Algernon Charles Swinburne

 

 

Whitmania.

 

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THE remarkable American rhapsodist who has inoculated a certain number of English readers and writers with the singular form of ethical and æsthetic rabies for which his name supplies the proper medical term of definition is usually regarded by others than Whitmaniacs as simply a blatant quack – a vehement and emphatic dunce, of incomparable vanity and volubility, inconceivable pretensions and incompetence. That such is by no means altogether my own view I need scarcely take the trouble to protest. Walt Whitman has written some pages to which I have before now given praise enough to exonerate me, I should presume, from any charge of prejudice or prepossession against a writer whose claims to occasional notice and occasional respect no man can be less desirous to dispute than I am. Nor should I have thought it necessary to comment on the symptoms of a disorder which happily is not likely to become epidemic in an island or on a continent not utterly barren of poetry, had the sufferers not given such painfully singular signs of inability to realise a condition only too obvious to the compassionate bystander. While the preachers or the proselytes of the gospel according to Whitman were content to admit that he was either no poet at all, or the only poet who had ever been born into this world – that those who accepted him were bound to reject all others as nullities – they had at least the merit of irrefragable logic; they could claim at least the credit of indisputable consistency. But when other gods or godlings are accepted as participants in the divine nature; when his temple is transformed into a pantheon, and a place assigned his godhead a little beneath Shakespeare, a little above Dante, or cheek by jowl with Homer; when Isaiah and Æschylus, for anything we know, may be admitted to a greater or lesser share in his incommunicable and indivisible supremacy – then, indeed, it is high time to enter a strenuous and (if it be possible) a serious protest. The first apostles alone were the depositaries of the pure and perfect evangel: these later and comparatively heterodox disciples have adulterated and debased the genuine metal of absolute, coherent, unalloyed and unqualified nonsense.

To the better qualities discernible in the voluminous and incoherent effusions of Walt Whitman it should not be difficult for any reader not unduly exasperated by the rabid idiocy of the Whitmaniacs to do full and ample justice: for these qualities are no less simple and obvious than laudable and valuable. A just enthusiasm, a genuine passion of patriotic and imaginative sympathy, a sincere [171] though limited and distorted love of nature, an eager and earnest faith in freedom and in loyalty – in the loyalty that can only be born of liberty; a really manful and a nobly rational tone of mind with regard to the crowning questions of duty and of death; these excellent qualities of emotion and reflection find here and there a not in adequate expression in a style of rhetoric not always flatulent or inharmonious. Originality of matter or of manner, of structure or of thought, it would be equally difficult for any reader not endowed with a quite exceptional gift of ignorance or of hebetude to discover in any part of Mr. Whitman's political or ethical or physical or proverbial philosophy. But he has said wise and noble things upon such simple and eternal subjects as life and death, pity and enmity, friendship and fighting; and even the intensely conventional nature of its elaborate and artificial simplicity should not be allowed, by a magnanimous and candid reader, too absolutely to eclipse the genuine energy and the occasional beauty of his feverish and convulsive style of writing.

All this may be cordially conceded by the lovers of good work in any kind, however imperfect, incomposite, and infirm; and more than this the present writer at any rate most assuredly never intended to convey by any tribute of sympathy or admiration which may have earned for him the wholly unmerited honor of an imaginary enlistment in the noble army of Whitmaniacs. He has therefore no palinode to chant, no recantation to intone; for if it seems and is unreasonable to attribute a capacity of thought to one who has never given any sign of thinking, a faculty of song to one who has never shown ability to sing, it must be remembered, on the other hand, that such qualities of energetic emotion and sonorous expression as distinguish the happier moments and the more sincere inspirations of such writers as Whitman or as Byron have always, in common parlance, been allowed to pass muster and do duty for the faculty of thinking or the capacity of singing. Such an use of common terms is doubtless inaccurate and inexact, if judged by the "just but severe law" of logical definition or of mathematical precision: but such abuse or misuse of plain words is generally understood as conveying no more than a conventional import such as may be expressed by the terms with which we subscribe an ordinary letter, or by the formula through which we decline an untimely visit. Assuredly I never have meant to imply what most assuredly I never have said – that I regarded Mr. Whitman as a poet or a thinker in the proper sense; the sense in which the one term is applicable to Coleridge or to Shelley, the other to Bacon or to Mill. Whoever may have abdicated his natural right, as a being not born without a sense of music or a sense of reason, to protest against the judgment which discerns in Childe Harold or in Drum-Tops a [172] masterpiece of imagination and expression, of intelligence or of song, I never have abdicated mine. The highest literary quality discoverable in either book is rhetoric: and very excellent rhetoric in either case it sometimes is; what it is at other times I see no present necessity to say. But Whitmaniacs and Byronites have yet to learn that if rhetoric were poetry John Bright would be a poet at least equal to John Milton, Demosthenes to Sophocles, and Cicero to Catullus. Poetry may be something more — I certainly am not concerned to deny it — than an art or a science; but not because it is not, strictly speaking, a science or an art. There is a science of verse as surely as there is a science of mathematics: there is an art of expression by metre as certainly as there is an art of representation by painting. To some poets the understanding of this science, the mastery of this art, would seem to come by a natural instinct which needs nothing but practice for its development, its application, and its perfection: others by patient and conscientious study of their own abilities attain a no less unmistakable and a scarcely less admirable success. But the man of genius and the dullard who cannot write good verse are equally out of the running. "Did you ask dulcet rhymes from me?" inquires Mr. Whitman of some extraordinary if not imaginary interlocutor; and proceeds, with some not ineffective energy of expression, to explain that "I lull nobody — and you will never understand me." No, my dear good sir — or camerado, if that be the more courteous and conventional address (a modest reader might deferentially reply): not in the wildest visions of a distempered slumber could I ever have dreamed of doing anything of the kind. Nor do we ask them even from such other and inferior scribes or bards as the humble Homer, the modest Milton, or the obsolete and narrow-minded Shakespeare — poets of sickly feudality, of hidebound classicism, of effete and barbarous incompetence. But metre, rhythm, cadence not merely appreciable but definable and reducible to rule and measurement, though we do not expect from you, we demand from all who claim, we discern in the works of all who have achieved, any place among poets of any class whatsoever. The question whether your work is in any sense poetry has no more to do with dulcet rhymes than with the differential calculus. The question is whether you have any more right to call yourself a poet, or to be called a poet by any man who knows verse from prose, or black from white, or speech from silence, or his right hand from his left, than to call yourself or to be called, on the strength of your published writings, a mathematician, a logician, a painter, a political economist, a sculptor, a dynamiter, an old parliamentary hand, a civil engineer, a dealer in marine stores, an amphimacer, a triptych, a rhomboid, or a rectangular parallelogram. "Vois-tu bien, tu es baron comme ma pantoufle!" said old [173] Gillenormand — the creature of one who was indeed a creator or a poet: and the humblest of critics who knows any one thing from any one other thing has a right to say to the man who offers as poetry what the exuberant incontinence of a Whitman presents for our acceptance — "Tu es poète comme mon — soulier."

But the student has other and better evidence than any merely negative in dication of impotence in the case of the American as in the case of the British despiser and disclaimer of so pitiful a profession or ambition as that of a versifier. Mr. Carlyle and Mr. Whitman have both been good enough to try their hands at lyric verse: and the ear which has once absorbed their dulcet rhymes will never need to be reminded of the reason for their contemptuous abhorrence of a diversion so contemptible as the art of Coleridge and Shelley.

"Out of eternity
    This new day is born:
 Into eternity
    This day shall return."

Such were the flute-notes of Diogenes Devilsdung: comparable by those who would verify the value of his estimate with any stanza of Shelley's "To a Skylark." And here is a sample of the dulcet rhymes which a most tragic occasion succeeded in evoking from the orotund oratist of Manhattan.

"The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
 While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
        *             *             *             *             *
 For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths — for you the shores a-crowding; (sic)
 For you they call, the surging mass, their eager faces turning."

Ἰοὺ ἰοὺ, ὤ ὤ κακὰ. Upon the whole, I prefer Burns — or Hogg — to Carlyle, and Dibdin — or Catnach — to Whitman.

A pedantic writer of poems distilled from other poems (which, as the immortal author of the imperishable Leaves of Grass is well aware, must "pass away") — a Wordsworth, for example, or a Tennyson — would hardly have made "eyes" follow the verb they must be supposed to govern. Nor would a poor creature whose ear was yet unattuned to the cadence of "chants democratic" have permitted his Pegasus so remarkable a capriole as to result in the rhythmic reverberation of such rhymes as these. When a boy who remains unable after many efforts to cross the Asses' Bridge expresses his opinion that Euclid was a beastly old fool, his obviously impartial verdict is generally received by his elders with exactly the same amount of respectful attention as is accorded by any competent reader to the equally able and judicial deliverances of Messrs. Whitman, Emerson, and Carlyle on the subject of poetry — that is, of lyrical or creative literature. The first critic of our time – per[174]haps the largest-minded and surest-sighted of any age — has pointed out, in an essay on poetry which should not be too long left buried in the columns of the Encyclopædia Britannica, the exhaustive accuracy of the Greek terms which define every claimant to the laurel as either a singer or a maker. There is no third term, as there is no third class. If then it appears that Mr. Walt Whitman has about as much gift of song as his precursors and apparent models in rhythmic structure and style, Mr. James Macpherson and Mr. Martin Tupper, his capacity for creation is the only thing that remains for us to consider. And on that score we find him, beyond all question, rather like the later than like the earlier of his masters. Macpherson could at least evoke shadows: Mr. Tupper and Mr. Whitman can only accumulate words. As to his originality in the matter of free speaking, it need only be observed that no remarkable mental gift is requisite to qualify man or woman for membership of a sect mentioned by Dr. Johnson — the Adamites, who believed in the virtue of public nudity. If those worthies claimed the right to bid their children run about the streets stark naked, the magistrate, observed Johnson, "would have a right to flog them into their doublets;" a right no plainer than the right of common sense and sound criticism to flog the Whitmaniacs into their strait-waistcoats; or, were there any female members of such a sect, into their strait-petticoats. If nothing that concerns the physical organism of men or of women is common or unclean or improper for literary manipulation, it may be maintained, by others than the disciples of a contemporary French novelist who has amply proved the sincerity of his own opinion to that effect, that it is not beyond the province of literature to describe with realistic exuberance of detail the functions of digestion or indigestion in all its processes — the objects and the results of an aperient or an emetic medicine. Into "the troughs of Zolaism," as Lord Tennyson calls them (a phrase which bears rather unduly hard on the quadrupedal pig), I am happy to believe that Mr. Whitman has never dipped a passing nose: he is a writer of something occasionally like English, and a man of something occasionally like genius. But in his treatment of topics usually regarded as no less unfit for public exposition and literary illustration than those which have obtained notoriety for the would-be bastard of Balzac – the Davenant of the (French) prose Shakespeare, he has contrived to make "the way of a man with a maid" (Proverbs xxx. 19) almost as loathsomely ludicrous and almost as ludicrously loathsome — I speak merely of the æsthetic or literary aspect of his effusions — as the Swiftian or Zolaesque enthusiasm of bestiality which insists on handling what "goeth into the belly, and is cast out into the draught" (St. Mark xv. 17). The Zolas and the Whitmen, to whom nothing, absolutely and literally nothing, is [175] unclean or common, have an obvious and incalculable advantage over the unconverted who have never enjoyed the privilege of a vision like St. Peter's, and received the benefit of a supernatural prohibition to call anything common or unclean. They cannot possibly be exposed, and they cannot possibly be put to shame: for that best of all imaginable reasons which makes it proverbially difficult to "take the breeks off a Highlander."

It would really seem as though, in literary and other matters, the very plain ness and certitude of a principle made it doubly necessary for those who main tain it to enforce and reinforce it over and over again ; as though, the more obvious it were, the more it needed in dication and demonstration, assertion and reassertion. There is no more im portant, no more radical and fundamen tal truth of criticism than this : that, in poetry perhaps above all other arts, the method of treatment, the manner of touch, the tone of expression, is the first and last thing to be considered. There is no subject which may not be treated with success (I do not say there are no subjects which on other than artistic grounds it may not be as well to avoid, it may not be better to pass by) if the poet, by instinct or by training, knows exactly how to handle it aright, to present it without danger of just or rational offence. For evidence of this truth we need look no further than the pastorals of Virgil and Theocritus. But under the dirty clumsy paws of a harper whose plectrum is a muck-rake any tune will become a chaos of discords, though the motive of the tune should be the first principle of nature—the passion of man for woman or the passion of woman for man. And the unhealthily demon strative and obtrusive animalism of the Whitmaniad is as unnatural, as incom patible with the wholesome instincts of human passion, as even the filthy and inhuman asceticism of SS. Macarius and Simeon Stylites. If anything can justify the serious and deliberate display of merely physical emotion in literature or in art, it must be one of two things : intense depth of feeling expressed with inspired perfection of simplicity, with divine sublimity of fascination, as by Sappho ; or transcendant supremacy of actual and irresistible beauty in such revelation of naked nature as was pos sible to Titian. But Mr. Whitman's Eve is a drunken apple-woman, inde cently sprawling in the slush and gar bage of the gutter amid the rotten refuse of her overturned fruit-stall : but Mr. Whitman's Venus is a Hottentot wench under the influence of cantharides and adulterated rum. Cotytto herself would repudiate the ministration of such priest esses as these.

But what then, if anything, is it that a rational creature who has studied and understood the work of any poet, great or small, from Homer down to Moschus, from Lucretius down to Martial, from Dante down to Metastasio, from Villon down to Voltaire, from [176] Shakespeare down to Byron, can find to applaud, to approve, or to condone in the work of Mr. Whitman 2 To this very reason able and inevitable question the answer is not far to seek. I have myself re peatedly pointed out—it may be (I have often been told so) with too unqualified sympathy and too uncritical enthusiasm —the qualities which give a certain touch of greatness to his work, the sources of inspiration which infuse into its chaotic jargon some passing or seem ing notes of cosmic beauty, and diver sify with something of occasional har mony the strident and barren discord of its jarring and erring atoms. His sym pathies, I repeat, are usually generous, his views of life are occasionally just, and his views of death are invariably noble. In other words, he generally means well, having a good stock on hand of honest emotion ; he sometimes sees well, having a natural sensibility to such aspects of nature as appeal to an eye rather quick than penetrating ; he seldom writes well, being cabined, crib bed, confined, bound in, to the limits of a thoroughly unnatural, imitative, histrionic and affected style. But there is a thrilling and fiery force in his finest bursts of gusty rhetoric which makes us wonder whether with a little more sense and a good deal more cultivation he might not have made a noticeable ora tor. As a poet, no amount of improve ment that self-knowledge and self-cul ture might have brought to bear upon such exceptionally raw material could ever have raised him higher than a sta tion to which his homely and manly patriotism would be the best claim that could be preferred for him ; a seat be side such writers as Ebenezer Elliot— or possibly a little higher, on such an ele vation as might be occupied by a poet whom careful training had reared and matured into a rather inferior kind of Southey. But to fit himself for such promotion he would have in the first place to resign all claim to the laurels of Gotham, with which the critical sages of that famous borough have bedecked his unbashful brows ; he would have to recognize that he is no more, in the proper sense of the word, a poet, than Communalists or Dissolutionists are, in any sense of the word, Republicans; that he has exactly as much claim to a place beside Dante as any Vermersch or Vermorel or other verminous and murderous muck-worm of the Parisian Commune to a place beside Mazzini: in other words, that the informing prin ciple of his work is not so much the negation as the contradiction of the cre ative principle of poetry. And this it is not to be expected that such a man should bring himself to believe, as long as he hears himself proclaimed the in heritor of a seat assigned a hundred years ago by the fantastic adulation of more or less distinguished literary ec centrics to a person of the name of Jephson—whose triumphs as a tragic poet made his admirers tremble for Shakespeare.

 

 

 

 

Erstdruck und Druckvorlage

The Fortnightly Review.
Bd. 42, New Series, 1887, 1. August, S. 170-176.

Gezeichnet: Algernon Charles Swinburne.

Die Textwiedergabe erfolgt nach dem ersten Druck (Editionsrichtlinien).


The Fortnightly Review   online
URL: https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/008882609
URL: https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/006056638
URL: http://opacplus.bsb-muenchen.de/title/715786-1
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Zeitschriften-Repertorium

 

Wiederholt in

 

 

 

Werkverzeichnis

Verzeichnisse

Shepherd, Richard Herne: The Bibliography of Swinburne.
A Bibliographical List, Arranged in Chronological Order, of the Published Writings in Verse and Prose of Algernon Charles Swinburne (1857-1887).
New Edition. London: Redway 1887.
URL: https://archive.org/details/cu31924029651092

Wise, Thomas J.: A Bibliography of the Writings in Prose and Verse of Algernon Charles Swinburne.
Vol. 1. London: Clay 1919.
URL: https://archive.org/details/cu31924087913202

Wise, Thomas J.: A Bibliography of the Writings in Prose and Verse of Algernon Charles Swinburne.
Vol. 2. London: Clay 1920.
URL: https://archive.org/details/cu31924087913210

Wise, Thomas J.: A Bibliography of the Writings in Prose and Verse of Algernon Charles Swinburne.
London: Heinemann; New York: Wells 1927 (= The Complete Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne, Bd. 20).



Swinburne, Algernon Charles: Mr. George Meredith's "Modern Love:" –
(Letter to the Editor).
In: The Spectator.
Nr. 1771, 1862, 7. Juni, S. 998-632-633.
URL: http://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/000639061

Swinburne, Algernon Charles: Baudelaire. Les Fleurs du mal.
In: The Spectator.
Nr. 1784, 1862, 6. September, S. 998-1000 (Ungezeichnet). [PDF]
URL: http://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/000639061

Swinburne, Algernon Charles: Poems and Ballads.
London: Hotten 1866.
S. 65-76: Anactoria.
URL: https://archive.org/details/poemsballads0000swin
URL: https://archive.org/details/b29012685
URL: https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/100629227
URL: https://books.google.de/books?id=H-hOAAAAcAAJ

Swinburne, Algernon Charles: Notes on Poems and Reviews.
London: Hotten 1866.
URL: https://archive.org/details/notesonpoemsand01swingoog
URL: http://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/001024616
URL: https://books.google.fr/books?id=7K0OtUcnQlYC   [New York u. London 1866]

Swinburne, Algernon Charles: Mr. Arnold's New Poems.
In: The Fortnightly Review.
Bd. 2, New Series, 1867, 1. Oktober, S. 414-445.
URL: https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/008882609
URL: http://opacplus.bsb-muenchen.de/title/715786-1

Notes on the Royal Academy exhibition, 1868.
Part I. by Wm. Michael Rossetti.
Part II. by Algernon C. Swinburne.
London: Hotten o.J. [1868].
URL: https://archive.org/details/gri_33125011175656
URL: http://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/011606313

Swinburne, Algernon Charles: William Blake. A Critical Essay.
London: Hotten 1868.
URL: https://archive.org/details/williamblakecrit00swinrich
URL: https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/000475323
URL: https://books.google.fr/books?id=mJ1RAAAAcAAJ

Swinburne, Algernon Charles: AVE ATQUE VALE.
In Memory of Charles Baudelaire.
In: The Fortnightly Review.
Bd. 3, New Series, 1868, 1. Januar, S. 71-76.
URL: https://archive.org/details/fortnightlyrevi01morlgoog

Swinburne, Algernon Charles: The Poems of Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
In: The Fortnightly Review.
Bd. 7, New Series, 1870, 1. Mai, S. 551-579.
URL: https://archive.org/details/fortnightlyrevi01bygoog
URL: https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/006056638

Swinburne, Algernon Charles: Under the Microscope.
London: White 1872.
URL: https://archive.org/details/undermicroscope00buchgoog   [Portland, Maine 1899].

Swinburne, Algernon Charles: Victor Hugo: L'Année Terrible.
In: The Fortnightly Review.
Bd. 12, New Series, 1872, 1. September, S. 243-267.
URL: https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/008882609
URL: http://opacplus.bsb-muenchen.de/title/715786-1

Swinburne, Algernon Charles: Essays and Studies.
London: Chatto u. Windus 1875.
PURL: http://mdz-nbn-resolving.de/urn:nbn:de:bvb:12-bsb11168133-5
URL: https://archive.org/details/essaysandstudie04swingoog
URL: http://reader.digitale-sammlungen.de/resolve/display/bsb11168133.html

Swinburne, Algernon Charles: Songs of the Springtides.
London: Chatto u. Windus 1880.
S. 37-64: On the Cliffs.
URL: https://archive.org/details/songsspringtide00goog
URL: https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/000122982

Swinburne, Algernon Charles: A Century of English Poetry.
In: The Fortnightly Review.
Bd. 28, New Series, 1880, 1. Oktober, S. 422-437.
Aufgenommen
Algernon Charles Swinburne: Miscellanies.
London: Chatto u. Windus 1886, S. 25-49.
URL: https://archive.org/details/miscellanies01swingoog
URL: http://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/001112402

Swinburne, Algernon Charles: Short Notes on English Poets:
Chaucer; Spenser; the Sonnets of Shakespeare; Milton.
In: The Fortnightly Review.
Bd. 28, New Series, 1880, 1. Dezember, S. 708-721.
Aufgenommen
Algernon Charles Swinburne: Miscellanies.
London: Chatto u. Windus 1886, S. 1-24.
URL: https://archive.org/details/miscellanies01swingoog
URL: http://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/001112402

Swinburne, Algernon Charles: Wordsworth and Byron.
In: The Nineteenth Century.
Bd. 15, 1884: April, S. 583-609; Mai, S. 764-790.
URL: https://archive.org/details/nineteenthcentu05unkngoog

Swinburne, Algernon Charles: A Study of Victor Hugo.
London: Chatto u. Windus 1886.
URL: https://archive.org/details/astudyvictorhug01swingoog
URL: http://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/001796984

Swinburne, Algernon Charles: Miscellanies.
London: Chatto u. Windus 1886.
URL: https://archive.org/details/miscellanies01swingoog
URL: http://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/001112402

Swinburne, Algernon Charles: Whitmania.
In: The Fortnightly Review.
Bd. 42, New Series, 1887, 1. August, S. 170-176.

Swinburne, Algernon Charles: Mr. Whistler's Lecture on Art.
In: The Fortnightly Review.
Bd. 43, New Series, 1888, 1. Juni, S. 745-751. [PDF]

Swinburne, Algernon Charles: Studies in Prose and Poetry.
London: Chatto u. Windus 1894.
URL: https://archive.org/details/studiesinprosea01swingoog
URL: https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/001426660


Swinburne, Algernon Charles: Les Fleurs Du Mal and Other Studies.
Hrsg. von Edmund Gosse.
London: Printed for Private Circulation 1913.
URL: https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/002781737

Lang, Cecil Y. (Hrsg.): The Swinburne Letters.
6 Bde. New Haven: Yale University Press 1959/62.

Swinburne, Algernon Charles: New Writings by Swinburne or Miscellanea Nova et Curiosa.
Being a Medley of Poems, Critical Essays, Hoaxes and Burlesques.
Hrsg. von Cecil Y. Lang.
Syracuse, N.Y.: Syracuse University Press 1964.

Hyder, Clyde K. (Hrsg.): Swinburne Replies.
Notes on Poems and Reviews. Under the Microscope. Dedicatory Epistle.
Syracuse, N.Y.: Syracuse University Press. 1966.

Swinburne, Algernon Charles: Major Poems and Selected Prose.
Hrsg. von Jerome McGann u. Charles L. Sligh.
New Haven u. London: Yale University Press 2004.

Swinburne, Algernon Charles: Uncollected Letters.
Hrsg. von Terry L. Meyers.
3 Bde. London: Pickering & Chatto, 2005.

Swinburne, Algernon Charles: Selected Writings.
Hrsg. von Francis O'Gorman.
Oxford: Oxford University Press 2020.

 

 

 

Literatur

Allen, Gay Wilson / Folsom, Ed (Hrsg.): Walt Whitman & the World. Iowa City 1995.

Apel, Friedmar: Konkurrenz im Traumland. Algernon Charles Swinburne bei Stefan George, Hugo von Hofmannsthal und Rudolf Borchardt. In: George-Jahrbuch 11 (2016/17), S. 13-26.

Christ, Carol T.: Victorian Poetics. In: A Companion to Victorian Poetry. Hrsg. von Richard Cronin u.a. Malden, MA 2002, S. 1-21.

Levin, Yisrael (Hrsg.): A.C. Swinburne and the Singing Word. New Perspectives on the Mature Work. Farnham 2010.

Lyons, Sara: Algernon Swinburne and Walter Pater. Victorian Aestheticism, Doubt and Secularisation. Leeds 2015.

Marcus, Laura u.a. (Hrsg.): Late Victorian into Modern. Oxford 2016.

Martus, Steffen u.a. (Hrsg.): Lyrik im 19. Jahrhundert. Gattungspoetik als Reflexionsmedium der Kultur. Bern u.a. 2005 (= Publikationen zur Zeitschrift für Germanistik, 11).

Maxwell, Catherine u.a. (Hrsg.): Algernon Charles Swinburne. Unofficial Laureate. Manchester 2013.

McGann, Jerome: Wagner, Baudelaire, Swinburne: Poetry in the Condition of Music. In: Victorian Poetry 47.4 (2009), S. 619-632.
URL: https://www.jstor.org/stable/40601003

Meyers, Terry L.: A Note on Swinburne and Whitman. In: Walt Whitman Quarterly Review 21 (Summer 2003), S. 38-39.
URL: https://doi.org/10.13008/2153-3695.1720

Raymond, Meredith B.: Swinburne's Poetics. The Hague u.a. 1971.

Rooksby, Rikky: A Century of Swinburne. In: The Whole Music of Passion. New Essays on Swinburne. Hrsg. von Rikky Rooksby u. Nicholas Shrimpton. Aldershot u.a. 1993, S. 1-21.

Saville, Julia F.: Swinburne contra Whitman: From Cosmopolitan Republican to Parochial English Jingo? In: English Literary History 78 (2011), S. 479-505.

Scarpa, Sébastien u.a. (Hrsg.): Swinburne and France. Paris 2012.

Warner, Eric / Hough, Graham (Hrsg.): Strangeness and Beauty. An Anthology of Aesthetic Criticism 1840–1910. 2 Bde. Cambridge u.a. 2009.

 

 

Edition
Lyriktheorie » R. Brandmeyer