Art is the noblest
consolation of calamity. The poet is compensated for his defects in
the street and in society, if in his chamber he has turned his
mischance into noble numbers.
Is there not room then for a new department in poetry, namely,
_Verses of the Portfolio_? We have fancied that we drew greater
pleasure from some manuscript verses than from printed ones of equal
talent. For there was herein the charm of character; they were
confessions; and the faults, the imperfect parts, the fragmentary
verses, the halting rhymes, had a worth beyond that of a high finish;
for they testified that the writer was more man than artist, more
earnest than vain; that the thought was too sweet and sacred to him,
than that he should suffer his ears to hear or his eyes to see a
superficial defect in the expression.
The characteristic of such verses is, that being not written
for publication, they lack that finish which the conventions of
literature require of authors. But if poetry of this kind has merit,
we conceive that the prescription which demands a rhythmical polish
may be easily set aside; and when a writer has outgrown the state of
thought which produced the poem, the interest of letters is served by
publishing it imperfect, as we preserve studies, torsos, and blocked
statues of the great masters.
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