There is a disposition among some contemporary critics to debar the Poet from contemporary subjects. One critic alleges these to be essentially unpoetical. Another—more skilled in delicate distinctions, and priding himself on the adroitness with which, as it were, by a dexterous turn of the wrist, he can cause the fine edge of them to wound, without vulgarly and directly thrusting—might prefer to say, apropos of each writer in turn who chooses such themes, that "at any rate this writer has not shown how contemporary subjects may be made poetical"—which remark, however, the poet, if he be a poet, can afford to treat simply as a piece of impertinence. He will have adapted his workmanship, arrangement, and mode of expression to the nature of his subject-matter. Perchance the problem of conciliating superfine collegians, or light skirmishers detached from their main body in the shape of certain "irresponsible reviewers," and at the same time satisfying intelligent readers of poetry in general—unephemeral critics, who are beyond the passing fashion of a clique—may be a problem well-nigh as insoluble as that of perpetual motion. But if so, a poet should be prepared with contempt and defiance only for the former. To me I confess it appears that Past and Present are equally poetical, when regarded and treated by a poet—equally unpoetical when regarded and treated by a mere versifier—though I am far from saying that every particular time is fully as poetical as any other. But the present time seems by no means deficient in that respect. No age is heroic to its valet-de-chambre; and every age has many valets-de-chambre. If there is danger from vulgar and debasing associations, and from fragmentary nearness, in the Present, which has not yet "orbed into the perfect star," there is equal danger from remoteness in the Past—few imaginations being indeed adequate satisfactorily to realize very different conditions of life and thought. The name of little flutterers, whose inanimate remains are strewn along the avenue that leads to the Temple of Fame, is Legion; but pseudo-classical and pseudo-mediæval versifiers are surely not inadequately represented among them. Some indeed have failed in poetically representing what passed under their eyes, because the eyes of the soul were wanting—the Poet's Second sight. Moreover, the genius of some true poets has proved more at home in those rarer, yet still to them living, regions of the Past. I do not think the age of Chaucer was much more poetical than the age of Victor Hugo and Tennyson: but Chaucer contrived to see and represent his age poetically: and though, perhaps, Tennyson's greatest works have dealt with ideal, romantic, or classical themes, he has shown himself master also in setting contemporary life to music. If Shakspeare wrote Julius Cæsar, he also wrote Henry VIII.; and Hamlet is essentially modern. Dante does not appear to have thought his own age unpoetic, though himself the master of ideal or spiritual creations. Dante, and Milton, set the dominant theologies of their own day to music; while Dante is full of allusions to passing events. Homer did not endeavour to reproduce classically correct imitations of the poems he may have read in Egyptian papyri. Gama, the hero of Camoens's epic, was still alive when the poet was a boy; and Camoens himself took part in adventures similar to those which he relates—indeed he contrives to relate what was actually happening in the Lusiad itself. Dryden wrote of Contemporary Politics; Pope sang the Rape of the Lock; Byron sang contemporary life in Childe Harold and Don Juan; Wordsworth also in some of his greatest poems. So did Campbell, Gray, and Goldsmith at their best—while Scott, if he sang of chivalry, sang at least of Scotland. The greatest work of Goethe is distinctly modern; so are the works of Hugo and De Musset. Spenser, Chatterton, Landor, and Keats, on the other hand—may one not add Mr. Browning?—breathe more freely in alien, or ideal, atmospheres; but then they do themselves breathe there; they do not merely simulate the accents of those who once did so.
That events of our own time may be treated poetically has been proved by our greatest poetess, Mrs. Browning; although, partly from the fact that England as a nation has withdrawn herself more and more from active participation in events of cosmopolitan interest, our writers of verse have not recently invited attention to contemporary themes; while studious readers have seemed disposed to discourage such attempts. But two or three genuine poets have quite lately made successful efforts to break through a somewhat vulgar, prosaic, and discreditable apathy—though it is one no doubt on which our fashionable petite culture very much plumes itself. In America we have, for instance, Longfellow and Walt Whitman; while in England we have not only Arthur Clough, and R. Buchanan, but also Mr. Swinburne, who wrote recently the "Songs before Sunrise." These poets at all events have proved that they do not, from feeling their own impotence, desire to insult their Mother-Age, and charge her with all the responsibility of a defect, which after all may not be of quite cosmical urgency. More recently still, Mr. Alfred Austin seems to have comically disproved his own somewhat juvenile criticism on the futility of the age, and the consequent inevitable futility of its poets, by himself writing a really fine poem on contemporary events, "Rome or Death."
However, in the following work I have the so much desiderated advantage of remoteness—remoteness, if not in time, at least in place. Africa is a long way off; Cook's tourists do not go to Ujiji; and both men and nature in Africa are very different from what they are immediately around us—if that be an advantage. My object has been to sing the modern Explorer—suggesting, dimly it may be, the Explorer or Seeker in a wider sense. In an oasis of the Sahara, and other remote regions, a poem on this subject dawned on me. It is a subject peculiarly modern, peculiarly English, and as I believe peculiarly poetical; one destined, moreover, to be always interesting. Even the most jaded student, to whom life and nature as he sees them are "flat, stale and unprofitable," must (one would fancy) be interested in the records of exploration that are published from time to time by great travellers. At any rate young persons, and persons young-hearted, though no longer young in years, are appealed to in my poem. I have done my best: for its shortcomings, I must appeal to the indulgence of such sympathetic readers as these. If I shall have been enabled to impart to them any measure of elevated enjoyment, I shall be satisfied. The Explorer in Africa, a most ancient, till yesterday almost unknown land; North of which lies Egypt; South of which lies Ethiopia, and all her still half-hidden marvels! the very regions of earthly mystery; yet how profoundly and pathetically human after all in their strange disclosures!
Poets used to sing of heroes, and great actions. I do not know why they should now only spin subtle cobwebs out of their own insides. Nor, however, do I know how long a period must elapse, according to the dogmas of "culture," before a mere dead man may, (by virtue of mischievous worshipping and myth-making propensities unfortunately inherent in our race,) be considered as fairly canonized—elevated to the dignity of "a hero." But for my part, I used to think Livingstone a true hero while he was alive; and my opinion of him is only not changed now that he is dead. Our two Florences, Florence Nightingale, and Florence Lady Baker, moreover, appear to me to be heroines—though both of them (one is glad to know) are still alive. Nor should those brave exploring ladies, the Dutch Miss Tinnés, be forgotten here. At any rate, the figure of David Livingstone admirably fills the shadowy, but colossal outlines of the Explorer.
I have endeavoured to represent his life, adventures, character and aims, with the accuracy of fact; though in one instance I have imagined a scene characteristic of a phase of African experience, which would otherwise have remained unillustrated; but this is a kind of experience which Livingstone might easily have passed through personally; and of course I have exercised a privilege of selection. The scene of the first Cantos is laid at Ujiji on Lake Tanganyika; where Livingstone has been driven back by the malice or cowardice of some who followed him, when on the eve, as he believed, of solving for ever those grand problems of geography, which have engaged the world's attention from earliest ages.
He has arrived ill, worn-out, aged, destitute; to find the goods on which he depended dissipated by the rascal to whom they had unfortunately been entrusted; and he could, (suffering as he was from his old disease, dysentery,) hardly have held out much longer, had not Mr. Stanley so gallantly and unexpectedly relieved him. (1871). I imagine him sitting on the open verandah of his tembé, looking eastward, as Stanley describes him; while evening deepens, and then night—the night preceding Stanley's arrival. I suppose that—like those constellations, with which he is so familiar—the salient features of his whole life pass successively before him in his solitude; while he meditates at leisure upon the people and scenes he has witnessed; wonders what people and scenes are yet to be divulged for him; speculating, moreover, on those long-vexed, fascinating problems, suggested by history, geography, and science, in connection with his beloved continent. But his chief concern—though he takes a very humane and broad interest in all—is the future of the people, among whom he has so long lived: he is a profoundly sincere Christian missionary—a philanthropist in the best and widest sense—with heart bleeding for all the ignorance, darkness, and misery, which he sees around him; thirsting to devise the best possible means for the salvation, enlightenment, and civilization of the races. Not Wilberforce, Clarkson, Buxton, Lincoln, or "Uncle Tom's Cabin," have done more for the slave than David Livingstone. He seems to have possessed also an extraordinary power of sympathizing with and personally influencing the natives, with whom he came in contact.
This is a man of the old heroic type: a grand personality, like those of Xavier, Mazzini, Garibaldi, Bellot, Boss, Parry, Franklin, Stephenson, Watt, Mungo Park; who exhibits, in a peculiarly fascinating phase of modern life, the heroic energy, and skilful perseverance in combating gigantic difficulties; partly from ideal and humane ends—to serve God and Man—partly for the mere sake of combating those difficulties themselves. God is not tired of choosing and providing such natures, when He has a great work for them to do: indeed He provides also many obscurer workers, with natures as noble, whom He in His own way rewards. Are not men like Henry Martyn, and Bishop Patteson; with other men and women, whose names remain hidden from the world; members of this heroic army? Do we indeed lack heroes?
In Canto VI. I relate the relief of Livingstone by Stanley; in Canto VII. Livingstone's death; and the wonderful transport of his remains by faithful followers, to the everlasting honour of a despised race; finally, his honoured funeral in the grand cathedral of his own land. It remains that I express my obligations to the works of great African travellers—Speke and Grant, Baker, Burton, Shhweinfurth, Du Chaillu, Winwood Reade, Moffatt, Stanley, Bowdich, Petherick—and to the correspondents of daily papers, who described the funeral.