day when Milton wrote "Paradise Lost" until just yesterday, in all strata and in all its varieties, poetry and prophecy went hand in hand. And, as we have said, the public looks to its poets to be also its prophets. There is only one poet living who has ever appealed to the British public with a sort of clarion note such as was the Tennyson's of "Riflemen Form." And it is characteristic that this poet, Mr. Kipling, appealed to the same set of emotions. This set of emotlons – those of patriotism, of voluntary service, and of simple physical aggression – probably remain dormant and ready to the hand of any writer with sufficient technical skill to awaken them. Mr. Kipling came exceedingly near being a great poet. Moreover, he is so exceedingly near to a supreme verbal skill, and so exceedingly near to the power of using the rhythm of music as only a genius can, that Mr. Kipling may yet – for all I should care to dogmatize – stand out as the representatively national figure amongst a band of singers as numerous, and as intimately satisfactory. as were ever the minor Elizabethans and the early Jacobeans. Mr Kipling as a poet has never been regarded with very much critical attention, though his popularity was at one time as unboundedly swelling as it now is, rather unreasonably, on the wane. He is to be commended as much for his boldness in the use of the vernacular, as for his skill and his boldness, too, in catching the rhythm of popular music, with its quaint and fascinating irregularities.

But, with the exception of Mr. Kipling, there is no poet to-day who attempts successfully to sing of patriotism or any of the other eternal verities. And it is characteristic of the age that the poetry upon which Mr. Kipling built the platform for verse of such bland popularity as "The Absent-minded Beggar" – the poetry which put him in a position to become a prophet. was poetry not of a patriotic or of a national character – was poetry not even of a military type, but was the poetry of intimacy. Thus "On the Road to Mandalay" expressed not heroic resolve, not the determination to die for England, but the nostalgia of an individual.

And so it is with all the poetry of to-day. We are producing, not generalizations from facts more or less sparse, but the renderings of the moods of many individuals. For the trouble to-day with the poet, as with all the rest of the world, is that we know too much. We know so much, we know so many little things, that we are beginning to realize how much there is in the world to know and how little, of all that there is, is the much that we know. Thus there is an end of generalizations.

And I must confess that for me this is a matter of the profoundest satisfaction. This may be a symptom of degeneracy, but I prefer to regard it as a portent of a new birth. For me – and I presume for a great many other people – literature is hardly so much a matter of books as of the personalities that the books reveal to us. And, in the enormous quantity of modern verse that has passed through my hands in the last few years, I have become acquainted with a number nearly as vast of small intimate shades of personalities. This has been to me a matter of very great satisfaction. Instead, that is to say, of making the acquaintance of two or three enormous poets like Tennyson or Rossetti, whom one sus[179]pected always of posing, of forcing the poetic note, or giving not so much what they intimately liked as what they regarded as appropriate for a poet to like – instead of these few great figures l have made the acquaintance of a number – of a whole circle – of smaller, more delicate, and more exquisite beings.

Of Victorian poetry I must confess to liking really only a few poems of Browning's and a very considerable number of Christina Rossetti's. Indeed, with her intimate and searching self-revelations, with her exquisite and precise language, Christina Rossetti seems to me to be the most valuable poet that the Victorian age produced. She dealt hardly at all in ideas: nearly every one of her poems was an instance, was an illustration of an emotion. And this, it seems to me, is the mood in which, if we are to get anything out of Modern Poetry, we must approach it. Until modern knowledge has been reduced to knowledgeability – until, that is to say, biology, astronomy, ethics, social and political economics, the history of England, and the Poor Law system – until all the sciences have been so crystallized by specialists that one poet may be able to take them all in, and until we have that one poet, we cannot, I think, have any more poetry of the great manner. For the great manner demands a certain conceit on the part of its practitioner: the little patches, which are all that to-day we can grasp, are sufficient only to make any reasonable man more humble. And the poet must be a man instinct with a certain sweet reasonableness that permits him to grasp at truth to the measure of the light vouchsafed him. It is thus possible that the Muse in the effort to produce the next great poet is only taking breath for an effort almost supreme. She may very well – in the course of who knows what time? – produce another author of another "De naturâ Rerum," dealing, however, with things upon a scale infinitely more vast than was ever to be approached even by Lucretius. But that will scarcely be in our day, and for me the image of the poetic art is like that of the shrine in Cologne Cathedral. For I seem to see as many as would be non-miraculously visible of eleven thousand virgin poets sheltering under the cloak of a St. Ursula. And the St. Ursula has the features of the authoress of "Goblin Market."

It would, of course, be superfluous to say that this is no more than an image, or to explain that I am not trying to say that Mr. Newbolt, let us say, is a son spiritually or technically of Christina Rossetti. But Christina Rossetti was a symptom of what would happen in the age that has succeeded that of the Victorian giants. She suffered, as it were, a similar martyrdom – she lived amongst giants with extraordinarily loud voices. Mr. Ruskin shouted at her that her poems were a young lady's work and had much better not be published. D. G. Rossetti, the pre-Raphaelites, and other great figures filled all the reception rooms of her house, used up all the clean paper, and chanted very loudly, whilst, using the backs of envelopes upon the corner of her bedroom washhandstand. Christina Rossetti wrote her poems.

...Like poor Dan Robin thankful for your crumb,
Whilst other birds sang mortal loud like swearing.
When the wind lulled she tried to get a hearing.

And this is very much the position of Modern Poetry now. It is true that we have to-day no Ruskins, but we have – this is a democratic age! – a body of reviewers who with one voice chant always the truism: "There is no great figure." Patriotism is taken in hand by the music-halls; love has been extinguished by Mr. Bernard Shaw and his [180] disciples: Christianity, Pity, and the older virtues are in the hands of Dr. Clifford. Mr. Galsworthy, the Editor of the British Weekly, and a similarly composed group of earnest persons. Thus the great figure has been replaced by groups. And although groups cannot, with all their multiplicity of hands, write "A Red-cotton Night-cap Country," although no twelve earnest men together can provide us with a Great Poem, they can very well, each group apart representing Patriotism, Love, Pity. and the Christian Virtues – speaking as it were not like Pontiffs, but like Œcumenical Councils vested with authority, gravely let the public know that Modern Poetry in their eyes (as was Christina Rossetti's in the eyes of Mr. Ruskin) is a negligible, young-ladyish thing that will do no harm, but that had better not be published.

But, as a matter of fact, Modern Poetry is a thing not very sturdy, but extraordinarily tenacious of life. We have not got any great poet, but we have an extraordinary amount of lyrical ability. And this, I think, is a very healthy sign. Music in England fell upon evil days as soon as it dropped into the hands of the professional musician. Before the days of Handel and Buoncini every gentleman could handie a lute and take part in a four-voiced concert, composing his notes for himself as he went along. This was then as much a part of a liberal education as to-day is a careful attention to the halfpenny press. And it seems to me that this was a more healthy state for the Art of Music than is the listening to a gentleman with sinews of iron, a remarkable wind, and an extraordinary memory for musical phrases. In just the same way, cricket and football were more beneficial to the nation and flourished better themselves before what is called the era of professionalism. And upon the whole there is, I should imagine, more good poetry written in the course of a year than there was when the great figure flourished in Victorian days. It is only a very small proportion of the work of Lord Tennyson, of Browning, of Swinburne, of Rossetti, or of the late Mr. Meredith that will really stand the test of time, since it is only very seldom that these writers are – or that any writer is – at the very best. Now almost every man has in him the writing of one good poem. Just for once emotion will produce in him sincerity and a gift of expression lasting for a few minutes. Thus with the extension of technical ability, and above all with the extension of desire for expression, we are enormously widening the net. We are approaching, in fact, once more to a state such as that which produced ballads and folk-songs, those productions of the utterly obscure and of the utterly forgotten. Ballads and folk-songs are never Great Poetry, but what exquisite pleasure they can give us, and what a light they can throw upon the human heart! And that, in essence, must be the province of Modern Poetry for some time to come – to give pleasure and to throw light upon the human heart. The verse which of late years has caused me the most exquisite of pleasures – I am not holding it up critically, ex cathedrâ, as the finest poem that has ever been written – is the following:

          AN EPITAPH.

Here lies a most beautiful lady.
Light of heart and step was she;
I think she was the most beautiful lady
That ever was in the West Country.
But beauty vanishes, beauty passes,
However rare, rare it be.
And when I crumble who shall remember
That lady of the West Country?

For the purposes of my argument I will refrain from giving the name of the writer, who, at the time I read the [181] poem in manuscript. was quite unknown to me, and who is now no more than a mere nodding acquaintance. I read this poem once in manuscript and once in proof for sub-editorial purposes, and having thus read it twice, after more than six months I remember it so exactly as to be able to write it down letter-perfect except for the fact that the author has preferred to spell "Country," "Countrie." Thus it seems to me we have already for the Bishop Percy of the future an excellent folk ballad. As to its intrinsic value I cannot dogmatize. It has afforded me, in its kind, the highest pleasure of which I am capable. I do not know why this is, but I am absolutely convinced of the fact. It touches me as much as the words:

O waly, waly, gin luve be bonnie
A little while when it is new;
When it grows old it waxes cold
And fades away like morning dew.

And had I wist before I kissed
That luve had been sae ill to win.
I had locked my heart in a kist of gold
And pinned it wi' a siller pin.

These verses also I have only read once – I do not very well remember where. I strongly suspect them of being part of what is called a "fake-ballad." But in any case they have given me more pleasure than any other ballad in the Percy "Reliques." They seem to me to represent the most intimate personal feelings of a passionate nature, just as Mr. Walter de la Mare's – the name has slipt out, and there let it remain – just as Mr. Walter de la Mare's poem seems to me to express, with an exquisite intimacy, an emotion of a nature contemplative and attractive.

I do not mean to say that if we search through the many small volumes of poems that are being published during these present years we should find any very huge portion of entirely exquisite poetry. But I am convinced that we should dredge up a suffciency, in the course of a century or so, to make several very creditable volumes of "Reliques." And this alone is a sufficient justification for the Muse whose business it is to provide, for the delectation of men of goodwill, not fiures, but poetry.

And this is a very profound truth, not a mere paradox. For to-day we produce not so much great lives as an infinite flicker of small vitalitles. If I had looked from my window a hundred years ago at the night upon the great western-going highway that is now, and was then, beneath them, I should have seen eight times every hour, galloping hard down the hill from the turnpike at the top, through the darkness against the black timber of the park opposite, four horses with lamplight on their shining limbs, their harness and their traces. There would have been the loom of the figures of the coachman and the outside passengers. Very dimly to be made out there would be the shapeless forms of the luggage beneath the tarpaulin, and there would have risen up thin and fine amidst the rattle of hoofs the sound of the guard's horn. This might have been seen eight times during the day and the night, and there would have been those definite things to catch hold of or to make a song about. But looking out upon the same highway during the twilight of to-day, one sees, as it were. innumerable motes of life in a settled stream, in a never-ceasing stream, in a stream that seems as if it must last for ever. And for me, I am glad that I live to day, that I did not die when the coaches went by and the horns blew. It is perfectly true that the coach would have seemed to bulk larger upon the road, to be an individuality more important, to be, as it were, a great [182] figure. It had more personality, but infinitely less of delicacy, and there seems to me to be so much more of poetry in all the little lights that whirl past, in the shadows that flicker, in the tenuous and momentary reflections seen in the polish of carriage panels – in the impersonality of it all. And all these impressions are so fragile, so temporary, so evanescent, that the whole stream of life appears to be a procession of very little things, as if, indeed, all our modern life were a dance of midges.

And, indeed, all our modern life is a dance of midges. We know no one very well, but we come into contact with an infinite number of people; we stay nowhere very long, but we see many, many places. We have hardly ever time to think long thoughts, but an in finite number of small things are presented for our cursory reflections. And in all of it – in all of this gnats' dance of ours – there is a note of mournfulness, of resignation, of poetry.

And if I have a quarrel with modern verse, it is that it too little reflects this tenuous poetry of our own day. Most of the verse that is written to-day deals in a derivative manner with mediæval emotions. This means that the poets have not the courage to lead their own lives. They seem to shut themselves up in quiet book-cabinets, to read for ever, and to gain their ideas of life for ever from some very small, very specialized group of books, or to dream for ever of islands off the west coast of Ireland. This is a very great misfortune, since it means that the greater number of our poets are either provincial or snobbish. They appear, that is to say, to write their poems for a small circle of intellectuals, for a small circle of people whose aim in life is tyrannously to circumscribe the bounds of what is to be considered good taste – for a small circle, academic or Bohemian, who, having drawn together little heaps of dust, of mediævalisms, of pre-Raphaelisms, of Celticisms, or nature worship, and the like seek to say that only amidst these heaps of dust of dead things that did very well in their day – only here shall the herb poetry be planted.

It is a very charming thing, it is a very lovely thing, it is a restful thing, to lose ourselves in meditation upon the Isles of the Blessed, and very sweet songs may be sung about them. But to do nothing else implies a want of courage. We live in our day, we live in our time, and he is not a proper man who will not look in the face his day and his time. It is to cast down our little shield and short sword, to run from the battle, and to hide for ever at Tusculum. And this frame of mind is a bad one, not because it matters very much what class of subjects a poet deals with. There is no particular reason why a gentleman living upon Chelsea Embankment should not write about Paolo and Francesca; but if he have never lived and never loved, himself, if he have never known passion or danger, he will never realize that Paolo and Francesca loved and suffered precisely as love and suffer the inhabitants of the flat above him. He must feel that when Richard I. was king, the leaves blew from off the trees along the drifting smoke of autumn fires, just as to-day, reluctantly, at the back of the house, the foliage loosens its grasp upon the tall poplars to fall in showers, in blown bee-swarms, into the gutters of the opposite houses, and into the mud of the mews. For, if the poet is timid in his life, he will be shrinking in his thoughts and over-delicate in his words. He will express, not himself, but himself as he would like to appear to other gentlemen who have read the "Divina Comedia," the Cuchullian Saga, and the works of the minor pre-Raphaelite poets. There is, of course, no reason why a gentleman should not indulge [183] these elegant pastimes; on the contrary, they may do some good by remembering, and so assuaging, the sufferings of many poor souls in purgatory. For, no doubt, one of the chiefest sufferings of the dead is oblivion. And the cultivated gentleman who discovers in some record that Cina da <Pistoia> had an uncle, and who thereupon indites a sestina to the memory of Cina da <Pistoia's> relative, may afford that poor ghost some moments of comfort. But of these acts of piety, of these disinterrings of the forgotten, and these idealizings of a past which in its day was no more romantic than is our own time, of these settings wrong of perspective, we have enough always with us. And these times and climes have been so well sung by their own contemporaries and inhabitants. Horace wrote of the vulgarities of the Via Flaminia very much as Mr. W. B. Yeats might write of Hampstead Heath. His soul shuddered at it. Nevertheless, even Horace was a Roman of his day and time, and found material in his own vulgar epoch for verse which is charming enough. We go, in the end, to our poets to be told something – either of how the poet's friends and enemies lived, or of how he was affected by his contact with them, by his views of cities and plains, or by his twenty-five-year wooing of a married lady unfortunately indifferent to him. But we go to him in any case for his real self. And unless he speaks to us sincerely, without affectation, and in such a language as he ordinarily uses, his poems will ring false, and we shall find little pleasure in him. A further attribute poets must have, if their work is to have any real appeal to their age: they must be in some sympathy with their fellow men. Personally I should care very little for the fact that poetry in particular, and literature in general, have lost all appeal to the public ear – I should care very little if this were not a symptom that the disease of Dilettantism has crept into, has almost overwhelmed, the brains of the great body of modern poets. That the public should "guy" good poetry is a healthy sign; that it should call Shelley an atheist or Browning an impostor was natural and, in its way, excellent. But that poets should have lost even the power to irritate the lethargic beast – this is a <symptom> of a lamentable impotence on the part of the poets. But the receding influence of the great figure, of the moral purpose, of mediævalism, and of all these things of the past, is still strong. It is waning, but there are still too many small people in authority who, standing in the folds of the mantle of the departed great, are ready to cry at the slightest poetic stir "There is no great figure."

So that originality of handling or courage of conviction has hardly as yet had time to gather itself together. But that one day a stirring of the pool will come I have no doubt. And it will come when some young poets get it into their heads to come out of their book-closets and take, as it were, a walk down Fleet Street, or a ride on the top of a 'bus from Shepherd's Bush to Poplar. I am using, of course, these peregrinations metaphorically. It does not much matter where the poet goes or what he does, so long as he turns inquiring, sincere, and properly humble eyes upon the life that is around him. In that case poetry would come entirely into its own again. It will become once more human nature's daily food, instead of being, as it is now, the sweet liqueur at the end of a banquet, or chocolates in the little crystal bowls that nestle neglected amongst green smilax upon the tablecloth. For it is a mistake to say that the Englishman does not read poetry. He reads it, he craves for it, he cannot get on without it; it saves him the trouble of thinking, and that is why his conversation is [184] usually rounded off with a catch-word from the Holy Scriptures or a misquotation from Shakespeare. Only, the poet to ensure quotation, must be sincere – whether in wisdom or in folly matters little.






The Living Age
Bd. 264, 1910, Nr. 3419, 15. Januar, S. 176-184.

Gezeichnet: Ford Madox Hueffer

The Living Age   online


The Thrush
Bd. 1, 1909, Nr. 1, Dezember, S. 39–53.



Aufgenommen in



Literatur: Hueffer

Brandmeyer, Rudolf: Poetiken der Lyrik: Von der Normpoetik zur Autorenpoetik. In: Handbuch Lyrik. Theorie, Analyse, Geschichte. Hrsg. von Dieter Lamping. 2. Aufl. Stuttgart 2016, S. 2-15.

Chantler, Ashley: Image-Music-Text: Ford and the Impressionist Lyric. In: Ford Madox Ford and Visual Culture. Hrsg. von Laura Colombino u. Max Saunders. Amsterdam 2009, S. 71-84.

Chantler, Ashley / Hawkes, Rob (Hrsg.): An Introduction to Ford Madox Ford. London u. New York 2019.

Colombino, Laura / Saunders, Max (Hrsg.): The Edwardian Ford Madox Ford. Amsterdam 2013.

Ehlers, Sarah: Making It Old: The Victorian/Modern Divide in Twentieth-Century American Poetry. In: Modern Language Quarterly 73.1 (2012), 37-67.

Ford, Ford Madox: Critical Essays. Edited by Max Saunders & Richard Stand. Manchester 2002.

Hadjiyiannis, Christos: Conservative Modernists. Literature and Tory Politics in Britain, 1900–1920. Cambridge 2018.

Hampson, Robert / Saunders, Max (Hrsg.): Ford Madox Ford's Modernity. Amsterdam 2003.

Harvey, David D.: Ford Madox Ford, 1873-1939. Bibliography of Works and Criticism. Princeton, N.J. 1962.

Haslam, Sara u.a. (Hrsg.): The Routledge Research Companion to Ford Madox Ford. London 2019.

Lemarchal, Dominique / Davison-Pégon, Claire (Hrsg.): Ford Madox Ford, France and Provence. Amsterdam u. New York 2011.

Levenson, Michael H.: A Genealogy of Modernism. A study of English literary doctrine 1908 – 1922. Cambridge u.a. 1984.

Ludwig, Richard (Hrsg.): Letters of Ford Madox Ford. Princeton, NJ 1965.

MacShane, Frank (Hrsg.): Ford Madox Ford. The Critical Heritage. London u.a. 1972.

Morrisson, Mark S.: The Public Face of Modernism. Little Magazines, Audiences, and Reception, 1905-1920. Madison, Wis. u.a. 2001.
Kap 1: The Myth of the Whole and Ford's English Review: Edwardian Monthlies, the Mercure de France, and Early British Modernism (S. 17-53).

Pondrom, Cyrena N.: The Road from Paris. French Influence on English Poetry, 1900 – 1920. Cambridge 2010.   –   Zuerst 1974.

Pryor, Sean: Poetry, Modernism, and an Imperfect World. Cambridge 2017.

Saunders, Max (Hrsg.): The Edwardian Ford Madox Ford. In: International Ford Madox Ford Studies 12 (2013).

Wulfman, Cliff: Ford Madox Ford and The English Review (1908-37). In: The Oxford Critical and Cultural History of Modernist Magazines. Hrsg. von Peter Brooker u.a. Bd. 1: Britain and Ireland 1880-1955. Oxford 2009, S. 226-239.



Literatur: The Living Age

Mott, Frank L.: A History of American Magazines. Bd. 1: 1741-1850. Cambridge, Mass. 1957.

Range, Jane / Vinovskis, Maris A.: Images of Elderly in Popular Magazines. A Content Analysis of Littell's Living Age, 1845-1882. In: Social Science History 5.2 (1981), S. 123-170.



Lyriktheorie » R. Brandmeyer