[Footnote: _Epistle to Lapraik._]
Most of the self-depreciatory writers, by their very abnegation of the
title, exalt the supreme poet. There are few indeed so unconcerned about
the dignity of the calling as is Sir Walter Scott, who assigns to the
minstrels of his tales a subordinate social position that would make the
average bard depicted in literature gnash his teeth for rage, and who
casually disposes of the poet's immortality:
Let but the verse befit a hero's fame;
Immortal be the verse, forgot the author's name.
[Footnote: _Introduction to Don Roderick._]
Mrs. Browning, to be sure, also tries to prick the bubble of the poet's
conceit, assuring him:
Ye are not great because creation drew
Large revelations round your earliest sense,
Nor bright because God's glory shines for you.
[Footnote: _Mountaineer and Poet_.]
But in her other poetry, notably in _Aurora Leigh_ and _A Vision of
Poets,_ she amply avows her sense of the preeminence of the singer, as
well as of his song.
While it is easy to shake our heads over the self-importance of the
nineteenth century, and to contrast it with the unconscious lyrical
spontaneity of half-mythical singers in the beginning of the world, it
is probable that some degree of egotism is essential to a poet.
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